THE SILENT STRIKER

by Pete Kalu

  ‘And you chose me?’ she laughed.

  He hadn’t thought of it like that. He watched how it amused her. Everything amused her.

  ‘I’m suspended from the team anyway,’ Marcus said, ‘so it’s same difference.’

  Yet he knew he couldn’t not see his mates. All he ever did in the evening was hang out with his bus stop crew. What else could he do? Disappear into his PlayStation? Watch TV with his mum if she wasn’t out selling double-glazing, or with his dad if he wasn’t whizzing off to sing in some old pub? What kind of mates did he have, that did not take his word? They knew he lived for football and he’d never do anything to damage the team. Jamil knew that. Horse knew that. Ira knew that. It was Leonard who was the troublemaker.

  ‘You’re hurting my hand,’ Adele said.

  ‘Sorry.’ Marcus hadn’t realised he’d been holding her hand, let alone squeezing it. He let go of it. ‘I bet your brother’s having a party right now. And you were right. We wouldn’t have lost if I’d been playing.’

  Marcus didn’t know why he said that last bit. He hadn’t meant it boastfully.

  ‘I know,’ Adele said, ‘my dad said as soon as they saw you weren’t on the team, it was game, set and match.’

  He looked across at her.

  ‘My dad’s warned me off you,’ she said.

  ‘How does he know?’

  ‘Leonard told my-talented-brother in the middle of the pitch. He told Dad … so we’re both now banned from seeing each other. Like Romeo and Juliet.’

  Marcus said nothing.

  ‘I’m cold,’ Adele said, ‘let’s walk.’

  They got off the pipes and walked. Neither of them spoke. The rain started again, a big dolloppy, splish-splashy rain that had most people running for doorways.

  Adele told him her dad had got the Manchester United scout’s phone number on speed dial. If Anthony got the apprenticeship at the club, their dad had said they’d be so rich, they’d be set up for life. Not just Anthony, the whole family would be sorted, which would be good because even though they looked rich, they needed the money. Her dad had told Adele that if it had been Anthony who was suspended from school, he would have been beating down the door of the headteacher to get his son back on the team and back in school. In that order. Marcus didn’t say anything.

  ‘How is Anthony about me and you?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s annoyed, which is excellent.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Why do you always answer a question with a question?’

  ‘I told him we were going to run away and get married.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘That’s what he said. Then I said we’re just friends and you were helping me with my maths. Which is true, right? Explain to me again what a quadrilateral equation is. The bit after the square root bit.’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Not really. I just like the sound of your voice when you say it. You get so into it, like you’re in love with the quadrilateral!’

  Marcus spent the rest of the early evening with Adele walking and talking in the stop-start rain. He enjoyed it but he never lost the sour taste in his mouth that had come with losing the league decider. And something troubled him. The way Adele had laughed about him being forced to choose between his mates and her, as if it had no meaning, perhaps it didn’t to her. Or perhaps she was a spy? He wanted it not to be true, every cell in his body willed it to be not true. Yet he couldn’t be sure.

  WHAT LOSING FEELS LIKE

  Monday at school was strange. In form-class, Jamil cold-shouldered him. Marcus didn’t mind. Jamil was like that sometimes. He had a black eye-patch on and spent most of his time in class walking up and down ooh-arring with it. Marcus didn’t need a clown as a friend. At break he hung by the stairs and played text tennis with Adele.

  Everybody h8s me @ skul 2day.

  H8rs gotta h8. tell them to go xxxx themslfs

  Tick

  Nix dat. think it but don’t say it - i did that myslf n got report card. Was BORING.

  2 l8 I jus sed it.

  Lol

  Nobody heard me tho. am in corridor.

  Send me a pic

  Marcus sent her a selfie.

  Am likin da snarl n cute tach. U luk like a grime star

  Tnx

  Soz agen abt my dad

  Gotta go. No credit left c ya

  He didn’t want to talk about Adele’s dad. It was strange, but he felt angrier about it now than when he first heard it. Everyone was talking about it, the whole school, especially the black kids. They wanted to do something about it but nobody had thought of anything yet.

  Marcus was right under one of the school bells and heard it ring loud and clear. It was his year group assembly day. They were going to be told about their subject options, what they could choose, and when. All of Year 9 trooped into the hall, class by class, nine classes in all. Ozone, the head of year gave a long speech about destiny. Then he said Mr Davies was going to talk about the football team’s ‘amazing achievements’. Ozone sounded sarcastic. Mr Davies came to the front of the hall. He seemed sadder than usual, and nervous in a shiny grey suit.

  ‘Thank you for that introduction, Mr Wrexham,’ Mr Davies began. The other teachers were looking bored already. The science teacher began playing with his Blackberry, and Ozone was having a whisper with a languages teacher.

  ‘I’m not going to do some crime scene autopsy on the dead body of our chances,’ Mr Davies said in a jokey tone. He pointed upwards. ‘The sun is out … and it’s going to shine on us. We can still reach for the stars, however high the sky. Hope can still swell our hearts. This is not the beginning of the end just the end … the beginning. We came second … the league. That means we beat nine out of ten other teams. And we can win the cup final!’

  There was silence. Then a girl in the back row giggled. Mr Davies glared her into silence.

  It was funny how popularity worked, Marcus thought as Mr Davies stumbled on. When Marcus had been the star of the school football team, everyone wanted to sit at his table at lunch, walk with him from class to class, play football with him at break. The lower year groups even wanted to carry his bag. Now, not two weeks had gone by since he was suspended from the team and he was playing keepy-uppy on his own at break and everyone was hanging out with Leonard.

  ‘The journey of a thousand miles …’ Mr Davies continued. It sounded like he’d swallowed a book of Hollywood phrases.

  Marcus wondered if this popularity thing was the same with teachers. Before the team lost the league, Mr Davies had sat mid-table in the teacher’s league, above the art and cookery teachers, below the English and maths departments. Now he had dropped into the relegation zone with careers and non-English-speaking new arrivals. Mr Davies didn’t deserve that. They could have won. The head of year should not have listened to Miss Podborsky. Geography was the first subject Marcus was dropping.

  After, in the scrum of bodies fleeing the assembly, Leonard popped Marcus’s ATC out from under his arm. He claimed it was accidental, but Marcus knew better. Marcus slammed him into a wall and threw a punch. He missed, but the ache in his knuckle where he hit the noticeboard felt good. As did the flash of fear in Leonard’s eyes and how everyone jumped back. Leonard tried to knee him in the groin. He pushed an elbow into Leonard’s neck and held it there. Leonard punched away at his ribs. There was a whole bunch of people around them.

  ‘What’s up with you two?’ Horse asked, pulling them apart.

  ‘Him and his stupid girlfriend spy!’ Leonard said, looking round for support. ‘He lost us the match!’

  Horse sighed. ‘This again? We’re already late for double maths. Everyone, before dinner, meet behind the labs.’

  Behind the labs was the one place the school’s CCTV didn’t cover.

  ‘Agreed? Or do I have to bust heads?’

  When Horse talked like that, no one argued. Maths couldn’t en
d too soon.

  Behind the labs, Leonard was waiting. He had most of the team around him. As Marcus walked up, they all looked away, or glared. Leonard said something in his direction. Everybody sniggered.

  ‘What was that?’ said Marcus.

  ‘Eh? Eh? Eh?’ mocked Leonard, cupping his hand to an ear.

  ‘Let’s do this then,’ Horse said, ‘finish it.’

  Marcus braced himself. But instead of rushing at him, Leonard worked his tongue again, taking up straight where he had left off. ‘He lost us the league. And he’ll lose us the Cup final if we talk to him. His girlfriend will find out our tactics and tell her brother!’

  ‘Maybe you just took a rubbish penalty, Lenny?’ Marcus said. It was the one thing nobody had dared say, but Marcus was sick of nobody saying it. He watched it strike home. For one beautiful moment, Leonard’s face was a picture of embarrassment, shock and fear all mashed together. And in that moment everyone could see that there had to be some truth in what Marcus had just said.

  Then Leonard flew at him. Marcus was ready. He ducked and thumped Leonard hard in the stomach as Leonard swung high. Leonard dropped to one knee, but got up again and charged, head first. Marcus sidestepped, and kicked Leonard’s back. Leonard collapsed. Horse stepped over him to protect him. ‘That’s enough!’ said Horse.

  The rest of the team joined Horse helping Leonard up. Horse dusted himself down, cursing under his breath. His shirt was ripped at the collar. ‘Anybody got anything else to say?’ was all Horse said, when it was all calmed down.

  Marcus saw Leonard had a busted lip. It felt good. Leonard the Lip silenced. He couldn’t help smirking.

  ‘Anyone?’ said Horse again. It sounded like a threat.

  There was a general shuffle of feet. The labs were close to the canteen and cooking smells were wafting over.

  ‘Right,’ said Horse. ‘We lost because Marcus wasn’t playing. Simple as. If Mr Davies comes up with new tactics we’ll keep them under wraps, for what they’re worth. That includes Marcus. Got it, Marcus?’

  Marcus nodded.

  ‘We’re done then,’ said Horse, reaching for his bag. ‘End of. Let’s go. I’m starving. That’s the last dinner bell.’

  Everyone raced to get to the canteen before the dinner ladies drew the shutters down on the food trays. They made it just in time. Marcus sat alone. Jamil and Horse sat with Leonard. Leonard’s lips both the clean one and the busted one, were working overtime. Marcus could see them, heads down, listening to Leonard, even as they ate. Leonard was never going to give up.

  Later, Mr Davies was in a better mood at football practice after school than he had been at assembly. He gathered them all into one penalty area.

  ‘Afternoon boys. Listen, I’m sorry you had to hear what one of the Bowker parents said. That … a racial abuse and it shouldn’t be flipping happening. I was appalled and I’ve written the league a stern letter.’

  ‘That will sort it!’ someone called out sarcastically.

  ‘Give him a break,’ someone else said.

  ‘Yes, give me a break, heaven knows I need one,’ Mr Davies said.

  Everyone remembered how he’d been treated at assembly by the other staff and quietly understood. Things settled down.

  ‘I made notes on the Bowker players,’ the coach continued. ‘We can take them. It means do… things different in midfield and working … forward line around to attack their weaknesses in defence. They won’t know what’s hit them. Right, set out the cones!’

  The warm-up routines started. Marcus threw himself into it. He was two-thirds of the way through his attack of the line of cones when he heard Mr Davies shouting his name. ‘Marky! Marky! Come here!’

  Marcus trotted over.

  ‘You’ve got cloth ears, haven’t you, lad?’ Mr Davies scolded him, even as he wrapped an arm around him. ‘I said left foot slalom, not right foot slalom. You’re a bit of a dreamer, Marky aren’t you?’

  Marcus said nothing but steadied himself. The tell-tale twitch on Mr Davies forehead told Marcus he was going to launch into an anecdote, and once Mr Davies started an anecdote, he never stopped till he got to the end so you had to just roll with it.

  ‘Concentration means knowing not only where the ball is, but where every other player on the pitch is,’ Mr Davies duly began. ‘There was a great Man United player called Eric Cantona and he always knew where his teammates were, like he had a 360 degree radar on the top of his head. You gave him the ball and – bam – it was either in the net or at the feet of one of his team mates. Why? Concentration. Awareness. All the great players had it. Otherwise you’re just a show pony, lots …’

  Marcus had this stray thought. That it was funny how, when you didn’t hear something, people found a way of blaming you. He knew it wasn’t his fault. He was used to it by now though.

  He continued to listen to Mr Davies ‘… tricks but no use to your team. Cristiano Ronaldo was a show pony when he joined Man United. By the time they sold him to Real Madrid he’d learned to concentrate. Real Madrid did not pay eighty-million for a show pony, Marcus. Concentrate. Left foot slalom, off you go.’

  Everyone else had done the routine and they were all standing around. Marcus sped towards the cones with his training ball and nailed the left foot slalom first time, inch perfect, every cone. They clapped.

  ‘Brilliant!’ shouted Mr Davies. ‘And that’s what we’re looking for, close ball skills. It makes the difference: in a tight match, who has the skills, wins. Now two teams. Team one: Jamil, Horse, Leonard, Ira, Dinners. Team two: Busta, Level One, Shaun, Mikey, Rowan. Marcus, over here by me.’

  Marcus immediately picked up that team one was the midfield Mr Davies had chosen for the Cup final. The fact Marcus was not in either team hit him hard. What was he even doing in his kit? He stood with Mr Davies, as the five-a-side session got going.

  ‘Lose the long face, Marcus,’ chided Mr Davies, ‘and stop fiddling with your phone. Yes, you’re on the sidelines for the final, but use it to your advantage. It’s an opportunity to watch how we play for next year. Concentrate. See how Horse always drifts wide, but Ira plugs the gap. See how Ira’s back-pedalling soon as they lose the ball? Superb. You catch how Jamil shifted it from left foot to right? He doesn’t like it on his left, remember that. He’s flying with it now. See the hole their centre-backs have left because Jamil has dragged his marker one way, and Horse has gone the other? A huge gap. Watch. See. Learn. 360 degree vision, that’s the modern game. Leonard in the hole! Leonard! Stop, lads! Stop! stop!’

  The game stopped and Mr Davies pointed out the problem. ‘Leonard, you’ve got to bang it in the zone, not where he is, but where he will be. There was a huge gap there. Try land it on the exact spot you pick out, it’s like a dart board and the ball’s the arrow, land it bull’s eye. Try it again. Positions!’

  Team one did the same routine. Horse left, Jamil right. Leonard’s final pass missed the mark again. It was a tricky one for Leonard, Marcus guessed, a thirty metre flight into the gap.

  ‘C’mon, Leonard,’ said Mr Davies, getting exasperated. ‘It’s all there. We just need that final pass.’

  Leonard got upset. ‘You do it!’ he said to Mr Davies, kicking the ball over. Mr Davies trapped it under his feet at the third attempt.

  Everyone knew that Mr Davies, though an okay coach, was rubbish at actually playing football. There was a moment while Mr Davies squirmed. Finally he said, ‘I can’t do it, Leonard, you know that.’

  Marcus felt sorry for the coach. ‘Give me the ball,’ Marcus said, ‘I’ll do it.’

  The coach rolled the ball over to Marcus. Marcus moved into Leonard’s midfield position. The teams got ready.

  ‘Okay, go!’ Mr Davies shouted.

  Jamil ran, Horse made his run in the opposite direction. The ball came to Marcus. He flighted it and it landed dead at Jamil’s rushing feet. Jamil smacked it with his right foot between the goalpost cones and did a crazy celebratory jig. Everyone laughed.

  ‘
See? Leonard, your turn,’ called Mr Davies. ‘Marcus, knock him the ball!’

  ‘It’s windy,’ complained Leonard.

  ‘Okay. Marcus. Do it again!’ commanded Mr Davies.

  There was a light wind blowing now. Jamil and Horse made the same moves, dragging the defenders out of position. Marcus drilled the ball, same spot, but with slightly more power to compensate for the wind. It touched down within a half metre of Jamil and Jamil finished it off again. He did the same whoops and arms-high, knee-high celebration.

  ‘See? Have a go, Leonard,’ said Mr Davies.

  Marcus knocked the ball over to Leonard. Reluctantly, Leonard stepped into position. All eyes were on him. Jamil and Horse did their runs. Leonard walloped the ball. It flew up too high, and five metres beyond Jamil.

  ‘Again,’ said Mr Davies.

  Leonard stepped up again. His mouth, bruised lip and all, was screwed up with determination. Leonard’s second attempt was no better than the first. His head dropped. Someone kicked the ball towards Leonard for him to have a third attempt but Leonard had turned his back on the ball and it rolled past him. Marcus trapped it and dribbled it up to Leonard. As he placed the ball at Leonard’s feet, Marcus nudged him. Leonard looked up. His eyes were fierce and sad. He was being humiliated. Marcus knew what Leonard was doing wrong. All he needed to tell him was, ‘lean over it more, Leonard, and it’ll stay down’. Leonard stared at him. His eyes begged Marcus to help. Marcus weakened. But then, he thought, why should he help him after all that Leonard had said and done to him?

  ‘Again Leonard!’ shouted Mr Davies. ‘We’re going to do this till we get it right!’

  Marcus retreated to the sidelines.

  ‘Okay, go!’ cried Mr Davies.

  Jamil and Horse shot into position. Leonard hit the ball, this time he leaned even further back. The ball drilled through to Jamil but way high. Jamil leaped to take it on his head, but even Jamil couldn’t make the height.

  This was useless, Marcus thought. He turned away, bored. Something else was on his mind and had been on his mind for a long time. He got out his phone and wandered away from the pitch.