Heartland (13 page)

Adnan bought a can of green aerosol from Barrys', crept out one night and wrote in neat letters, even though his legs were shaking, on the old dairy wall,
WHO KILLED YUSUF KHAN?

For a while it took on a life of its own. Like the Bella graffiti must have done, he supposed. Some of the university students took it up as a slogan, in a half-hearted campaign to look for the attackers. One night Zubair told him that he'd sprayed it on the wall by the bridge that ran down to Dudley Port. Adnan didn't say anything, for the first time in ages feeling a bit of control.

They walked across the car park.
She still hadn't looked at him.

Andre's reading's coming on, he said, for something to say.

Doin him a lot of good. Start working with him when he's nearly thirteen. We'm the back o the queue as usual. They have reading groups for the ones who doh spake English right from the start.

Rob didn't reply, instead he nodded towards his car and paused to let a 4x4 drive past. The woman at the wheel turned and aimed a slap at two boys squabbling in the back seat. He could hear them all shouting as the jeep slowed for the exit gate.

Stacey had gone ahead of him. She walked up to a shiny silver BMW that was parked next to his car. Rob just walked to the battered Calibra and only looked at her when he had the driver's door half-open, smiling.

She almost smiled back at him, mouthed, Sorry, pushed some hair back from her face and smoothed it behind her ear.

I thought yow'd a bin drivin a fancy car, what with yer football an all that.

This used to be a fancy car.

Used to be.

I used to be a footballer.

We're gonna let you go, Robert. Ron Atkinson had looked at him, right at him, in the eye. Rob couldn't even
be angry with him, not like the others coming out of the office, crying and swearing or both. The gaffer had the guts to say what he thought, straight to him, better than false promises, better than the waiting. Rob had trained with the first team a few times, even played in a couple of the Friday five-a-sides, had a run in the reserves, must've been close, must have been. The last thing the gaffer had said to him before that was when Dave Sexton had got Rob with Earl Barrett practising banging crosses in one morning in March. That's a lovely ball, son! And again! Great stuff, Robert! He must have been close.

It's your job, though, son, to prove me wrong.

But he never was going to prove him wrong because he wasn't good enough. Not quite good enough. Not at that level, not at any level that mattered. He felt like he'd been found out. He drove around for ages afterwards in his little Fiesta – he hadn't long bought a stereo for it – drove back from Bodymoor Heath and parked by the ground, at the top of Trinity Road. A group of boys wearing mirrored waistcoats and prayer hats kicked a deflated ball along the street on their way to or from the mosque. He listened to the Portishead album all the way through. He got out and, to his surprise, was able to walk through an unguarded turnstile, and up the Holte End. Empty stadiums were lonely places. He watched the light fading over the North Stand and the brown hump of the Rowley Hills in the distance.

We've had a call, Robert, from an interested club. You're in a much better position than a lot of the lads. I'm not telling you you haven't got a future in football. You're a hard worker, a bright lad. Just not here, son, not here.

For a minute he thought it might be the Wolves. That he could go home and say to his dad that he was going to the Wolves, could ask him about it, make everything all right.

Wrexham.

He drove to his Uncle Jim's, wanted to find his mother there and talk to her first, wanted to talk to his Uncle Jim. It would've been better if his old man blew his top, at Rob, at Big Ron, at life in general, but Rob knew he wouldn't. He'd nod his head, say a few words, maybe even say, Never mind, son, but his eyes would slide away. His dad always knew he wouldn't be good enough.

Wrexham was half a season in the reserves, out of position, right-back in the rain, then half a season of nothing at all.

You're shite, son, utter shite, one bloke's voice from the tiny crowd every time he put the ball up the line.

We're letting you go, son.

It went on; so that each substitution, each time he was dropped, each bollocking, each time he heard we're letting you go, became a relief, another step closer to the end. There were brilliant things, of course, like playing the game of his life in that Youth Cup game against United, or later, getting phoned out of the blue for a pre-season at the Wolves, when it all felt like it was going to happen, even if his old man did show about as much interest in it as if he'd told him he was popping up the road to buy a pint of milk. Now here he was at the end of it all, without the faintest idea of what he was doing. His uncle was right about that much.

Stacey walked over to the Calibra and as the stream of hospital visitors drove past, Rob pictured them as others might have. A couple returning from visiting a parent or grandparent, an old aunty, somebody, not a stabbed kid anyway, smiling shyly at each other, comfortable with who they were and what they were doing. Maybe calling for a takeaway and a couple of cans on the way home, watching one of the soaps that she liked, that she'd taped, while they ate. He might flick through the paper. A few
minutes at Sky Sports and then up to bed, to make love and then talk softly of the holiday they'd booked, the house they'd move to, the children they'd have, eyes bright with possibility in the darkness.

They didn't say much on the way back. When he pulled up in front of the flats, he said, I'm sure he'll be all right, yer know, it'll be OK.

She nodded, twisting a tissue in her hands.

Thanks, she said quietly, looking away.

Dyer need anything tonight, now? Dyer need anything doing?

No. She shook her head. I need to goo and sort Gemma out. Thanks, though, Rob. Thanks. All her anger about the school had gone now, probably didn't seem that important.

As she got out of the car, Rob looked at the line of a black G-string above the waistband of her jeans, forced himself to turn his head. He'd looked at her, thought he'd felt her look at him, even in the state she was in, but then he thought of Glenn and that made him pull back. Well, that and her two problem kids. He wouldn't have minded pissing Glenn off. He smiled sadly to himself and looked away past the row of flats, over the railway line. Still, she was all right.

A cloud of dark smoke, burning tyres maybe, rose and merged with the clouds over Great Bridge, Dudley Port, then he looked back. He watched her as she punched in the code to open the communal doors. She turned and waved. He waited until she appeared on the third-floor walkway. She walked with her arms folded then knocked on the second last flat to the end. Hers was the end one. Jim had helped sort that out, years ago. The flats had a reputation. It was where the council put you when you couldn't pay your rent elsewhere. When he saw the door open he turned the car around. He looked back up and saw she was holding Gemma with one hand and had the
key to their front door in the lock with the other. She rested her head just for a moment against the door's frosted glass window before going inside. He waved even though she couldn't see. He'd phoned home from the hospital and said he'd call to the chip shop on his way back if they were OK to eat late. That's what he should've done, he thought, called to the chip shop with Stacey or offered to bring her some back. That's what he should've done.

The ball was at Zubair's feet.
Rob could see what he was going to do, what he was trying to do. When he hit it, Rob thought he'd head it, although somewhere inside himself was the picture of taking a couple of steps back and taking the ball on his chest, stepping out with it or looking for a pass, like Beckenbauer or Sammer, or like something McGrath would've done on the odd days he trained at Villa. Somewhere inside him Rob had a picture of exactly what he could do.

He knew Tayub was outside, somewhere on the left, conscious of red boots and a willowy shape that moved like Adnan used to when they played as kids, like a ghost. Zubair had hit the pass, stood like a golfer having hit a tee shot he liked, perfectly still and watching it, and the ball that Rob thought he was going to head, deep down wanted to take on his chest and step away with and show his contempt for this game he'd somehow ended up involved in, was suddenly on him and he'd taken a step towards it to head it, but it was floating, floating, and was going to drop over him and instead of jumping Rob had to turn, which he couldn't do, not any more with his disintegrating knees, and scramble after it, and the ball was dropping over his head. He stumbled as he turned and the ball had already bounced as he completed the turn and had to start running almost from standstill and Tayub was running next to him, quick, young and quick, and where was the left-back, Carl
Jones, who'd wandered upfield and let Tayub just stroll past him? And Lee, asthmatic and heavy and wheezing, and slower than Rob, who put his head down now to tear after it, thinking quickly that he'd bring Tayub down, getting sent off would end the agony, but he couldn't even get near enough to slide in after him, those red boots mocking him. Chrissie came out to narrow the angle, wasn't that bad a keeper, really but Tayub had got it under, one on one, and he hit it wide of Chrissie, on the floor into the corner, a great finish, and wheeled away with his arms outstretched shouting, Yes, yes, yes, and whoops of delight from his team-mates and the cars on the sideline. Rob's tongue was flopping out as he slowed to a jog, his arm raised half-heartedly and looking towards the linesman – the first time they'd had proper linesmen in this league, ordinarily it would've been one of the Woodhouses sticking a flag up when Rob told them to – but the linesman had already turned away and Mark Stanley had blown for the goal and was running to stop them celebrating so much, something he'd talked about with the police and the captains before the game.

Glenn was swearing from the halfway line. Chrissie slapped the ground with his keeper's gloves. Rob was trying to swear, but his breath was coming out in shreds like torn newspaper. He wanted to tell Tayub if he did that again he'd break his leg but knew he wouldn't catch him even to kick him, wouldn't really want to do it anyway. Zubair had trotted over to join the celebrations but got there too late and just ended up ruffling his brother's fancy hairstyle, with Mark Stanley shouting at them to remember what he'd said before the game about booking people for celebrating. Joey Khan was doing a little dance on the touchline. Glenn was walking towards Carl Jones, who looked like he wanted to hide.

Fuckin hell, Carl, every time. Yow've gorra goo with
him. Just fuckin stay with him. Instead o just letting him run past yer. Fuckin hell. Wiv gorra sort it aht at the back theer. Yome just givin it to em. Fuckin sort it aht, eh.

Glenn glared at Rob, who looked away. There was no point saying anything.

There were the usual shouts of Heads up, and Straight back at em, and Come on. Rob's breathing got a bit easier.

If he comes past yer aht there, just tek his legs, Carl, we'll defend the free-kicks, Rob said, and the young lad nodded, looked as sick as Rob felt.

Trevor Sinclair got the ball straight away, went past a man, got his head down and ran at them.
They didn't like it, you could tell, not that it came to much. With his head down like that he had the same shape as Glenn, the way he'd stick his nose over the ball and go tearing off with it, trying to weave through the defenders in front of him, no tricks or anything, as if force of will alone would take him through them all.

It was what he did straight from the kick-off after the goal. Off on his own, straight up the middle, like a kids' game. He beat a man; inevitably it ran out of his control, but he nicked it in front of the lad with the beard, rode the challenge, touched it too far again, so it ran towards Zubair. Glenn was already off the ground, launching into the challenge before the ball reached Zubair, who just flicked it with the outside of his boot and jumped to get out of the way of Glenn's studs. Glenn caught him on the foot as he jumped, slid underneath him. As Zubair landed he let his foot come down on Glenn's ankle, stood over him for a minute.

There were shouts of Ref! from both sides; the whistle blowing, Mark Stanley in there, ushering Zubair away, and the other lads beginning to crowd round.

Free-kick.

You fuckin prick, fuckin stamped on me, ref, fuckin look at this. Glenn had jumped up pointing at his ankle. Mark Stanley muscled between the pair of them and led Glenn away, his face as red as his hair.

Mark was talking quietly to him with Glenn still moaning.

And what about the foul there, eh? What abaht that foul?

Mark had got his cards out, looked like he was shuffling them.

Rob heard Lee say, He's gonna send him off. For a second Rob thought he was. That would have been it, then. Glenn would've piled in. Game over. Abandoned. A few of them down the police cells. The helicopter was drowning out the sound of what was being said.

Mark Stanley's voice boomed now. Two-footed challenge.

He was making a big show of writing Glenn's name in the book, lifting the yellow card; he was making a performance of it but it was slowing things down. Thank God he was refereeing. A bloke who looked off his nut on something had chased that young ref around the pitch after an hour of the game against Royal Oak. Cinderheath had been about eight-up by then. Royal Oak got suspended from the league.

Glenn was limping and swearing. His sock was torn at the ankle; the white of the shin-pad like the white of a bone with the flesh torn off. Zubair could handle himself, that was for sure, although he was stepping gingerly where Glenn had caught him. They could both handle themselves, that was one of the problems. Rob decided he'd just try and split it up if it went off between them. He didn't care what anybody else did.