Season of Sid

by Nasser Hashmi

  So I got that out of my system and scarpered down to Hassetts where Shazia had a little explaining to do. Surely, she weren’t playing away from home in her prime, were she? That’d be as hard to imagine as Rico keeping his kecks on after spotting Rough Rachel in Tiffs. Anyhow, when I got down to the shop it were all a bit low-key. I might as well have been playing marbles in Middleton rather than a blood and thunder Lancashire derby. Emily were dealing with a customer when I walked in and Shazia were next to her, writing something on a notepad. I walked towards her and put my elbow on the counter.

  ‘Can I speak to you?’ I asked, rubbing my right knee which were still giving me jip after a nasty tackle.

  She looked up at us and then carried on writing. ‘I thought people got amnesia after an accident or an injury.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You forgot about the opening of Sufferer Jets.’

  ‘Shit, when was it?’

  She looked up and sighed. A strand of hair had dropped onto her forehead from underbeath her dark blue hijab. ‘If it weren’t for Jimmy and Em no-one would have been there to open it. As it was, they managed to get Gerry Whitworth in to cut the tape.’

  Well, thank fuck I weren’t seen down there with that gobby bugger. He were on telly a while back after his video appeared on YouTube and had become a big hit. He were a lowly council worker who became the last man standing against a massive hotel development in the area. The plans went ahead despite petitions, protests and appeals so he drove a tractor into the foyer of the finished hotel suite. He were arrested and charged but a jury acquitted him. So now Whitworth’s got a regular column in the Evening Chronicle, a book deal and a stint on national TV as a planning expert. But the farmers whose tractor he used weren’t too happy. One of them chased him through a TV studio lobbing potatoes at his head. Served him right.

  My mobile rang. ‘Sorry,’ I said, picking it out of my pocket. ‘Just got to answer this…’ I walked towards the display window. ‘Hello…’

  ‘Sid?’

  ‘Yeah, hello boss…this is a surprise.’

  ‘Yes and I hope this won’t be. Look Sid, I’ve thought about this a lot and I’ve decided you should be in the squad for the friendly against Turkey.’

  It were like the Dirty Weekend never happened. ‘God, that’s just brilliant boss, I can’t wait to join up.’

  ‘We meet up next week, so I’ll speak to you then. I’ve got a lot of calls to make, so I’ll bid farewell for now.’

  ‘Okay bye.’

  I put the Nokia in my pocket and raised my arms in the air. ‘WEMBERLEE, WEMBERLEE…I’M THE FAMOUS SID KARIM AND I’M GOING TO WEMBERLEE…WEMBERLEE, WEMBERLEE…’

  The customer gave us a strange look as she left the shop.

  ‘What are you on about?’ asked Shazia.

  I walked up to the counter again. ‘I’m in the England team,’ I said, excitedly. ‘That were Ray Partington on the phone. He’s picked us…whoo, hoo…’

  ‘Well done Sid,’ said Emily. ‘I’m so happy for you…I always knew Ray could spot a good player.’ Emily looked across at Shazia. ‘You can get off now, Shaz. It’s only a few minutes to six, so I can manage.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, we can’t keep your England star brother waiting, can we?’ she said, with a smile.

  I weren’t even thinking about anything Emily or Shazia were saying or doing. Instead, it were the lush turf and glorious arches of Wembley that were greasing my passion pump. Head up, chest out and legs straight: God Save the Queen and all that. It’s sung so loud I can feel shattered glass all over the Palace: Buckingham not Crystal, although Kai were bottled at Selhurst Park once.

  Shazia looked across at us. ‘He doesn’t believe it, but I’m so proud of him.’

  Fifteen minutes later, I were standing right outside Lings Mill looking up at the looping red-brick chimney while Shazia were sat on a dry part of the waist-high wall. I could see about eight kids playing cricket inside the derelict mill grounds and they’d painted a white wicket onto the red brick just inside the entrance.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to catch flu or something out here,’ I said, lowering my Lacoste beanie hat over my ears. ‘I’m in good form at the moment so I’ll just come out with it…’

  She didn’t answer and looked behind her at the playing kids.

  ‘Ruki’s mother came down to Royds,’ I said, kicking a stone into the wall. ‘She says Ibrahim and you…’

  She turned back towards us and smiled. ‘…Were an item?’

  ‘Yeah…’

  She slowly got up off the wall, leaned against it and folded her arms. ‘The old hag’s not right about many things…but she’s right about this one.’

  The England cap were slipping off and a helmet were ready to take its place. Is there anything Ibrahim didn’t poke his considerable conk into? He were separated from his wife, asked us for an arranged marriage, played Willy-Wonka games with us by chasing a ball and now, I’m told, he’d been having it away with my sister for years. I’ve heard of chips with everything but that’s ridiculous. Goodbye Mr Chips, you’ve had seconds, thirds and fourths. Surely your plate’s clean now?

  ‘So is that why Mrs Latif left him in the first place?’ I asked, balancing on the edge of the kerb. ‘Because of you?’

  ‘Bless me brother, for I have sinned…’

  I shook my head and looked behind me as a Toyota Corolla drove by; its windscreen wipers working furiously to clear the water.

  She turned around slowly but continued to sit on the wall. ‘He taught me a lot,’ she said. ‘He taught me why this was important.’ She eased her palm slowly over her hijab. ‘He was also spending a lot of time around our house in those days. He helped Abujee a lot when they both worked here at Lings, so they became good friends. Abujee couldn’t drive because of his epilepsy, so Ibrahim used to take him everywhere. Once, when he had a fit at the factory, Ibrahim had to take him to hospital. The second time it happened, the factory bosses didn’t want Abujee to work here anymore so he lost his job. He tried to get other jobs but couldn’t because of his condition. He was going to lose the house…our house…but Ibrahim stepped in and helped with the repayments.’

  Bloody hell, he were helping out with the mortgage too, but where were Noddy Nadeem all this time? The poor bugger must have given the couple the green light because of one of his legendary naps.

  Shazia walked towards us and balanced on the edge of the kerb. I looked down at her and couldn’t tell if it were raindrops or tears running down her cheeks.

  She put her hand on my shoulder. ‘The thing about me and Ibrahim is gone now…but there’s something else that’s more important than that.’

  ‘Aye…?’

  A soaking wet tennis ball went flying past me ear. ‘Fuck me,’ I said, ducking for cover. ‘That nearly took my ear off.’

  Despite the ball missing us, the rapid nature of my flinch triggered an even worse reaction. I felt a warm, shooting pain in my neck and Rathbone’s image began to dominate. I lost my bearings for a moment; I thought the red-brick chimney were about to crash down us. The white letters curved across the dark red monolith like Rathbone’s wicked smile.

  ‘Come on,’ shouted one of the boys, running towards us. ‘Get it for us.’

  The ball trickled back to my side of the pavement and I picked it up from the edge of the kerb. I threw it ferociously back towards the boy and, to my surprise, the little urchin managed to catch it.

  ‘You’re not that hard you know,’ he said, turning away and continuing with the game.

  ‘HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD OF RAIN STOPPED PLAY, YOU JOKERS?’ I tutted and looked at Shazia. ‘Look, do we have to hang around in this shithole; we could go sit in my car and talk. I’ve got the sound sorted out on the DVD player, and it’s nice and warm too.’

  ‘Do you have to call it a shithole?’

  ‘No, but it is. An England player shouldn’t have to take jip from scallies lik
e that.’

  My Nokia 786 rang.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Shazia.

  ‘It’s the phone,’ I said, struggling to get the Nokia 786 from my pocket.

  ‘But it’s got a Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan ringtone…who gave you that?

  ‘It’s the one Ibrahim gave us, when he came back here.’

  ‘Oh…’ she said nodding her head. ‘I think I get it now…and I thought I knew him better than anybody.’ She started walking away.

  ‘What are you on about?’ I asked. ‘Look, just let me answer this and then we’ll carry on.’

  I just managed to get the Nokia 786 out my pocket in time.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Sid, it’s Ruki…I think I’ve tracked down the ball.’

  ‘Oh right…’

  ‘You don’t sound too excited…’

  ‘Well, I’ve just made the England team.’

  ‘Oh, well done, I’m so so happy for you…whereabouts are you, anyway? I can hear stuff in the background.’

  ‘Erm, I’m outside Lings, talking to Shazia.’

  I could hear Rukhsana tutting. ‘Did Mama put you up to this? She’s totally flipping about Yousuf and told me all about her visit to your training ground.’

  ‘Well, no…’

  ‘Don’t worry, I already know…’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘About my father and your sister…’

  ‘FUCKIN’ HELL,’ I shouted, pulling the Nokia 786 away from my ear. ‘Does everybody know about these things, except me?’

  ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘you footballers do live in a bubble.’

  If anyone ever says that to us again, I’ll swing for them, I really will. Okay, Rukhsana might be an exception, but this ‘living in a bubble’ lark had gone too far. I were in a shop once, to grab a copy of Inside Edge magazine, when the shopkeeper came out with this ‘bubble’ shit and said we were all ‘pampered and polished’ too. So I challenged him and said we couldn’t be both: living in a bubble and pampered and polished because there were no mirrors and hairbrushes inside a bubble. He said he were ‘figuratively speaking’ but then I told him there were no numbers in what he’d said and handed over my five-pound note. He looked at me all funny and knew he’d lost the argument.

  ‘So who’s got the ball then?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t you want to know how I already knew about Shazia and my father?’

  ‘I don’t really care anymore.’

  ‘The person who told me…is right in front of you.’

  I looked at Shazia as she stopped by the wall again.

  ‘…And I don’t blame her one bit. She was forced into something she didn’t want to do. I understand Mama being totally upset and going back to Pakistan, but it must have been difficult for my father and Shazia too.’

  ‘Okay, I get it now, but it’s doing my head in…what did you say about the ball.’

  ‘Well, I’ve tracked it down to three possibilities. Some workmen were refurbishing Mrs Bright’s garden at the time the ball was kicked by the little boy. I’ve spoken to one of them and he says they all played for a pub team on Sunday and always needed extra gear, so they took the ball in and used it for a few games.’

  ‘So where is it now?’

  ‘Well, Steven, the guy I spoke to, says it’s in The Lifer pub. The landlord of the pub is the team captain, so they left it with him for safe keeping.’

  Suddenly, the tennis ball smacked us on the head and I slipped off the kerb and tumbled onto the wet pavement. The Nokia 786 slipped out of my hand and landed on the road. I looked up and thought the huge, filthy chimney were about to fall on us again. A deranged little ditty were also ripping through my head.

  Lings Mill’s gonna fall on me…

  I’ve got Epilepsy

  Like Abujee

  I waited for a few seconds but it didn’t fall on my head and I didn’t have a fit either. But I could feel a bit of blood on my lip. Shazia rushed over and bent down by my side. She untied her hijab and placed it on my bottom lip.

  ‘This is the best pain reliever there is,’ she said, with a smile. She took off her hairclip and let her hair down.

  I rubbed my empty hand. ‘Shit, where’s the fuckin’ phone?’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll get it,’ she said, getting up.

  ‘Hurry up, I think there’s a car coming.’

  Shazia walked briskly onto the road but the car had to slow down to let her pick up the Nokia 786. Her hair flopped onto the road but she managed to grab it just in time. She walked back and the driver wound down his window. ‘Cover your hair, you bitch,’ he shouted and drove off.

  She bent down again and put the Nokia 786 to her ear. ‘Rukhsana are you still there?’

  ‘She’s probably gone,’ I said, sitting up and rubbing my forehead.

  ‘She’s not there,’ she said, handing me the Nokia 786.

  ‘That bloke were a bastard weren’t he?’

  Shazia got up and helped me up too. ‘Now you know why we need Sufferer Jets.’

  All the boys who were playing cricket came towards us.

  ‘Did you see where the ball went?’ asked one.

  ‘It’s gone,’ I said.

  One of the boys came closer. ‘We always knew you didn’t have two anyway.’ He looked at his mates and they all laughed.

  ‘Don’t you know I’m playing for England next week, you little bastards?’

  ‘England?’ said another. ‘They’re well shit…’ He ran off and laughed.

  ‘Yeah…and so are you,’ said another, running off.

  SEVENTEEN

  I’d never seen a dressing-room like it. There were hairdryers, individual baths and wall-to-wall mirrors and I thought at least three Audi R8s could fit into the showroom-like surroundings. But it were the Three Lions on my chest that were giving us the real kick. I had to change my ripped shirt three times because my chest were pushed out so much. I were that proud.

  So I sat down and looked at the talent all around us; it were frightening. A Liverpool player there, a United player over here and even a Bolton lad on the subs bench; it were almost too much for us. But Partington helped us and calmed us down. He said I had a right to be on the same pitch as these players and talked about the ‘magical’ history of Wembley Stadium. He gave us so much confidence that at the end of the talk, I pictured myself riding out on the famous turf on a white horse singing God Save the Queen.

  And I were still thinking about the national anthem when the lads got up and prepared to go out into the tunnel. I shuffled in at the back and looked forward to gracing the sacred turf with my new Nike Mercurial Vapor boots. I walked into the tunnel and could hear the crowd chanting ‘Turki-ay…Turki-ay.’ Bloody hell, I thought we’re supposed to be in London not Eastanbul.

  But just as I headed out, I got a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw a tall man leaning against the wall just outside the dressing-room. He had a black turtle neck sweater on underneath his suit jacket and ultra-thin glasses that were almost invisible.

  ‘Sadiq Karim, have you got a minute?’

  ‘Er, not really…I’ve got a game to play,’ I said, carrying on walking as I tried to keep up with the other players.

  He stepped forward and raised his arm. ‘Look, it won’t take long. Thing is, we’ve got some intel that there may be a device here at Wembley tonight. I don’t want to alarm you but and I just want to ask you if you know anything about it.’

  So here I am on the way to a knighthood and this screwy kind of fella wants to know if I’ve got to links to old Ossie and his bunch of bomb bandits. All I know is that Wembley used to have the twin towers and so did a place that got bombed in New York. The rest is rubble.

  ‘Look mate, I don’t know anything,’ I said, watching the players disappear onto the pitch. ‘The national anthem’s about to start, so I need to get out there.’

  ‘This is more important,’ he said, standing
right in front of me now. ‘It’s about national security. There may be a threat to everyone out there, so you need to tell me if you know anything.’

  I shook my head and wanted my Nike Mercurial Vapors to plough into his nadgers.

  ‘If there is anything, shouldn’t you have done something before?’ I asked. ‘There’s thousands in here now and the game’s gonna start in a minute.’

  ‘We only got the intel half an hour ago. The source said the combination of Turkey playing England – and the first Asian…’ He lowered his voice as though he was about to say a swear word. ‘…Muslim…to play for England was a high-value target for terrorists.’

  I felt a little dizzy and did windmills with my arms to compensate. ‘So I’m a target?’

  ‘Not necessarily, but we have a secular Muslim nation playing a Godless western nation and, you, Showbiz Sid, are in the middle.’

  I looked at him a little closer. ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘It’s not important…I just need you tell me what you know.’

  ‘I DON’T FUCKIN’ KNOW ANYTHING…’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, stroking his chin. ‘That’s what they said in Belmarsh.’

  ‘Look, you can speak to my agent, he’s up in the VIP section. I don’t know anything about no terrorist attack or nothing. I’m playing for England now and running out to sing the national anthem, okay?’

  The crowd noise were now so intense that it were almost sucking me onto the pitch.

  ‘Do you know all the words to the national anthem?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘All the words…you know like, what comes after ‘Happy and Glorious’…’

  ‘Course I do, I been practicising all week. Now get out of my way.’

  ‘What’s the penultimate line then?’

  ‘GET OUT MY FUCKIN’ WAY.’

  I pushed him aside and ran as fast as I could down the tunnel.