Silent Striker (15 page)

‘Dad you’re not helping.’

Mum shushed Dad. ‘No, you’re not.’

‘Don’t shush me,’ Dad said to Mum.

Marcus made to get up. The two of them were starting again. He didn’t see why he had to listen to it.

‘Marcus, wait!’ his mum said, looking like she was about to cry. He sat down again.

‘Marcus, I want to help you,’ Mum said. ‘Tell me what I can do to help. You can’t spend every day in your bedroom on your PlayStation.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s not healthy. We have to deal with this,’ Mum said. ‘The doctor’s signed me off work for blood pressure. I can’t take it, Marcus, I can’t bear to see you so unhappy.’

Then his mum’s tears started. Marcus sighed. He knew it would happen. And he had no defence against it. Dad put his arm around Mum then went to make her a cup of tea. ‘Don’t cry, Mum,’ Marcus said. He placed his hand on her shoulder for a second. Then he went to his bedroom.

I
n the morning he came down and went into the kitchen. The back door was open. He saw his mum bent over something and heard this banging. His mum loved DIY. Glad he had heard the sound, he went outside to see what she was up to.

‘Just in time,’ she said when she saw him.

‘Are you alright, Mum?’

‘Ta da!’ She stepped back and did that show business razzle thing with her hands.

Marcus looked. ‘What is it?’

It was a two metre square piece of board with square holes cut in it.

‘Guess!’ she said.

Marcus shook his head. He had no idea. ‘Giant cat flap?’ he guessed.

‘Wait. I forgot.’ His mum dashed inside the kitchen and came out with three wooden circles with target rings painted on them in black and white, like archery targets. She attached the circles to metal hooks sticking out of each of the cat flaps. ‘There. Now guess!’ she said with another razzle.

He was going to say: ‘Cat flap for very blind cats that needed targets to find the door’, but he didn’t want to see his mum looking disappointed. He hesitated. He still hadn’t got a clue.

‘Football?’ she hinted.

‘Okay!’ He’d got it now. ‘Target practice? You shoot it in the holes?’ He remembered mentioning it to her how when he’d been to the football academy training ground he’d seen one and it was brilliant. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

His mum wasn’t finished. ‘Not any old target practice. Try it, see what happens.’

She rolled a ball to Marcus.

Marcus stepped away a bit, flipped the ball up, let it bounce on his knee then hit the ball at the lowest target. It shot into the first square, hitting it dead on. A panel popped up out of the top of the board with a hand and the word ‘Yes!’painted on it. It made Marcus laugh.

‘I knew you’d like it.’ his mum said and rolled the ball to him again. ‘Next one.’

The middle target had a smaller square hole so it was tougher. He took aim, hit it and a hand shot up again, this time with ‘Yes! Yes!’ on it.

The third one was a smaller square again, and higher up. He took a short run up and smacked that one right on the money. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ shot up.

‘You like?’ his mum asked.

‘It’s ace, Mum,’ he said.

‘Do I get a hug, then?’

He gave his mum the longest, tightest hug he’d ever given her. She laughed in his arms. ‘Let go, I can’t breathe!’ she cried.

As his mum glowed with pride, Marcus looked around the board. ‘What are those?’ he asked, pointing out some small panels attached to the back of the board.

‘Oh, I rigged these birthday card chips that make a cheering noise. I forgot you wouldn’t hear them. I’ll work out a way to get them boosted.’

‘No, that’s great, Mum. You know, thoughtful. I love you, Mum.’

‘Now don’t get me going again.’

‘Are you going through the menopause, Mum?’

His mum startled. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘We did it in school. They say women cry a lot for no reason at that time. And get hot.’

‘No, my eggs are fine and popping out regularly, thanks for your concern.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘It’s good then?’

Marcus grinned. ‘I’m loving it. What did you make it out of?’

‘Wood, wire, hinges. You know. Stuff.’

‘You’re a genius, Mum. You’re the best Mum ever.’

She smiled at him. ‘Don’t be outside too long, it’s cold.’

He spent the rest of the day milking the target board’s applause, left foot then right. He didn’t mind the holes were square instead of round.

Marcus’s mum had arranged for him to go to the hearing clinic the next Monday to get moulds taken of his ears so they could make the hearing aids. Meanwhile, since he was off school, she took time off work. Although he moaned about it, it was okay knocking about the house with his mum. She stuck to him like Luigi to Mario in
Super Mario Land.
They had watched the
Jeremy Kyle Show
together and some other rubbish. She told him about her plans for her magician’s act and tried out card tricks on him. She was pretty useless at them, but that was why she needed to practice.

The time for the clinic came. His mum went with him. It was a squat building crammed between some wasteland and a supermarket car park. There was a tiny reception space with the usual plastic chairs arranged in a row. Behind the glass screen was a woman in a white, nursey type of uniform who spoke to Marcus’s mum. Before he had time to park himself in a chair, Marcus was whisked through with his mum to a room marked ‘Fitting 3’.

A stranger’s warm hands began tugging at his ears, first the left one then the right then he felt some cold, pink goo being poured into each ear in turn. He felt it harden quickly. The man pressed it out and tapped him on the shoulder ‘All done,’ he said.

Two days later, Marcus was back at the clinic with his mum to get the hearing aids fitted. This time there was a different man. He wore a tie, and had a suitcase of equipment. He asked Marcus a few questions to confirm his identity and make sure he had no colds. Then he pulled out a box that looked vaguely as though it should have a wedding ring inside. When the man opened the box, two hearing aids sat inside the box, on a purple silk pad.

‘These are the “all in the ear” type, Marcus, so they are very small,’ the technician said. ‘They work very well and people can hardly see them. Shall I pop them in your ears and you can have a listen?’

Marcus looked to his mum. His Mum had that look on her face with the chin lowered that meant he did not have a choice.

The technician placed them inside Marcus’s ears.

Marcus shook his head. ‘No difference,’ he said.

The technician smiled. ‘That’s because I haven’t switched them on yet.’ He leaned over Marcus again and pressed some button on each of the things in his ears.

‘Marcus can you hear something?’

Marcus smiled. ‘Mum, do you always talk that loud?’

‘Can you hear this?’ Mum asked again from behind his back.

‘It’s your keys.’ She was jangling them.

His mum nodded. Marcus looked again. She was leaking tears.

‘Mum, don’t.’ Marcus wanted to vanish.

‘He’s a remarkable lad, to have coped so well for so long. He’s probably been lip-reading without knowing it,’ the technician said to Marcus’s mum. Then, ‘Marcus, I’ve set them low for now, while you get used to the new sound.’

‘You mean they get louder?’

‘Yes, we can turn them up a little more when you come back, and slowly get them to full volume.’

Mum was dabbing her eyes. ‘He’s cured,’ she sobbed.

‘Things will be better for him, Mrs Adenuga, but it’s not a cure. Marcus, your brain has to get used to the new information, the new sounds. So try to keep them in as much as possible. Remove them for gym, sports and other physical activities.’

‘Like football?’

‘All sports, really. And obviously they are electronic devices so you can’t take showers or baths with them in. You shouldn’t sleep in them either, or feed them to the dog.’

‘What was that last one?’ Mum said, as she patted her eyes with a tissue.

The technician smiled. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many young people come back and say “sorry the dog ate them”. It seems dogs have an appetite for these things.’

A desk phone jangled. The technician picked it up. He said three ‘ahs’, two ‘okays’ and a small sigh before putting the phone down again. ‘Have a go at putting them in and out yourself now, Marcus.’

Marcus placed them in his ears. It was quite easy. They felt cold in his ears and his ears felt blocked, the way your nose felt when you had a cold.

‘Good,’ said the technician. ‘Feel for the on-off switch for both of them.’ The technician guided Marcus’s fingers. ‘That’s on. And again. Excellent that’s off. Switch them on again. Okay, that’s it. We’re done here. Do you want to leave them in now?’

That look from his mum again.

‘Here’s a guide book to help you. You’ll still miss the occasional word, but you’ll hear much better. We’ll book you another appointment for six weeks’ time and see how you’ve been getting on.’

The technician was already shaking his mum’s hand before Marcus had a chance to open the guide book. Marcus saw why as they crossed the reception area again to leave. There were about twelve people waiting on and around the chairs.

Marcus wore the hearing aids, switched off, on the bus ride home. It felt like he had a hippo in each ear. He looked to see if other people were staring. He sank his neck down and pulled in his shoulders, then realised that he was wearing a hoodie, so he flicked the hood up. All the while, his mum was chatting to him about this and that. He nodded along, not listening.

Back home, Dad popped off his headphones and greeted him, beaming like an idiot.

‘How did it go?’

Marcus ignored him and took the stairs to the privacy of his own room. He waited to see if he had been followed. When he was certain he had not, he switched his hearing aids on and listened.

A car starting.

Voices of some children playing outside.

A distant ambulance siren.

A sudden chorus of dogs like a full canine conversation.

The radiator in his room rattling. He placed his hand on the radiator and it stopped rattling. He took his hand off. It rattled. On. Off. He amused himself making a radiator tune up from the rattle. He’d never heard it rattle before. He sang to the rhythm of the radiator tune. ‘Rattle rat rattle rat rattle.’

His own voice sounded eerie. He tried some words out. His own name. ‘Marcus’. It sounded like someone was shouting his name with a distorted megaphone. He tried out the vowel sound in the first syllable of his name: ‘Mar Mar. Mar.’ It sounded more squeaky than usual. He didn’t like it. He hadn’t expected this. He tried saying a few other words aloud. Every word he said sounded squeaky or boomy or sometimes both squeaky and boomy. He felt the blood beating in his head as his frustration rose. Then the technician’s voice came to him: ‘It will take you some time to adjust’. Clinging to that thought, he went downstairs, less keen to talk to anyone than ever before.

All the doors in the house squeaked. Why hadn’t somebody oiled them?

He whizzed through to the kitchen, unlocked the back door and went outside, taking his ATC with him. He tried some volleys. When he hit the ball hard it made a firm smack sound he hadn’t heard before. He heard the corner house dog scrabbling as he practised. And somewhere above, there were birds singing. It was the first time in ages he had heard birds. Amazing. He looked and looked for them but could not see them.

He came back inside the house wondering whether he was going to be asked a ton of questions, but his mum just patted the sofa next to her. She was watching a soap. Marcus sat next to her for a bit then wandered off and listened to new sounds around the house. That water running out of the kitchen tap. The slithery sound of clingfilm when you tore it off the roll. He fried an egg and listened to the fat spit and explode. He had never known how the kettle rumbled for ages before actually clicking off. The funniest was the gurgling of Leah’s tummy. He fed her, listening to the funny smack sound of her lips as she sucked on the plastic spoon laden with gooey porridge, then this
gurgle gurgle gurgle
. The bathroom was a chamber of strange and unusual sounds, some of them made by himself, some of them caused by all the piping. He sighed as he got into bed. It had been one momentous day.

Next morning Marcus got up early for football practice. He pulled on his tracksuit, his trainers, fished his ATC from under his pillow and took off for the pitch. There was a drizzly rain, more a fog than rain, but it didn’t trouble him. He spotted his dad on the other side of the pitch, coming back from a shift at the post office sorting depot. Marcus waved. ‘On my head, son!’ his dad signalled, running towards him.

Marcus booted the ball high towards his dad. His dad came running for it, leaping up at the last moment. The ball skidded off his dad’s head and bounced onto a discarded piece of garden fence. His dad retrieved the ball with his hands and tried juggling it with his feet all the way to Marcus. Marcus watched, amused. The most he could say of his dad’s ball skills was that he was enthusiastic. When Marcus got the ball back he did a quick run through his repertoire of tricks. It was the first time in ages his dad had watched him. His dad’s eyes stretched.

‘That’s out of this world. Your footballing skills. You had to have … it from me.’ He didn’t catch the word after ‘have’. Without his hearing aids he realised how many gaps there were in simple conversation.

‘But you’re rubbish, Dad.’

‘My skills lay dormant, son. In you they have awoken.’

‘Whatever,’ Marcus laughed. He kicked the ball back to his dad and his dad tried a few step overs before booting it back. They played for twenty minutes, his dad in goal, Marcus trying shots from various angles before they went back home together. It was Saturday, Mum had taken Leah to a car boot sale at a local church. His dad made them both breakfast.

‘Why don’t you ever show up at my matches, Dad?’ Marcus asked over fried egg sandwiches.

‘I’m in training for
Britain’s …t Talent
,’ said Dad. ‘Wait till I win. Then you’ll be proud of me.’