Silent Striker (12 page)

‘No comment,’ Marcus replied.

‘Where did you get your hair …?’

‘What do you mean, where did I get my hair? I was born with it.’

Adele laughed. ‘No, I said, “where did you get your hair
cut
?”’

‘Oh. At Mustapha’s by the indoor market.’ Actually Marcus’s mum had cut his hair, but Marcus would rather die than say that.

Adele got going on a list of things boys thought girls liked but that she didn’t. Marcus tried following it for a while, but Adele was talking into her hands and he didn’t hear bits of it and anyway he lost interest. He wanted to nail the Zidane move.

‘Hey, Marky, I’m over here, are you listening?’ said Adele.

‘Course,’ Marcus said.

‘I’m bored. Let’s go to the petrol station.’

‘We got no money,’ said Marcus.

‘Who needs money?’ winked Adele.

‘You’re crazy,’ Marcus said.

‘I want some excitement.’

Marcus leaned over and pressed his lips to her cheek, quickly. Then he jumped off the pipes.

‘Was that a kiss?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ Marcus flicked his ATC up in the air, thinking, what had come over him? Why had he kissed her? He felt dizzy.

‘Now I’m even more bored,’ was all she said.

They walked to the bus station. It was a long glass shed surrounded by bus lanes, with boarded up shops to one side and an empty parking lot to the other. It looked like a scene from a horror movie, before the mad killer struck. All it needed was an eerie soundtrack.

‘You can’t wait here,’ Marcus said.

‘I always wait here. They’ve got CCTV. Look.’

Twin black pylons towered above the station. ‘It covers everywhere,’ she said.

‘Fine. Still I’ll wait with you. Got nothing else to do.’

‘Suit yourself.’

Adele sat on one of the plastic fold-down seat panels. Marcus began doing tricks.

‘BORING!’ she called out, but he carried on anyway.

Out of nowhere a small crowd gathered. Even the CCTV camera swung round. Marcus stepped it up. He enjoyed the crowds, though he tried his hardest tricks, like the Marseille Roulette, only when there was no one around.

The station tannoy speaker squawked, catching Marcus by surprise. He almost dropped the ball. He saved it with a leaping scorpion kick that drew a smattering of applause.

‘What’d it say?’ Marcus called to Adele.

‘“Members of the public are reminded there is no ball playing at this station!”’ Adele told him, in a nasal squeak that imitated the tannoy. Then she gave the CCTV camera the finger. At that moment, her bus swung into the station. With a quick wave, she dived into the crowd that piled into the bus’s open doors. Marcus ran up and tapped the window where she sat. She blew him a kiss. The bus pulled away. Suddenly, the bus station was just a bus station.

Walking home, Marcus thought about Adele. She had the ideal family. Yet the way she described it, her family was worse than his. He thought about her dad and what he’d said, ‘black bastard’. Two of Bowker Vale’s own team were black and their goalkeeper was Chinese. Hadn’t Mr Vialli seen that before he’d opened his gob? Bowker Vale’s Dwayne had texted back to his text with an ‘
ok bro
’. He didn’t know what it meant, he could only guess. His thoughts drifted around. The referee sending Mr Vialli off was brilliant. If only Marcus could send off everyone who gave him a hard time. Miss Podborsky? Red Card! Mr Head of Year? Red Card!

Adele. He always came back to thinking about her. He liked the story she told about swapping tomato ketchup for chilli sauce then watching her brother gasp when he splodged it all over his chips and began scoffing them. He liked the way her lower lip dropped and rolled outward a little when she was thinking about something. He liked what she did when he tried to explain for the fifth time the difference between modes, means and medians. She’d drop her bottom lip and go squint-eyed.

Marcus turned the key in his front door and stepped inside. His mum wasn’t downstairs but his dad was on the sofa. The TV was blaring so he switched it off. He could see his dad’s tonsils in the back of his mouth, two pink balls vibrating in a Newton’s cradle of snores. His dad shifted in his sleep and farted. He had the picture of Marcus’s granddad – the one that was usually on the wall – on his chest. It rested there precariously. One turn and it was gone. Dads were overrated, Marcus decided as he carefully took the photo off his dad without waking him and placed it back on the wall.

He went into the kitchen and made a jam butty then came back out, nudged his dad’s legs and squeezed himself onto the sofa. Up close, his dad’s snore was a cross between a bus engine on idle, and somebody dragging a dead body across a gravel track. His face was pock-marked from the acne he had suffered when he was Marcus’s age. Marcus felt a tingling in the centre of his own forehead. Sometimes he felt jinxed. He consoled himself with another jam butty. Then he went upstairs, lay on his bed a while. Something in his gut made him restless. He got up, went to his window and texted Adele.

U bak ok?

Sure.

Stil cant believ we lost

Soz
(The ‘soz’ came with a photo of Adele doing her saddest face).

Becos of penalties

Even worse. Send me a pic

He sent her a selfie

Nice bedrum posters. U luk bad what hapd 2 your hair? It all mushed.

Was lyin in bed we lost gess its not the end ov da world.

Best chek tho? Luk out yr window!
(This came with a pic of Adele with her hair all flicked up and wild eyed horror stare)

Marcus laughed.

C ya

M
um yelled, ‘Come get your tea, Marky!’ He came down. The hearing test letter was on his mind but he wasn’t sure anyone wanted to listen. He sat at the table with his mum, dad and sister and tucked into the spaghetti bolognese. As usual, nobody actually talked to anyone else at the table.

‘I’m not getting any decent leads,’ Mum was saying to no-one in particular. ‘If I got decent leads … They’re giving me the old lists. The stiffs. The Moveds. The Refused-Credits. And the call centre goons are promising fifty per cent discount. I have to double the start price to cover that. I’m slipping down the chart … Maybe I should go blonde, maybe that would work better on the doorsteps, what do you think, J?’

‘I think Leah might have the singing talent,’ said Dad. ‘She takes after her dad. She was singing in her bath this morning. She was so happy. I’m feeling lucky today, gonna buy a lottery ticket.’

Mum kept on with her own monologue. ‘My boss you know, she can kiss me where-the-sun-don’t-shine. Reason I’m sinking down that chart is cos she gives me duff leads. Last week it was a caravan site. Would you believe? A caravan site? To sell double glazing? I phoned and told her right off, heads will roll, wasting my time. She blamed a postcode mix-up, said try them anyway, they might have friends with houses, could be holiday homes. Ridiculous. Meanwhile Derek got the housing association pitch. I mean Derek? I won’t diss him but that mumbler? Pitching for four thousand windows and a three year maintenance contract? My God, you know something’s going on between them. If he’s getting that pitch, the broom cupboard’s been busy. I’ve had enough, I’m working on my vanishing act. Then kazoom! I’m gone. And I’m keeping the laptop. They owe it me, the amount of unpaid overtime I’m putting in. It’s the least they owe me. Who wants more spaghetti?’

‘Does anyone want to know what I did today?’ Marcus said.

‘You did go to school, right?’ probed Mum.

‘Gaga dadodadagoo!’ said Leah.

‘Did you hear that? She just said Dada!’ said Dad. ‘That’s because I’m spending all my time looking after her while others traipse around caravan parks on hopeless double glazing calls. She knows who does the looking after in this house. Say it again, cutie. “Dada. Dada.”’

‘Gagadoda dodagoo!’ said Leah.

‘There’s a clever girl!’

‘Oh, beam me up, Scottie,’ said Mum.

Marcus gave up on his parents. He turned to Leah. ‘I’m going to tell you what I did today, Leah,’ he said. Leah gave him a rice pudding smile.

‘What I did was—’

‘Marcus eat your dinner before it gets cold. I’m expecting Bones,’ said Dad.

Marcus groaned. Bones was Dad’s mate. If Bones sat with them, Marcus would get up and leave and his dad knew it. All Bones ever spoke about was how much money there was in loading his wagon with butchers’ scrap bones. When he visited their house the stench of rotting bones didn’t leave for weeks.

‘The baby will be asleep soon,’ said Mum, ‘I might try some leafleting.’

‘What’s up?’ said Dad.

‘Nothing,’ said Marcus.

‘You are worthy, son. You are related to an African Chief. We are not council estate trash. We are royalty. Pass the ketchup.’

I
t was the morning of his hearing test. He got into his uniform, grabbed a bowl of cereal and tried to sneak away. His mum blocked his way at the front door.

‘Marcus, it’s your hospital appointment isn’t it, for your ears? I’m coming with you.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘You searched my room,’ Marcus snapped. ‘You’re not coming.’

His mum looked at him and shuddered. ‘I know you’re a big boy now,’ she said, ‘but I’m your mother and I can’t bear not to be there with you.’

‘No.’

‘It says on the letter you have to take an adult.’

‘Move out of the way, Mum. You’re. Not. Coming.’

‘You can’t do this to me, you can’t be so cruel. I’m your mother!’

Her breathing was getting jerky again, like she might have an asthma attack. Marcus relented and immediately felt frustrated: Why did his mum always get her way?

‘Alright, you can come but you’re saying nothing. Not a word.’

‘But—’

‘Ah!’

‘Fine. From now till when we get back, I’ll say nothing.’

Marcus headed out, with his mum shadowing him four paces behind like a bad detective film.

He trudged on, remembering. When the appointment letter had come through the door, Mum had asked what the letter said. He told her it was none of her business. She was always saying she was too busy with the double glazing so why should he bother telling her? Yes. Some things you just had to do alone. As for Dad, he was always on shift-work.

Marcus found himself on the hospital bus, though he could not remember boarding it. He sat upstairs, making his mum follow him there even though she liked to ride on the lower deck. Somewhere in his mind he thought maybe there was something not quite right with his ears, but he was sure it was wax. His stomach was flipping.

The appointment was at 9.20 am and would last no more than half an hour, the letter said. He wondered how he would be feeling at 9.50 am. He realised he didn’t have his ATC on him for the first time since he could remember. It felt weird, like there was a big hole under his arm.

He pressed the bell on the bus to get off at the hospital stop. A crowd of people got off with him, his mum pushing through them, trying to keep up with him. The main entrance was boarded up and a sign there said ‘Temp Entrance’ with an arrow pointing to other signs. There were signs everywhere. One sign read, ‘Those wishing to attend the Eye Clinic please turn left then take the path on the right to the green entrance doors.’ It struck Marcus as a particularly stupid sign. How could blind people read it? Marcus’s destination was Ear Nose and Throat. Eye Clinic did not include Ear Nose and Throat he was sure. Maybe Ear Nose and Throat was another hospital somewhere completely different.

He glanced at his watch. 9.15 am. Which way? His mum didn’t know either else she would have tugged his sleeve by now. This was stupid. Why was he putting himself through it? He could leave, give his mum the slip, tell the school the hospital said he was okay, or could make up a letter and send that, scan a signature onto it and hand it in at school. All he had to do was speed up, he thought, there were so many hospital buildings all scattered about you could lose anyone within two minutes if you tried hard enough. He imagined himself running like his shoes were on fire, all the way out of the hospital grounds, his mum flailing her arms trying to keep up.

‘Marky!’

Marcus looked up. It was Horse. Bouncing Marcus’s ATC.

‘What are you doing here?’ Marcus said. ‘How did you get my ATC?’

Horse passed him his ball. ‘I called at your house and your dad said you’d left already, so I guessed. He said to take the ball for you and you’ve got to phone him straight away after.’

‘Thanks for the ball.’

Horse nodded.

Marcus waited for Horse to leave. Horse just stood there.

‘What?’ Marcus said.

‘I’m coming with you,’ said Horse, not budging.

‘I don’t need you.’

‘I’m your mate. That’s what mates do.’

‘You slapped me.’

‘Sometimes people need slapping,’ Horse said, with a big shrug then a quick glance at Marcus’ mum, who was hovering, as usual, and hadn’t liked the sound of Marcus getting slapped. Marcus was impressed. His mum had been true to her word. She hadn’t spoken, even now.

Horse softened. ‘This isn’t easy for me, Marky. Everyone’s mad at you.’

‘Leave me then. Take off like the rest of them.’

‘That’s not gonna happen. I’m mad at you. But you’re still my mate.’

Marcus shrugged.

‘Hello, Mrs Adenuga,’ Horse said to Marcus’s mum politely. She was stood leaning on a lamp post. He hadn’t batted an eyelid that she wasn’t standing next to Marcus.

Marcus’s mum nodded, keeping her oath of silence.

They started off again, Marcus and Horse shoulder to shoulder, Marcus’s mum always not more than two steps behind. They walked through the temporary main entrance, through the swing doors, under signs for various weirdly named departments and found a reception desk. The man behind the plastic screen took Marcus’s card when he pushed it under the gap, then told him to head straight up, then left, second right, then … Marcus couldn’t follow the rest.

‘Get that?’ Horse joked.

Horse led the way for all three of them. They passed the burns unit then a grey man in his dressing gown who had a drip attached to him. They saw a sign saying ENT, turned a corner and there was a waiting area. They all sat down in a row on the red plastic chairs, Marcus first, then Horse and Marcus’s mum.