Silent Striker (19 page)

We doin it bro

Marcus guessed Dwayne meant they were going to take on Mr Vialli, though he didn’t know quite how. Whatever they had planned, Mr Vialli deserved it. End of, as Horse loved to say. Marcus texted Adele.

U ok w yr Pops?

She texted him back straight away:

Had a heart to heart w mum & she told dad off. But he aint neva gonna change. Big game 2moro?

Yeh. U gona b deh?

Of Cz. N I wnt u 2 win. Dwn wth rcsts!

Thnx. Gna get sleep now

Bye xxx

Bye xxx

It was the x’s at the end of Adele’s last text that put the smile on Marcus’s face. Kisses. It was mad stupid, but they spun his head. He could hear voices downstairs. He realised he still had his hearing aids in. He listened. It was his parents, rowing again. Marcus switched off his hearing aids and put them away. That was one advantage, he thought. He didn’t have to listen if he didn’t want to. He wasn’t interested in his parents’ rows, he needed to concentrate on the match, visualise how he was going to play, re-run all the moves he’d practised.

S
chool dragged, but classes eventually ended. The team met at the school gates. They were taking a taxi-van to Bowker Vale. Marcus began kicking his ATC around as they waited for the final players to show up. Half an hour later, with the driver getting impatient, Mr Davies let them all on board. Andrew skidded into the bus and scrambled on board.

‘Right, seatbelts, lads!’ Mr Davies began a head count.

Jamil still wasn’t here yet. Marcus texted Jamil, telling him he needed to get here fast, they were about to leave. As Mr Davies passed him on his head count, he handed Marcus a folded up note. Marcus read it. ‘Good luck with the Cup Final.’ Signed ‘Miss Podborsky’. Marcus didn’t know what to make of it. He shoved the note inside his bag.

The driver started the engine. ‘Sir, where’s Jamil?’ shouted Horse above the din.

‘Yeh, he’s not here!’ everyone joined in.

‘Bad news,’ said the coach, ‘just got a text. After training last night, Jamil felt really bad with his eye. Long story short, the hospital says he’s got a hairline fracture of his eye socket and can’t play. But Kwong’s here. You’re playing, Kwong!’

Kwong smiled, but everyone went quiet. Kwong had only just joined the school, and he hadn’t really shown them anything special in training, at least nothing that Marcus had seen.

‘Come on, pick your heads up,’ said the coach, ‘this is your big day, we’re gonna win. Right? Away we go, driver!’

The van rumbled on for half an hour. The mood soon picked up and everyone talked over one another. The match had been rearranged to Bowker Vale after the turf controversy at Ducie, Marcus learned.

The van sounded like it had a hundred more moving parts than he’d imagined before, as though there were a hundred elves all under the bus floor, tapping away. It was a diesel engine. He’d learned how to tell the difference with engines. Diesels were noisier. Some of the team already had their football boots on and he listened to the different sounds the different studs made on the van floor – how plastic studs sounded different to metal ones. He heard Kwong’s voice, all excited now he was playing. Kwong sounded like he came from London. He hardly knew him, but he already liked Kwong. His hands were always drumming on surfaces and Kwong pressed his lips together whenever he didn’t like what you were saying and he covered his mouth when he laughed. His skin was the colour of mayonnaise, except his knees which were black with scabs. He was brave. He’d never seen Kwong shrink from a big tackle or pull out of a diving header.

Finally, they arrived at Bowker Vale school. They drove up a long, private road lined with trees. They got out of the van. Bowker was a combination of old grammar school building and smart new extension. Everything was spotless and shiny. They were shown to swanky changing rooms that were kitted out with power showers, under-floor heating and automatic boot cleaning machines. You stuck your shoes in the machine while still wearing them and it cleaned the muck off them. Everyone was quiet, hesitating even to put their kit bags on the glossy wooden benches.

‘Don’t be impressed lads,’ said the coach, ‘It’s just money.’ He waved a derisory hand at the decor. ‘Shallow stuff. You can dress a chicken up in wolf’s clothing, it’s still a chicken, right?’ The coach then farted. Marcus had never heard a fart so loud and extended.

Everyone groaned and laughed, but it was like his fart broke a spell and the usual noise went up as they got changed. Nobody had seen the referee. Normally he popped his head into the changing rooms, introduced himself, checked studs and shook hands with the coach. It wasn’t compulsory, but it was the way things were usually done.

Horse led them out onto the pitch. Bowker were not yet out. Marcus looked around. There were at least a hundred people on the side-lines of the pitch. He spotted Mr Vialli, standing with Adele. There was a big group of adults around Mr Vialli as well, the parents of Bowker Vale players, Marcus guessed. The Man United scout was among them. Adele waved to Marcus. Marcus nodded to her then did some hip-twist exercises. ‘Concentration’. The coach had given him a Post-It note in the taxi-van with that one word written on it.

On the far side of the pitch there were more people waving at Marcus. He looked carefully. There was some old man with a dog. Nero!

Nero’s ears pricked high and his tail was wagging like a helicopter blade. He began tugging at his lead.

‘Sit!’ Marcus called out to him. Even from the distance, Marcus saw Nero sit.

And who was that? It couldn’t be. His dad! Waving and shouting his name. Marcus waved back, amazed. He’d never played in front of his dad before. It was going to be weird, but a good weird. A man in a suit and tie strode out with a microphone in his hand and stood in the centre of the pitch.

A crackly sound echoed around. ‘Can we … lights?’

Marcus looked around. The sound was coming out of some speakers attached high up on a set of pillars. Floodlights. Bowker had floodlights! Marcus’s eyes boggled. As he watched, the floodlight bulbs jerked on. Suddenly Marcus had four shadows. He carried on doing his warm-up exercises, all five of him, as the Bowker Head talked on into the microphone, not ten metres away:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Bowker Vale, I’m Doctor Bentley the headteacher here. The winner of the match will win the All Schools Trophy. Thank you all for coming and supporting this occasion. Let’s have a great game!’

The Bowker Head walked off. There was then a fanfare through the speakers and the Bowker Vale team ran onto the pitch. They formed two lines and did two-footed hops, interweaving with each other at precise intervals, left then right, then left then right. They span around and did the same thing again, right then left, right then left.

Mr Davies was running around on the Ducie side of the pitch in his sleeping-bag-coat, yelling. ‘Pay no attention, lads, this isn’t a synchronised swimming contest, it’s a football match!’

Marcus turned his back on the Bowker Vale warm-up. He got hold of the match ball and began juggling it. It was an ATC. Marcus smiled. His favourite ball. He smacked the ball over to Horse and it dropped exactly at Horse’s feet a hundred metres away.

The pitch was smooth and had an artificial green sheen to it. It reminded him of the ASDA goth’s green head, only flat. Around them was a motorway flyover, a field with two horses, then more fields. Through thickening clouds, Marcus could just make out a pyramid-shaped, blue glass building in the distance. He wondered what it was.

‘Marcus, the game, yeh? Concentrate!’ yelled the coach.

Back on the pitch, Marcus could see Horse pointing at something. It was the referee, trotting out. The same black referee as they’d had in the league decider! Horse jogged over to him with Mr Davies, as did Anthony Vialli and Anthony’s dad. A photographer ran up and had the two captains pose with the referee. The referee tossed the coin. Bowker won the toss and kept their end. Then something weird happened.

Instead of taking their places, Dwayne, Little Mo and four other Bowker Vale players turned and walked off the pitch. They stood in a row on the Bowker touchline, arms crossed, faces defiant.

In the floodlights, it seemed like there were thirty of them, not six.

The referee was puzzled. He put his whistle to his mouth again. Mr Vialli went over to them and began shouting. Marcus drifted over, as did Horse, Andrew and Kwong.

‘Forget it. I’ve told you, lads. Simple. I don’t do apologies!’ Mr Vialli was shouting at them.

‘Then we’re not playing,’ Dwayne replied calmly.

Anthony was standing next to his dad. ‘Are you an idiot?’ he said to Dwayne. He shoved him, trying to loosen his crossed arms. Dwayne resisted. He grabbed Dwayne by the waist, trying to drag him onto the pitch. Dwayne pushed him off.

Anthony turned around and spotted Marcus. ‘This is all your doing, isn’t it?’ he accused him. ‘I hope … happy now!’

Marcus shrugged. ‘I didn’t say the “B” word. Your dad did.’

Mr Davies had come over. ‘Come on, lads, be reasonable,’ he said to the Bowker players, ‘it’s a football match, not auditions for Joan of Arc. Let’s get going, those floodlights must cost the earth to keep on.’ Mr Davies’s words had no effect.

Adele had run over. Marcus watched her, wondering what she was going to do. She lined up with the six and crossed her arms too, facing Anthony, facing her dad, defiant. She looked at Marcus as if to say, ‘still think I’m a spy?’

‘This is getting silly,’ said Mr Vialli, ‘I give in. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said.’

‘And?’ said Dwayne.

‘This is my last match in charge. The proper coach’s chemotherapy treatment is going well. He’ll soon be back. There. I’ve promised,’ he said. ‘Now let’s play … I’m sorry. Please?’

Dwayne looked to Little Mo. Little Mo nodded.

There was a cheer from all round as the Bowker Vale Six ran back onto the pitch. As they did so, Dwayne knocked fists, momentarily, with Marcus.

‘That was cool, bro,’ Marcus said to Dwayne.

‘Yeh. And now we’re … to thrash you,’ said Dwayne, ‘that’s gonna be even cooler!’

‘Game on!’ Marcus replied, grinning.

At kick-off Bowker quickly won the ball and got their well grooved pass-and-move game going. Marcus and the Ducie midfield chased shadows. It was as if they were playing on a bar football table, but with the Bowker end lifted up so that the ball always rolled towards the Ducie goal, no matter what Ducie did.

After two Bowker corners, the ball finally fell to Marcus. He squared it to Leonard, who shunted it up for Kwong to chase on the wing. Kwong trapped it and went on a mazy run straight into four defenders, who tussled the ball back off him. The Bowker pinball machine moved back into overdrive.

Mr Davies tried to rally them: ‘Tuck in. Leonard! Kwong push up! Horse, tighter! Marcus, into space! Ira ... there! Press!’

Horse slid into a tackle and came out with the ball at his feet. But his hand went up. Marcus looked. The whistle had blown. Meanwhile the boy he’d tackled, Anthony, was rolling on the floor, all four limbs jerking like he’d just showered in itching powder.

The referee reached for his cards. Horse groaned. ‘Referee!’ he protested, ‘Look! I won the ball!’

Ira pushed him away from the ref. The ref took a yellow card out of his pocket. But he didn’t move towards Horse. Instead, he turned, waited for Anthony Vialli to stop rolling, then showed the card to Anthony.

There was pandemonium on the Bowker Vale touchline. Mr Vialli jumped up and down on the spot, jabbing away: ‘Referee! What was that? Call yourself a referee? You stupid, blind, b…’

The referee looked straight over at Mr Vialli. His hand hovered by his chest pocket.

Mr Vialli’s protest fizzled out. ‘Er good call, whatever!’ Mr Vialli said, turning away.

The referee nodded to Mr Vialli. His hand slowly lowered from his pocket.

Marcus took the free kick. He floated it high over the Bowker goal area, seeking out Horse. Horse stumbled and fell, but Kwong leaped and connected with a thumping header. The ball whacked the crossbar and came out. Leonard trapped it and thundered in a shot. A Bowker defender stuck out an arm to stop the ball. The ball cannoned off the outstretched arm. Ducie appealed as one. ‘Penalty!’

The referee gave it straight away. There was no dissent from Bowker this time.

Leonard had the ball at his feet. He looked across at Marcus. Mr Davies was waving and yelling. He beckoned them both over. ‘Marcus, take it. I want it drilled high to the goalkeeper’s left. Your right, the goalkeeper’s left. Got it? I’ve done the research. That’s an order. Now go!’

Over at the penalty spot mark, the referee was tapping his watch, his hand getting itchy around his pocket again.

Marcus rested the ball against his head as he eyed the goal.

‘Referee! Excessive hair grease!’

Even Marcus heard Mr Vialli’s bellow, his latest ludicrous protest.

‘It’s oil, not grease,’ Marcus said to the referee at his shoulder.

The referee flicked the ball up from the spot with his left foot, wiped it on his shirt then dropped it down on the spot again. ‘Carry on,’ he said to Marcus with a sigh.

Marcus eyed the keeper then looked to the ref. The ref nodded to him that he could take the kick. Marcus took six slow steps back then ran up. He drilled it exactly where the coach said. The ball shot off his foot and was billowing in the back of the Bowker net before the goalkeeper had even moved.

Next he knew, his dad was kissing him and singing, ‘Mighty goal! Mighty goal! What a mighty goal!’

‘Dad, get off the pitch. Now!’ Marcus said, grinning and jogging his way back to the halfway line in a mob of Ducie players, plus his dad.

At the restart, Bowker poured players forward. Ducie defended desperately. There was a goalmouth scramble and a Bowker defender poked the ball into the Ducie net. 1–1.

‘Come on, lads, heads up!’ rallied Mr Davies but the Bowker onslaught happened again. They pinged the ball at dizzying speed across the Ducie half and into the penalty area. The ball sped to Anthony. Anthony poised to meet it on the volley. It looked a certain goal. From nowhere, Leonard threw himself head first at the ball. He got there just in time. The ball bounced off his head. Anthony’s foot smashed into Leonard’s face.