THE SILENT STRIKER

by Pete Kalu

  The referee blew his whistle, pointed to Mr Vialli and warned him: ‘Cool it!’

  Mr Vialli lost it completely: ‘Cool it? You fat, blind, black bastard!’

  Everyone startled and quietened.

  Mr Vialli kept on. ‘Call yourself a referee? My grandmother would make a better referee and she’s six feet under! This is theft! You’re stealing this game from us!’

  Marcus couldn’t believe his ears. Had Mr Vialli just said that? ‘Black bastard’? It had changed the atmosphere. Everyone had fallen quiet. Mr Vialli looked around at them as if to say, ‘what’s up?’

  The referee reached into his pocket. Marcus and the other players shrank away. Nobody wanted the next card. Marcus pulled at Horse to keep walking. The referee pulled out a Red from his top pocket. Who was it for? Nobody knew. From being surrounded, suddenly the referee had nobody within forty metres of him. The referee eyed his target, found it. He strode over to the Bowker touchline. Mr Vialli was there, suddenly busy punching numbers into his phone.

  The referee stood in front of him and held the red card up high. ‘You! Off! Off the grounds. Now!’

  ‘Me? What have I done?!’ Mr Vialli boomed.

  ‘Off!’ The referee was adamant.

  Marcus watched as Mr Vialli shoved his phone in his tracksuit pocket and slunk off towards the car park. He saw Anthony wave briefly to his dad, then kick the turf in frustration. Meanwhile, Adele looked embarrassed and was scuffing her shoes. She didn’t follow her dad off the field.

  The referee blew again. ‘The penalty is to be retaken!’ he announced. ‘It was incorrectly spotted first time.’ He pointed to the Bowker end of the pitch. ‘And this time it will be taken from this end! Any objections?’

  The referee stared around. He had his hand on his top pocket like a gunslinger willing someone to make him draw.

  The Ducie team stared at one another in disbelief. Had the referee gone potty? Was this even in the rule book? Could a penalty be retaken for that reason? And could you switch the taking of a penalty from one side of the pitch to another? Whatever they thought, with the referee in the mood he was in nobody dared object.

  Luke, the Ducie keeper, made the long journey to the Bowker end. He stood between the posts where two minutes ago the Bowker keeper had been standing and smacked his gloves together. He spat into them then crouched to signal he was ready. The referee waved for the kick to be taken.

  Anthony Vialli ran up. This time he made no mistake. He lashed the ball into the top, right side of the net, leaving Luke grabbing air on the left. Anthony turned, licked his finger and chalked up a ‘One’ on an imaginary board. His team mobbed him. The referee pointed to the centre spot. 1–0 to Bowker Vale.

  Mr Davies went nuts. ‘There’s still time! There’s still time! Leonard! Route One!’

  Leonard tapped the ball from the kick-off towards Horse. Horse nudged past two of their players then hoofed the ball high for Jamil who had chased into the centre-forward position where Rocket usually was. Jamil leaped like a fish. Nobody had ever seen him leap so high. His springy legs catapulted him into the air. Their goalkeeper came out to punch it. His punch missed the ball and smacked Jamil square in the face.

  Jamil rolled on the ground, clutching his eye. The referee blew again. ‘Penalty!’ Marcus gasped. It was a miracle. From despair to elation in less than fifteen seconds. Marcus jumped on Horse’s back. Horse galloped up and down the touchline whooping. Mr Davies did a crazy war dance. Then they remembered Jamil. He was still flat out in the mud.

  ‘Marcus grab the bucket!’ Mr Davies ordered. The two of them ran over to Jamil. Marcus got there first. He plucked the sopping wet car sponge out of the plastic mop bucket and pushed it against Jamil’s eye.

  ‘What the heck!’ spluttered Jamil, swinging a fist at Marcus, ‘tryna drown me?’ Marcus ducked, and pulled the sponge off him.

  ‘We got the penalty?’ Jamil asked, through his one good eye. He was still on his back on the turf.

  ‘Yup,’ said Marcus.

  Jamil blinked his good eye. Marcus couldn’t tell if this was meant to be a wink. Then Jamil said: ‘It’s mine. It’s my goal. It’s my penalty kick!’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Jamil, you’ve only got one eye,’ Marcus told him ‘and you don’t even see good out of that.’

  ‘I can see, I can see!’ Jamil protested. But when he tried to get up, he was so dizzy he had to sit down again.

  Who would take it? Marcus was sure if he had been playing, it would have been him. The ball was in a puddle on the pitch. He watched as Leonard went over and trapped it under his foot. Leonard picked it up and eyed the penalty spot. It was all in Leonard’s hands. This kick could win them the league.

  Leonard marched to the penalty spot with the ball tucked under his arm. He placed the ball carefully in the middle of the white paint and got the referee’s nod that it was properly spotted. He walked back eight paces. He took one step to the left. Then he ran up. Marcus saw the slight turn of Leonard’s head to his right, watched the ball sail low to the left. On target. Well struck. But their goalkeeper went the right way. He dived low and got something to it. Marcus couldn’t see what, because Mr Davies had jumped into his view at the last moment. All he saw at the crucial moment was Mr Davies’ sleeping-bag-coat and a patch of sky. But Mr Davies was now thumping the pitch. And Leonard was kneeling by the penalty spot, head low. And Bowker Vale were cheering and yelling like they’d all just won the Lottery. It all meant one thing. Leonard had missed.

  Not ten seconds after the penalty kick was taken, a second after the Bowker Vale goalkeeper whacked the ball up the pitch, the referee blew his whistle. Full-time. It was over. Bowker Vale had won the league.

  Nothing sickened Marcus more than watching Bowker celebrating. They did it loudly, all over the pitch and for a long time. Adele was star-jumping, Mr Vialli had magically reappeared with some party streamers that he was letting off. Then Bowker did some kind of a war dance in the middle of the Ducie pitch. Marcus turned his back and joined the Ducie team’s slow march to the dressing room.

  In the changing room, there was a long, awful silence. Some of the team shot Marcus angry looks as they kicked off their boots and slumped on the benches. Marcus felt awkward, unsure whether to stay or go. Horse squeezed his arm as he went by. In the back, the showers hissed, but nobody was showering.

  Mr Davies broke the silence. ‘Okay boys, listen up. Get rid of the long faces. I know you’ll be thinking we could have won that match. A season of hard work come to nothing.’ He sighed. ‘All because some boy couldn’t keep his temper in class!’

  ‘Sod you!’ Marcus flung the water bottle down, and ran towards the changing room doors.

  ‘Hey, don’t!’ Horse wrestled Marcus back and sat with an arm around him, all Horse’s weight holding him down.

  ‘Sorry, Marcus,’ said Mr Davies, ‘but sometimes you have to hear hard things, it’s part of the journey called life.’ He looked around at all the team. ‘And we can’t put it all on Marcus’ toes. There’s plenty more “if onlys” if you go looking for them. “If only” Leonard had stuck that penalty in the back of the net. “If only” the referee hadn’t let them retake their own penalty. “If only” our centre-halves hadn’t lost concentration at the vital moment. “If only”. There’s no point in “if onlys”. We lost. We. Lost. Past tense. It’s over. We’ve got to look to the future. We have the cup final coming up soon. And we’re going to win that, right?’

  The team gave a reluctant shout of yes.

  ‘C’mon. What are we going to do? Win, right? Say it with me, win! Let’s hear it, win!’

  ‘Win! Win! Win!’ Everyone joined in this time. The shout was determined, and yet somehow gloomy.

  ‘Okay, well done, that’s the attitude,’ Mr Davies said. ‘Get showered, get dressed, go home and start focusing on that Cup final. Whose turn is it to take the kit home for washing? Leonard? Okay, everybody, throw your kit at Leonard!’

  Leonard yelped as he got
pelted with a dozen sweaty, dirty football kits. Somehow throwing their kit at him made them all feel better. Except Marcus. Glumly, he checked his phone. A text from Adele.

  Sorry u lost. Amazing game. U wd av won if ud plyd

  Marcus texted back.

  Yeh woteva

  Later, when Marcus, Leonard, Horse and Jamil were all gathered at the bus stop, the gleaming Bowker Vale school van zoomed past them. The driver tooted as it went past and all the Bowker players made rude hand signs. Marcus and the Ducie players jeered back at them.

  Their bus back to the estate was taking ages to arrive. They talked about phones, PlayStation versus Xbox and their boxing heroes. Horse pulled Marcus to one side. ‘What’s all this about a hearing test?’ he asked Marcus.

  The question caught Marcus by surprise. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘It’s got around … is it serious?’

  ‘Nah.’ Marcus pulled out a hospital appointment card from his back pocket and showed it to Horse.

  ‘It’s next week, Tuesday afternoon,’ said Horse, scrutinising the card, ‘we’ve got geography mocks then.’

  ‘Drats!’ said Marcus, sarcastically, ‘I’ll just have to miss geography mocks then, won’t I? Miss Podborsky will so miss me.’

  ‘Hey Marcus, this hearing thing, I’m with you thick and thin. You get me?’

  ‘Yeh,’ said Marcus. ‘It’s probably nothing … I don’t want to talk about it, though. Okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Horse. The two of them re-joined the others. The chat had moved on to grossest killer movies but there was still tension. Only one thing was really on their minds, Marcus knew, an itch they were all dying to scratch.

  Leonard was the one who finally scratched it. ‘That penalty, I can’t understand. I did everything right,’ he announced.

  ‘Course you did,’ Horse said. The others agreed, Marcus kept quiet.

  ‘Look left, shoot right. Every time it worked. Every time. Till today.’

  ‘It’s just one of them things, Lenny,’ said Horse.

  ‘Even I don’t blame you, bro, and it should have been my kick,’ said Jamil, through his one good eye. Jamil’s other eye had completely disappeared behind swelling. ‘Next time I’m bringing boxing gloves!’

  For once, Jamil didn’t get a laugh.

  ‘Only one thing changed,’ said Leonard, his face set in a mask of annoyance.

  Marcus could sense something brewing, something in the way Leonard had not looked at him, or spoken to him directly since the match ended. Not in the dressing room. Not on the walk to the bus stop. Not now. Not yet.

  ‘What’s that, Lenny?’ said Horse.

  ‘Who was there at that penalty practice night?’

  ‘We all were,’ said Horse, ‘… and the girl,’ he added, as an afterthought.

  ‘Yes the girl. The one … hid in the bushes watching us practice. Anthony Vialli’s sister,’ Leonard said, and he finally turned to Marcus. ‘What’s her name, Marcus?’

  ‘Adele,’ Marcus said quietly. ‘What are you getting at?’

  Leonard half turned so he was addressing not just Marcus, but everyone. ‘You see her jumping up and down like a flea when they scored? See her all through the match, cheering Bowker on?’

  ‘It’s her brother isn’t it? She’s gonna do that,’ said Marcus.

  ‘Yeh, it’s her brother,’ said Leonard. ‘She’s gonna do that. Cheer him on, help him. Question is how else did she help him?’

  ‘My head aches,’ said Jamil. ‘I think my eye socket’s bust.’

  ‘Spit it out, Leonard,’ said Horse, ‘or shut up.’

  ‘It’s obvious what happened,’ said Leonard slowly, turning once again to face Marcus. ‘She watched us practice penalties. She heard me. “Look left, shoot right.” She’s told her brother and he’s told their keeper.’

  ‘Didn’t happen,’ Marcus said.

  ‘How do you know?’

  The two of them were close now. Within punching distance.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you, Marcus?’ Leonard said, squaring up. He snatched Marcus’s ATC out of his hand and flung it away. ‘Your girlfriend spied on us! Your girlfriend cost us the league!’

  ‘If you want to fight, let’s do it,’ Marcus said, ‘just say the word.’ He moved chin to chin with Leonard.

  ‘Romeo, you can’t be going out with her,’ said Leonard, right in his face so Marcus could taste his breath.

  Horse pushed between them. ‘Cool it, Marcus. C’mon, Leonard. What’s done is done, let it go.’

  ‘My eye hurts like hell,’ Jamil called out.

  Leonard backed off. He walked back towards the bus stop bench and sat. Horse eased back to the bench himself and bounced Marcus’s ATC over to him. Marcus trapped it under his foot first time.

  ‘I don’t want to fight you, Marcus,’ said Leonard. He sounded tired. ‘I’m just saying what’s right for the team. There’s only the Cup to play for now. It’s our last chance.’

  ‘I’m not going out with her,’ said Marcus, flicking the ball up into his hands, ‘we just meet up.’ He felt awful saying it. He’d betrayed her.

  ‘Whatever. But you can’t be “seeing” her.’ Leonard rolled his eyes for everyone’s benefit, ‘and hanging out with us.’ Leonard looked around for support.

  ‘That’s bull,’ Marcus said.

  ‘I dunno,’ Horse said. ‘The Cup final’s our last chance.’

  Horse’s reaction caught Marcus by surprise. Before he could respond, Horse said, ‘that’s your phone, Marky – your phone’s ringing.’

  ‘Right,’ said Marcus, reaching to his pocket. He’d thought it was on vibrate.

  Marcus looked down at his phone. Adele.

  ‘Well? What’s it to be then?’ Leonard pressed. ‘Her or us?’

  ‘Give him time,’ Horse said.

  ‘No, it’s cool,’ said Marcus, turning on his heels. He could feel the pin pricks of tears stabbing his eyelids. He hated his eye ducts, how weak they were.

  ‘Hey, Marcus!’ Horse called.

  But it was too late, Marcus was already gone.

  THE SPY WHO LOVED ME

  Marcus ran into the wind and rain. He didn’t know if it was possible to feel any lower than he did. He felt like an old punch bag that was getting hit again and again by a queue of enraged people. Everything was his fault. Even Horse had deserted him.

  He knew Leonard’s game. For two long years Leonard had been forced to watch from the touchline as Marcus ran the team. Now that Marcus was out of the first-eleven, Leonard had finally seen his chance and was grabbing it with both hands. Sweet-talking tactics with Mr Davies, taking the kit home to be washed, organising the evening training sessions. Even buying everyone chips afterwards ‘to replace the carbohydrates, since the chippy doesn’t do energy drinks!’ Everyone loved Leonard now. He’d made it into the team and he was sucking up to one and all to make sure he stayed in it.

  He should have popped Leonard good and hard at the bus stop, Marcus thought. That would have been great, seeing Leonard’s busted nose spurting blood.

  He kept running. Soon he was soaked in sweat and rain. His arms and legs ached so much they screamed to stop but he kept on. His tears mingled with sweat and the soak of rain on his face.

  Suddenly he felt his phone vibrate. He stopped and looked at the blue screen. Adele again. He answered it. She asked what was wrong with his breathing. He said he was fine, he’d been running. She wanted to meet him outside Westfield swimming pool. He told her, ‘fine, ten minutes’.

  The wind had stopped. His ATC was underneath his foot. He hadn’t remembered kicking it while he’d been running. He scooped it up. He was keen to see Adele but she had caused him so much grief by turning up at the training session. And this doubt lingered in his mind, no matter how much he publicly denied it, no matter how hard he tried to dismiss it: What if she really was a spy?

  Marcus stopped running at the top of the road where the swimming pool was. Why was he running to see her? Des
pite what he’d said to the team that day at training, she was not his girlfriend. Or was she? He thought maybe he should google ‘girlfriend definition’ and find out what it meant. He walked the last three hundred metres.

  She was standing in the dome of white light cast by the building’s security lamp, leaning against some giant yellow plastic pipes that were lying in the road. She waved when she saw him.

  He leaned with her against the pipes.

  ‘You okay?’ She shot him a glance.

  He flicked his ATC from foot to foot. ‘Yeh. Why d’you say that?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘And we didn’t lose. We drew.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Adele.

  ‘We lost the match but we were level on points but they had a higher goal difference.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Adele said. She covered his hand with hers. It startled him. Yet he left it there. Neither of them said anything for a moment.

  ‘I’m sorry about …’ Adele said finally.

  Adele spoke so quietly Marcus couldn’t make out what she said at the end of her sentence. ‘You’re sorry that I’m mad?’ he asked quietly back.

  ‘No, I’m sorry about my dad.’

  ‘You mean …?’

  ‘Yeh. What he shouted at the referee.’

  Marcus remembered her dad jabbing at the referee and what he’d said. He couldn’t make out why someone would say something like that. What did the referee’s colour have to do with anything? But, like Horse said, racism wasn’t logical. Some people got pleasure from throwing their weight around any which way they could. He could tell Mr Vialli was one of them. Eventually Adele nudged him. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘They’re saying you’re a spy again.’

  Marcus was about to ask her if she’d known about the penalty tactic but, sitting with her now, the idea seemed daft again. So instead he said: ‘They tried to ban me from seeing you. “You or them”, they said.’