Season of Sid

by Nasser Hashmi

  ‘I’VE GOT ENOUGH EVIDENCE, YOU ARROGANT TOSSER. IF THE STADIUM BLOWS UP, YOU’LL HAVE BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS…’

  The studs dug into the turf and and the noise from the fans nearly ruptured my ears. I could see the two sets of players lining up for national anthems and I sprinted across to join them. Both sets of fans were now in terrific voice. ‘Turki-ay…Turki-ay…’ said one set. ‘I’d rather be a Paki than a Turk…’ said the other. It were noisy, hostile and thrilling.

  I managed to get into the line of England players just in time and waited for the anthem to begin. I put my hand behind my back, raised my head and stuck my chest out. The noise from the crowd, however, were so loud that it nearly drowned out the pipsqueak announcer.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please stand for the national anthem…of ENGLAND!’

  The clatter of seats reverberberated around the stadium and everyone took a deep breath, but one chant still dominated.

  I looked up to the stands, which roared with pride. ‘GOD SAVE THE…PAKI THAN A TURK…LONG LIVE THE PAKI…GOD SAVE THE TURK…SEND HER A PAKI…’

  It were difficult not to join in and I never knew Pakis and Turks were in the national anthem. I always knew Queen Liz cared for everyone.

  The game itself passed by so quickly that I instantly wanted to play it again the next day. Partington said I’d done well and I were in his thoughts for the World Cup. I’d rather be in his squad than his thoughts but I know what he meant. As for any bombs going off, that never happened either and I didn’t see old turtle neck again. I asked Jamil about it later and he said no-one had contacted him, so that got me a bit worried. What if I’m on some kind of watchlist? You know, Premier League Paranoia or something like that. I wouldn’t put it past old turtle neck. He looked like a serious sort to us.

  Anyhow, when I got to Royds, all the lads were acting peculiar. Okay, I knew some of them were jealous about us getting an England call-up, but most of them were fine. Pearly, however, were standing on the touchline with an orange cone in his hand as I walked onto the pitch. He put the cone on my head and said, ‘you brown bomber’ and then laughed his head off. I turned to look at the other lads and they were having a giggle too. Pearly then explained that old turtle neck were actually his unemployed brother-in-law and that he’d really enjoyed playing a MI5 agent. He also said that old turtle neck wanted to act in MI5 too – with Tom Cruise – as he were always a Mission Impossible fan.

  So I were thankful that no devices went off and no lives were lost. I mean, if Wembley had been blown up, who’d want to rebuild that again? It may have taken till the year 3000 to get that monster up and running, so it were a good thing that it stayed up. A few years ago, there were even talk that a few builders were in loony bins because they couldn’t stop singing ‘I’m floating over Wembley, my knees are going trembly’ so again, it’s a good thing they won’t have to go through that again.

  After the session, I were still thinking about suicide bombs and the like as I walked to my car. But when Ruki phoned there were a different kind of life on the line. I thought she might want to talk about the ‘missing ball’ or my England debut, or even old Yousufine, but she didn’t even say hello and jumped straight in.

  ‘Mama’s tried to commit suicide,’ she said, with more calmness than I expected. ‘I don’t think I can stick around any longer. I think I might leave.’

  Jesus and Mohammed, I’m sad and all that but don’t just leave because Beefy Botham’s nemesis has lost the few crackers she had. I mean, if she ever did something as stupid as that at least we could move in together.

  ‘Where would you go?’ I asked.

  ‘London, maybe…I’d be in a better environment for film-making and all that.’

  ‘What did she do then?’

  She sighed and said nothing for about five seconds.

  ‘She went into a Happy Shopper store and climbed on the shelf which had all the canned vegetables. She was so pissed off about not finding Yousuf that she lay there for five hours and said if anyone asked her to come down she’d kill herself…’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With a tin opener…’

  ‘Right…Did you manage to get her down?’

  ‘Eventually, after the police and the shopkeeper had already had a go. She wanted me to agree that I’d marry Asif from Ashton-Under-Lyne and never see you again.’

  ‘…And?’

  ‘Well, I’m talking to you now aren’t I? As for all the other stuff, this isn’t Blind Date or something. I’m not on the market waiting to be snapped up. I had to agree to what mama was saying so that she’d come down, but I didn’t really mean it. So I think it’s better to jump ship, and start afresh.’

  ‘Erm, what about the ball?’

  ‘…I think that’s gone. I went down to The Lifer pub but they know nothing of it. So we’re back at square one with that. I’ll keep looking into it, of course – and the bus crash – but I need to get away from mama, she’s driving me potty.’

  Right at this moment, there were something building in my mind. I were weighing up whether to tell her how much juice were circulating in my passion pump right now. The mental scales were tipped in favour of keeping her indoors, but then I thought about Sid Karim – the England player – and the rest were history.

  ‘You know how much I care for you, don’t you?’

  ‘Not enough to get hitched, though.’

  Fuck, I nearly forgot about that dark episode. It weren’t my fault I’d never seen her mug for nearly ten years. At 13, she were about as fit as a frump’s fanny but I didn’t know she’d turn from witch to WAG quicker than a ref runs round the pitch.

  We’re constantly told by Bowker to seize the moment, take the opportunity and have no regrets: so now were the time to shoot from distance.

  ‘I know it’s your birthday next week,’ I said, ‘so let us take you out and give you a night to remember…’

  ‘Not sure about that,’ she said, trailing off. ‘I’ve got so many things to sort out…the job at school, all this Yousuf rubbish…I haven’t even finished sorting out all dad’s things yet.’

  ‘I can get you some tickets for a game too…’

  ‘That’s corruption isn’t it?’

  ‘No, I pay for them,’ I said, with a laugh. ‘Well, kind of…I give Spares a few betting tips and make some money for him. So…what do you say?’

  She paused for a moment but her warm breath were sweeter than the volley I hit at the Stadium of Light.

  ‘You’ve had your chance…’

  I were an England player now so the edge were taken off Premier League matches. We were out of the cups and safe from relegation, so it were all a case of enjoying the game and trying to impress Partington if he turned up, or one of his staff. But one thing Partington didn’t do – and it were something that annoyed us about Bowker – were talk man-marking at 2am on the coach when you’re coming back from a midweek game down south. On this occasion, he were so pissed off about the 2-0 defeat at Fratton Park that he walked up and down the aisle of the coach, poking us to make sure we hadn’t nodded off and that we were still listening to him. It were at times like these that a motorway service station came in very handy. We couldn’t wait to get out and get some air into our scrambled brains. Even Lino joined the players, saying: ‘I like the boss but he complicates things…now let’s enjoy some of the best food in the world.’

  I didn’t quite agree with Lino but anything were better than Bowker’s late-night torture. Although, when I saw the dark, pokey service station ahead, I had second thoughts. A few of the players did too, and that’s why they decided to stay on the coach. But when I got in, it weren’t too bad as there were a newsagent to the left, fruit machines to the right, a card-cum-gift shop further along and a small coffee bar opposite that.

  ‘The grub café’s down the other side,’ said Bowker, walking briskly towards the stairs.

  ‘This better be worth it,’ said Pearly. />
  ‘It’s fuckin’ cold too,’ said Lassie, rubbing his bare left arm, which had nothing but a club t-shirt too protect it.

  ‘Don’t worry lads,’ said Lino, striding forward as quick as ever. ‘We’ll get all the greasy leftovers…hmm can’t wait.’

  I let the others walk by because something caught my eye in the gift shop. It were an Oscar replica, and I thought it’d be perfect for Rukhsana as a prezzie. Obviously, I were no skinflint and I had other, bigger ideas for Ruki’s birthday but I thought this were a clever little thing that she’d like. I didn’t know whether they gave Oscars for documentaries, but it were the same thing as far as I were concerned: film, documentaries and acting; they all pranced around with a camera up em or behind em.

  So I went into the gift shop, but when I got to the counter I realised I didn’t have my wallet with us. The club usually paid whenever we went around with the whole team, and the fact that we changed our clothes every day, many times a day, meant that wallets sometimes stayed in our bags rather than our kecks.

  So I ran back onto the coach and stopped in the usual three rows from the back on the left. I pulled back my Puma bag from under the seat and unzipped it. I rummaged through and eventually pulled out the brown wallet from my black jeans. I opened it up and had about eight ten pound notes handy. I pulled one out but just as I were about to button up the wallet again, I noticed I had only 23 cards. I counted again just to make sure: eight debit cards, 12 credit cards and three special club cards. There should have been 24: an American Express card were missing.

  Jamil picked us up straight from training and seemed to be in a hurry. I’d wanted to stay behind a bit longer to practice some penalties – England’s World Cup hoodoo were firmly in my mind – but he insisted I got out on time and travel down to his house. At least it’d give us an opportunity to tell him about the missing credit card, I thought.

  He walked into his house and headed straight for his office. He walked over towards the front window and looked outside. He opened a packet of Wrigley’s Doublemint and chewed on a strip of gum very slowly. He took off his glasses and put them on top of the keyboard just below the computer screen. He rubbed his eyes and turned around.

  ‘How did it happen?’ he said, folding his arms.

  ‘What?’ I said, standing by the door.

  ‘Cash shortage?’

  ‘Oh…’ I said, slightly relieved. ‘It’s just been a combination of things…I’ve helped my sister’s new venture, Dad’s Hajj and a bit more here and there.’

  I walked over towards the computer and sat down on the black leather swivel chair.

  ‘…And the odd bet? Bit of poker?’

  ‘The odd one…aye,’ I said, swaying gently on the chair. ‘What’s up anyhow, I’ve got more than enough in my account…’

  His penetrating glare unnerved us slightly. ‘You guys have everything done for you. Meals provided, transport given, free tickets, kits washed, money on tap…all you need is for your body to function properly.’

  Amejee did wash my kit once, so that ain’t all true.

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘Sometimes it pays to be aware,’ he said, putting on his glasses. ‘Where’s your American Express card?’

  ‘Oh, aye I was going to tell you about that. I just don’t know…I haven’t needed it for such a long time.’

  He reached into the inside pocket of his navy blue suit jacket and pulled out two folded pieces of paper. ‘I’ve had these for a while. I know you’ve gone a bit berserk before on spending sprees so I hardly took any notice until the last couple of transactions. There was a bit of turmoil around because of the Rathbone thing, so I wanted to wait until you were better. I know you’ve still got some important games to come but I think we need to sort this out now.’

  He slowly unfolded the two pieces of paper and held one underneath the other. ‘There are fourteen different transactions since December 12…’

  I swayed a little more on the chair, so I were now facing the window.

  ‘The first one is in Manchester City Centre on that date…and the last one is in Islamabad in February. Added up, they total more than £75,000.’

  I were starting to feel a dizzy and felt my groin tighten. I looked out of the window and the calm afternoon sunshine were the only attraction in a bare, clinical set of driveways.

  ‘Now I don’t want to jump to conclusions,’ he said, lowering the statements slightly. ‘It’s obvious your card was stolen…but I’m getting this sinking feeling that it could have been someone we know…’

  Jamil had this list called the Enemy Edit and I quickly did a scan in my head to see if I could nobble the sneaky swines. He’d recently added Combat 18, the National Front and the BNP to the list because of my England connections, but surely they’d be up to something a bit more physical than a card nab?

  ‘…If it’s true that it was stolen, then we need to get the police involved and let them deal with it…I’ve obviously told the bank already to put a block on the card.’

  ‘You haven’t told the police yet?’

  ‘Like I said…I wanted to wait to talk to you first.’

  The Enemy Edit were sifting things out pretty quickly. Freddie Greatbanks, who bullied us at school; no, he were dead now. Lorna Rogers, who I two-timed in fifth form; no, she were in Greece. Garth Smith, who said I only made it as a player because of positive discrimination; no, he were a ref now. Then it hit us, like a free-kick in the nadgers – but Jamil were already a step ahead.

  ‘No pissing around now, do you think it was Yousuf?’ he said, handing me the statement. ‘After all, he goes missing, so does your card…and then there’s these transactions at Manchester Airport and Islamabad.’

  I lowered the statement in my hand and looked out of the window again. ‘It looks like it was him…must have been at the petrol station…fuck me that’s nearly 100 grand.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing…I just don’t want the coppers involved.’

  Jamil walked briskly towards us and stopped inches away. He stood in front of us so I couldn’t see through the window. ‘Are you fuckin’ mad? This guy’s robbed thousands and you don’t want to tell the police? We have no option, we have to tell them…for insurance purposes if nothing else.’

  Now, if I were earning 100 grand week like those pampered prima-donnas at the top end of the Premier League, then I wouldn’t give two shinpads about some fucker – in this case, Freddy Krueger – robbing that much dosh off us. But the fact were that I only scraped two grand a week – a mere pittance if you ask us – and if you take 75 off that, it doesn’t make pleasant reading. Okay, the sponsorships and endorsements bring a bit in, but the Audi R8’s always hungry for more DIY. And to think, old Yousufine’s laughing all the way to Lahore, or is Faisalabad? Where is he anyhow? Wait till I get mitts on that fucker.

  I slowly folded up the statement and put it into my pocket. Jamil were perplexed and looked out of the window with his hand on his hip. ‘For once…I don’t understand,’ he said exasperated. ‘To me, it looks like a simple case of a person stealing a credit card, going on a spree and then going missing. I can think of thousands of reasons we should go to the police…and at this stage, the most important one is that all this has to be paid back. The insurance will cover that, obviously, but if it’s not logged…then you’ve got a big, bad debt my friend.’

  I don’t know if it were the words ‘big’ or ‘debt’ that got us thinking of Rukhsana and how I’d offered old Yousufine a generous slice of garden leave. I were just about to sit down on the carpet and blurt out that I were in love with Rukhsana and that I did it all for her, but then I remembered Jamil didn’t believe in love so I held fire. He said it were devalued after he’d had a six-week affair with Sheena Davenport from across the Pennines. She had a habit of calling everybody and everything ‘love’ including the local wife beater, the peado and the budgie, so when she said, ‘Jamil I love ya, I rea
lly do,’ he didn’t believe her and they broke up. He doesn’t even mention the word anymore and calls it ‘evol’ instead, whatever that means.

  ‘So you reckon he stole it while you were filling up?’

  ‘Erm, aye…I think so. He must’ve nicked it out of my bag.’

  He undid his top button and took off his tie. He threw it down on the chair but it missed and ended up on the floor. He rubbed his neck and then sat down on the swivel chair. He swayed slightly and looked down at the floor.

  ‘Have you told me everything?’

  ‘Aye…’

  ‘Don’t fuck around…’

  I looked out of the window and saw one of Jamil’s neighbours in a dispute with two burly blokes on the opposite side of the street. He was pointing to his Volkswagen Golf, which had been clamped.

  ‘There’s a problem out there,’ I said. ‘I thought clampers didn’t come into these areas.’

  ‘Fuck them, just answer the question.’

  It were time to come clean because if anyone could get my cash flow back on track it were Jamil. It were a tricky decision because owning up to a 20 grand gift weren’t something I did on a regular basis. I gave 200 quid to an orphanage once but that’s the biggest amount I’ve ever chucked away.

  I carried on looking outside at the neighbour who were now pointing at his clamped wheel. ‘I know you don’t believe in it…but I’m in love with her…’ He didn’t respond so I turned around. He shook his head and got up from the chair. I tutted and sighed. ‘I didn’t think fuckin’ Freddy Krueger could be so clever…I gave him some cash to leave the country…’

  ‘You gave Yousuf…’ said Jamil, slowly and deliberately. ‘…money to leave the country?’

  ‘Aye, I know…it sounds stupid…but it were for her.’

  He walked away again with his hands on his head. ‘And I thought Rico was the man who’d do anything for a woman in your mob…’

  ‘No, he’d do anything for a shag…’

  Jamil gave us a cold look and sat down again. He turned on his computer and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘So Romeo…you’re in love with Rukhsana…you send her husband away with a semi-bribe…and it’s happy ever after. How much did you pay him?’