Season of Sid

by Nasser Hashmi

  Yousuf straightened his suit jacket. ‘I no staying…’

  ‘Too right you’re fuckin’ not,’ I whispered.

  He moved away from her and winked at us. The cheeky bastard: not only has he fleeced us of all my cash but he’s rubbing it in like a physio with a grudge.

  I walked up to him. ‘I want to talk to you…now.’

  ‘I no want to…’

  I held him by the shoulder. ‘Come on…’ I ushered him towards the door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Rukhsana.

  ‘I told you,’ sobbed Mrs Latif. ‘I told you that dirty boy was doing bad things.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘I just need to talk to Yousuf for a minute.’

  Before they could protest, I ushered him out of the room.

  ‘Come on, we’ll go upstairs,’ I said, closing the door. ‘You go first.’

  He went up the stairs and I followed him. He stopped on the landing.

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Go into the far room…’

  ‘I’m no allowed there…only in Ruki’s room.’

  I sighed and raised my hand. ‘Okay, whatever…’

  We walked into Rukhsana’s room and I closed the door behind us. He sat down on the bed and smoothed his palms over the duvet.

  ‘I like this bed…but I no be sleeping in it again.’

  ‘Too right, you won’t,’ I said, walking towards him. ‘Now, where’s my fuckin’ money you cheapskate?’

  He fiddled with his tie and smiled. ‘I wearing some of it…some is in bank…some in Faisalabad business and some…’ He patted his trouser pocket. ‘…is in here.’

  I stood on the edge of the bed and were ready to give him a right hook. ‘You robbed nearly 100 grand off us and you sit there with a fuckin’ grin?’

  ‘‘You was evil first…you offered 20,000.’

  I’d had enough and I went for him. I grabbed his arm but he pushed us away and I stumbled into the desk by the bed. A few scraps of papers, CDs and notebooks went flying off the desk but luckily the computer were unharmed.

  ‘Look what you’ve done,’ I said, bending down to pick up as much as I could. ‘Ruki’ll kill us…’

  He got up from the bed and his shiny black suede shoes were in my eyeline. ‘You should not worry,’ he said. ‘No-one knows what took place. I told no-one. Only me and you know truth…’

  I looked up at him. ‘You didn’t tell ‘em downstairs then?’

  ‘No-one knows…’

  ‘Aye, but you’re dressed like a prince, you prick, they can tell you’ve been up to no good.’

  ‘My uncle has good job in customs over there…so that’s what they think…I do same job.’

  I picked up the last scrap of paper and rested it on the desk. ‘Ooh,’ I said, holding my back. ‘I knew I should have done a warm-down after the game.’

  He perked up a little. ‘So…you had good game today?’

  I gave him a cold look and didn’t answer. As I rested the last scrap of paper on the desk, I couldn’t help notice some of the writing, which were in capital letters.

  BUS CRASH, 1990, FATHER WAS INVOLVED, WORLD CUP, SIALKOT, FIFA FOOTBALLS, KATMINA? FIVE DEAD

  ‘You play West Ham today, yes?’

  ‘Er, aye…’ I replied, reading the words again.

  ‘This is Ruki’s bedroom,’ he said, in a much sharper tone. ‘…Is private. I know you love her but no spying allowed…’

  I turned and looked at him again. ‘RIGHT, YOU FUCKER!’ I launched at him with all my might, and we both landed on the bed. I had less strength than I thought, and banged my head against the wall. I could hear a thudding noise coming up the stairs, as I continued to grapple with old Yousufine. The door flung open and Ruki stood there for a moment with her arms folded. We let each other go and sat up on the bed.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ she asked.

  It were like Yousufine had hold of one bollock and Ruki the other.

  ‘No, no you don’t need to answer that…’ she said, with her hand on her forehead. She walked towards the window, looking away from us. ‘First, I get my mum trying to commit suicide – twice – then my so-called husband does a Houdini and turns up looking a million dollars…and then the guy who was supposed to marry me in the first place is having a bummer-boy barney with Houdini.’ She turned around and put her hands on her hips. ‘So boys, is anyone going to tell me the truth.’

  Now, as I’ve already said, both parties had hold of a bollock each, but I have to admit that old Yousufine’s grip were a little tighter. This were because the Faisalabad Fang had 75 grand’s worth of bollock in his mouth, whereas Ruki had it wrapped round her heart, and at end of the day, there were just no comparison.

  I got off the bed and walked up to Ruki. ‘Look, it weren’t anything serious,’ I said. ‘It just shows how I feel about you. I’m not proud of it, but I think he’s treated you a bit shabbily.’

  Fuck me, I found the kind of fluency I hadn’t shown since I hit a hat-trick in the Carling Cup against Stockport County. The delivery were just right and the execution spot-on. I could feel it all coming together.

  ‘Yousuf, what have you got to say yourself?’ said Rukhsana. ‘You know we’re history, so what are your plans?’

  He got off the bed and fastened the top button on his suit jacket. ‘I no staying…I come because your mama was in trouble. I help, I come and now I go back.’

  Rukhsana looked away from him and put her hands on her head. ‘God! If you fuck off again, she’ll try and commit suicide again…’

  ‘How many times is that now?’ I asked.

  She didn’t answer but gave us a cold stare. She turned to old Yousufine. ‘Look, Yousuf can you stick around for a little while, just until we get things sorted out? We need a bit of time.’

  ‘No, if I stay…,’ he said, pointing downstairs. ‘She never let me go. I become slave, prisoner to her…no way. I have new life now…good life.’

  ‘You selfish bastard,’ I said. ‘There’a life on the line here.’

  Rukhsana looked at Yousuf a little more closely. ‘What’s with these fancy clothes? Where did you get all that cash from?

  ‘Chacha’s a customs officer…he got me job.’

  ‘Hhmmm…’ replied Rukhsana, with a touch of scepticism. ‘Look, I’m pleading with you now, just one night until we get things sorted out…’

  Yousuf looked at me and then smiled. ‘Okay, one night…then I have to go back to business.’

  Rukhsana breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Good, right…that’s one thing sorted.’ She turned to me. ‘We need to keep our thing a little quiet for now, okay?’

  I nodded, but despite the 75 grand question, the Ruki romance and Mrs Latif’s multiple suicides, something else were dominating my thoughts. The little scrap of paper, which were hanging off Ruki’s desk, were centre-stage.

  ‘I know you had a hard game today,’ she said, looking at me intensely. ‘But have you lost the power of speech too? What are you looking at anyway?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She looked at us for a moment and then walked up to the desk. She picked up the scrap of paper and held it up. ‘This, was it?’

  ‘It were on the floor, so I put it back on the desk.’

  She unfolded it and then looked at Yousuf. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it here…but yes, my father was involved in a bus crash when he was over in Sialkot in 1990. It was difficult to get any information from the authorities over there, but I know five people died. I don’t know what that’s got to do with anything else: stitching footballs, sweatshops or the World Cup but the ‘90’ after ‘Katmina’ might have something to do with it.’ She looked up to the ceiling and scrunched up the piece of paper. ‘Oh, I’ve got migraine now.’ She held the side of her head and threw the paper onto the desk. ‘I’ve had enough shit for one day, so let’s just take a time out.’

  NINETEEN

  I told old Yous
ufine I knew a lot of people. There were a couple of heavies that used to do a bit of dirty work for footballers called Brian Jerome and Carl Swanson and I were ready to call them up if the thieving twat didn’t cough up. Pearly used them regularly if he got into any bother with hangers-on, stalkers or just plain nuisances and I nudged the former skipper about their availability.

  But this plan were well and truly smashed when Rukhsana called us and told us that the sly fucker had done a runner again, after saying he were just popping off to Ali’s Convenience Store for a loaf and some chutney. I knew I shouldn’t have left that house without my money, but Mrs Latif said she didn’t want ‘that dirty boy’ in her home anywhere and I were forced to leave. She were getting hysterical and I had no option. As for old Yousufine, I’ve got Brian and Carl on the case but if I ever get his mitts on him, there’ll be blood spilled and cash recovered. He may be doing a rupee romp all the way to Rawalpindi but he’ll never have thousands of fans singing his name and celebrating his very existence. Only a few get that privilege.

  So I weren’t too happy about being shafted for 75 grand, but at least things were looking up for us and Ruki. She’d more or less ditched the plan to move down south – with her mum as loopy as she were that were difficult anyway – but we’d talked about going on holiday to Dubai or New York and, maybe in future, moving into a new house together. Obviously, Mrs Latif hadn’t got wind of any of that yet – or else she’d be threatening another suicide attempt – but Abujee and Amejee would probably have their say too.

  So that were the kind of turmoil I were in and it didn’t get better when I were called into see Mr Starmer straight after training. This were highly unsusual, as I’d only been in his office twice before, but he hadn’t spoken to us after the England game so maybe he wanted to say how proud he were of seeing a Town player appearing at Wembley. There were also a sense of wind-down at the club – we were out of all the cups, safely mid-table in the league and had just four games left this season: home to Hull City and Man United and away at Everton and Stoke – so maybe Starmer wanted to give us advice about how to tackle the forthcoming World Cup.

  When I finally got into the office, after climbing the 39 steps, I were surprised to see Bowker sat there already in one of the swivel chairs. He’d left the training session ten minutes early and now I knew why.

  Two pictures still dominated the wall behind Mr Starmer: one of a young Winston Churchill and one of a smiling Bill Gates. There were also much more Premier League paraphernalia on the other walls since my last visit about eight months ago: a team photo, sponsorship deals and pictures of Mr Starmer rubbing shoulders with politicians, businessmen and the Royal Family. There were also a small fish tank in the corner of the room and three leather chairs.

  ‘Sit down Sid,’ said Mr Starmer, picking up a piece of Kiwi fruit from a plate and putting it into his mouth.

  I were wearing my trackie bottoms and it felt weird parking them in a shiny leather chair.

  ‘Now Sid,’ he said, clearly enjoying the fruit fizzing around in his mouth. ‘Ever been to Wimbledon?’

  ‘Yeah, we were supposed to go down there for an FA Cup tie a few years ago but Lino drove into Milton Keynes instead. I don’t know why. He drove us round these concrete cows and endless roundabouts but we still couldn’t find the ground.’

  Mr Starmer swallowed his fruit and lowered his head. ‘The tennis, Sid…not the football.’

  ‘Oh right, no…erm, I haven’t been down there. I were given free tickets once but it’s not my thing.’

  He picked up another piece of fruit from the small white plate on his desk. ‘Do you know what this is?’ He held up the piece of fruit.

  ‘Er…looks like a pear to me,’ I replied, looking intensely at the faded green slices on the plate.

  He popped it into his mouth and looked away. ‘Whenever I’m at Wimbledon…’ He glanced at me again. ‘…and that’s every year…’ He looked away again. ‘I see the players eating bananas between points, I see spectators eating strawberries and I see plenty of apples and oranges about too but…’ He swallowed again and picked up another piece. ‘…But it struck me…’ He chewed with relish and looked at us again. ‘…and this was when I broke off from an endless five-set match to have cherry mozzarella balls and avocado pear for lunch last year…’ He smiled and clasped his hands. ‘…that these delectable, delightful little things are neglected.’

  I heard Bowker sigh and shifted in my seat.

  ‘Can we get on with it?’ said Bowker.

  ‘All in good time,’ said Mr Starmer, pushing the plate towards me. ‘This is important for Sid. Take one, Sid.’

  I reached out and picked up a piece. It were wet and sticky but I rammed it into my mouth as quick as I could so it wouldn’t dribble all over us.

  ‘Like it?’ asked Mr Starmer.

  ‘Hmm…’

  ‘Now, I’ve brought all this up, Sid because…’ he pointed down at the plate. ‘…I think as highly of you as I do these sacred little things on this plate. They’re special, sweet and utterly unique.’ He paused for a moment and stroked his tash. ‘But sometimes Sid, somebody else – apart from you – thinks just as highly of the same things. In fact, they believe the value to be even better and higher than you do…’ He got up from his desk and began to pace up and down. ‘…The England manager, peace be upon him, has obviously seen how good you are…’ he continued. ‘…and selected you for the national team. I congratulate you on that; it’s a source of pride for this club.’

  Bowker tutted and turned to us. ‘What he wants to say, Sid is…’

  Mr Starmer thudded across to Bowker. ‘Shhh…quiet, I’ll handle this. I didn’t invite you up here to spoil it…’

  ‘Right,’ said Bowker, getting up. ‘I’ve got more important things to do, like sort out some contracts and watch a triallist this afternoon.’ He looked at me with a tired smile and walked away towards the door. ‘I’ll be in my office Sid, if you need to talk to me.’

  ‘Oh Daniel,’ pleaded Mr Starmer. ‘Don’t be an ass.’

  Bowker looked at Mr Starmer and then opened the door and left.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Mr Starmer. ‘Daniel’s always been a little impetuous.’ He walked behind his desk. ‘Right, where were we? Oh, yes…’ He sat down and picked up the last piece of Kiwi fruit from the plate. He put it in his mouth and closed his eyes for a few seconds. ‘Ooooh, heaven was in there…’ He opened his eyes and gave me a serious look. He eased forward, rubbed his sticky forefingers and thumbs and then clasped his hands on the desk. ‘You’ve been a great asset to us, Sid,’ he continued. ‘We’ve been delighted with your progress and I think you’re a wonderfully positive addition to our troops. But we were contacted about five months ago by a club…and they were interested in you services…’ He coughed and looked at the empty plate. ‘I knew I should have asked Valerie to cut a few more.’ He got up and walked towards the fish tank. ‘Anyway, the club have offered a substantial sum for your services and I have reluctantly accepted their offer. A club record.’

  It were like my arse had melted into the leather seat. ‘But…but the transfer window doesn’t open till the start of July.’

  He chuckled nervously. ‘Clubs do business all year round, you know that…It will be announced in July…but we need to get this specific agreement now.’

  I looked at the fish tank and felt like going in two-footed so the water would spill over and submerge Mr Starmer. ‘But where…and why?’

  ‘Atalanta…’

  ‘The ocean?’

  ‘No Sid, not the ocean … Atlanta, Italy.’

  ‘Italy?’

  Instead of match-fixing, the mafia and pasta, the only thing that popped into my head were Granny Fatima’s line that us and Italians were one and the same. She said their big families, love for cooking and beating people up at perceived slights were just like our family tradition. She even made friends with an Italian grandmother, Agostina, i
n later life and they went on numerous trips together: until they had an argument over a poorly-cooked Margherita pizza.

  Mr Starmer sat down at his desk again. ‘Look, we didn’t want to let you go, Sid. As I said you’ve been a fantastic asset for us, but this offer was simply too good to refuse. We’ve got a lot of work to do on this ground to get up to Premier League standard, so it was something we had to do.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Like I said, a club record, £1.7million. We couldn’t turn it down.’

  ‘But what if I don’t want to go to Serie A?’

  Mr Starmer coughed. ‘It’ll probably be Serie B. They’re on the brink of relegation right now.’

  ‘WHAT! No fuckin way. I ain’t going. I play for England for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said the chairman. ‘That’s why you’re attracting attention.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to leave? I’ve got three years left on my contract.’

  ‘They’re a good team Sid…and they look after their young players. They’ve got pedigree and they’ll probably bounce straight back to the top division. They want you at the centre of their rebuilding process. The Italian delegation are flying in tomorrow night. Make sure you’ve got representation.’

  I got up and put my sweaty hands on the table. ‘You can’t do this…what if I do a Bosman?’

  He tilted his head to the right. ‘For three years?’

  ‘What does Mr Bowker say?’

  Mr Starmer coughed. ‘He didn’t want you to go, but he understands our delicate financial situation. Look, we know this might not go down too well in some parts of the town’s community…so I hope we can make this parting amicable.’

  I turned and walked towards the door.

  ‘Oh Sid, just one more thing…’

  I rested my palm on the door handle and turned around.

  ‘Kiwis are good for you,’ he said. ‘Try one sometime.’

  I weren’t even listening to what he said. I opened the door and walked down the corridor with The Sopranos, Fabio Cannavaro and gondoliers jostling for space in my head. I got to the bottom of the stairs and waited. I looked to my left, where the players entrance were and then to the right where the tunnel and the pitch were. I slowly walked down the tunnel and towards the pitch. No players, staff or any other people were around. I walked to the end of the tunnel and looked out into the eerie green landscape and empty stands. I pulled out my mobile phone and dialled a number.