Season of Sid

by Nasser Hashmi

  ‘Did you hear about 11th of September?’ he sniffed.

  Yeah, but you don’t have to go on about it. I mean, even superstud Rico said the world changed for him on that day. He were experimenting with three birds – Top, Middle and Bottom – in his lounge when the second plane hit. He said he hasn’t been the same since.

  ‘Of course, I know about that,’ I said, walking towards the oblong-shaped mirror on the wall. I picked up a black hairbrush from the mantelpiece and smoothed out my side-parting. ‘Do you know what time they’re coming?’ I asked. ‘I’m starving.’

  He didn’t answer and looked at his battered Seiko watch. He got up from the settee slowly and slipped his feet into his black sandals. ‘Time for worship,’ he said. ‘…I see the fans are back worshipping you again.’

  ‘Worshipping?’

  ‘Praying you’ll score goals, having your pictures on their wall, swearing by your every word…that kind of thing.’

  ‘I give ‘em what they want,’ I said, putting the hairbrush down.

  He hesitated at the door. He walked back slowly and headed towards the mantelpiece. He stopped and looked into the mirror. I looked too and felt uncomfortable the way our mugs were being reflected. He kept looking and said nothing for at least 30 seconds.

  ‘Do you think you look like me?’ he asked, contuining to look ahead.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Do you think you look like me?’ he said, moving his head towards us slowly so his bristly cheek was nearly resting against mine. ‘Because…you don’t act like me.’

  Too right, daddy-o, I wouldn’t want to look like a fundadentist either, with your chipped tooth and dodgy beard. And I’m glad I don’t act like you because I would have been done for drugs rather than Pearly, so I’m grateful on that score as well. But what kind of shit are you getting at here?

  I smiled and walked away from the mirror. ‘I’m better looking,’ I said, walking towards the kitchen door.

  ‘Come here?’ he said, softly.

  I tutted. ‘But I’m going into the kitchen to see how Amejee and Shazia are getting on with the grub.’

  He gestured with his head again. I sighed and walked over to the mantelpiece again.

  ‘Right, give me your hand,’ he said, reaching out with his own.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, give me your hand.’

  I reluctantly raised my hand and he held it up to his face. He looked at it for a moment before putting it on his head.

  ‘What are you doing?

  ‘Run your palm over that.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you should have been doing to me when I did something well?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  I ran the palm of my hand slowly over his extremely short hair. I moved it back and forth a few times and then stopped.

  ‘And?’ I asked.

  ‘Rub your fingers right in.’

  I went forward right into the scalp and rubbed my fingers in more vigorously. I stopped when I felt a little bump. I pressed on it and rubbed around it. I went to the back of the head and stopped again; there were another little bump. I moved my fingers forward and there were another little bump. The scalp were like a series of mounds dominated by overgrown grass – or that League Two pitch I’d played on recently.

  ‘Do you feel that?’ he asked.

  I nodded as I pressed down on one of the bumps.

  ‘See Sadiq,’ he said. ‘That’s why cannabis was necessary. If you have epilepsy and fall over so many times, you need something that gives you relief. If the medication doesn’t work, you need another option. I never had a fit when I smoked.’

  I took my hand away from his head. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘That’s a lot of bumps.’

  He walked away from the mirror. ‘It’s like being on the top of K2 with a noose around your neck,’ he said, sitting back on the settee. He leant forward and looked down at the carpet intensely. ‘Somebody throws you off the top and you’re just falling, falling, falling to an inevitable doom. Only, just as you’re about to smash against the ground, the rope is jerked and you start going up again. But just as that happens, the rope is released again and you’re going to crash to the ground again. Your head is going north, your neck east and your body west. At that stage, you just want south to happen very, very fast.’

  ‘Why are you looking so deeply at the carpet?’

  He looked up at us. ‘It was my main trigger for a fit…it always used to set me off.’ He looked down again. ‘Not now though.’

  I shrugged and walked towards the kitchen door again. ‘I still don’t like drugs though.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ he said. ‘But I did everything I could for you…apart from driving you from training…which I couldn’t, so Ibrahim did.’

  I opened the kitchen door. The smell from the kitchen almost made my eyes water.

  ‘…And that’s why you both agreed to do a deal so I would marry Rukhsana.’

  He didn’t answer and kept slipping his feet in and out of his sandals. He absorbed the smell but continued to look down. ‘Alhamdullilah, I couldn’t wait to take off my shoes and get some air to my feet after a shift at Lings. They seemed to last forever and my feet were burning. How long does your game last? Ninety minutes, that’s nothing.’

  ‘Have you ever seen the blisters on my feet after a game? Sometimes, I can’t even get my foot down on the accelerator, it hurts so much.’

  He looked up and sighed. ‘We were waiting for the right circumstances…and they didn’t arise. All fathers have a duty to their children.’ He looked down at the carpet again. ‘I feel sorry for Rukhsana, she’s had two possible links that haven’t worked out. She’s such a nice, lovely girl. She could have made a man very happy…’

  The rich, rasping smell from the kitchen raced up my nose and my eyes were waterlogged.

  FIFTEEN

  Rukhsana and her mother didn’t turn up in the end and I had to knock down a mountain of rice, lamb and keema kebabs. It weren’t a problem because I were starving like a fourth world baby but Amejee went round to Mrs Latif’s house to get a proper explanation as to why she hadn’t turned up. She took the greasy pots and pans with her to provide evidence of a hard night’s work, but Mrs Latif came out with a pan the size of a telly and threatened to use it if Amejee didn’t scarper. Luckily, Rukhsana stepped in and controlled the situation but I always knew her mum were a few crackers short of a picnic.

  Anyhow, once I got home that night there were another dream waiting for us after I’d nodded off to Hollyoaks on E4. I don’t know if it were the keema or the rice that did it but there I were flying across the Atlantic with my arms outstretched towards the World Trade Centre in New York. I were wearing the full England strip and I’m zooming along past the Statue of Liberty trying to get my mitts on the World Cup, which is resting on one of the twin towers. The other tower’s got a giant green and white ball on it and I swoop down and try to grab it, but it falls off and ends up in the Hudson River. So I try to grab the World Cup but it won’t budge: it’s like a piece of rock. I hover around for a while, looking down at yellow caterpillars below, and then glide down towards the river. Anyhow, I see the big ball in the distance floating towards Liberty Island and swoop down to try and grab it. Eventually, I pulled it out of the river but the splash of water drenched my England strip and my face. I rubbed my eyes and looked up at the Statue of Liberty and, instead of a stone-faced creature looking down on us, it’s Rukhsana holding the torch.

  Luckily, I woke up when the Nokia 786 beeped with a text message. It were the first time my other mobile had rung since Ibrahim had handed it over as a prezzie. I’d thought about chucking it away but always reconsidered. Anyhow, I knew it were Rukhsana because she were the only one who had that number: it were important she felt I were using her dad’s prezzie as much as I could.

  Come for dinner tomorrow night at Juliano’s. Have something to tell you. Mama couldn’t find Yousuf, but I got a
lot of filming done in Sialkot. I know you have a game but we could meet afterwards, say 10pm? Love Ruki.

  LOVE! Fuckin’ hell, it were like a 30-yard piledriver into the top corner. I couldn’t get my kecks on fast enough and head down for training: I were in the zone and could feel the spirit of Rico’s’s hormones doing the rounds. So for the game against Burnley at Starcot, the next day, I could feel the ball hitting the pleasureable part of my foot every time. It were like all the flirty fluid spreading to the rest of the body to create an orgasm of openings with every pass and attack. I could do no wrong and belted in a low drive to make it 1-0, and although Burnley equalised, I layed on the winner for Lassie who celebrated by sticking his tongue in my ear.

  It took us about 15 minutes to get changed and I drove away from the car park with most fans still streaming away from the ground. I slowed down to about 40mph as I drove through Ribchester Road, the main road into Orchard Hall. I looked into the rear-view mirror and noticed that the car behind seemed a bit closer than usual. I passed Juliano’s and, as it didn’t have its own car park, I went into Tiffs, which were about 500 yards away. Clayton had given the players a permit to park there any time. I pulled in to one of the many empty spaces for permits only and turned off the ignition. I glanced out of the driver’s side window and looked at the grotty stairs up to Tiffs’ back entrance.

  I took off my seat belt and looked in the rear-view mirror for the last time. I opened the door and waited to feel the ground beneath my right foot. Instead, a brutal and vicious momentum tugged at my leg, dragging me away. Someone were pulling my thigh ferociously. I smacked my head against the car seat and desperately clung to the steering wheel with my right arm.

  Stop it you fuckers, I’ve just had two hours of body punishment, I don’t want any more. It’s not my fault you’re paid shite wages in a job you don’t want to do. Spares’ll get you an autograph if you want it: this ain’t the way to go about it.

  I managed to press the horn with my left hand but now my other leg were being pulled too. I tried to kick them away but my shoulders – stretched to breaking point – were beginning to give way. I could hold on no longer and they pulled us away from the car. One of the men, a short, stocky man with dark, permed hair, had me in a headlock and the other, a tall, tattooed man with a ponytail, had both my legs. I managed to use my arm to minimize the fall onto the concrete but still grazed my elbow. They dragged us away as I struggled hopelessly to break free.

  ‘Get out here, you fuckin’ bastard,’ shouted the pony-tailed man, as I looked into his excitable eyes.

  Aye, I could have guessed, you fuckin’ loser: only puffs, pansies and David Seaman wear ponytails. They’re from the Hammer hairdos of horror. I’d cut the fucker off if I could suddenly morph into Edward Scissorhands.

  I sat on the harsh concrete as the tattooed man held down my legs with his hands. I regretted having my black Ben Sherman loafers on rather than my studs. I could feel myself suffocating as the other man’s thick forearm tightened around my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see another man approaching. I stopped struggling, but glanced over to the back entrance of Tiffs, hoping someone may come out at any minute.

  ‘You fuckin’ sissy, are these the kind of shoes you wear?’ he said, stroking his blonde pony-tail with his hand. ‘Can’t kick too well with these, can you?’

  I looked up to the right as the third man walked over and stood a few feet away. I blinked repeatedly to try and digest what the hoolie were wearing. I mean I’d been writhing on the floor before looking up for some help from the man in black, but this were ridiculous. The fella were wearing a black top, black shorts and black socks, just like an old ref. He tapped the studs of his black football boots on the concrete and ran his fingers through his short, shaved hair. It were Terry Rathbone.

  Now, refs had a habit of sending me to sleep at the best of times but this one were doing strange things to my bodily fluids. I felt a slight trickle down my kecks and felt a dizziness I couldn’t describe. The three men, talking gibberish, were becoming hazier in the distance. My head dropped to the concrete and rolled into position like a golf ball tantalizingly reaching the hole. I looked up to the black sky again and it were getting wider and wider. I were passing out and it were scarier than expected.

  The thermometer were taken out of my mouth by a sharp, spindly hand. I turned my head slightly to the right to look at the nurse but my cheek, forehead and ear ached so much that I returned to the neutral position on the pillow. My right eyelid were stinging ferociously and partially closed. There were an uncomfortable plaster just below my chin which were causing unbearable itchiness. I could feel my right forearm imprisoned in a cast so I clenched my left fist to make up for it.

  Two doctors in long, flowing white coats walked past my bed in a hurry. I never liked speaking to these jokers beause they spouted shite most of the time. Once when I went for a scan on my ankle after a rough challenge at Starcot, this miserable fucker went on about fissures in the fibia and all I could think about were fish ‘n’ chips at Fryers. It were pure gobbledegook, but at least I found out later that I hadn’t broke it after all. If it had been up to him, I’d still be talking about shit-itis and crap-ibias. They should all speak in a lingo we can understand.

  The doctors stopped by a young lad who had his plastered leg hung up in the air. I looked at the poor bastard and it made us want to get up straight away.

  ‘Is that your girlfriend?’ asked the nurse, looking closely at the thermometer and then walking to the front of the bed to pick up the small wooden board.

  ‘Who?’ I replied, grateful to have such a short word leaving my lips.

  ‘I think she’s gone for lunch,’ she said, as she clicked the top of her pen and flipped over a white sheet on the board. She began writing and then looked up at us. Her narrow eyes peered above the board. ‘She got tired of waiting for you to wake up.’

  Yeah ta very much; you’re about as sweet as Night Nurse. I could do with a dose now to get us out of this ghostly shithole.

  ‘I need to go to the toilet,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Hold on, I’ll just get you the pot,’ she said, continuing to write.

  Look love, don’t use that old chestnut. Granny Fatima used to say her husband didn’t have a pot to piss in when he came to this country, but it ain’t been a problem for me. I’ve got two luscious lavs in my house, so just leave us to it. I may have been whacked round a little but I still know where my pisser is.

  ‘I have to get up,’ I said, shifting slightly to the right.

  She waited for a moment and then hung the board on the end of the bed. She walked back towards us and stopped at the side of the bed. ‘I don’t think you’re ready for this yet but if that’s what you want,’ she said, pulling out the slippers from underneath the bed.

  It sure is what I want. I need to feel my legs as soon as possible. These wands of wizardry’ll be gracing Wembley and the World Cup soon, so let them create their own history.

  I tried to move my shoulders to provide some early momentum but it weren’t enough. She held my head gently but her fingers were like tiny daggers as she pulled out the pillow from underneath us and pushed it upright against the back of the bed. She held my shoulders and eventually got me up into a sitting position. She pushed me back slightly and I rested awkwardly against the pillow.

  ‘Do you want to put something on?’ she asked, looking dismissively at my Watchmen t-shirt and black boxer shorts. ‘She brought you some tracksuit bottoms. They’re on the chair over there,’ she said, pointing to other side of the bed. She looked over her shoulder. ‘I think she’s coming back…’

  Rukhsana were on the way towards us and suddenly it weren’t just my legs that wanted to get up. She were wearing a red baseball cap and had a slim black bag over her shoulder. She also had a carrier bag in her hand with a funny round bulge in it.

  The nurse folded her arms. ‘If you need anything, just press the button over the
re…’ She didn’t point but just raised her head slightly to indicate its position.

  ‘Can you just pour us a drink?’

  She picked up the bottle of mineral water from the table, poured it into a white paper cup and handed it to me. She looked at Rukhsana, smiled and then walked away.

  Rukhsana sat down in the chair to my left. She pulled the bag over her shoulder and put it by the chair.

  ‘This is cack,’ I said, releasing the cup from my lips. ‘Fizzy fuckin’ water…who got me in here anyway?’

  ‘I think it was someone from Tiffs,’ she said. ‘They rang for the ambulance. They said you were lying like a rag doll while they landed their blows.’

  ‘I didn’t feel a thing…’

  She rested the carrier bag on her lap and pulled out a red and white football.

  ‘What’s that doing in here?’ I asked.

  She put it down on the floor and rested it against the chair. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. But first…’

  She picked up the black bag and pulled out a flat, little white box. She pulled up the flap so I couldn’t see what were inside, but the warm, tangy smell were unmistakable. She got out of the chair and thrust the box closer to us.

  ‘Last night’s gone,’ she said, as her necklace hung over her woolly grey jumper. ‘But I thought we’d try again this lunchtime. It’s about as romantic as it’s going to get.’

  Now, I’ve never understood romance and probably never will. It’s like when Pundicks bang on about the ‘Romance of the FA Cup’ and you’re being shafted by a non-league team in a mudbath which has mice and spiders crawling right through it. ‘It’s a great leveller’ they say. Too right, it’s a great leveller, I’d like to get a fuckin’ bulldozer and level the whole fuckin’ ground so we never have to play there again.

  I handed her the paper cup as I grabbed a slice. ‘Are you allowed to bring this in here?’ I asked.

  ‘Probably not…but this is more important.’ She took a slice and rested the box on the edge of the bed. She picked up the ball and rested it on her lap.