Silent Striker (2 page)

‘No, sir, I’ve got basketball practice at break tomorrow!’ chirped some fool Year 7 boy Marcus did not know.

‘Which part of “there will be no talking” did you not understand, Imtiaz?’ shot Mr Chips.

‘But you asked a question, Sir!’

‘That question was rhetorical. Does anybody here know what “rhetorical” means? Look it up in your dictionaries.’

‘I don’t have a dictionary, Sir.’

Mr Chips sighed theatrically. ‘A rhetorical question, Imtiaz, is one which does not require an answer. Now silence, while you all reflect. I want to hear only the sound of your brains humming with reflection.’

Life was basically unfair. That was Marcus’s conclusion. He was sick of this school, sick of this detention class, sick of all his teachers, And totally sick of the geography teacher, Miss Podborsky. It had kicked off in geography. He had been sitting as usual at the back table when Jamil nudged him in the ribs. He looked up. Miss Podborsky was rolling her eyes at him.

‘Marcus, do you have a medical condition that prevents you from folding your arms?’

The class laughed. Marcus felt humiliated. It was not as if he had been daydreaming. He had been working hard measuring the distance on the map from Field C to Field E.

‘I’m sorry Miss, I didn’t hear you.’

‘You have very selective hearing, don’t you, Marcus?’

Marcus didn’t know what she meant but everybody laughed again.

Miss Podborsky seemed to have it in for him after that. The map exercises soon ended and she started going back over what they had learned this term:

‘What is the name of the highest cloud?’ Miss Podborsky asked. ‘Don’t call out. Let’s have some fun. Whisper your answer to the person next to you and that person write your answer down, so you can’t all change your answers, then we’ll go round and see who has been paying attention this term.’

Marcus whispered ‘cirrus’ to Jamil. Jamil wrote that down then whispered something back to him. Marcus didn’t catch it, but it didn’t matter. He would just wait and see what Hannah, the cleverest girl in class thought it was, and give that as Jamil’s answer. He was ready.

‘Okay, pens down.’ Miss Podborsky’s inscrutable moon face with the slightly bloodshot eyes glanced around the room. She alighted on Hannah. She paused. Then carried on looking, swishing her eyes, left then right. She was a frustrated drama teacher, Marcus thought. ‘Marcus, what was Jamil’s answer?’

Miss had chosen him first. She’d never done that before, he was an expert in ducking teacher’s questions. ‘Er, I’ve forgotten, Miss.’

‘What do you mean, “forgotten”?’

‘I didn’t write it down.’

Miss Podborsky let out a loud sigh. ‘Jamil, whisper it to him again.’

Jamil whispered. It sounded like ‘nummus’ to Marcus. But that wasn’t a cloud, he was sure. All eyes were on him.

‘Cirrus,’ Marcus said.

‘Correct,’ declared Miss Podborsky. ‘Well done, Jamil.’

Jamil lapped up the praise then winked at Marcus.

The bell went.

‘Okay, off you go,’ Miss Podborsky said. ‘Except Marcus, Marcus wait behind, please.’

Miss Podborsky kept him waiting in his seat while she did whatever teachers do with their lesson paperwork. Marcus looked around. His work from Year 7 had once hung on that wall to his left. Now some other Year 7 kid’s work had taken his place. Nothing he had produced since then had been good enough to go up. Andrew’s chart of the cycle of water had pride of place above the white board. Hannah’s explanations of GPS positioning covered the peeling paint caused by a leak from a drainage pipe carrying toilet waste. The room had been nicknamed ‘The Stinker’ after that leak, and nobody who sat there ever sat comfortably again.

Miss Podborsky approached him. She told him off in a tumble of words he could hardly keep up with. His hearing always got worse under stress, he knew. They thought he was cheeky if he stared at them, yet if he looked away, he didn’t hear them as well. Why was that?

‘You need to take … smirk off your face, do you wish to know … you are sat here? You are a disruptive … in the class, what happened to… Marcus of last year? You … not have helped Jamil who obviously did not … the answer. You have an attitude, Marcus and if you … shape up soon, I will be placing you on report!’

‘But Miss I wasn’t ignoring you,’ Marcus protested. ‘I was concentrating on my work. And Jamil—’

But Miss Podborsky was having none of it. ‘You are a bright boy, Marcus and I will not allow you to waste your talent. For now, I am merely placing you in afternoon detention. But be warned. I have my eyes on you. And I will not allow my lessons to be disrupted. Not at all.’

Fine, Marcus thought. She did not want him to waste his talent, so she was putting him in detention. Where he would sit, doing nothing, wasting his talent. And he had done nothing wrong anyway. School sucked. There was no justice in the world.

‘Marcus Adenuga, are you reflecting on the error of your ways?’ boomed Mr Chips, suddenly right next to him.

He had been, Marcus thought, until Mr Chips had disturbed him. ‘Yes Sir.’

‘And have you gained any insight by that reflection?’

‘Yes Sir.’

‘And would you like to share that insight with us?’

Everyone was looking at him. Marcus imagined even the mould spores that had to be circling in the damp detention room air had stopped and were waiting for his answer.

‘No Sir,’ he said.

Mr Chips’ brow plunged, his hawk eyes zoomed down on Marcus. Then a miracle happened, he relented, and moved on to torment someone else in detention class:

‘Is someone humming? Humming, whistling, singing and all variations on the acoustic spectrum is not silence!’

Marcus’s mind wandered to his dad’s singing. He could still remember calling out, ‘That’s my Daddy!’ when his dad had taken to the stage of some pub in a silver suit and burst into
Blue Suede Shoes
. He’d been ‘Tony the Black Elvis’ back then. Marcus must have been about four, he thought. It was a time B. T. S: Before The Sister. Leah was a complete nuisance, even though he couldn’t imagine life without her now. When she cried at night Mum sometimes put her in his bed and then she’d wriggle and crawl and he never got to sleep till late and was dog-tired the next day, didn’t pay attention in class and ended up in here, in detention, watching imaginary spores floating in the air.

Mr Chips finally called an end to their boredom. ‘You may leave the room. Single file please, starting from the front.’

There was a mass scraping of chairs and everyone rushed for the door. Fifteen minutes of my life wasted, Marcus muttered to himself. Fifteen minutes of football practice thrown away. It was plain stupidness. School sucked.

F
riday was Marcus’s least favourite day and geography was his least favourite lesson. He trooped in to the classroom along with everyone else and sat down at his desk and the class quickly settled down to study. Jamil was soon sleeping. He was like those batteries that gave off mega-watts until they suddenly and completely expired. Late afternoon, no matter how many energy drinks he’d had for lunch, Jamil would be found with his arms over his head, sleeping in class, especially on a Friday. Marcus could do with a snooze himself. In the morning he’d had to feed Leah instead of ironing his uniform. Leah had flicked the egg yolk at him and he was sure there was still some in his hair. He moved his compass around the exercise paper. The teacher occasionally looked across at him, but mainly, she was marking. Horse sat in front of Marcus and Marcus shifted to hide himself from the teacher behind Horse’s frame. Horse smiled without looking up, knowing what he was doing. Horse had a big back, broad legs and feet that turned outwards. When he walked he owned the pavement, he bowled along. He had skin the colour of sunflower seeds, short eyebrows and steady, almond eyes that were warm and unafraid and somehow saw deep into people. Marcus nudged Jamil awake; Miss was looking over at them again. Things went okay and Marcus kept his head down, but towards the end of the lesson Miss Podborsky picked him out.

‘Marcus Adenuga you’ve been very quiet today. Come to the front of the classroom.’

Marcus shoved his chair back and dragged himself to the front of the class. Everybody had stopped work to watch. Nobody had been called out to the front of class by Miss Podborsky before.

‘Let’s see how much you have learned so far, Marcus. Explain to the class the meaning of precipitation. Big loud voice, please.’

‘I was off ill that week,’ Marcus said.

‘Excuses. You’ve had plenty of time to catch up. Come on.’

Miss Podborsky circled him as she waited. ‘Look at you, Marcus. Odd socks. Trousers … crumpled.’

Marcus held his breath. He hardly heard Miss Podborsky anymore; he just concentrated on remaining calm during the shaming.

‘Have you … brought up or dragged up? And don’t tell me your family can’t afford an iron. As the clothes, so the boy. Precipitation. Meaning. Please.’

Marcus went to open his mouth but no words were supplied to his tongue by his brain.

‘Well? We are waiting,’ said Miss Podborsky.

‘Water in the air, Miss?’ Marcus managed.

‘“Water in the air”. How very precise,’ Miss Podborsky mocked. The class all tittered. ‘You will have to do better than that if you want to sit down again.’

Miss Podborsky was standing beside him, mocking the way he was biting his lower lip. She said, ‘I’ll give you a clue. Falling water.’

Marcus thought. Still nothing came to his mind. Miss Podborsky issued another ‘Well?’

One of the girls put her hand up. ‘Please Miss, he’s crying, Miss.’

Marcus felt his face. There were wet streaks on his cheeks.

The class went quiet.

‘Go and sit down, Marcus,’ Miss Podborsky said quickly. ‘And concentrate better next time. French children are so much better behaved.’

‘Fuck you,’ Marcus thought, as he walked back to his seat. His whole face had heated up.

‘What did you say?’ Miss Podborsky shouted across to him.

So he hadn’t just thought it, Marcus realised. He had actually said it.

‘Nothing,’ he replied to Miss Podborsky. He didn’t care anymore, he just wanted to get away. Every second spent in this class was a waste of his life.

Afterwards, nobody mentioned what happened. Marcus splashed water on his face in the toilets then leaned on a radiator and stared out of the toilet window at the clouds. Friday was football training. At least there was that.

Training went well. He liked the shooting exercises, the dribbling and the fitness drills. Running around lifted his spirits. They did an hour then the coach and most of the squad drifted back to the changing room.

Horse stayed behind with Marcus on the field so he could work on a new move he’d been trying. It was called the ‘Cryuff Turn’. He had been practicing it on the pitch, if you could describe the small patch of tarmac in the park near his house as a pitch. Every morning for a week he had tried the move without success. Horse gamely ran at him like a defender while Marcus twisted one way but turned the other with the ball.

‘You okay? You must hate Podborsky,’ Horse said.

‘I’m fine, let’s keep at this. Close me down faster.’

Horse ran at him again and again. After two hours, Marcus finally nailed it. Horse slapped him on the back. ‘Massive, Marky, like a magician!’

‘Thanks, but it’s still not right.’

Marcus insisted they did it a few more times. By then it was pitch dark. They ran back to the changing room. When they were finally back in their uniforms, Marcus checked his phone and saw his mum had left five messages. The last one said she was about to call the police. He had no credit on his phone, neither had Horse. They ran home together, splitting when they reached the housing estate.

He let himself in. His mum ranted and raved as he ate his dinner in the living room with the TV turned down low.

‘I almost called the police!’ she said, whacking a spoonful of jollof rice onto his plate. ‘And now I have to see the Head.’ She headed back into the kitchen.

‘What?’ said Marcus, shocked.

She came back out with a piece of chicken. ‘The Head rang, left a message. I have to go see her, with you, first thing, Monday.’

‘They only call parents in if they’re expelling someone,’ Marcus said.

That really set his mum off. ‘What the blazes have you been up to at school?’ She chucked a chicken piece onto his plate with a spoon.

‘I— ’ began Marcus.

‘Don’t bother telling me. Getting expelled, that’s what! Eat your tea and go straight to bed. As if I don’t have enough problems! A sick baby. My asthma flaring. A witless husband. And now this!’ His mum stormed back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

It had to be Miss Podborsky, Marcus decided. If he had a voodoo doll he’d imagine it was Miss Podborsky then stick pins in it till it was a mass of broken threads. Marcus hated her so much he noticed he clenched his teeth whenever he thought of her. He held onto his ATC ball under his pillow. At least the football training had gone well. The Cryuff Turn. It was all in the hips. He still didn’t think he was doing it as well as Cryuff himself. He’d seen the Cryuff videos on YouTube.

The next morning Marcus got out of bed early and made himself some sandwiches. He stayed out all day on the pitch, practising. When he played football he forgot all about his troubles. The longer he played, the more he forgot. At lunchtime he bought chips and gravy from the chippy, then went back to the pitch and played on. He texted his mum to let her know where he was, so she wouldn’t call the police. Only when it got so dark he couldn’t see the goal wall, did he go back home. He kicked off his shoes at the door. Leah’s buggy wasn’t in the room so Dad must have taken her out. He called out. ‘Mum, I’m home, what’s to eat?’

His mum appeared at the kitchen door with a measuring tape in one hand and a pencil in her other. She stared at him and sighed. ‘Marcus, the greatest magic I ever did was making you.’

What had got into his mum? Marcus thought. Yesterday she had been shouting at him, now she was like this. Even though he knew there was nobody else in the room, he looked around. ‘Hush, Mum, you’re embarrassing me.’