Jam (29 page)

‘Three.'

‘Sorry, yeah, three. Whatever, we're spanking you.'

‘So?'

‘So, whatever. We can carry on playing if you want. It's just getting a bit boring, that's all.'

‘Look, brah,' said Shahid, ‘if a pasting's what they want, a pasting's what they'll fucking get. Right, mate?' He fixed Stevie with a long, mocking look.

‘Look, Stevie, it's only a kick-around,' said Dave. ‘There's no point playing if we're just going to be slaughtered.'

‘Don't be so fucking pathetic,' said Stevie. ‘We'll change our tactics. We just need a few more goals and before you know it we'll be snapping at their heels.'

Shahid heard him and laughed. ‘Snapping at our heels,' he repeated to Mo, ‘they reckon.'

‘Butt out of this, all right?' said Stevie. ‘We're having a team talk.'

Shahid and Mo faded into the mist.

‘Let's just leave it, OK?' said Dave, his voice lowered. ‘I'm getting tired, anyway. Look, dude, the sun's rising. Can't you hear the birds? And I'm fucking sweating.'

‘Seven goals?' said Stevie, ‘you want to give up for the sake of a seven-goal lead? You girl.'

‘Something's not right here,' Dave replied. ‘I don't like it.'

‘Don't like what, dude?'

‘I don't know. It feels funny. They're hard bastards, they are. And the guys by the van? They're making me antsy.'

‘You're just being paranoid,' said Stevie. ‘It's the skunk.'

‘Thanks for reminding me. I've got the munchies.'

‘Forget the fucking munchies.'

‘We were lucky to get three goals, anyway,' said Dave. ‘We didn't deserve any of them. Especially that last one. We only scored because of the fog.'

‘Don't be such a fucking girl.' Stevie turned, walked a few paces, walked back. ‘Here's what we'll do. Whoever gets the ball, the other one draws the defenders away and the first one has a shot. We need to get some shots in.'

‘That won't work.'

‘Then when we get the chance, we need to go down. Call for a penalty, or at least a free kick.'

‘You're saying we should play dirty?'

‘It's not dirty. All the footballers do it. It's gamesmanship.'

‘Fuck.'

‘And then back to shots.'

‘Stevie, it's just a kick-around.'

‘You got any better ideas?'

‘Yeah, let's just call it off.'

‘I said better ideas. That's not a better idea. That's a gay idea.'

‘Fuck sake,' said Dave, under his breath. Then there was the sound of the ball bouncing on the tarmac again and Shahid and Mo stepped into view.

‘Game on!' said Stevie, clapping his hands. ‘Let's go.'

The goalie kicked the ball high in the air, and it fell kindly to Stevie. He made an effort to trap it but it squeezed under his foot and was nicked by Mo, who backheeled it to Shahid. He accepted it smoothly, held it up, stroking it from side to side, waiting. Dave went in for a tackle but Shahid easily sidestepped him, ran a few paces towards goal, stopped, flicking the ball back and forth; then Stevie went in hard and barged him out of possession. Shahid swore in bewilderment. Now Stevie had a clear attempt at goal, but was unable to capitalise on the advantage; he lost control of the ball and it bobbled off down the motorway. Nevertheless, a cheer went up from the two men by the van.

‘Oi-oi! Get stuck in, my son,' yelled Rhys. ‘Get fucking stuck in. Ha ha.'

‘En-ger-land,' sang Chris, ‘Engerland, Engerland, Engerland.'

‘That was a foul,' said Shahid. ‘Free kick.'

‘Bollocks,' said Stevie. ‘Come on.' He ran down the middle lane, retrieved the ball, dribbled it back. ‘Come on.'

Blinded by anger, Shahid went in hard. But he lost his composure and missed; Stevie managed to both release the ball to Dave and avoid getting chopped down. Mo was out of position. Dave lined it up and let fly; the ball whizzed across the tarmac and skidded inside the far post. The goalie made a half-hearted effort, too late.

‘Goal!' shouted Stevie. ‘Ten-four!'

‘Get in!' shouted Rhys and Chris. ‘Engerland, Engerland, Engerland.' Stevie turned towards them and punched the air. Their laughs and cheers increased. ‘You're shit and you know you are . . .'

‘Look,' said Shahid, taking a few steps towards the van, ‘come on, why don't you two come and play? Show us how it's done? Have a fucking game.'

‘Shahid,' said Mo nervously.

‘Nah, mate,' called Rhys, ‘you're all right.' Then, in an aside to Chris, he said something else.

Shahid turned back and saw that the goalie had returned with the ball. He raised an arm. ‘Come on, mate,' he said, ‘give it a boot.'

‘Let's play first to fifteen,' suggested Stevie, panting hard.

‘You're on,' said Shahid. ‘First to fifteen.' He felt hollowed out, as if something had been knocked out of him.

‘Engerland, Engerland, Engerland. Ha ha.'

Kabir booted the ball into the air; they jostled for position beneath it, and when it came down they scrambled to trap it and it bobbled away to the left. Shahid gave chase, controlled it neatly. Mo went out wide, waving his arms and shouting, ‘Square ball! Square ball!' Shahid went to pass it but dummied, drawing the ball back between his legs. But he had overestimated Dave, who had not read the dummy in the first place; when he saw the ball being dragged back, he stuck a clumsy toe in and it skittered free.

Stevie, approaching at a brisk trot, couldn't believe his luck and rushed in the direction of the goal. Shahid went in for the challenge; the ball ricocheted between their shins and squirted out to Dave. Mo put in a half-hearted tackle from behind, but it was too late. Dave had fed the ball back into the path of Stevie, who was continuing his advance like a juggernaut, hissing like a steam train, and he struck it first time. Kabir rose to meet it, but his bare hands were unable to grip the shining leather, and it spun from between his palms and dropped behind.

‘Goal! Goal! Ha ha ha!'

‘En-ger-land, En-ger-land, En-ger-land!'

‘Fucking hell, Kabir,' said Shahid. ‘What sort of fucking goal-keeping was that?'

‘He was offside!'

‘We're not playing offside, you nonce! This is two-on-two!'

‘Yeah but that was just fucking goal-hanging!'

‘Ten-five! Ten-five! Fucking yes!'

‘Yeah, nice one mate, nice one.'

‘Ruuule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves. Britain never, ever, ever, shall be slaves. Ruuule Britannia . . .'

‘They reckon they're at a fucking England match,' said Shahid, to nobody in particular. ‘Oi! You ain't at a fucking England match, you know!'

‘Fuck off. You're not English any more! You're not English any more. You're not English, you're not English, you're not English any more . . .'

‘Take it easy, man,' said Mo. ‘Calm down, OK?'

‘I am fucking calm,' said Shahid. ‘But those cunts should shut the fuck up.'

‘Just ignore it, OK? They're just pissed up. Ignore it.'

‘This doesn't feel right, dude,' said Dave, drawing a jubilant Stevie aside. ‘I'm telling you.'

‘What you on about? It's ten-five! We've got them on the run. Now whoever gets it next, try and get a foul. Try and get a penalty. OK?'

‘But . . .'

‘Game on, game on!' Stevie clapped his hands again.

‘Stevie, you don't say “game on” in football.'

‘Game on! Let's play ball!'

‘Stevie! Fuck sake.'

Kabir elected to throw the ball out this time, and Stevie and Mo both went up for the challenge. Mo won easily, and nodded it down to Shahid, who trapped it with velvety precision. Dave crabstepped up to him, legs apart, trying to corral him away from goal. In a heartbeat Shahid had skipped past him; Stevie cut across, threw himself at the ball; then he went down, rolled over twice, shrieking.

‘What?' Shahid was saying, his arms raised as if in fright. ‘I didn't even touch him. I didn't touch him.'

Dave stooped. ‘You all right, mate?' he said, for all the world unsure whether Stevie was faking or not.

Stevie sat up gingerly. ‘That's a fucking penalty, that is,' he said.

‘What?' said Shahid uncertainly. ‘I didn't even touch you.'

‘Like fuck,' said Stevie. ‘That's a penalty. That's a penalty.'

‘Free kick, free kick,' said Mo, pointing to a spot in the tarmac a couple of feet from the dashed line that separated the slow lane from the middle. ‘Free kick.'

Stevie got painfully to his feet.

‘It's so a penalty,' said Dave, warming to his friend's theme. ‘Look, it's only a few yards from goal.'

‘That's outside the area,' said Mo.

‘Bollocks it is,' said Dave. ‘It's not like there's any markings or anything.'

‘I didn't even do nothing to begin with,' moaned Shahid childishly. ‘Fucking hell.'

‘Penalty,' Stevie announced. He took the ball and placed it perpendicular to the goal; when nobody protested he was surprised.

‘Kabir, man,' said Shahid, ‘let Mo go in goal. He's better at penalties than you.'

‘But I've been playing in goal all night,' said Kabir, his arms going limp. ‘At least let me stay in for the pen.'

‘Don't be a twat,' said Shahid. ‘You'll only let it in.'

Kabir rolled his eyes and exchanged places with Mo, who took up a position in the centre of the goal, crouched a couple of times, and clapped his hands together.

Stevie stepped back from the ball and looked Mo straight in the face. He knew in his gut he could do this. The fog was dispersing now, chasing its feathery tail across the surface of the land and down to the various rivers and streams that nestled silently in the shadows. Adrenaline was warping his thoughts. He was going to conquer this game in this weird no-man's-land. He took another step back for good measure.

‘Go on, my son!' came a shout from behind him. ‘Queen and fucking country! Ha ha.' He turned, glanced across at the two men by the white van, and acknowledged them awkwardly with a flutter of the hand. The thinner one pumped his fist, jutted his chin; the fatter one swigged from the bottle. He turned back. The ball. The massiveness of the tarmac. The goal.

‘You'd better fucking save this, Mo,' said Shahid.

Dave stepped closer. ‘Hit it low,' he said into Stevie's ear. ‘He won't be able to dive on this surface. Plus there's no crossbar.'

Stevie filled his lungs and began his run-up, letting out his hissing noise. With a grunt, he struck the ball. Not a great shot; not low, not high, but chest height, which was the easiest to save. And at the very moment the ball left the canvas of his trainer, Rhys split the air with a bellow: ‘Goooon!'

Mo had already started moving to save the shot, but his concentration was pricked by Rhys's shout; for an instant he took his eye off the ball, and fumbled the catch. It slipped out of his grasp back into the path of Stevie, who booted it, with unnecessary force, past the goalkeeper and into the greying light.

In jubilation, Stevie ran in a curve away from the goal, arms in a V, pursued by a grinning Dave. The cheers from Rhys and
Chris were loud and barking; they began chanting for England again. Shahid clutched his head. At the top of his voice, which was hoarse and strained, in a tone of pure frustration, he yelled the goalkeeper's full name: ‘Mo-
hammed!
'

There was the briefest of pauses. Then, mindlessly, as if meeting one war cry with another, with a single synchronised voice Rhys and Chris both gave vent to their demo chant: ‘Whose streets? Our streets! Whose streets? Our streets!'

‘Right,' said Shahid, ‘that's it. That's fucking it.'

‘Leave it,' said Mo, trying to restrain him, ‘just leave it.'

‘Fuck off. There's more of us than them. Oi! Come and have a game, you fucking Nazi cunts! Show us what you're fucking made of! Be fucking men!'

‘Whose streets? Our streets! Whose streets? Our streets!'

Then Chris turned his back, loosened his belt, and mooned the Asian boys, slapping his butt-cheeks with his hands. The line had been crossed. Led by Shahid, the three of them strode across the slow lane, across the middle lane, across the fast lane, closing in on the two men in the shadow of the white van. The fog had all but disappeared now, and they could see each other with renewed clarity.

Rhys and Chris readied themselves.

‘Let 'em fucking come,' said Rhys softly. ‘Let 'em get within range, innit. When I chuck this bottle at 'em, we leg it round the back of the van and get out the toys. Then we'll let 'em fucking have it.'

As if in a dream Dave watched Shahid and his friends go; suddenly it dawned on him what was about to occur. ‘Fuck!' he said, grabbing Stevie's arm. ‘Come on, back to the car.'

‘What? What?' Stevie replied, still intoxicated by his penalty.

‘It's about to kick off, dude,' said Dave urgently. ‘I mean it. Come on, I'm not getting caught up in this shit. Come on!'

Pulling Stevie after him, Dave hurried to the barrier, climbed awkwardly over it, and made his way back to the car. He shoved Stevie into the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, and locked
all the doors. There they sat in the gloom, craning their necks, watching the spectacle unfold.

‘Hey,' said Stevie. ‘Where's Piece of Meat?'

‘Fuck knows,' said Dave. ‘Oh shit! Fucking hell! Check that out!'

M25

Hsiao May and Harold were sitting now within that state of natural comfort engendered by a good cup of tea. Harold got up to clear the cups into the sink, and in so doing managed to take another little sip of whisky, just to keep the wolf from the door. Hsiao May didn't seem to have noticed. He sat down heavily on the sofa, letting out a sigh of satisfaction.