Now don’t be sarky, Yousufine. I couldn’t even get a gobstopper with that rupee you gave us. But what I’m about to offer you is the deal of your life and it can’t be refused because it’s come all the way from Granny Fatima’s well of wisdom.
‘Say that batch you showed us last night…’ I said slowly, getting up from the chair, ‘…was multiplied by 20,000.’
‘Pounds?’
‘Yes, pounds. And you were allowed to take all that with you and live where you want to live most.’
The smile disappeared from his face. He picked up the packet of fags and turned them over quickly in his hand.
‘You want me to go?’ he said.
Now what gave you that idea Yousufine? Course I don’t want you to go. YOU SAID you don’t like it here and I’m offering you a way to grab your glory. And anyhow you’re not a bad lad really. I mean you did wear fingerless gloves once and that were unforgivable, but apart from that you’re harmless.
I sat down again and rubbed my finger up and down the rupee note resting on the table. ‘Look, I’m just saying that if you’re finding it hard here…then you could use this money to start again…a place where you actually want to be.’
He looked at us intensely. His tired eyes squinted and strained as he tried to digest the information coming his way. ‘How much is 20,000?’
That’s my boy Yousufine, now we’re talking. Just think of it as a little gift from us to you and everything’ll be ace in the Albion.
‘I don’t add up too well,’ I said. ‘But it’s more than 2 million rupees.’
‘Allah forgive me,’ he whispered.
‘Are you close to your family over there?’
He gave us an incredulous look. ‘This is Vilaithi’s problem over here,’ he said. ‘Close? Of course we’re close. All families are close. I don’t know others.’ He got up and walked a few steps away from us. He stopped and turned. ‘£20,000 mean nothing to you?’
‘Course it does, but it’s just a couple of months’ wages.’
He sniffed and walked away to the back of the garden. He reached the five-a-side goal and stretched out his leg to grab the football nestled in the net. He walked back awkwardly with the ball at his feet. He eventually reached the table and kicked the ball through the gap between a chair’s legs.
‘I think you like Rukhsana,’ he said, looking at us. ‘Nothing I can do. I know she no like me but nothing I can do about that too. Her mum tells everyone I’m hero, but she treats me like slave. Over there, I had good job, respect and good friends, over here I’m zero.’
He sighed and walked around the table to retrieve the ball. He came back and put the ball through the chair legs again.
‘So why I stay in this ghost country?’ he added. ‘I have friends in Faisalabad…but I want cash…’
‘Haven’t you got an account?’
‘No account…cash only.’
I stood up and walked around the table to retrieve the ball. I started doing keepy-uppies with it and then curled it from my position into the five-a-side net at the back of the garden. The ball hit the post and trickled in.
‘That won’t be a problem,’ I said. ‘There’s always bundles of notes flying about in our game.’
TWELVE
Now you can probably work out that a man carrying 20 grand at an airport with the dress sense of Yousufine might have a few problems. After all, I knew airport staff were looking for these beady-eyed types because of 11/9 and 7 All. I obviously didn’t expect anything as bad as this happening to old Yousufine but I still got the post-match jitters when he called from Manchester Airport saying staff had been doing random checks on passengers to Islamabad.
‘They took passport,’ he said, although his voice were nearly drowned out by the noise of shuffling feet and squeaky trolleys.
‘Don’t worry, as long as they don’t check your hand luggage thoroughly, you’re fine,’
‘They already checked…’
‘WHAT?’
‘They check but not right inside the boots…’
Fuck me Yousufine, don’t scare us like that again. For a moment there, I thought you’d been nobbled. I told you there were nothing like filthy football boots to stash things in. No-one wants to put their mitts right into the toe area. And anyhow, you’re not the most spick and span of fellas so it’s ideal for you.
‘Okay, how long have they had your passport?’ I asked.
‘Few minutes…’
‘Well, Jamil tells us you’ll probably get it back pretty soon…as long as you haven’t got any dodgy previous.’
He didn’t answer and I could only hear the screeching of trolleys.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes…I think he’s coming…’
‘Who?’
‘Man with passport…okay I speak later…Allah hafiz.’
He ended the call a bit quicker than I expected but I were satisfied that he’d be in Islamabad shortly with a cool two mill.
Shazia wanted us to meet her but, as usual, she chose the worst place possible to have a chinwag: a busy Budgens store in the town centre. So I went in there with dark glasses and held on to her trolley so that everyone would think I’m as blind as a ref.
‘I just wanted to warn you about her,’ said Shazia, sporting a silk green hijab along with black shalwar kameez. She picked up a can of kidney beans and put it in the trolley. ‘Mrs Latif lies a lot and she’s a fantasist.’
‘I know, she came to my house.’
She stopped the trolley and looked at us, her cheeks even more pronounced because of the tightness of the hijab.
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing much,’ I said, trying to keep the trolley moving. ‘Just that I should stay away from Shazia, that kind of thing. Oh, and that Abujee and Ibrahim did some kind of deal so I’d marry Rukhsana.’
‘She wants to destroy everything, that’s all. Just don’t believe a word she says.’
My mobile beeped and I picked it out of my pocket. I read the message. ‘Molly sent it…he says we’ve drawn Everton in the FA Cup at home.’ I looked round the supermarket. ‘Fuck, I forgot all about that…it were the FA Cup draw.’
‘Are they any good?’
‘Who?’
‘Everton?’
‘Aye, not bad.’
She smiled and looked away. ‘You’re not playing anyway, are you?’
I put my mobile back in my pocket. ‘Were there anything else?’
‘Not really,’ she said, moving the trolley again. ‘But I’m going to open that Sufferer Jets place soon, and I wanted to see if you can get a couple of players round to open it. I’ve already asked Jim if the paper would be interested and he said yes, so getting someone from the club over would be good.’
‘I’ll ask Jamil and he’ll probably get it sorted.’
She stopped the trolley again and turned to look at us. She put her hand on my shoulder and smiled. ‘Look, I know all the Ibrahim stuff’s been a bit difficult, but it’s gone now, so we can all move on.’
‘I’ve forgotten about it already, although Rukhsana does want us find the ball.’
‘What ball?’
‘The one Ibrahim and us played with at Starcot Lane.’
She took her hand off my shoulder and moved off. ‘I don’t think you should do that.’
‘Why not?’
She picked up a can of mushy peas and threw it into the trolley. ‘Because, we’re your family and you should listen to us.’
Now stop me if I’m wrong but aren’t you just stating the bleeding obvious? Unless some prossie had a satisfying night and chose to leave us on the doorstep of 73 Simpkiss Street because she couldn’t keep us, I’m Tahir and Ruby Karim’s loveless lad.
‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘I’ve got training in ten minutes.’
She put her hand on my shoulder again. ‘I’m sorry about that Sadiq, I didn’t mean it. Rukhsana’s a
lovely girl. All I’m saying is that her mother’s a troublemaker, so you should watch out for her.’
‘I will,’ I said, bending down to give her a small hug. ‘See you soon.’
The call from Yousufine – to tell me he’d arrived safely in Faisalabad – were an early Christmas present. And the customs bods at Islamabad also got a present because Yousufine had to slip them £100 to get them off his back. One of the burly fellas – and Yousufine said he were – took one of the boots out of his hand luggage and asked him why he didn’t have a cricket bat rather than football boots. He said that Yousuf were a traitor for bringing that ‘Western game’ to these shores. Yousufine agreed and handed over the notes to get his boots back.
My own boots, however, had more chance of freezing up than being worn out after our trip to the Stadium of Light. We ended up being 90 minutes late for the game against Sunderland because of treacherous conditions on the A1. By the time we got there it were nearly 9.30pm and most of the fans had gone home because it were so cold. After Bowker, the ref, the Sunderland boss and a Premier League official had argued for another 30 minutes, we eventually kicked off at 10pm. Then at half-time, one of the linesman – they’ll never be referee’s assistants in my book – fell asleep because it were so late and had to be replaced by the fourth official. It were 15 minutes past midnight by the time we finished, but we managed to escape with a goalless draw.
But the club’s Christmas party were one thing we couldn’t escape. Mr Starmer insisted all the ‘troops’ turned up at the Albion Suite to enjoy the occasion as we couldn’t afford to go elsewhere. The chairman, Bowker and the rest of the staff turned into waiters, chefs and bus-boys for the night and served the team their festive grub. Mr Starmer were adamant the team should treat the staff like ‘kaffirs’ for a night, so they could taste power and feel like proper men. Kai, however, took this a bit too literally and kept making Mr Starmer pick up his steak off the floor.
We were also entertained by Jim and Jam, who were both dressed as Santas. Jimmy were pretty convincing as Father Christmas but Jamil were a bit too lean and polished: a bit more like the Son of Santa whose father dabbled a bit on the dark side.
Their first gift to the players were a book called the Foreigners Guide to London, after all, our next two games were against West Ham and Chelsea.
Just as I were getting into the swing of things, my mobile rang and I had to pull out. I rushed out of the suite and down towards the double doors of the players’ entrance. I pushed them open but nearly fell over as the ferocious wind and frosty step below unsettled us like a boxer reeling from a right hook.
‘Hello?’ I said, leaning against the wall.
‘Sid?’ said Rukhsana, ‘Sorry, for calling you but it’s about Yousuf…
‘Hmm…’
‘He didn’t come home yesterday. I was just wondering if you might have heard anything.’
Well, I did hear some notes rustling, a trolley screeching and a big super-dooper plane flying off into the old Raj but that were in the past. I haven’t heard anything since.
‘No, I don’t know anything about it.’
‘He went to work and didn’t come home. I’ve called his work and they said he did the full shift.’ She paused for a moment and sighed. ‘Anyway, I don’t care. When he needs some grub, he’ll be back. Look, about that ball. I put an ad in the Chronicle about three weeks ago and someone rang in…’
‘Aye…’
‘It was an ambulance driver called Eric…really nice man…anyway he said that he picked the ball up from Starcot Lane.’
‘Cheeky bastard, he were supposed to be saving Ibrahim’s life, not nicking balls.’
‘It doesn’t matter, he’s given me his number so I’m going round there now. What are you doing at the moment?’
‘I’m at the club’s Christmas do…’
‘Well, if you want to come it’s up to you.’
I switched the mobile over to my left ear.
‘Wait a minute, aren’t you worried about Yousuf?’
‘I never worry about anything I don’t have control over.’
I recognised Eric as soon as he came to the door, even though he were off duty. His short grey hair and long nose would forever be etched in my memory as he stooped over Ibrahim’s face and examined his eyes. But his short-sleeved light blue shirt and fluorescent yellow jacket had been replaced by a dark brown woolly jumper and grey trousers. He invited us in but Rukhsana didn’t want to hang around.
‘So have you got it then?’ asked Rukhsana, as we walked into the living room.
‘Erm, yes that’s what I wanted to speak to you about,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Just go straight through into the kitchen.’
We walked into the kitchen and I sat down on the stool near the fridge. Rukhsana pulled out a wooden chair from the table.
‘So you have got it, haven’t you?’ asked Rukshana, in a soft voice.
‘Erm, yes I did,’ said Eric, ‘but I haven’t now.’
Rukhsana tutted and looked away.
‘I know I shouldn’t have,’ said Eric, with his back almost resting on the sink, ‘but after doing my initital check on the patient, I put the ball into my bag and then took it home when I finished my shift. I gave it as a Christmas present to my son, Jack. So I think he’s got it now.’
Rukhsana looked baffled. ‘But it’s not Christmas yet. He can’t have opened it already.’
‘He couldn’t wait,’ replied Eric. ‘I think he’s already taken it to school and played with it.’
‘How old is he?’ she asked.
’Nine.’
‘Doesn’t he live here?
‘He lives with his mum now.
‘What school’s he at?’
‘Terence Hills. He wanted a football so badly, a Premier League one, so I thought…’
Rukhsana got up and pushed the chair back underneath the table. ‘Well, thanks for your help, Eric.’ She walked towards Eric and shook his hand.
‘I don’t understand why you want that specific ball,’ said Eric. ‘I mean Sid must have plenty lying around at the club.’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Rukhsana, looking round at us. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Eric walked towards us. ‘Er Sid, Jack’s a big fan of yours, can you do a quick autograph for us.’
‘No problem.’
‘Let me just get a pen and paper,’ he said, walking into the living room.
Rukhsana walked closer towards us. ‘I’m not in tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I know a couple of teachers at that school, so we’ll go down there in the morning.’
‘But I’ve got training.’
‘Doesn’t start till ten-ish does it?’
‘No.’
‘Well then,’ she said, breezing past us.
I held her arm before she got away. She gave us a cold look.
‘You have to tell us what’s so special about that fuckin’ football.’
She were just about to answer as Eric walked in again. He handed us a small black notebook and red bic pen. I began to write but suddenly felt a slight pain in my right index finger. I hesitated for a moment and then pushed on.
‘What’s up?’ asked Rukshana.
‘Nothing,’ I said, handing back the notebook and pen to Eric.
‘Let me see your hand,’ she said, walking closer to us. She held up my right hand and examined it. ‘Hmm…it’s a bit like my father’s.’
Jesus and Mohammed, don’t go that far. Ibrahim got his dodgy mitts from years of stitching those poxy balls for a pittance. If I’ve got some dodgy mitts too from kicking the same footballs around for top dollar, it’s hardly fair is it? I want a level playing field.
‘Thanks for the autograph anyway, Sid,’ said Eric, leading us out of the kitchen. ‘Jack will be so proud. I’m sorry I couldn’t help out a bit more. I hope the patient gets better.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Rukhsana.
‘Oh
, I’m sorry,’ said Eric, suddenly looking agitated. ‘Erm, you’re not going to tell the police are you?’
‘About the ball?’ said Rukhsana.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, looking at it technically, it was a theft,’ said Rukhsana. ‘But this is an emotional matter, not technical.’
‘Oh good.’
Rukhsana stopped in the living room to look at a framed picture on the wall.
‘Is that Jack, up there?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that’s when we were out fishing.’
Rukhsana smiled and then walked to the front door. Eric opened it and we stepped outside.
‘Just one more thing,’ said Rukhsana. ‘What colour was the ball?’
Eric scratched his head. ‘Erm, green and white, I think. It also had some writing on it but I can’t remember…I think it was something 90…’
‘Katmina 90…’
‘That’s it,’ he said, with a smile.
We left the house and walked towards Rukhsana’s Astra. I grabbed her arm before she got to the driver’s door.
‘I want to know what’s so important about the ball,’ I said angrily. ‘I want to know now.’
She shrugged us off and opened the car door. She held it open and sighed.
‘There’s something inside it.’
Okay, it’s true I were hanging around Terence Hills Primary looking a bit shifty, but peados are usually after a set of balls and I were just after a big one, so you can’t lay that one on us. But Rukhsana had other ideas. She stood outside the school gates at break time and tried to spot Jack through the railings. She got the attention of a few kids but no-one knew him, so she were finding it difficult. So she asked us to get out of my car, which I were reluctant to do because it were bloody freezing and I didn’t want my nadgers to be like icicles for training. Eventually I did, but as soon as I got close to the railings she shouted, ‘Hey kids, it’s Sid Karim the soccer star.’ Suddenly there were a surge towards the school gates. All these little blighters came rushing towards us, waving their hands and screaming all sorts: ‘It’s Karim cracker’, ‘Sid the Squid’ and ‘Saddo Sid’ were just some of the stuff coming out of their gobs. It weren’t right.
Season of Sid Page 17