Silent Striker (4 page)

Outside the classroom, Marcus stood in line. He smoothed his clothes. He’d made sure he’d ironed them this morning. His socks matched. He wondered about Miss Podborsky. Was she messing with him by sending him for the hearing test? Or did she really care, as his mum suggested, and he just needed to make more effort with her? They went in. Miss Podborsky insisted he sit at the desk to her left, the one underneath the dodgy wastepipe. Jamil asked if he could sit there too, and she let him. Every five minutes Miss Podborsky looked at Marcus the way Marcus imagined a spider looked at a fly that had landed in its web. They seemed to be spending forever on clouds and rain. Surely there was more to geography than water?

Late into the lesson, Miss Podborsky got up and wiggled her nose in the air. ‘There’s a strange smell in here,’ she pronounced. She went round, sniffing the air every three steps. Finally she stopped right next to Marcus. She looked up. ‘The pipe is def … tely not leaking today.’ She bent low and sniffed Marcus’s jacket.

‘Marcus?’

‘Yes, Miss?’

‘Are you gonna make him stand up again, Miss?’ shouted someone.

‘No,’ Miss Podborsky replied, ‘not after last week’s performance.’

Marcus bit his lower lip and felt the blood trickle along the insides of his mouth.

‘But Marcus, what
is
that smell on you?’

She was pointing to his jacket lapels. Marcus looked at his jacket and saw the milky white patch.

‘It’s baby milk, Miss. I had to feed the baby this morning then burp her. She’s got projectile vomiting.’

Miss Podborsky snorted. She looked him up and down then added: ‘And I suppose you’re also going to tell me the baby hid your pressing iron too!’

‘But I ironed my clothes this morning, Miss, honest!’

‘Well, I’m sure your mother didn’t!’

The whole class screamed with laughter.

Marcus had had enough. What was it with this teacher? Even as Miss Podborsky tried to restore order, he stood up, packed his books into his bag and walked out.

Miss Podborsky shouted after him. ‘Marcus, return here! You’ll regret this!’

Marcus didn’t regret it. At least he had controlled his tear ducts this time.

Miss Podborsky came running after him. Without her audience, she wasn’t so scary. He stopped for her.

‘I’m sorry, Marcus. I was out of order. Sometimes I say very daft things. I apologise. In France, we teach differently. But you have to return to the classroom. You’re a bright pupil, you can do well.’

Marcus shook his head because he knew if he tried to talk he might cry. What he wanted to say was: Why do you humiliate me like this?

‘Did the Head tell you about the possible hearing issue?’

Marcus nodded.

‘I looked it up. I thought it might help. Me and you have just got off on the wrong foot, haven’t we? Now come back into class and I won’t report it.’

Why couldn’t she be nice like this in class? Marcus thought. Adults were weird. He didn’t trust her. He had had enough. He didn’t care anymore. ‘Report it. See if I care,’ Marcus said. He swung away from her and down the corridor.

Marcus waited outside the changing room building, even though he knew the CCTV would be picking him up standing there during class hours, and questions would be asked. The match after school was an important game. They were running neck and neck with Bowker Vale in the league.

When school ended and everyone spilled out, Marcus was first into the changing room. He didn’t check the team sheet. He knew he always played.

Mr Davies approached him. ‘I heard something kicked off in your geography class today,’ he said. ‘Put it out of your mind, Marcus. Just think football, yeh?’

‘Mr Davies?’ someone said brightly. Marcus looked up. It was Leonard the substitute again. Leonard’s face was always well oiled, like a ripe conker, fresh out of its shell. And he had perfect teeth. Everything about him was perfect. He had a confident smile and a dimple in his chin that somehow meant you couldn’t help agree with him. Everybody agreed with Leonard. Except the coach. This wound Leonard up no end.

‘What, Leonard? I’m talking to Marcus at the moment,’ said the coach.

‘Am I the substitute again, Sir?’

‘Yes, Lenny. Now go fill the water bottles, good lad.’

Leonard clattered off to find the bottles without even a ‘hi’ to Marcus. Mr Davies carried on with his little pep talk to Marcus.

‘So, Marcus, key word is focus, yes?’

‘Okay.’

‘Off you go then.’

When they made it onto the pitch, the head of year, Ozone, was talking with Mr Davies on the touchline. Leonard was doing a few ball tricks in front of them both but they paid no attention to him, they were deep in conversation. Both teachers glanced at Marcus and Mr Davies actually pointed at him once. Ozone’s head was doing that Bollywood, yes-but-no shake to whatever Mr Davies was saying. Mr Davies was doing a lot of jabbing. Eventually the coach waved Marcus over.

‘Like I said,’ said Mr Davies, putting an arm around Marcus, ‘he’s absolutely blinding on the pitch. Trains harder than any other boy on the team. He’s the jewel in the crown. The … pin. And he loves his football, don’t you, Marcus?’

‘Yes,’ said Marcus warily. Why was Ozone here at all? He’d never shown an interest in the team before.

Mr Davies hadn’t finished: ‘Marcus, if there is one area of school life where you would say you were at your best, behaviour, performance, discipline, self-control, appetite wise, what would it be?’

‘Dinner time,’ said Marcus.

‘Besides that, you ninny,’ said Mr Davies.

‘Football.’

‘See? While he’s got his football he’s got something to play for, we see the best Marcus can be. Okay, Marcus, off you trot; referee’s blowing for the kick-off.’

Somehow, Marcus knew the conversation had something to do with Miss Podborsky. And that it meant trouble. From the kick off, he played like he was on fire. All his anger about what had happened in Miss Podborsky’s class came out on the pitch. He demanded the ball from Ira. He pushed Rocket further up the wing. He pulled Horse from left midfield to right. He ordered Jamil to run harder and faster across the goal mouth when he, Marcus, had the ball. Nobody argued with Marcus, not even the coach, not when he was in this mood.

A decent ball came to him out of defence. Marcus ran through the opponent’s midfield like a bowling ball through skittles. He played a quick one-two with Jamil and raced towards goal.

That song,
I Who Have Nothing
, began playing once more in his head. When the ball dropped to him again on the edge of the area, he did his Cryuff Turn. He pulled it off perfectly. The two confused defenders ran into each other and fell at his feet. Marcus dragged the ball past them then chipped the goalkeeper. The net billowed. Horse whooped. 1–0.

Marcus looked to see where Ozone was. He was nowhere.

After his Cryuff Turn move, no defender went anywhere near Marcus for fear of being made to look a fool. Ducie surged forward again. A defender barged Jamil off the ball, just outside the penalty area. Jamil fell, grabbed the ball and turned to the referee. It was a free kick, within shooting distance. Marcus stepped up. If this went in, the match was as good as over. He eyed the goal and estimated the distance. The defending team had thrown up a wall of four players. Marcus strolled back three strides, and at the referee’s signal, whipped a bending kick round the defensive wall. It curved smartly into the top right of the net. 2–0.

He scored his third with a looping header from a corner. It wasn’t even half-time.

Ducie finished 6–1 winners. It was Marcus’s second hat-trick of the season. Jamil, Horse, Rocket and the whole team sang his name all the way to the changing room.

In the changing room, the coach pulled Marcus to one side. ‘Listen to me, Marcus, look at me. Right. I’ve never said this to any boy before and I even taught at Bowker Vale for a year, but here it is: I’ve never met a better player. You may be a council estate kid, but you are England material, understand? You could play for England.’

‘Okay,’ said Marcus, blushing. ‘Thanks, Sir.’

Everybody must have overheard because a cheer went up in the changing room. ‘Marcus for England! Marcus for England!’ Somebody grabbed him and before he knew it, Marcus found himself on Horse’s shoulders, ducking his head to avoid hitting the ceiling beams as Horse danced around the changing room with him on his shoulders to more shouts of ‘Marcus for England!’

Marcus loved it.

Amid all the celebration he caught the look on Leonard’s face. Leonard had not been brought on as a substitute at all, even when they had been 5–0 up. Everyone’s face was ecstatic, except Leonard’s who looked like he’d been chewing a lemon. Marcus felt sorry for him.

The coach dampened things down. ‘That’s enough lads, put him down. We don’t want it going to his head!’

That night, Marcus kissed the ball and placed it back under the pillow. The beautiful game. Everything else in his mind disappeared when he thought football. All that stuff with Miss Podborsky vanished. He replayed in his mind each of his three goals. He couldn’t sleep, he was too happy. The streetlight outside his bedroom window continued to flicker. The way the light flickered was exactly like a step-over move: On-Off. On-Off. On-Off. Gone. Step-over. Step-over. Step-over. Gone. He turned in his bed, still restless. He couldn’t remember ever not playing football. He’d always kicked everything – tennis balls, drinks cans, crushed up sheets of paper, crisp bags, toilet rolls, rolled up gloves. His fifth birthday party had been a kick-about out on the pitch. At seven, he’d tried eating his dinner standing up in the backyard balancing the ball on a foot. For the last two years, every Saturday, he put in an hour’s training on the pitch, way before any of his friends got up. It didn’t matter if it was snow, rain, his birthday, if his mate had the latest PlayStation game, if his hair needed cutting. It all had to wait until after he’d practised. He slept with the ball, kissed it good night. It sat next to him at the dinner table. It was the first thing packed into his school bag.

At first, when he’d started the daily practice sessions, the ball was his fiercest enemy, fighting everything he tried to get it to do, bucking like a Doberman straining on a leash. Yet he kept at it. And slowly, the ball became his friend. He coaxed, cajoled, and soothed it. The ball learned to be calm with him and he’d send it exactly where it was needed. The ball trusted him.

Then one day something bizarre happened. People started to watch him practice. He remembered the first time. He’d gone to London with his mum for a funeral. That morning hadn’t started well. Marcus had come down dressed and ready to go and plonked himself on the sofa next to his mum. His mum was dressed but she was sitting with a tissue in her hand, dabbing her eyes, a folder on her lap.

‘Mum, what are you doing?’

‘Going through old photos of you.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s what mums do in films when they’re sad, I thought I’d try it.’

‘Does it work?’

‘Yes.’ His mum turned to him and cupped his face with her hand. ‘Do you know what it is to love someone so much it hurts? That’s how I feel about you every day Marcus, I want you to know that.’

‘I love you too, Mum.’

His mum closed the folder and shuffled up. ‘Remember to polish your shoes before you get out of the funeral car.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

That day they had driven down south then switched into the black car for the ride to the cemetery, where they found there was some delay, no-one knew why. Everybody stood about, not knowing what to do. Mum went off talking to other mourners. Marcus thought he’d try out a few moves in the cemetery car park. He didn’t like funerals and practicing kept his mind off what was going on, namely a dead body being laid to rot in the ground. Marcus popped his ball out of his bag, trapped it, bounced it ten times on his head, then cushioned it onto his forehead, rolled it back between his shoulder blades, flipped it up, trapped it on one foot and held it there for ten, then flipped it up and juggled it in a sequence: left knee, left shoulder, head, right shoulder, right knee, right foot, nestle, cradle swap to left foot, then that sequence all over again. All the while eating from a bag of cheese-and-onion crisps.

Some boys from another funeral gathered round him. Their funeral had been delayed as well and there was nothing else to do. It was summer. They were wowed by his skills. When Marcus finally sat down with them on the bubbling car park tarmac, sweat poured off his brow, and his white shirt stuck to him like a wet flag of Brazil.

‘C’mon, what’s your secret?’ they asked him. ‘How did yer do that?’

Marcus shrugged and said in his best London twang. ‘Just practice, innit? 24 7 12. Practice. Practice. Practice.’

‘So that’s all it is?’ someone asked.

Marcus shrugged. ‘Yeah, like. Practice, you know, practice, practice, practice.’

Then the funeral was back on. Everyone lined up by the big hole with the mound of earth behind it. Marcus’s mum gave him a whack, for standing at the coffin with his ball in his hand. The ball dropped out of his hands. It bounced off the mound of earth and into the hole that had been dug for the coffin. Marcus tried to scramble down to get it out again, it was his favourite ball. Mum fainted. Everyone tugged Marcus back. The wailing got worse. The priest chanted above it all and the box got lowered. Now Marcus’s Uncle Simon was buried with what had been Marcus’s favourite ball underneath him. Even now, even though he had his ATC, a part of Marcus resented that. Why hadn’t they let him get it? What did his dead Uncle need his ball for? Sometimes he felt like going back down to that London graveyard and digging it out from under him.

Marcus shifted in his bed. A smile crept onto his face, as he remembered the match again. When it came to football, Marcus was good. Here, in his bed, there was no need for him to be humble about it. Now they were first in the league table, with Bowker Vale two points behind them. For the first time ever, Ducie looked set to win the league. Marcus reached out an arm and brought his ATC close so it pressed into his cheek. He fell asleep practicing Cryuff Turns in his head.