Return to Ribblestrop (15 page)

One-nil.

A clap of thunder seemed to roll over the world. The crowd swarmed onto the pitch and Darren found himself borne aloft and bounced. His team-mates crowded around him, leaping, punching the air,
and Flavio could stand it no more. He’d been watching the game and the crowd with growing disbelief: now he went onto the pitch himself and let forth a torrent of Portuguese abuse over the
referee. Gary Cuthbertson only smiled and took a long time recording things in his notebook. It was a full five minutes before play could continue.

The High School boys were also smiling. They rubbed their hands and took possession almost immediately. In seconds, they were close to goal, confident of their plans.

Ribblestrop – if truth be told – had gone to pieces. Apart from Henry and Miles, the defenders had lost their nerve. Henry was slow and Miles was limping. Darren relaxed and began to
show off. Twirls, knees, intricate little flicks of the heel – he saw he could enjoy himself and the crowd went wild for it. The ‘Darren!’ chant started again, and ten minutes
before half-time he’d scored his hat-trick.

Worst of all, some of the Ribblestrop players now began to pick on each other. Millie cursed Asilah for a dismal pass and Anjoli suddenly lost his temper with Sanjay. Taunting laughter gusted
from the crowd. Some of the boys by the High School goalmouth unfurled a banner:
Private School Snobs Go Down
and the ref ignored it. The Ribblestrop tactics were forgotten and, despite
Sam’s cries and pleas of encouragement, his axis with Millie and Anjoli collapsed. The closest the team came to a goal was when Millie made a breathtaking run past three players and crossed
perfectly to Tomaz. The goalie was committed right; the goal was open. Tomaz shot and the ball spun crazily from his shoe way over the bar. The scorn, laughter, and whistling from the crowd was
ear-splitting. At just that moment, the ref blew for half-time. The High School was laughing and high-fiving. Darren disappeared under a crowd of girls. It was a rout and the Ribblestrop players
staggered to the touchline.

The score now stood at five-nil.

They sucked oranges.

Brother Doonan said, ‘There’s no shame. They’re a strong bunch of boys and they play well.’

‘They’re dirty sods,’ said Millie. ‘And they don’t play well.’

Israel said, ‘Look at this.’

His left leg had a cut all down the inner thigh, past the knee. It was black with congealed blood. Other orphans showed their injuries. Sam had a black eye coming and Millie was having trouble
walking. As for Miles, his swollen mouth hung open, and his eyes were dazed and exhausted. His shirt had long been ripped off and his arms, face, and torso were a mess of mud and blood. He sat
quietly, too weak to peel his own orange. Henry was feeding him segments from his own.

‘There’s no shame,’ said Doonan. ‘We’re doing our best. I just wish Father O’Hanrahan was here to give a little . . . boost.’

‘We’re crap,’ said Sanjay. ‘Five-nil!’

Flavio said, ‘I never see football like this, an’ I see some tough games. Is the ref, I wanna . . . Man, I wanna to talk to him properly, just him and me.’

‘Who cares?’ said Millie. ‘If we do get a chance, we waste it. Give up.’

‘Hey, you gotta fight,’ said Flavio. ‘I learn that in the
favela
: you give up, you die.’

‘Listen,’ said Brother Doonan. ‘You might think this a little bit inappropriate, because I know not all of you share the faith. But I think we should say a prayer.
Together.’

Millie happened to be kneeling, attending to her laces. She put her hands together and said, in a voice so heavy with contempt Brother Doonan winced, ‘Dear God. Where were you?’

Miles laughed.

Asilah said, ‘Maybe He’s playing for the High School. Maybe they say
their
prayers.’

‘No, listen to me,’ said Brother Doonan, gently. ‘I’m quite serious. If we were to hold hands for a moment . . . just a moment of contemplation—’

Millie interrupted again, with withering scorn. ‘If God sends us a miracle, I’ll become a nun. I’ll give up smoking; I’ll never do a bad thing and Miles won’t,
either.’

‘Look at Darren,’ said Sam.

They looked over at the High School team. Cuthbertson had separated his striker from the crowds and he and Mr Scanlon were deep in conversation. Darren himself was sitting tracksuited, in a
folding chair. A girl was massaging his shoulders as Scanlon put some papers in his lap.

‘Well then, boys and girls,’ said a voice.

They all looked up. Gary Cuthbertson was standing close by. He was smiling and he winked at Millie. ‘Shall we abandon the game?’ he said.

Captain Routon said, ‘Abandon it? It’s only half-time.’

‘I know, but to be honest, the fixture was for Darren really, and Scanlon says he’s seen enough. Says the boy’s ready to move up, which we all knew really – he needs to
play a bit of serious football.’ He raised his voice. ‘So, if you want to call it a day . . .?’

Somewhere, an engine was roaring.

‘Speak louder,’ said Millie. ‘We can’t hear you!’

‘I said, shall we abandon the match?’

A number of people had heard the helicopter, but nobody had thought much about it. Helicopters are not uncommon. However, the engines of this particular craft were getting ear-splittingly loud,
to the point where many people were wincing. Hair was becoming tousled and clothes were flapping.

Captain Routon had to shout to be heard. ‘I say play on!’ he roared. Cuthbertson couldn’t hear and had his hand cupped behind his ear.

‘What?’ he was shouting. ‘What do you say?’

The helicopter was getting yet lower. It was looking for somewhere to land. The pilot had seen the football pitch and swung his machine closer. It was dropping fast.

‘Back! Get back!’ shouted the headmaster, rushing at the crowd.

Professor Worthington was anxious. ‘It could be an emergency!’ she shouted. ‘Can we all get right back?’

She was inaudible. The helicopter was getting bigger and yet louder, and floated down within its own tornado.

Millie found herself clutching Sam.

Sam found himself clutching Brother Doonan – who was the one person not standing. He was on his knees, deep in prayer. The undercarriage bounced gently on the rippling grass, taking the
strain, and the door in the side flipped upwards.

‘I don’t believe this,’ said Millie. ‘This is not possible.’

As one, the Ribblestrop team moved in. The hurricane didn’t matter, nor did the shattering noise. They moved in because they could see a boy who looked just like their dear friend Sanchez.
There was another boy with him, but hidden in the aircraft. Sanchez was in the doorway, pulling himself up and out. In a moment he was on the grass, his goalie’s shirt rippling
emerald-green.

He turned and the other boy pushed out a cardboard box. Then another, then another. Sanchez set them on the grass and kit-bags followed. The luggage taken care of, the second boy emerged. He
wore black shorts and a football shirt that gleamed with golden stripes. His long hair flew under the rotor-blades and he held it to his head with both hands. It was the boy from the film. It was
Imagio, but he might have been an angel.

Brother Doonan looked up and promptly fainted.

The helicopter door slammed and, as if released on elastic, the craft shot upwards, taking the noise with it. The sun chose that moment to break through a cloud and the two boys shimmered like
apparitions, caught in a shaft of light. Then they were lost in a frenzy of hugs and handshakes, dances and kisses.

Millie could not get to Sanchez: the orphans had him for themselves, sweeping Imagio up as well in their joy. When they finally broke away to look at the boxes, Millie found he was in front of
her.

‘Hello,’ she said. He held out his hand and she shook it.

‘How are you?’ he said.

‘I’m fine. We’re losing.’

‘What’s the score?’

‘Five-nil.’

She looked into his eyes and he looked into hers. ‘Do you remember Miles?’ she said, after several long seconds.

‘Yes.’

‘He’s amazing.’

Miles was right behind her and heard. He grinned and put out his hand; Sanchez put out his arms and hugged his thin shoulders to him, hard.

Then there was Sam to be embraced, and then there was Ruskin, moist behind a pair of glasses that were almost obliterated by sellotape. Finally, there was Tomaz and the hugs could get no
tighter.

Behind them, the team was getting changed. Imagio had taken charge and was dishing out boots, shorts, and shirts. Plastic bags were ripped open and left to sail off in the breeze. School uniform
was being flung into a bloody, muddy pile. In seconds, black-and-gold warriors were emerging. In the space of five minutes, ten children were changed and ready: ten hornets and their goalie.

Captain Routon stood close to Gary Cuthbertson and said in his ear, ‘Two subs. Ready when you are.’

That night, when Sam and Ruskin were together, they opened a brand-new exercise book and looked at the bright, white pages. How would they describe the game now that it was
over? Even a heading was impossible. Ruskin wrote the date. Sam underlined it. They then simply looked at the empty lines.

Millie was sitting with a Bible. She had decided to read it, convinced at last that it might have something to say about the world. Page one was long and tricky, but she persevered. She had
asked Doonan about confirmation classes.

Amazing scenes
, wrote Ruskin.

The miracle from the skies
, wrote Sam. He sucked the fountain pen and pulled a thread of blotter from its golden nib.
The Turning of the Tide . . .

Anjoli crept over to them as they contemplated their work and leaned between them. He had a big, fat felt-tip with chisel-edge, and he simply wrote the final score in letters as high as the
page. Then he climbed onto the table and danced.

Sushamila crept in and gazed at Sam from the doorway, purring longingly.

The Ribblestrop teachers yelled support as the teams returned to the pitch, but their voices were lost in the tide of hooting laughter and derision that came from the High
School crowds.

Mr Scanlon was about to leave, but he paused. The Ribblestrop team was transformed visually. He’d watch for five minutes, he decided – he was due back in London, but his taxi could
wait a moment.

Ribblestrop kicked off and lost possession immediately. A long pass went out to the High School winger, who booted it midfield again: same tactics, no surprises. Their triangles formed
efficiently, but the Ribblestrop players were anticipating and watching. They were controlling themselves. The passes continued, Ribblestrop holding back; the ball fell for Darren and the
supporters’ chant kicked in as usual. He took it past a defender and shot a hard, curling ball. The Ribblestrop goalie snatched it from the air and brought it to his chest.

Mr Scanlon liked Darren’s play and would certainly call him up for a trial in the next few weeks. But he was aware the lad hadn’t been stretched. It would be nice to see him under a
bit of pressure. He folded his arms and went back to the touchline.

Sanchez rolled the ball briskly to Israel, as the crowd bayed and hooted. Israel found Anjoli. Anjoli’s confidence was back: he took it past two of the High School players before trickling
it to Sam, who dummied neatly and got it to Asilah. Asilah found Miles, up front again, and he found Millie; by this time Anjoli had made the run and was dangerous. Millie got it to him. All
through this, there was one boy, not running. Imagio was still and simply watched. He looked a little tired from his flight and he sat down on the grass. He was pulling his hair back with both
hands, lazily twisting it into a plait and slipping a sweatband around it. He watched as Anjoli was surrounded. He watched Anjoli panic and boot the ball anywhere. It ran in his direction and he
idly punted it to Millie without even standing.

Millie got the ball to Sam, who crossed hard. It was only the second Ribblestrop attack and the High School goalie seemed unable to believe it. The cross was low and Miles was there. He dived
headfirst and the header cracked the post. There was another thunderclap of jeering and another beer can was hurled onto the pitch. Goal kick.

Imagio had seen enough. He trotted into midfield and – inevitably – the magic started.

The High School goalie played a long ball and, as if Imagio had called it like a dog, it bounced straight to him. He trapped it, turned, and waited for attack. Number 666, it was; he came in
hard and saw a football disappear. It was simply gone. He turned fast, caught sight of it, lunged; it flipped over his head. He chopped at the player’s legs, but they too were suddenly in the
air. Another High School boy joined the assault, leaping up to head it: Imagio’s head was faster and higher and harder, and clicked the ball to Anjoli, who simply back-heeled it to Sam.

Sam and Imagio decided to play football.

Imagio just wanted to feel the space, of course, and acclimatise himself. He’d been crammed under boxes in the helicopter for two hours; prior to that was a crazy car ride from Lisbon to
Malaga, to the Sanchez jet, scrambled from North Africa. Now he limbered up and cleared his head. The High School boys reminded him of South American buffalo: dangerous if mishandled, but slow,
stupid, and utterly predictable. They were like the tourists on the beach . . . the men who thought they could play football. There were seven of them now, all rushing from point to point, snorting
and booting at the ball.

Imagio started to smile, and when he smelled in his nostrils the heat of the boys’ anger – and their terrible sweat – he started to enjoy himself. He flicked and tucked, stood
on the ball, played wild dummies in which the ball rolled slowly on its own, untouchable under his dancing feet. Then he’d twirl it to Sam, who’d rest him, and flick it back. In this
way the two boys edged from side to side and a minute passed. The crowd had started whistling, but it petered out. There were just a few cries now: ‘Come on the High!’ ‘Close him
down!’ But most of the supporters were silent.