A Natural

by Ross Raisin

  The men were blatantly pursuing her now, marching down the central aisle a little way behind her. She hurried towards the exit. The tutting woman had recognized her as well, it crossed her mind, another of the army of anonymous eyes that followed her about in public, willing her to fail. She stopped. For a few seconds she did not move. Voices, laughter, blurred past her.

  When she turned round, the two men, taken by surprise, both looked down at the floor. As she stepped towards them they hesitated, then veered towards the closest rank of shelves. They were pretending to look through a box of wrapping paper rolls when she got to them.

  “Enjoying yourselves, boys?” she asked, taken aback that it was her voice saying this.

  They blanked her, and she realized that they were younger than she had at first thought.

  “Get off on this, do you?” She was speaking loudly. Other people had noticed.

  One of them made to walk away, but they were surrounded, blockaded by trolleys, a small intrigued crowd already gathering. Tyler made a sudden lunge downwards, so powerfully that she almost dropped him. There, poking out of his left welly, was the Peperami. She took it out and handed it back to him. Instead of putting it in his mouth, he held it out, offering it to one of the boys. The fleshy little nub of meat protruded obscenely from its slimy plastic sheath. She laughed, and some of the other shoppers joined in, while the two boys, clearly terrified, gave each other a look but remained frozen where they were.

  “It’s all right, Ty,” she said. “I don’t think they’d know what to do with one that big. They’re only used to each other’s.”

  In the ballyhoo that followed she walked away, the crowd parting to let her through, her legs transporting her weightlessly towards the exit, electrified, abruptly alive.

  9

  ATTENTION ALL SQUAD—LEAGUE TWO TABLE, 22 DECEMBER

  “Christmas. Listen up.” Clarke looked away from the sheet of paper stuck to the whiteboard and folded his arms across his bosom. “We’ve got four matches coming up in the next ten days. Pitches are going to be frozen. Some of you are going to get injured. Some of you are going to have to play through injuries, and some of you who’ve been out of the team are going to get some minutes. All of you will train Christmas morning. And you better believe that if anyone so much as looks at a drink, I’ll know it. I don’t need telling what a hangover looks like.”

  And as he moved away to the tea urn, his eyes yellow, his nose spidered with veins, it was a brave or unwise player who could doubt that this was true.

  “Christmas party, gaffer,” Yates called out as the number two was about to take them through the upcoming schedule. “We’ve been holding off. When can we have it?”

  Clarke stepped back in front of the number two.

  “January. And that’s if you’ve improved what this bastard table looks like by then. And”—his lips stretched into a deformed jovial smile—“if you invite me.”

  Later, in the dressing room, Yates slapped his legs and got up from the bench. “Right then. Party. Who’s sorting it?”

  For a few seconds nobody said anything. Apart from Bobby and Steven and one or two other young players looking eagerly about the room, they all avoided beholding Easter, whose head was lowered, his hands compressed between his knees.

  “Come on, boys,” Yates continued. “I know there’s sod-all time but it’s not that hard. Venue, girls, Jägers.”

  Jones stood up. “I’m on it.”

  There was some clapping, a few shouts.

  “First thing’s money,” Jones said. “Fines need calling in, pronto. Who’s up for it?”

  A few hands went up.

  “Stevie Barr. Good boy. You need to write out the fines board and go round collecting. Any of these faggots give you any trouble, you come to me. All right? Done.”

  Talk about the party soon dominated most conversations. The most sensible plan, it was decided, by Jones, was to have it well away from town. No chance of supporters, press, partners. They were playing Oxford on New Year’s Day. The party could be held there after the game. Jones, who had played for Oxford at one point, put in a call to a contact in the city and made a deal to hire a club for the night. Extras he negotiated separately, through other contacts.

  Tom attempted to join in with the banter. He laughed at each new jibe at the manager. He made a cumbersome joke of his own one lunchtime about drinking games, which nobody seemed to hear. All the while, though, thoughts about the party hung over him. His fear—having been to the last Christmas party at his old club, when one of the other scholars was forced onto the stage and had ended the night sobbing and retching on a pavement—was that he would be singled out, brought into the spotlight. Living with the Scottish boys did not help. They spoke about little else. Steven had thrown himself into the role of kitty man. The money was stuffed into an old ale jug of Mr. Davey’s on the kitchen worktop. Mrs. Davey tried to ban the subject from the dinner table but the two boys were so unable to stop themselves that she relented.

  Tom found out, with a stealthy peep at the noticeboard in the club office when he came in under the pretense of wanting some match-day programs for his family, that the staff would be holding their own party separately, at a pub in town.

  In the fortnight or so since his attempt at contact in the car park, Liam had not tried again to speak to him alone. Tom had made sure to avoid any situations which might have given him the opportunity, keeping away from the car park and the canteen except at busy times, never training alone, staying out of the Daveys’ kitchen as much as he could. He was up in his room late one afternoon, though, when he was alerted to the sound of Liam’s voice downstairs. He went to his doorway to listen. Liam was talking to Mrs. Davey, although it was difficult to make out what they were saying. He came quietly down the staircase, checking that Bobby and Steven were not in their rooms, and stood against the wall of the bathroom, close to the first-floor landing.

  “…just into town. Not a late one.”

  “How’s he getting on, Mark?”

  “Mark’s just Mark. Never changes, to be fair.”

  “And what about Leah? You’re seeing more of her these days?”

  “A bit. When she’s allowed. She’s out tonight, she says.”

  There was a break in the conversation and Tom thought they were going into a different room. He moved back from the landing.

  “Tom?” Mr. Davey was coming up the stairs. “Everything all right?”

  Tom jumped. He looked towards Bobby’s and Steven’s rooms, then at his watch. “Just seeing if the boys were back. There’s a magazine I was coming to see if they’ve got.”

  “Right-o.” Mr. Davey gave him what Tom was sure was a doubtful look on his way past him to the bathroom. Tom went to knock on both bedroom doors then back up to his room, where he lay on the floor, his eyes shut, trying to regain himself.

  He was often irritable with the Daveys. It would not take much—the sight of them chuckling on the sofa, a jokey conversation with the Scottish pair over dinner—and he would become silent and go up to his room at the first opportunity. They had noticed the amount of time he was spending in his room. The silences. Mrs. Davey cornered him in the kitchen one icy morning, freezing fog pressing at the windows, while he was waiting for the toaster to pop. She sat down at the table and started leafing through the post.

  “Will you come and sit with me while you eat your breakfast?” she said when he turned round with his plate.

  He ate his first slice quickly, aware that she was looking at him.

  “How are you getting on at the minute, Tom?”

  He waited to finish his mouthful. “Not bad.”

  “I’ve had enough boys through here to know how difficult it can be. Tom. Look up, please. Look at me a moment.”

  He did as he was told. Her face, soft and lined under the kitchen light, made him suddenly furious.

  “You know you can talk to us? We’ve seen it all before, believe me. It makes no difference if you’r
e nineteen or you’re twenty-nine, if you’re out of the team or you’re injured, that’s not easy for anybody. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed.”

  “I don’t think I’ve failed.”

  “No. You shouldn’t. Nobody else does. You’re a very talented boy. You can go as far as you want in the game, Tony thinks. So go easy on yourself, Tom. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.” She reached across and held his hand. “Talk to your folks, sweetheart. Don’t bottle it all up.”

  With that, she let go of his hand and left the table, smiling. One job down, he thought cruelly, now to the ironing.

  As well as the party, for which the idea of going in costumes—as each other—had to Tom’s great relief been jettisoned, the other topic of discussion was the January transfer window. Every day there would be a new rumor on the Internet message boards or Twitter or in Pascoe’s column, which one or other of the players, usually Yates, would make sure to bring up. Easter, although nobody spoke about him if he was present, featured prominently in these rumors. So too did Clarke. To a lesser extent, Tom’s future was also under debate: he was going to be sent out on loan for first-team experience; Finch-Evans was going to Aldershot and Tom would be given a run in the team; a club in the Conference South had made an inquiry.

  Tom read all of these rumors, worrying in his room, desperate to stop himself, to turn off the laptop. He occupied himself almost constantly in an effort to distract his thoughts, as he always had, with football. But it felt hollow. He was back in training, though he had long forgotten what it was like to play. To be worked up at the prospect of a match. For nothing else to matter except stepping onto a pitch with his instructions about the fullback’s weaknesses, expecting to beat him, knowing that his teammates expected him to. The muscular effort of riding a challenge. The release of sprinting, of striking the ball. He wanted to be able to close his eyes and remember all of that, to lose himself in it, but whenever he closed his eyes he felt lost, afraid, as though something was waiting for him in the dark.

  He was already awake on Christmas morning when his parents called. The Daveys had set the heating to come on in the early hours and his room was uncomfortably warm. He stood by the window in his underpants with his forehead against the glass, looking out at the frosted town dotted here and there with busy windows smoldering through the mist, damaged frigid Santas, reindeer, hanging from the frames.

  “You’re having lunch at the Daveys’, then?”

  “After training. Then we’re off down to Torquay early tomorrow.”

  “So no celebrating then?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ll have a drink tomorrow night, after the game?”

  “Depends, Dad. I doubt we’ll be celebrating. We’ll probably have lost.”

  “Hey, none of that. It’s Christmas.” There were voices in the background, laughter. “Your mum’s tipsy already.”

  Tom listened to the muffled fuss of his mum protesting. She came to the phone and wished him happy Christmas, giggling at something his dad was doing next to her. She told him to have a good day and handed the phone back.

  “Well, look at this,” his dad said. “It’s up. Your sister wants to speak to you, Tom. I think she’s still drunk from last night, looking at her. Here she is. Happy Christmas, mate. Chin up, eh?”

  There was the crackling sound of the phone being passed.

  “Hi, Tom. Make them stop, please.”

  Tom smiled. He shifted his forehead on the glass. “Happy Christmas, Rach. You had a late one, then?”

  “It was ugly. City center was a wreck. How are you? Happy Christmas. You got to stay off it today?”

  “We’ve got training in an hour. Torquay tomorrow.”

  “No Christmas pudding for you.” She paused. “Christ’s sake, it’s carnage here. Mum is actually pissed.” She was laughing, her mouth turned away from the phone. “Are you OK?” Down on the pavement, Tom could see two old men with dogs, shaking hands. “Tom? You still there?”

  “Sorry, I thought you were talking to Mum. I’m fine, yes. You know. Christmas is crap being a footballer.”

  She was quiet a moment, probably considering a remark. “It must be. Hang in there, though. OK, Tom, I should go. Happy Christmas. I hope you play tomorrow. I’m sorry you’re not here.”

  He stayed by the window for a while. On noticing that some of his cacti were looking out of condition he moved the whole collection an inch further from the glass and, after putting on some tracksuit bottoms, waited at the top of his staircase with the elegant little copper watering can that his sister had given him a year ago until he was sure that there was nobody in the bathroom below.

  Mrs. Davey made them pig-in-blanket baguettes. There was a single glass of Buck’s Fizz each. All along the kitchen worktop lay ordered piles and bowls of chopped vegetables. A turkey sat in a gigantic tray on top of the oven. Tom stared at the meal preparations while he drank the last of his Buck’s Fizz and the Scottish pair badgered Mrs. Davey for a second glass, going over in his mind once more his strategy for the day ahead.

  Training was an hour early to give the players more time with their families in the afternoon. The number two brought in a box of Santa hats. They were worn by one of the teams during a seven-a-side but came off too easily and were soon discarded. Only the seniors were there. No scholars, no staff. Lesley had left plastic trays of Christmas dinners, like airplane meals, for those players who were not hurrying home after the session. This group, most of whose wives and girlfriends lived in other parts of the country, numbered only half a dozen, so the canteen was unusually quiet. There was some difficulty operating the microwave: Richards and Hoyle had gone ahead to warm up the meals, but when the other four arrived at the table they found in front of them a line of shrunken trays, the meat stained brown with evaporated gravy, sprouts withered and steaming, and cranberry sauce melded to the buckled plastic. Tom joined in the banter of the others, but he did not care and barely took notice of the food. Afterwards, the group was going to the house that three of them shared, for darts and computer games, and for a second Tom considered joining them, but then he thanked them for the offer and said he was going to go back for Christmas lunch at his landlords’.

  “Don’t blame you,” Richards said, “after that circus.”

  Tom drove the empty road to the coast. All of the shops and cafes were closed, something which he had not considered, so there was nowhere to buy a drink or a snack, but it suited him fine—the peaceful streets, the boatless sea. A week ago he had told the Daveys that Richards had invited him to Christmas lunch. They were disappointed, he knew, but at the same time it was obvious how pleased they were too, as if they were his own parents, at this sign that he was mixing with the other young players. He felt some guilt, deceiving them. This was overridden, though, walking onto the beach, by the knowledge of how out of the question was the alternative. He kept going down the coastline, over rocks and gullies, across wilds of sand whipped into a haze by the swerving wind, until he had to turn back before it got too dark to walk safely.

  He sat in his car in the empty car park. Unbidden, crawling possibilities passed through his imagination. Liam’s big lumpish body pressing up against one of the Scottish pair. Some sordid little note waiting for him in his bedroom when he got back. But when he did return, after nine o’clock, the kitchen spotless, Bobby and Steven in their rooms, the Daveys asleep on the sofa with the television on and the remains of a board game on the carpet, there was no note or any other sign of Liam in Tom’s room or any other place that he searched.

  —

  The day after Town’s Boxing Day defeat in Torquay, Tom was sitting on the floor of his room wrapping up presents to give to his family that afternoon, when it began to snow. Lightly at first. He looked up at the tiny floating flakes, which turned to water the moment they touched the window. He imagined the warm car journey ahead of him. The unwrapping of presents on the living-room floor while his dad went around topping up drinks to the smel
l of the roasting turkey crown his mum had insisted they were having, despite his dad’s and his sister’s complaints that it would only be two days since their last one. But the snow started to come more thickly, falling over the town in soft heavy waves. Just before ten there was a knock on his door, and Mrs. Davey came in to tell him that there were severe weather warnings already, advising against motorway travel.

  —

  The snow continued to fall, on and off, into the next day. The sky had cleared by the morning of the home match on the 29th, but the subzero temperature prevented a thaw. At the ground, ice nested in lines along the stand roofs, and dense snow had settled on top of the pitchside rows of seating. A smooth compacted layer of it shone across the pitch. A message was put out that morning calling for volunteers to clear the playing surface. There would be a free ticket in it for anybody that came down. By nine o’clock some thirty or forty people, many with their own shovels, were dispersed over the pitch: fathers and sons, club staff, scholars, groups of teenagers, stiff laughing old men, couples—all working under the cheerful direction of the two groundsmen. They dug in teams, wheelbarrowing the snow to dump against the advertising hoardings. The referee, who had set off from his home at 4:30 that morning to brave the roads, watched and waited in his overcoat, preparing for his eleven o’clock pitch inspection. Cheers broke out each time a patch of grass was revealed. After an hour of clearing, the chairman and the club secretary appeared, to more cheers, with flasks of tea and large foil platters of bacon sandwiches.