I took a bite but my mouth stung as the salty, tangy slice tumbled from one side to the other. ‘God, that’s a bit strong,’ I said, resting my palm against my cheek.
‘It’s only tuna and anchovy…’
‘ANCHOVY,’ I said, closing my eyes in pain. ‘I’m not surprised. I never eat that shit.’
‘You haven’t lived,’ she said, munching away merrily on her tiny slice. She wiped her mouth with a serviette and picked up the ball with both hands. ‘Look at this ball.’ She held it up so I could see the writing on it. ‘What does it say?’
I shifted as close as I could to the ball. ‘…Katmina 90!’ I said, with a mild smile. ‘Have we found it then?’
‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘Look what colour it is…’
‘Yeah, red and white.’
‘Red hexagons, white background and blue writing. The one we were looking for was green and white. Can you see a pattern here?’
The slice of tuna and anchovy finally digested. ‘Erm, no.’
Rukhsana sighed and moved closer to the bed. ‘I found four of these when I was in Sialkot filming. They were all different colours. This is red, white and blue. Another one was red and yellow. Another was green, red and white and another was yellow and blue.’
‘So?’
‘They’re flags of different countries. This one is England.’ She held up the ball. ‘The others were Spain, Italy and Brazil. They’re all souvenirs.’ She put her finger on the ‘90’. ‘I spoke to someone who works in the stitching factory over there and he said they’re from the World Cup in 1990. But he wouldn’t say anything else.’
‘Italia 90?’
‘Yes, the ball we’re looking for has the same name on it.’
‘Aye, but it’s green and white. It looks like the Pakistani flag to me – and those useless gits’ll never get to a World Cup as long as I live.’
Rukhsana put the ball back in her lap. ‘Yes, but I think it’s got more to do with Sialkot than the actual World Cup.’
By this time, the only flag I were interested in were the white one because all this global bollocks had left us feeling dizzy.
‘There’s something else too,’ she said, taking off her baseball cap and running her fingers through her hair. ‘There was a bus crash in Sialkot in the summer of 1990 and a few people died. I know my father was over there at the time. He knew a lot of the workers over there and wanted to help out during a busy period. I don’t know who died or what happened, but my father never spoke about it when he got back.’
‘Bloody hell, how do you know all this?’
She put the ball back in the bag and placed the baseball cap back on her head. ‘Documentary makers have to ask questions,’ she replied, standing up. ‘If I’m going to make it, I have to be rigorous.’
Now, what about a documentary on us? I were beaten up by Terry and Goon and surely your career would go into orbit if you exposed these fuckers. I could sit down like that Scorpio villain in Dirty Harry and show the world my injuries. Even a ref with a cold heart would come down on my side and see I’m not faking it.
‘Can you help us up?’ I asked. ‘I need a piss.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, walking round to other side of the bed.
She held us by the shoulders and slowly eased us forward. ‘I spoke to the doctor earlier and he thinks it’s just the broken wrist that’s going to take time.’
I blew my cheeks as I felt my back creak. ‘You don’t play football with your wrist. I want to be a back within two weeks.’
‘I think that’s a bit optimistic.’
I coughed and slowly eased my legs off the bed. ‘How long did you wait at Juliano’s last night?’
‘It was fine. I got talking to some Italian guys on the next table, they’d just come back from the game.’
She put her arm round us to help us get up. The whiff of perfume were perfect to banish the crappy smell of anchovy.
‘Don’t you want to put the tracksuit on?’
Well, at any other time, of course, but now weren’t the time. I were told by Rico that all lasses – and I mean ALL – are partial to footballers’ legs. They don’t watch the game for any other reason apart from fantasizing about our weapons of wizardry.
‘I’ll be okay like this,’ I said, putting the weight on my feet for the first time. ‘So are you home alone now? You know, with your mum not coming back and all that…’
‘She will be back…but she’s determined to find Yousuf before she comes over.’
I almost wanted to whistle at the thought of Mama Latif scouring the valleys and bazaars of Faisalabad looking for old Yousufine. Happy hunting, Mrs Mum-in-law never-to-be because you’ll never find the slithery sneak in a million years.
‘I think it’s getting to be a bit of an obsession with her,’ said Rukhsana, her warm breath shifting softly across my face. ‘I don’t give a shit about him – it’s over – but she says she’ll commit suicide if I go off with someone else – and do me along with it.’
Shit, I don’t want to be responsible for any of that craziness. I once heard about this kind of ‘On Her Killing’ and it made us physically sick. The simple fact that someone can get on top of a woman and then kill her is beyond us.
Rukhsana were just about to say something but turned around to see Jamil scurrying in with a sense of urgency. He walked towards the bed and stopped beside us.
‘Come on, we’re leaving,’ he said, grabbing my other arm and putting it round his shoulder.
‘I need a piss first,’ I protested.
‘Berger and some of the Jackanories are at the police station. They’ll be here soon, so we need to go.’ Jamil popped his head round. ‘Hi Ruk, sorry, we’re in a hurry,’
Rukhsana nodded and let go. ‘I suppose somebody’s got to look after him.’
‘The club doctor’s waiting for you at Starcot,’ said Jamil.
‘Have they got him yet?’
‘Who?’ asked Jamil.
‘Who do you think? I said impatiently.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Jamil, a little distracted. ‘…I think they arrested three men this morning, even though there was no CCTV. A witness saw the whole thing from the road outside.’
Aye, thanks for the help Mr Witness. Must have been nice to see a star footballer beaten senseless in a nightclub car park. I expect to hear and read about your amazing story soon, you spineless piece of shit.
‘He ran to your aid, after you’d been attacked,’ said Jamil. ‘He chased them down but they got away. He was a pensioner so he ran out of puff. But he did drive you down to hospital in his car.’
Okay, I may have been wrong but he could have still come down and took part in a double act against the bastard in the black. Something like Sid and Bid, maybe. He could have bored them with tales of the war and all that shit and I’d have laid into them with a Brucie bonus. We’d have been unstoppable.
‘Do I get to at least have a piss then?’
Jamil looked behind him and walked briskly back to the bed. He picked up the grey pot and walked back towards us.
‘No, we haven’t got time,’ he said. ‘What good are these if nobody uses them?’
SIXTEEN
The coppers came round twice to take statements about the ‘Mad ref attack,’ as the Evening Chronicle had labelled it. They told us that Rathbone had nicked the ref’s strip from a headteacher’s office in Royton and that the school supremo had to wear his Classic FM t-shirt, torn red shorts and grey socks to officiate in a non-league match in Morecambe. The coppers asked us if I wanted to hook up with the headteacher for some ‘victim bonding’ but I said I were too busy.
This were absolutely true because sitting at home recovering from an injury is the busiest time I’ve ever had. I were forced to fill my time with as many – and as varied – tasks as possible to banish the pain and frustration of not kicking a ball around. It were the crappiest time I’d had since Abujee insisted we all went o
n a family holiday to Goole, so I watched back to back DVDs of Bottom, got up at noon, played Texas Hold ‘Em all afternoon and sent multiple text messages to Rukhsana.
Amejee and Nadeem did come round to see how I were but I were surprised Shazia didn’t turn up, although she did phone. Jimmy and Emily came round too and tried to cheer us up with a DVD of The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, which I’d never heard of. It weren’t bad and there were a phone sequences which made us chuckle – because I’ve got a few phones too – but the rest were miserable.
As for Amejee, who stayed round for a week, she were distraught and said no Muslim were safe in the West anymore. She said if I’d had a long, bushy beard my chin would have been protected from Rathbone’s boot. She wanted us to wash and pray five times a day and that were the only way I cold purge the memory of the attack. I tried getting up at dawn for the first day but gave up and watched Grabbit The Rabbit instead.
But Abujee stayed away, although he did send a crappy text message saying ‘It’s God’s will…’ which I replied to with ‘No, it were the ref’s’. Doesn’t he realise that thugs and refs are one and the same?
We were knocked out of the FA Cup too – the only game I could bear to watch – and it were down to Blister, pure and simple. He misplaced a simple pass and the Spurs striker ran into the box and put us out of the competition. I could see what he were going to do from my plasma but the dick still went ahead and did it. He should never be in the team again.
The only bright spot of the three-week nightmare were a phone call from Partington who said I were still in his thoughts regarding the England team. There were a friendly in March against Turkey and he assured us if I got back in the team and played well, I were in contention for the squad.
And luckily Bowker were thinking along the same lines and brought us back into the team almost instantly. A couple of the lads took the piss by donning refs kits to welcome us back to Royds but there were no better feeling than belting the ball at Kraney again.
So there I were, practicing free-kicks on a pissy wet morning at Royds, when out of the corner of my eye – and admittedly it weren’t the same after Rathbone’s hit – I saw a colourful figure coming towards us on the training pitch. She strode awkwardly alongside our security man Colin, a balding, bespectacled six-footer, and the two of them walked off the concrete of the car park area and stepped onto the grass. They walked between the goalposts on the training pitch next to ours and were just about 50 yards away from us.
Bowker were at the other end of the pitch doing endless defensive drills with Pearly and the rest of the back line while I lined up the ball in front of the wall just outside the penalty box. We’d drafted in some youth team players to stand in the wall while Rico and I took it turns to bend it round the wall and beat Kraney.
I stepped up and hit the ball, which flicked off Shacks – the youth team captain – and ended up sending Kraney the wrong way.
‘You’re shit, Kranes,’ shouted Rico, with his hands on his hips. He turned to his left and looked beyond us. ‘Who’s that, Siddy…?’
‘No idea,’ I said, continuing to watch Kraney pick the ball up from the goal.
‘They’re coming in this direction,’ said Rico. ‘With this wind, she’ll take off soon. At least she’s got better dress sense than Colin.’
And dress sense weren’t the only kind of sense Big Col lacked. At club functions, he were so obsessed with security that – apart from the mandatory ear and mouthpiece – he had a small flipdown mirror attached to the right of his forehead so he could see everything behind him as well as in front. He said Mr Starmer persuaded him to ‘make use of all available technology to combat evil’ but we felt it were a bit OTT. This device also caused Big Col huge problems in the lass department. One girl, who he were seeing for seven months, said she’d headbutt him and ‘smash the fucking mirror’ if he didn’t take it off. He didn’t and the break up were bloody and messy.
‘Can we go now?’ said Shacks, moving out of the wall.
‘No, get back in the wall,’ I said. ‘We haven’t finished yet.’
Shacks reluctantly squeezed in again with his team-mates and put his palms over his nether regions.
‘Wait on,’ he said.
‘What?’ I asked impatiently.
‘Behind you.’
I turned slowly and the full horror of Mrs Latif’s plump face came into view with a sheepish Colin next to her.
‘Sorry to trouble you Sid,’ said Colin, scratching his nose. ‘But your mother wanted to see you about some emergency. She said it couldn’t wait.’
Rico chuckled and the other players broke away from the wall. ‘We’ll be off now, Sid.’
‘Aye thanks, guys…’
I squinted as I looked at the old woman’s purple and green shalwar kameez. Her buttoned-up, beige cardigan were nice and thick but it weren’t enough to fend off the lashing wind and rain. She flicked her green, see-through headscarf over her shoulder but it just kept coming down again.
‘You’ve caused me so many problems,’ she said, moving forward so she were two feet away from us. ‘You’ve been a disgrace, why can’t you just leave her alone?’
Rico looked towards the other half of the pitch where Bowker were continuing the defensive drill.
‘We’ll leave you to it then,’ said Colin, beginning to walk away.
‘No, don’t leave,’ I urged.
‘Shut up,’ said Mrs Latif, pushing me mildly in the chest. ‘I’ve had enough of your disgusting behaviour. You should be ashamed of yourself. Cavorting with girls who are already married…’
Rico began laughing hysterically. He patted us on the shoulder and ran off towards the other end of the pitch to join the defenders.
‘Way to go Sid,’ he said, scampering off. ‘You’re learning fast…’
I looked at Colin, who didn’t seem to know what to do.
‘Col, this isn’t my mother…why did you let her in?’
‘Shut up, haraam zaada,’ said Mrs Latif, pushing me in the chest again. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I won’t let you destroy her life, like your family has destroyed mine. What kind of man are you? Your father was a weak man…and you are too.’
‘Col, this woman’s not my mother…’
‘Are you sure?’ said Colin.
‘Course I’m fuckin’ sure.’
Mrs Latif moved closer to us, her wavy shalwar were almost touching my bare legs. ‘I don’t know what Ibrahim saw in you. He was obsessed and wanted you to do well, I could never understand it.’
‘We both loved football,’ I sighed. ‘…And he obviously didn’t love you.’
She drew her hand back briskly and slapped us on my left cheek just beneath the eye. The blow were struck with such ferocity and precision that I could feel the fluid circulating in the eye almost instantly.
‘Colin, can you get rid of this fuckin’ woman,’ I shouted, rubbing my eye frantically. ‘She’s not my mother. I don’t know how she fooled you.’
Colin stepped forward and stroked his chin. He turned to Mrs Latif. ‘So you’re not Sid’s mother then?’
Mrs Latif’s eyes widened but she continued to look at us. ‘Yes, I’m his mother fucker.’
‘See,’ I said, looking at Colin. ‘How could you let her into training?’
Colin stepped forward. ‘Okay, madam, it’s time to go now.’
‘Wait,’ said Mrs Latif, with her left arm outstretched. ‘I want to say one last thing to this criminal.’
‘You’ve committed the crime,’ I said, still rubbing my cheek. ‘I could press charges…’
She moved closer to us as Colin tried to usher her away. She had a hysterical look in her eyes. ‘Yousuf will be back soon and he will be Ruki’s husband again. Do you know anything about honour? Somone will be killed if you carry on doing these filthy things.’
Not that ‘On Her Killing’ shit again. A mum getting on top of her daughter and whac
king her to kingdom come doesn’t sound like happy families to us. And who says I’m doing anything filthy with her anyhow? I admit that when Rathbone were about to start his wrecking spree, I did have a pervy last thought about ravishing Ruki over a table in Juliano’s but it were hardly Debbie Does Dallas or Deep Throat.
Colin managed to get her a few feet away from us. ‘Wait, tall man,’ she protested, trying to break free. ‘I have one last thing to say to him.’
Colin looked at us and I nodded reluctantly. She straightened her kameez and walked towards us again. She moved right up to my face. ‘Ask your whore of a sister what she’s been doing with somebody else’s husband,’ she said softly.
‘COLIN, GET THIS WOMAN OUTTA HERE.’
Colin moved forward and grabbed her again.
‘SHE TOOK IBRAHIM AWAY FROM ME,’ she screamed. ‘She’s the reason everything went wrong for us. She’s the one to blame.’
Colin had her tightly by the waist. ‘Watch it tall man,’ she said. ‘I have my dignity to think about. If you treated a woman in a burka like this, you’d be castrated.’
‘I have to think of the players and the club’s security, maam,’ said Colin.
They both walked away slowly and I breathed a sigh of relief. My cheek were still sore and I looked around to the other side of the pitch where my team-mates were laughing hysterically, with Bowker in the middle.
‘Seconds out, round two…’ he shouted, with his hands cupped over his mouth.
Rico swung an imaginary punch at Lassie who fell over comically. Lassie got up and urged Rico to strike him again. Lassie rubbed his cheeks and walked away.
Somehow, after the old woman’s intervention, I knew it were going to be a Dirty Weekend. This meant it were the kind of game – in this case a derby clash at Blackburn Rovers – that were about as wild as one of Mr Starmer’s bow ties. Fans were spewing filth, chances were missed, own goals were scored, the ref were corrupt, passes were astray and the rain turned into mud in seconds. There were also so many f-words flying about that some of the players seemed to have the top row of their teeth permanently resting on their bottom lip. The only way to purge the rough and tumble of a Dirty Weekend were to jump in a shower as quick as possible and disappear from the bear-pit of the ground without looking back.
Season of Sid Page 22