Johnny Mackintosh and the Spirit of London (37 page)

Mr. Davenport rolled down the window and Johnny heard him say, “I'm sorry, officer. I was sure I wasn't speeding.”

PC Starkey hesitated a few seconds for effect before responding with, “Actually, we wondered if you had room for one more.” He waved for Johnny to get out of the car before turning back to Mr. Davenport. “Make sure you beat that Colchester lot. The Chief Super's boy plays for them—we'll never hear the last of it if he wins.” Then he stepped away from the minbus, hollered a cheery, “Good luck, Johnny,” and walked back to his panda car.

“Thanks,” Johnny shouted, before climbing into the minibus to huge cheers from all his schoolmates. He made his way inside and sat down in the spare seat next to Dave Spedding.

“That was well cool,” said Dave.

Johnny smiled—he knew Dave was right. Within five minutes they'd arrived at Layer Road and parked up between an ice cream van and a red double-decker bus.

Johnny had never seen so many people at a football match—certainly not one he was playing in anyway. He ran out onto the pitch with the rest of the team in their white shirts and black shorts and they began their pre-match routine. Instead of aimlessly kicking a few balls to each other Mr. Davenport made them warm up with a two-touch keep-ball game between some cones he'd laid out in the middle of one half of the pitch. It seemed ages since Johnny had last kicked a ball, but within a couple of minutes he started to feel good again. And he'd never played under floodlights before. Mr. Davenport, dressed in a green sweatshirt and black tracksuit bottoms, blew his whistle and everyone gathered round in a tight huddle.

“OK, you lot,” he said. “You're in the final. You got here because you passed the ball to one another and then moved into
space to give each other options. Remember that—pass and move. If I see someone who doesn't want the ball, I'm taking them off. We've got some good lads on the bench who are desperate for a game. And don't go enjoying yourselves too much. You can do that once you've won the cup.”

Everyone laughed. On the halfway line the referee blew his whistle and shouted, “Captains.”

“Off you go, Micky,” Mr. Davenport said to Michael Elliot, a tall, freckled boy with ginger hair who played center half and wore the captain's armband. Micky broke from the huddle and walked to the center circle to shake hands with his opposing captain, kitted out all in red.

“Good to see you've brought our mascot, Johnny,” said Mr. Davenport. “We've never lost with that dog of yours watching.” Johnny looked into the crowd. Mr. Davenport was right. Sitting near the halfway line in the main stand was Bentley, nearly matching the Castle Dudbury colors and sandwiched between Clara and Alf who were waving. Rusty was there too, tongue out, panting, sitting on Clara's right.

“Surprise,” said Clara's voice in his ear. “Couldn't miss my bro's big match.”

“Johnny … Johnny—are you still with us?” asked Mr. Davenport.

“Yeah … sorry.”

“Good. Everyone needs to be focused 110 percent today. And we need our own David Beckham in midfield—OK?”

Johnny nodded. He'd snapped into the zone. For the next ninety minutes, nothing would matter except the football.

Micky Elliot shouted, “As we are, Castle Dudbury—our kickoff.” Mr. Davenport walked over to the touchline and the team took up their starting positions. Dave was in the center circle with the other striker, Joe Pennant. The referee blew his whistle and Joe touched the ball in front to Dave, who played it
back toward Johnny. It was a set move. It was how they always started. Johnny took the ball forward. As a dark-haired, redshirted boy ran toward him, he shaped to pass the ball to his left but instead side-stepped the boy to the right, keeping the ball at his feet. A few people in the crowd cheered. Johnny threaded the ball through to Ashvin Gupta on the right wing and ran behind him to offer support. Ash didn't need him. He played the ball down the line into space and ran after it. Colchester Grammar's left back tried hard to keep up, and only just managed to stop the run with a sliding tackle that sent the ball out of play for the game's first corner kick.

Johnny jogged along the touchline to take it. He was regarded as the team's set piece specialist and took all the corners. The hairs on the back of his neck were tingling as he felt all the people in the main stand watching him. He positioned the ball in the quadrant, put his right foot on top of it and placed his hands on his hips. He stood like that for a few seconds, as though deep in thought. This was a special signal and he wanted to be sure everyone got the message. Then he took three large strides back and looked up into the penalty area. Johnny pictured what he intended to do. He stepped forward and struck the ball well with his instep, an outswinger to the far post. As planned, everyone in the team ran to the near post taking their markers with them—everyone except for Dave Spedding. Dave was little and very fast, but he could also jump really well. Mr. Davenport said he had “great spring.” Dave rose above his defender and seemed to hang in the air for a second before heading the ball into the net past the flailing goalkeeper. It was textbook. One–nil and they'd only been playing a couple of minutes.

Colchester Grammar fought back well. They were clearly in the final on merit. And their players all seemed bigger and stronger than the Castle Dudbury team, who kept having to
pass the ball too quickly or risk being muscled off it. At times, Johnny felt he seemed to be the only midfielder on his side as he kept sliding in to break up the Colchester attacks, but all that happened when he did was that the ball fell to another player in red. Simon Bakewell in goal had to make two great saves in quick succession to prevent an equalizer. The second was a one-on-one where he dived at an on-rushing forward's feet and managed to knock the ball away. The crowd were clearly rooting for Colchester Grammar and Johnny heard lots of shouts for a penalty, but the referee waved play on and Micky was able to clear.

After about half an hour of near constant Colchester pressure, Mr. Davenport shouted to Joe Pennant to drop back into midfield to be closer to Johnny, leaving Dave up front on his own. This seemed to work better as Castle Dudbury were at least able to keep the ball a little longer between the waves of Colchester attacks. Then, just before half-time, Joe won the ball off the red-shirted captain, a beefy boy with brown hair, and it bounced up into Johnny's path. He knew it was perfect for a half volley. He looked up to see where Dave was and, with the outside of his foot, struck a curling forty-meter pass over the heads of the defenders and into his friend's path. Once Dave was away there was no catching him. The Colchester goal-keeper came out to narrow the angle and stood up well, but Dave had the momentum and slipped the ball by him, running it into an empty net. Two–nil. The Castle Dudbury team all ran to Dave and engulfed him in the celebrations.

“Great pass, Johnny,” he said.

“Great goal,” Johnny replied.

It was just a few minutes later that the referee blew the whistle for half-time and the teams left the pitch, walking down the tunnel and into their different changing rooms. Castle Dudbury were in the one marked “away.” The players sat down
on the wooden benches while Mr. Davenport handed round a tupperware box full of orange segments. As each member of the team took one, he began his half-time team talk.

“You know what you are. You're lucky. They're running rings round you. Micky—what do we need to do?”

“Pick up the runners, coach,” Micky replied. “There's too much coming at us.”

“Good—you heard him,” said Mr. Davenport. “Ashvin—you're not tracking back when their fullback comes forward. That's your job. Johnny—their number seven—their skipper's running the show. I want you to man-mark him. Forget everything else. Follow him everywhere—don't let him hurt us. OK?”

Johnny nodded. He took a drink from a water bottle and, with the rest of the team, got to his feet and bounced up and down on his toes to keep his energy levels up.

“Forty-five minutes—one half—and that cup's yours,” said Mr. Davenport. “Go out and win it.”

Johnny touched fists with the rest of the team. They left the dressing room and went up the tunnel toward the pitch. It was properly dark now and the floodlights were coming into their own. Each player had four distinct shadows from the lights at the corners of the ground. Colchester Grammar kicked off and Johnny immediately ran forward so he was close to their captain. The ball was on the other side of the pitch but it didn't matter. Johnny positioned himself so he could watch the red number seven and the ball together. At first the Colchester players tried to play through their skipper, but Johnny was quicker and more often than not he was able to nip in front of him and get to the ball first. So they stopped passing to him altogether. After a few frustrated minutes, the boy shoved Johnny over behind the referee's back and ran off toward the touchline in front of the main stand, screaming for the ball. Johnny got up and set off after him. The ball reached the
brown-haired boy, but Johnny managed to get back goalside. As the Colchester skipper tried to take the ball round him, Johnny was able to make the tackle, sending the ball flying into the stand. A man in a suit caught it and smiled a very cold smile at Johnny—it was Stevens.

“Enjoying the game, Johnny?” he said, throwing the ball past Johnny and onto the pitch.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought I should offer you my support,” said Stevens. “Come on, Castle Dudbury,” he shouted out.

“You can't do anything here,” Johnny replied. “Not with so many people watching.”

“Oh you'd be surprised how easy it is to lose someone in a crowd,” Stevens replied. “A little schoolgirl who no one here knows, out with a sick dog …”

The people in the crowd around Stevens cheered and jumped to their feet. Johnny looked round. The Colchester players had surrounded their number seven and captain who had just scored. He turned back and Stevens was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Mr. Davenport was storming down the touchline toward him. “Johnny—you lost him. What were you doing?” he shouted as he came closer.

“Sorry, coach.”

“Don't let it happen again. C'mon—focus.”

“Yes, Mr. Davenport,” Johnny replied. He ran back onto the pitch, pulling his white sleeve up over his wrist and lifting his hand to his mouth. “Clara … Alf. I just saw Stevens—the krun. They're here. They're coming for you.”

“Are you sure?” said Clara in his ear. “How could they …”

But Johnny didn't hear Clara finish as her voice was cut off by a high-pitched whistle from the receiver in his ear, followed by silence. The wristcom had stopped working.

“Johnny!”

Johnny looked up to see Dave Spedding screaming at him. The ball from the kick-off had rolled past him and the Colchester Grammar captain was bearing down toward goal. Johnny sprinted back, desperate to catch up, but it was Micky Elliot who stepped out from the defense and timed his tackle well.

“C'mon Johnny—concentrate,” Micky growled at him.

Johnny looked up into the stand. Clara and Alf had their heads together while the two dogs looked on. He jogged up the pitch, scanning the rest of the stand for Stevens, and then he saw him. There was no mistaking it. Stevens was standing next to another krun by one of the entrance points into the main stand. The ball hit Johnny in the face, knocking him to the ground. He heard laughter from some people in the crowd and got up holding his red face just in time to see Simon Bakewell pull off another tremendous save, turning a shot around the post for a corner kick. Johnny ran into the penalty area and took up a position next to the beefy number seven. He was facing the main stand, but when he looked for Clara all he could see was four empty seats where they'd been moments earlier. Where were the krun? The crowd roared. The red-shirted captain had just headed the equalizer. Simon picked the ball out of his net and hoofed it disconsolately upfield. The teams lined up again and Dave played the ball toward him. At least this time Johnny was ready for it and launched a long pass toward the left wing.

The next few minutes were a blur as the game bypassed Johnny completely. As he studied the main stand he noticed that Mr. Davenport had told the substitutes to warm up. Johnny was grateful. Though he'd never been taken off before it was bound to happen now and then he could try to find the others. Finally, though, he heard a whistling in his ear followed by Alf's voice. “All taken care of, Master Johnny. The krun will not be bothering us again.”

“Yes!” shouted Johnny.

The Colchester Grammar captain looked round in surprise and Johnny was able to run past him, intercept the ball and charge forward. His feeling of relief seemed to make him twice as fast as normal. He jinked around one defender, dummied to shoot before dodging another, and was just preparing to go for goal when his legs were taken away from under him. There was a shrill blast on the whistle. Johnny picked himself up to see the referee brandishing a yellow card at the brown-haired number seven.

“Great run, Johnny,” said Ashvin as he kicked the ball back to him for the free kick. Johnny looked to the touchline and saw Mr. Davenport telling the substitutes to sit down again. He flicked the ball up into his hands and held it for a second before placing it carefully on the ground just in front of a little divot. The referee was telling the defensive wall to retreat the full ten yards. The position was the perfect distance for a strike on goal—just far enough out to lift the ball over the wall and bring it back down again. Micky Elliot had joined the attack and had his hand up in the air, asking for the ball to be delivered to the far post. It wasn't a bad idea. The defense would be expecting a shot. Johnny looked into the penalty area, visualizing what he was going to try to do. He ran forward, keeping his head down and struck the ball with as much pace and topspin as he could. It flew over the wall toward the goal but kept rising. It looked for all the world as though it would fly over the crossbar, but at the last moment it dipped sharply, hit the bar, bounced down behind the line and up into the roof of the net. Johnny's team mates leapt on top of him.