Silent Striker (17 page)

Nero left Marcus’s side and, tail lowered, sloped over to Mr Winstanley’s house. Marcus felt sorry for the dog. He watched Nero till he was lost in the shadows of Mr Winstanley’s front garden.

‘Thanks, Mr Winstanley!’ Marcus’s mum called out.

‘Glad he’s good for something!’ Nero’s owner shouted back.

Then his mum was all over Marcus. Telling him off and hugging him at the same time.

Marcus glanced at his watch. It was 1.34 am. The whole street was awake. He felt foolish and embarrassed. Out of the crowd, Horse appeared. ‘Hey bro, where’ve you been?’ Horse clasped his shoulder. Leonard popped up alongside him, then Ira and Jamil. ‘We had a search party going,’ said Horse. ‘Was fun, man, best time in ages. Where were you?’

Marcus’s mum pulled Marcus away from them. ‘Marcus, can we take this inside?’ She turned to everyone still outside and said: ‘You’ve all been great, but it’s all over now. Go and get some sleep, yeah? It’s a family matter now. Go home. Go to your beds!’

His mum’s voice had a strained edge to it, a tone he’d never heard before. Marcus knew he was in deep trouble. He walked into the house and took off straight to his bedroom. He listened to the many voices downstairs. He also heard, Karen, the neighbour’s teenaged daughter, singing in her bedroom behind his own bedroom wall. The cars must have woken her up and she’d decided to join in the fun. She sang the same song again and again till her mum yelled. She told her mum to fuck off but went quiet. Sometimes Karen’s house was as crazy as his. Marcus shifted on his bed. The bed’s bolts needed tightening, it had a thousand squeaky joints. His own breathing was so loud he wondered if he was becoming asthmatic. Then he remembered, it was the hearing aids that were creating this whole new world of sound. He started playing with his breathing, trying out the different sounds he could make by breathing in different ways – through his mouth, through his noise, inhaling for a long time, exhaling in short bursts. It was like turned down beat boxing. He was getting his breathing ready for when the shouting would start, probably in the morning once his mum had recovered. He felt his phone vibrate. Adele.

Where r u? U ok?

Fine

Cum 2 yr window, luk outside

Marcus got off his bed and peeped out. He saw someone waving. It was Adele, partly hidden by the neighbour’s car. He was astonished. He could see her texting him madly.

This is so romeo n juliet

Yeh

Ecpt yr on balcony not the girl – me

Lol

I luv u 2 bits. Just so u no.

Marcus smiled and did a heart shape for her from his window. He texted her:

Go now, b4 u get in trouble. Mum and Dad mad here. Yr Dad gona go nuts 2

OK. I woz worried. Wantd to no u ok. Soz abt my dad agen

How u get bak?

Will get taxi. I pay him w dads credit card lol

She waved a square at him that he guessed was her dad’s credit card. She texted him again.

C ya x

Marcus blew her a kiss from the window then watched her walk into the shadows.

Adele. She was a whole new symphony on his life.

It was well past midnight but Marcus could still hear lots of noises coming from downstairs. He clenched his fists for courage then went downstairs. Dad was there with a policeman. The policeman asked: ‘Are you okay, Marcus?’

‘Yeh.’

‘Okay, I’ll leave you lot to it,’ the policeman said, with a nod to his dad. The policeman’s radio was squawking something. He turned and left in a hurry.

Marcus waited for his dad’s tirade. There was none. Instead, there were tears in his dad’s eyes as he spoke. ‘Marcus?’

‘Y … yes?’ Marcus stammered. Seconds later Marcus felt his dad’s arm’s pressing into his back and the musty familiar smell of his old jumper comforted him. His dad pinched his cheeks, ‘so you went for a little walk, did you?’ he said.

‘Yeh,’ said Marcus into his dad’s jumper.

‘Sometimes we need … be alone. I took walks alone at your age,’ Dad said.

‘Don’t encourage him,’ said his mum, who was now in the room as well, scowling. ‘Is anyone hungry?’ she said softly. Leah was sleeping in his mum’s arms.

‘Me,’ said Marcus. Automatically, he stretched out his arms. His mum placed Leah in them and went into the kitchen.

It was bizarre. Moments later, even though it was the middle of the night, they were all sat at a table eating pancakes. For a minute there was silence. Then his mum blurted out, ‘How could you do this, Marcus? How could you? Where have you been?’

Marcus told them the truth, that he had been to Adele’s and then down to the river, and he had thought about jumping in.

‘You scare me, Marcus,’ said his mum. ‘What about Leah? You’re her brother. You can’t leave Leah.’

‘I wouldn’t jump in that river,’ said Dad. ‘You wouldn’t drown, but you’d end up sailing along on a used tyre, with raw sewage wrapped round your head.’

Marcus laughed. The first time he’d laughed all day. His dad laughed too. Mum scowled then gave in and laughed with them. They laughed together so much Marcus’s cheek muscles went into spasms. He couldn’t remember the last time all of them had laughed together like this round the kitchen table. Yet there was sadness casting a shadow on his mum’s face that Marcus had never seen before.

N
ext morning it was Saturday. Marcus came down to find his dad wearing an African style robe. Marcus nodded, not sure what to say. Dad was sat on the sofa together with Mum. Mum looked tired. Dad’s head hung low, as though the two of them had been talking for a long time.

‘Marcus, sit down, we want to talk to you,’ said Dad.

The dreaded talk. Marcus sat.

‘You know it’s difficult for us both, chasing around earning money to pay the bills, a new baby to take care of, but, well, I’m trying to imagine what your Granddad would say, the fella up there on the wall. The chief.’

‘And?’

‘I think he’d say, “we’ve got to work together and think about this without emotion and without fear”. We love you, but tears won’t solve your problems. We have to dry our tears and find out how we can help you.’

‘Was granddad really a chief, Dad?’

‘They gave him the name as an honour. He was not born a chief, he became one.’ Dad turned back to Marcus’s mum. ‘I think the Big Guy on the wall up there wants me to spend more time with his grandson. Quality time.’ He turned to Marcus. ‘What do you say, Marcus?’

‘Sure,’ Marcus said. It was true he never really saw his dad, let alone hung out with him.

‘Maybe me and Marcus can go shopping together?’ Dad said to Mum.

Marcus groaned. He hated shopping. How was that quality time? His parents had plotted this.

‘Deal!’ said Mum quickly. She rummaged in her handbag. ‘And here’s the vouchers to get discounts off the prices.’

Marcus groaned again. Vouchers. He’d be a laughing stock if anyone saw him at the checkout, next to his dad fumbling around with shopping coupons.

‘Great,’ said Dad. ‘And let’s get some oil for his skin, it looks dry. And some gel for his hair. Add those to the list–’

‘Dad! No gel!’ If there had been a big hole in the living room, Marcus would gladly have fallen into it.

Fifteen minutes later, Marcus was sat next to his dad on the free Saturday bus service from the estate to ASDA. He had his ATC under his foot. He had his hearing aids in because Dad insisted. And he had his upper lip curled high in distaste so everyone could see he hated shopping. Dad was going through Mum’s two-page printed out shopping list like there was some hidden code in it. This was so uncool. Marcus sighed loudly, but Dad didn’t seem to notice.

Then a miracle happened. When they reached ASDA, Dad went through the supermarket aisles grabbing things quick as a fox. In fifty swipes of the self-serve scanner they were in and out. It took them under twenty minutes. He didn’t even use the coupons.

‘How did you know where everything was?’ Marcus asked afterwards, astonished. They were back outside, with four bags of shopping each.

‘Shopping is war,’ Dad said. ‘The supermarkets try to keep you in there as long as possible, and my battle plan is to get out as fast as I can. And today, I won!’ Dad laughed.

They reached the bus stop for the free bus back to the estate. Marcus decked his ATC. His toes tingled. He wanted to practice.

‘Go on then, show me what you can do,’ Dad said.

‘I’m not in the mood.’

A green haired goth passed by, pushing a trolley. Dad got to his feet. ‘What do you mean, “not in the mood?” Pass me the ball, I’ll show you some tings!’

Reluctantly, Marcus rolled the ball to his dad’s feet. He wondered how fast an ambulance could arrive at the supermarket car park if his dad tripped over and broke a leg.

Dad stabbed at the ball. It rose up at an angle. He chased it and kicked it higher, then juggled it a little bit clumsily up to his right knee twice. Then let it fall to the ground.

‘Not bad, Dad, you’re improving,’ Marcus said, generously. He listened to the ball, noticing how the bounce on the tarmac sounded sharper and longer with his hearing aids in. He could also hear his dad’s keys jangling in his pocket when he kicked the ball.

‘Bet you can’t do better!’ his dad called out to him.

Grinning, Marcus went through his full repertoire. He saw his dad’s face go from appreciation to respect, to amazement. A bunch of shoppers stopped to watch him, but it was only his dad that Marcus really noticed.

‘Again,’ his dad was saying, ‘higher! Yes! That’s my son! Now give it me!’

Marcus knocked the ball over to his dad. Dad did a few wonky keepy-uppys that had the crowd picking up their shopping and moving on, then knocked the ball back to Marcus.

Marcus did his Cryuff Turn, his Marseille Roulette then booted the ball forty metres high. He waited, waited, waited. He heard it whistling through the air as it zeroed down. He took two small steps to his left then killed the ball dead under his left foot. The crowd clapped. Dad patted him on the shoulder. ‘This is my boy,’ he said, ‘I raised him. This is my boy!’

They got home and unpacked. Nobody else was in. When the stuff was all finally in the cupboards, his dad said: ‘Time for our reward, don’t you think?’ He swung open the fridge door. The reward was a glass of fresh orange each.

‘Do you think God is punishing me by making me deaf, Dad?’ Marcus asked once he’d gulped down the orange juice. ‘Have you heard of karma?’

‘Steady on, steady on, what are you talking about?’

‘“Do good things and good things happen to you. Do bad things and bad things happen to you”. Buddhism. I found it on the Internet. Is that why my ears don’t work, because I’ve done bad things?’

Dad shook his head. ‘I don’t know about Buddhism, but it’s no one’s fault. Things simply happen. You know the saying, “stuff happens”? That’s how life is. Stuff happens. We learn to deal with it, and that’s what forms our character, makes us stronger. Motorway crashes. Floods. Accidental tape deletes. Nobody deserves these things. They just happen. Somehow we cope.’

‘I don’t know if I can cope,’ Marcus said quietly.

‘Come here.’ Marcus’s dad wrapped him in his arms. ‘You only need the strength for one day, Marcus, not every day that you can see coming at you. Live in the now. Think of things you can enjoy now and find contentment in those.’

‘Is that African philosophy, Dad?’ Marcus said, breaking away from his embrace.

‘It’s your granddad’s philosophy. What’s the worst that can happen to you?’

‘I could go completely deaf.’

‘Okay. What sounds annoy you?’

Marcus had a think. ‘Whiny motorbikes,’ he said. ‘Being yelled at to wake up and get to school. The debt collector’s
knock knock knock knock
.’

‘All that you’d be free of,’ Dad said.

‘Yeah, the bright side. People keep telling me about it.’

‘C’mon. From what the doctors say, you are not about to go completely deaf, so put that out of your mind. One day at a time, Marcus,’ Dad said, squeezing his shoulder. ‘Okay?’

They were sitting on the sofa in the living room now. His dad’s yellowing eyes were steady, kind and a bit mashed up. He was starting to look a bit like Granddad.

‘Thanks, Dad. I’m going training now,’ Marcus said.

‘Right,’ his Dad said. ‘And remember. All that talent in your toes, it all came from me. You tell everyone, you got it from your dad!’

Marcus laughed and dashed out of the house to the pitch.

H
e was not long at the pitch when Horse showed up. Marcus flicked his ATC to him. Horse stabbed it up, headed it twice then rolled it back to him. Marcus trapped the ball, flipped it up, caught it in the crook of his neck, rolled it over the crown of his head and nestled it on his forehead a second. He let it fall slowly forwards, popped it with his right knee then booted it high in the air. The ball soared away on a perfect ninety degree angle, stopped on the third second, zoomed down, and on the sixth second was suddenly right there by them. Marcus effortlessly cushioned it with his left knee and trapped it under his left foot.

‘Not bad,’ said Horse, momentarily in awe, then, ‘what a show off you are, Marky!’

Marcus smiled. It was true.

They switched to tackling each other. Horse was the better tackler. Marcus marvelled at the swish, click and crunch sounds Horse’s feet made as he scrabbled on the tarmac. By the fifth winning tackle, Horse’s pride was redeemed. They stopped and sat on the low wall bordering the pitch for no reason other than the sun was in their faces and it felt good. He heard cars zoom by behind him. He’d never heard them rattle like they were today. It was because of the pot holes, he decided.

‘We’ve missed you,’ Horse said.

Marcus shrugged. ‘Water under the bridge.’

‘The school’s stupid. They’re punishing the whole team. It’s unfair. And what for? Deciding you’ve taken enough stick from Miss Podborsky? I’d have done the same. Stuff her! Stuff the school! Stuff everything!’ Horse jumped off the wall in his excitement.