Silent Striker (14 page)

‘Long enough,’ replied Marcus.

Mum ploughed past him and slammed their bedroom door upstairs.

Next morning his mum sneaked into his room while he was still under the blankets. ‘Are you not going to school, Marky?’ she asked. She had her nicest voice on, like he was seven years old.

‘No!’ he groaned. He kept the quilt over his head.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t feel well.’

‘Go!’

‘You can’t make me.’

‘I’m late already, I’ve got to get Leah to nursery … Just GO!’

He didn’t go. He took up his PlayStation and drove cars through California for drug barons all morning. In the afternoon, he went downstairs and messed about on Facebook for a while, then searched the Internet for answers to the question: ‘Deafness why does it occur?’ There were a million answers, each one seeming to contradict the other. The one explanation that struck him was the one that said: ‘Bad karma causes all human illnesses.’ He looked up bad karma and the search engines said it was a consequence of bad acts.

He managed to avoid his mum and dad that day. He ate in his room and didn’t answer when they knocked on the door. If anyone knocked for too long he called out, ‘leave me alone!’ and that did the trick.

That night, he lay in bed thinking about what it had said on that website. ‘Bad karma causes all human illnesses’. He tried to recall all the things he’d done wrong in life. Cats he’d tried to rescue but that had fallen out of trees anyway. Windows he’d smashed with stones. Ants he’d crushed under his finger. The day he’d broken the PlayStation handset and blamed it on someone else. The neighbour’s car tyres he’d let down. The art room door he’d pulled off the hinges. That fight at school when he’d punched the boy so badly blood gushed out from between his teeth … The list was endless. His deafness had to be God’s way of punishing him for this. Maybe, if he promised to be on his best behaviour for the rest of his life, God would forgive him and remove his deafness? It was a glimmer of hope. A prayer formed in his mind. He was out of practice praying and had not been into church except for when his mum had once dragged him there for a christening, but he knew the basics: hands together, eyes closed. He lay in the dark in his bed and spoke softly into the dark: ‘Dear God, please give me my hearing back and I will never do anything wrong ever again. Amen.’

He opened his eyes. He waited for a flash of lightning or a roll of thunder, a sign that God had heard. There was nothing. But he was still hopeful. After all, He must get a lot of these requests. He couldn’t be letting off thunder and lightning every time a request headed His way, otherwise there’d be a permanent storm in the sky. A text came through from Adele.

Bored. Wot u doin?

Nuttin. Goin 2 slep

Nity nite
(This came with a picture of a sleeping panda)

Adele’s sleeping panda eased him into sleep.

Next day Marcus woke eagerly. Had his deal with God come good yet? He tried his phone’s alarm. He still couldn’t hear it. He turned the kettle on and sat in the living room. His dad could hear the kettle click off from there. He waited. After four minutes of not hearing a click, he went into the kitchen. It had clicked off and he hadn’t heard. In desperation, he found some old newspaper, set it alight using the cooker’s gas ring, then let it burn under the kitchen smoke alarm. He heard the smoke alarm go off clearly. But he had always heard the smoke alarm go off, what he didn’t hear was the little blip sound it made when its battery needed replacing. His mum and dad heard that, even Leah did, he’d noticed, but not him.

The newspaper was still burning on the kitchen floor where he’d dropped it. It was a swirling fire now. He jumped on the flames and stamped them out. There were scorch marks on his trousers. They would wash out. He scooped up the burnt newspaper and threw it into the back yard then ran a cloth under a tap and mopped the burn marks off the kitchen tiles. He didn’t usually hear the tap running at the sink, he realised. But that deal with God, maybe, maybe it had come good. Had he left it on? Could he hear it? No, there was nothing. Maybe the tap was off. He turned to look. The tap was on. Despondent, Marcus rinsed out the cloth, chucked it in the wash basin, wrenched the tap shut till the water stopped then ran upstairs. He put his hands together and cursed God: ‘God, I’ll leave you if you don’t fix my ears. Fix them else you’re a fraud!’

He waited to be struck down by lightning. Or to suddenly hear things he had not been able to hear. Neither happened. He beat his bed with his fists in rage.

Next day his mum burst into the room in the morning and ranted at him, saying he had to get up, even tugged at his quilt. But he held on tight and she gave up. He felt the house shake as the front door slammed. He waited to make sure she did not suddenly double back, then got dressed, and left the house. He did not know where he was going. He had forgotten his coat. He didn’t go back for it. He felt feverish anyway.

He found a back street cafe full of builders in yellow bibs and ordered an all-day breakfast. He had never wagged school before. It felt good. He had joined the elite club of kids who didn’t do school. He practised his rebel scowl.

‘That sausage a bit chewy, love?’ said the cafe lady.

‘Nah, it’s fine.’

He got out his phone and on a whim, texted Adele.

What u doin?

Lunch brek. Bored. Send me a pic

Marcus sent a selfie. Adele texted him back straight away.

That not skul. Why u deh?

Sad. Had enuf

Turn on location on yr fone.

Marcus did. Then texted her the name of the café: Jills Eats.

Stay deh. Am close.

Marcus chewed on his sausage and chased some of the hard baked beans on his plate. Would Adele really come? The big cafe window had a picture of a bearded man eating a hamburger painted onto it. The paint was beginning to peel so only half the hamburger was left. There was a hot air blower above the entrance door that triggered whenever someone came in, which was only every five minutes. Marcus pulled at a piece of sausage stuck between his teeth.

Four hot air blows later, Adele arrived. He saw her jump out of a taxi. She was still in her uniform. He stood up so she would see him, and suddenly felt embarrassed. Was this a date? It couldn’t be a date, they were in a greasy spoon cafe. What was it then?

‘So,’ she said, sitting at his table. ‘What’s sad?’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t know where to start. I’m in hell.’

‘Even hell’s got to have better wallpaper than this.’ She was looking around. The wallpaper was hung badly and the clashing purple stripes with pink dots didn’t do anything to brighten the interior.

‘You’re not helping,’ Marcus said.

‘Sorry. Focus.’ She placed her hands to either side of her face to create a finger tunnel and looked at him through that tunnel. ‘What’s up?’

He felt his eyes welling so he looked up to balance the water on his eyeballs and make sure it didn’t become tears. There was a fan attached to the cafe light fitting. The fan’s propellers looked like they hadn’t moved in years and were coated with grease, with fluff stuck on top. He was tempted to pull the cord that dangled down to switch the thing on. If he stood on his chair he could reach it.

Adele kicked him under the table. ‘Look at me, Marcus. What’s up?’

He sighed. Weird how her kicking him made him feel better. Like taking a cold shower. He told her about his ordeal at the hospital, the hearing test booth, the result. Her hands were down now and she was really listening.

‘You must have felt awful,’ she said.

He nodded, biting his lip.

The cafe lady turned up with her ordering pad and looked at Adele. She had impatient fingers. ‘Ready?’

‘I’ll have a non-fat chocolate brownie frappucinno with ice,’ said Adele.

‘How about a hot chocolate with squirty cream on top?’ The lady gave Adele a look that said, ‘I’d love to throw you out.’

‘Hot chocolate with squirty cream on top would be amazing,’ Adele said. ‘Thanks so much.’

‘Three pounds.’

Adele placed three pound coins on the table.

‘Hot chocolate, squirty cream, Saqib!’ she shouted, taking the coins, then she moved on to the next table.

Marcus hadn’t yet paid himself. He wondered why the cafe lady had made Adele pay up front.

Adele prompted him out of his thoughts. ‘And your mum and dad are no help?’

Marcus grimaced. ‘I mean, they try but they’re too all over me. They don’t understand.’

‘The way you described it, reminds me of when the neighbour’s little cat got itself stuck in our w ... shing machine.’

‘Wishing machine?’

Adele smiled at his mistake. ‘Noo, washing machine.’

‘Oh.’ He was glad she hadn’t laughed when he’d misheard, even though he himself found the mishearing funny: Wishing machine. That was exactly what he needed right now, a giant wishing machine.

Adele was still on her cat story; he only half-listened to her. He didn’t really mind what she said, it was her being with him that made him feel better somehow. Why was that? He looked across at Adele and tried to concentrate.

‘… then we found her there after three days: Barely alive. Her eyes all gone, you know, like …’ She searched for the word.

‘That’s how you look, Marcus. Like the cat in the washing machine.’ She rolled her eyes around.

‘Umm.’ Marcus spent a moment trying to picture the cat.

‘Umm?’ she said.

‘Disorientated, you mean? The cat?’

‘That’s it. I knew you’d know the word. Disorientated. You look disorientated.’

He laughed, pleased with himself for knowing the word she had been searching for. Adele placed her hand over his on the table and squeezed it. ‘Listen, I have to get back for stupid afternoon registration. But I’m here for you. Always.’ She leaned across the table and kissed him on the cheek. Before he had time to react, she got up. ‘And you smell nice today,’ she said. ‘For once!’

He watched her leave. A taxi from the same firm that dropped her off nosed up to the kerb outside. It had to have been waiting there. She got in and was gone.

Marcus left three pounds fifty on the table for what he ate. ‘Keep the change!’ he called out, feeling big. He remembered the scowl he had entered the cafe with, stuck it back on his face and kept it going as he walked into the wind again. Yes, he was a rebel, he thought. He’d skipped school all week. He actually had a girlfriend. Sort of. He only needed to start hot-wiring cars to complete his transition to ASBO kid. Yet he missed school. All his mates were there. He walked aimlessly along street after street till it was dark.

His mum and dad were waiting for him when he got back.

‘Marcus, we have to talk,’ said Mum, immediately all over him.

Marcus groaned.

‘We phoned the GP,’ said Dad, all wise and know-it-all. ‘He’s got the results from the hospital. They’ve diagnosed you have a hearing problem.’

‘No! Really?’ said Marcus.

‘It must be hard but we’ll support you, son,’ his dad intoned, ignoring or not noticing his sarcasm.

‘Shut up, Dad. What do you care!’ Marcus blurted. ‘All you’re bothered about is your singing!’

‘That’s not true, Marcus,’ Dad said.

‘Marky, you’ve got me worried. You’re my baby, I can’t bear to see you so unhappy,’ Mum intervened.

‘I’m not your baby, Leah’s your baby! Now leave. Me. Alone!’

Marcus shot up into his bedroom and locked his door before his mum had a chance to add anything.

He didn’t remember sleeping but the Thursday morning daylight woke him and he realised he had felt the front door slam twice, which meant both Mum and Dad had left. After getting so cold the other day, he wasn’t so keen on walking the streets anymore; his fever was worse. He decided to see how long he could stay in bed. He made it to late afternoon. At 3:27 pm he sneaked down before anyone got back and raided the fridge, then bolted himself back in his bedroom. He managed to stay that whole evening in his room.

On Friday morning, after his parents had left, Marcus got up. His mum had pushed a note under his door:

It was a typical Mum note, full of emotional blackmail. When he went downstairs, there was another note, this time from his dad, on the coffee table:

For some reason, he switched the computer on and fixed the recording software for his dad. It took all of fifteen seconds. His dad was an idiot.

Marcus really did not want to talk to either of them. What could they do to help? It was
his
ears involved not theirs. Still, he didn’t like the idea of his mum getting upset. So he left his own note on the table:

S
aturday morning. It was time to face the music. Marcus got dressed slowly and tiptoed down. To his surprise, his dad was there at the table as well as his mum, and they weren’t arguing. His mum had her anxious face on. Dad just looked bored.

‘Well?’ Marcus said, helping himself to the porridge with jam his mum must have made for him.

‘I can understand you being down in the dumps, Marky.’

‘You can’t let this little setback stop you,’ Dad chipped in.

Marcus sighed. ‘You don’t get it do you? I’m deaf. I might as well be dead!’

‘You’re hearing me aren’t you?’ said Dad.

Marcus decided the best thing to do was ignore his dad. His dad was not worth the effort. He turned to his mum. ‘You were there. They say I have to wear hearing aids.’

‘Beethoven was deaf,’ Dad weighed in again. ‘And that DJ Fat Boy Slim’s got hearing problems. And this old time singer called Johnnie Ray wore a hearing aid, his nickname —’