‘£20,000’
‘You fuckin’ dickhead,’ he said, clicking on the mouse furiously. ‘You paid him £20,000 to leave the country, so you could get your end away? And all that after you rejected her in the first place…fuckin’ hell…I thought Jimmy could spin a good yarn…’
I walked up to him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m just checking your accounts online…for the last time.’
‘What?’
He looked at the screen intensely. ‘…And you told me you were good at poker.’ He laughed sarcastically and then sighed. ‘You’ve just lost 95 grand…and now you’ve just lost me. You know my views on the big L plate, it’s just bullshit, so I think it’s time to leave the ring. C’est La Vie, my friend.’
Sailor V, what the fuck were that? Were that the 23rd officer on a ship or something? I didn’t get it, were he thinking of not representing us? That wouldn’t be a wise move because they’d be queuing round the block to get their mitts on us. Abujee may have banged on about queuing up for a visa when he came into this country but, believe me, if I were up for grabs they’d be gagging to get into my world.
‘So what are you saying? I asked.
He folded his arms and looked at us. ‘I’m saying that I can’t represent you anymore, even if you are an England player. However, if you tell the police and they deal with it as a criminal matter…then I might reconsider.’
Now, I don’t know if handing over 20 grand to ease the departure of a bloke is a criminal matter, but I wouldn’t really want to find out.
‘I can’t do that…’
‘Well, that’s that then,’ he said, turning away and typing on the keyboard.
‘That’s not that…’
‘A team needs trust…and you’ve broken it.’
‘I haven’t broken anything, it were my money.’
‘I’ve made my decision. I can’t represent you anymore.’ He folded his arms and sat back in his seat. ‘I have got one other question for you…’
I didn’t answer because I were steaming about his whole, arrogant act. I mean, he weren’t even looking at me when he went to ditch us. Even refs look you in the eye when they’re giving you the red card, but this were monstrous.
‘…Why didn’t you just say yes to Rukhsana when Mullah asked you?’
I were still steaming but the R word had a soothing effect. ‘I hadn’t seen her for years…’
‘And then when you saw her,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It was like the revelation, the day of judgement and paradise orgies rolled into one.’
‘Aye, whatever you say…’
He turned to look at us again. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about all this. I know we’ve been together a very long time, but there’s a line I can’t cross. I’ll drop you off at home…and then we’ll get all the paperwork sorted. I hope we can stay friends.’
I felt like getting an axe and smashing the computer. ‘The money were a gift, okay?’ I said, a touch louder than before. ‘I earnt it. It were my decision to give it to someone and I could do what I wanted with it.’
‘…Oh, here it is, your account…’
‘I don’t fuckin’ care about that.’ I were breathing heavier than usual and felt the three-hour training session finally ganging up on my limbs. ‘I’ve got the talent, what the fuck have you got? You’ve been taking me for a ride all this time. I earned all this money. I play football, you play people. I’ve got people queuing to sign up with me. You’ll regret it when I play for England in the World Cup.’
EIGHTEEN
I felt so shit about the breakup with Jamil that something drastic had to be done for the game against Man City at Starcot Lane. So after I’d put in a rasping cross for Rico, who belted in the equaliser, I ran towards the Billy Moss End and jumped right into the crowd for the celebration. I could see Rico and Molly’s eyes turn from jubilation to horror as they saw us flying through the air towards a group who were munching hot dogs and smoking fags. Luckily, my trajectory took us away from those flailing arms and heads until I came to rest in the embracing arms of an elderly, silver-haired woman wearing a Town scarf.
I’d heard a little bit about Mother Teresa but this old girl were a match for her any day. She had a few teeth missing and a bit of a tash but her twinkling eyes went right through my wounded soul. She kissed us on the cheek and, somehow, banished all the shit that Jamil had been lumbering us with.
‘We love you Sid,’ she screamed. ‘You’re one of us.’ She hung on tightly and pulled at my shorts but then a steward came in and managed to pull us away.
I jumped back over the advertising hoardings and embraced Rico. The searing noise were still pummelling my senses. I stepped onto the pitch and looked back towards the crowd. I searched for the woman but the ten or twenty faces quickly became hundreds and they all became anonymous again.
I weren’t going to jump in and hire a new agent straight away. After all, I were an England player now, so I could wait for the right offer but there were also the small matter of clearing a ginormous debt.
Molly had been good to us and provided a list of agents but I hadn’t told him about how Jamil had treated us. He were too busy anyway with his skipper duties: the latest being trying to stop Lassie handing in a transfer request. Lassie felt the club weren’t matching his ambition and said he’d definitely be off in the summer. His agent, Sam ‘Surplus’ Carruthers, had told him he were at least ‘100 per cent better than Johann Cruyff’ and that he could get a ‘hundred grand a week’ at a top club. Bowker and Carruthers were then seen squaring up to each other in Royds’ car park, so Molly definitely had his hands full there.
But I did look down the list he provided. As you’ve already heard there’s Surplus Sam, who’d literarally fight my corner to get the best deal. There were also Tina ‘No-one Meaner’ Rampton, Simon ‘Licker’ Lyons and Craig ‘Counter’ Russell, although many people didn’t mention the ‘o’ when talking about him. You could also have the PFA representing you, of course, like Molly did but I weren’t sure they’d get the best deal, so that were unlikely.
The main problem I were having right now though, were the fact I had to stop spending like I were before. The interest on the credit card repayment were obscene, so virtually all the wages went on paying that fucker back. I managed to blag Amejee to come over and cook pretty regularly, so that weren’t a problem, but the fact that I couldn’t play Texas Hold ‘Em, buy new clothes or spend some more money on my Audi R8 were a joke.
She also told us that Abujee had gone to Wembley to watch my England debut. I didn’t believe her but she brought the match programme and ticket stub along with her as evidence because she knew I’d be sceptical. It looked genuine but it still could have been robbed off an England fan, picked up off the street or bought off eBay. In the end, I believed her because she were getting distressed about it all. She went into another War of the Worlds-style sermon saying there were ‘Guantanomo Garages’ opening up in town, so I backed down.
All this shit could be put to one side, however, if Rukhsana agreed to turn up at Starcot Lane for the game against West Ham. I’d sent her a free ticket and prayed (the please God variety rather than kissing the floor) that she’d come down and meet us after the game.
So I were sat in the dressing-room doing up my boots and couldn’t wait to get outside to see if she were up there: in the Carney Stand, Row 21, Seat 64. But our door were throbbing because of the loud music coming from the away dressing-room. Bowker were getting annoyed with it so he flung open our door and the sound increased tenfold. It were London Calling by The Clash.
‘Turn it down you poncy southerners,’ shouted Bowker. He stood between both dressing-rooms with his hands on his hips. He then walked back into our dressing-room. ‘Like the band though…’
‘Hey Sid,’ said Pearly, slipping on his shorts. ‘Why were you so quiet in the warm-up? You kept looking up in the stands, were you expecting someone?’
&nbs
p; Too right I were, but I’m not going to tell you after your ‘brown bomber’ stunt at Wembley, am I? If you knew I’d invited Rukhsana over for a game, you might nobble her and tell her I’m a peado or something.
I shook my head and sat down on the bench. I couldn’t wait to get out there and show Rukhsana exactly what kind of player I were. I glanced up at the ceiling and pictured exactly where she’d be sitting. I’d shoot up from the bowels of the stadium into her heart.
She were there, she were there, she were there!…And then…she weren’t. Throughout the game, I kept looking up and gaining inspiration from her red scarf and fur-collared coat but with seconds to go, she disappeared. I rushed back to the dressing-room and checked all my mobiles for a text or something and the Nokia 786 obliged.
best to end it. Im stuck out here, shouldnt have come. Emergency at home.
Best to end what? Where are you stuck and what’s the emergency? I got changed in a couple of minutes and mulled over the consequences of leaving early before Bowker’s post-match team-talk. I knew there’d a be a fine waiting for us if I pissed off early – and with my cash situation it might not be the brightest move – but I could tell him it were an emergency and that’d be enough to save us.
So I rushed out of the dressing-room and walked towards the players’ entrance. I slipped on my Lacoste beanie hat and, as it were raining, made sure it covered my ears. I pushed open the door and stepped out into a mass of fans, who didn’t seem to notice us: their eyes were fixed on the treacherous escape route. I blended into them and headed towards the players’ car park, where I threw down my bag into my car and headed back up towards Starcot Lane.
Now, the fans were a manky lot: I could smell the foul gravy breath and pickled onion crisps as I got a little too close to them for my liking. Worse still, the mass of bodies multiplied as I felt a surge streaming out of Block C. We were now reduced to shuffling rather than walking and I were almost kissing the neck of a 6ft pensioner ahead of us. There were now hordes of fans heading in opposite directions: some towards the car park on Rickman Way, some towards to the other side of Starcot Lane, some to Arif’s Keema Corner and some to the Alby Senior. They were dodging, weaving and curving around their mates without worrying about hands in the back, shoulder barges or toes being crushed. I looked behind us and wanted to go back, but it were too late: there were nowhere to go. I’ve heard of having a bit of Boddies, but this were ridiculous.
We were inching forward now, just past the bottleneck of the Billy Moss End, and we curved round into Starcot Lane. It were a little less congested and some away fans were walking past us in the opposite direction. With the extra freedom, I pulled out my Nokia 786 and tried to give Rukhsana a call. I raised the phone up to my ear but I were barged by some dick behind us and the mobile fell to the floor. I bent down and picked it up but not before a bloke’s knee bashed us on the head and a huge Hi-tech trainer had kicked the mobile further away.
A fan in a claret and blue scarf looked down at us. He mildly elbowed his mate. ‘Fackin’ northerners, still picking things up off the floor?’ He laughed and then looked at us curiously.
Well excuse me Mr Hammer Mouse of Horror, but the last time I looked Eastenders weren’t exactly the beacon of brightness and banjos were it? At least I’ve sung my heart out for Queen Liz rather than pissed my time away at the Queen Vic. And don’t even get me started on Alf Garnett.
I got up and decided not to make the call because I wouldn’t be able to hear anything anyway. I walked a few yards past the fan and carried on looking ahead.
‘Oi wait on,’ I heard someone shouting from behind us. ‘You’re Shit Karim aren’t ya?’
Well, at least someone recognised us, but it weren’t quite what I had in mind. I’m a fuckin’ champion footballer and this is the gratitude I get? To be honest, I’m getting a bit sick of ‘Sid’ rhyming with ‘Shit’ and I might get my name changed by deed poll. All the stars do it, so why not us? Abbas sounds good because there’s plenty of ‘class’ in it. Mikail’s got ‘style’ and Majid’s obviously ‘magic’. I’ve thought about Frank and Nick too but I don’t want any wanks or pricks coming my way.
I walked as fast as I could down Starcot Lane. It were getting very tight again as I bobbed my head desperately looking for a sign that Rukhsana were around. We were down past Block D now and there were more coppers in sight: they were ushering the West Ham fans in the opposite direction.
Suddenly, I thought I spotted the red scarf and black coat with fur-rimmed collar near Block E. My heart were pounding now, like I were just about to concede an own goal in the FA Cup final. As I shuffled closer, the figure kept going out of focus, but the closer I got, the tied up hair and small nose meant it were surely her. There were even less progress up there, so I managed to move a few feet while they were lucky to move a few inches.
I were just a few yards away now and it were definitely her. She looked panicky and distressed and were almost resting her head on the next man’s shoulder. I jostled and harried to gain as many yards as possible but the sheer weight of bodies now had its own momentum. The crowd were now at a virtual standstill and everyone had their eyes on the person in front, or down below, as they waited to break free.
I strong-armed my way through and could see that I were getting closer to her. She were making slow progress and I could see the exasperation in her eyes. I stepped forward and managed to jostle in towards her. She still had her back to us, but I patted her on the shoulder. She couldn’t move, so she turned her head.
‘I didn’t think you were coming?’ I said, pushing my head in front of a burly man in a black leather jacket.
She turned around and looked startled. ‘Mama’s going to commit suicide…’ She struggled and tried to find some space for her shoulders.
‘Let her,’ I mumbled.
‘What?’
‘Nothing…’
‘That’s why I left early,’ she said, out of breath. ‘I got a call from a neighbour.’
There were a surge from the Rickman Way end as another group of West Ham fans turned into Starcot Lane.
‘COME ON,’ screamed the burly man. ‘LET US THROUGH YOU FUCKIN PIGS.’
Everyone realised their personal space were diminishing by the second. There were very little control for anyone to choose where they wanted to go. A push here, a surge there meant an ulterior force were now in charge; a dark, invisible energy where the soul next to you were the only guide.
I inched forward and used my strong shoulders to squeeze past by the burly man. My face were virtually on his shoulder but I managed to pivot ahead of him. Rukhsana were now in front of me and I brushed up against her.
‘Look, all this was a mistake,’ she said, her voice almost breaking up. ‘You lot really confuse me…My mother wants me, and then doesn’t want me…you don’t want me and now you do…I’m confused.’ She put her hand towards her throat. ‘…And I can’t breathe.’
I inched closer to her as a small surge pushed us forward. I felt a tingle as our legs touched and it seemed there were nowhere to go now for either of us, apart from towards each other.
‘Maybe I can help you breathe…’ I said, moving my face towards hers.
This were the moment of execution: onside with no hope of being caught, a sitter not to be missed, an open goal, a surefire winner in extra-time.
I moved a little closer until I could see each raindrop forming on her cheeks and lips. I closed my eyes and propelled my lips onto her mouth. I slipped my hand past the fur collar of her coat and around her back. Her response were like the net bulging a million times in one day; a warm, tender kiss full of desire and longing.
The tugging and swaying of the crowd went on as we revelled in a deep, intimate embrace. I felt I were about to fall down any minute but her lips’d catch me before I hit the ground. The tightness of the bodies around us now were overwhelming. The swirling mass were around us, on top of us and behind us, suffocating us with
extraordinary body energy. It were thrilling, hostile and captivating. It didn’t matter if it were our last kiss. There were no way our lips could part.
I felt like a World Cup winner but I still didn’t want to go to Briar Street. Rukhsana insisted because she were worried about her mother, so in end I caved in, although I said I could only stay for a few minutes. I also persuaded Rukhsana to tell her mother that we were now an item, so she could like it or lump it. Rukhsana weren’t too sure about telling her in that state of mind but if it knocked her for six, I weren’t going to complain.
We walked into the house, hand in hand, although Rukhsana kept shrugging it off. She opened the living room door and, suddenly, it were like I’d been kicked in the head and punched in the stomach at the same time. My hands were shaking and my head wouldn’t stay still. It were obvious that Mrs Latif would be there, sitting on the edge of sofa, but sat next to her with his hands on her shoulders was…Yousuf. I don’t know how Freddie Krueger, old Yousufine or the new name I’d made up for him – Thieving Twat – had got back here, never mind toddled back down to Briar Street, but I were ready to give him a studs-up challenge that he’d remember.
‘When did you get here?’ said Rukhsana to Yousuf, without looking at him and rushing down next to her mother.
Yousuf looked like a transformed man. He were wearing a pinstriped suit with a green tie, had a neat, curtain-style fringe and were clean-shaven. He looked like some fuckin’ diplomat who’d just come from a meeting or something. Pity he couldn’t talk like them.
He stood up and looked at us. ‘I flew this morning. My mother called me and said Mrs Latif very ill…’
‘Mama are you okay?’ asked Rukhsana, bending down and holding her hand.
Mrs Latif looked like she were crying. ‘I am now…Yousuf is back and everything will be great again…’
Season of Sid Page 25