The kick is true – Dusty hears it more as a perfectly pitched note – and the ball sails between the posts, initiating the steady blasts of the computer’s energy siren. The stadium generator roars into life. Dusty begins to work his levers and pumps, but it is with a smile on his face. Ivon has begun, and he cannot wait to see more.
There’s no need to watch. As soon as he strikes the ball, Ivon is turning to rejoin his teammates. A perfect contact like that leads to a perfect trajectory. It cannot do otherwise. Physics. He doesn’t need to check with his eyes.
At least that has done something for the atmosphere. It had dawned on him that the stadium had fallen silent, which was beginning to freak him out. Coach Davis’s instructions were ringing loud in his head, just as they had at training yesterday, when the stadium was empty. But now the air is thick with sound, harsh and soulless though it may be, like a thousand hydraulic drills. It started with some kind of fanfare from up in the eves, which was immediately drowned out by the noise of this mass workout the crowds are put through in England. Ivon marvels at the steep ranks of pistons surrounding the field, thousands upon thousands of them, remorselessly pounding out their infernal rhythm. From somewhere, deep beneath them, a rumble strikes up whose frequency seems to shake the arena, while on the air Ivon thinks he can hear the sustained note of a human roar sweeping round the stadium in waves. As London prepare to receive the restart, the noise does not relent.
But these voices in his head are bothering him. It’s like a running commentary. Coach Davis and his two assistants study their screens and shout their findings throughout the players’ heads. No wonder these guys are so dead behind the eyes. They’ve never thought for themselves. He can see it in his teammates; he can see it in the opposition. How he would like to run at them under his own instruction. Everyone is playing the match by rote. Including Ivon.
He doesn’t like it. He responds to a higher power, higher even than Coach Davis, sitting up there on his platform, elevated from the rattling crowd. His quickness of spirit cannot be given over to some technician in the rafters; it must be acted upon directly. Ivon is here to play as Ivon.
The countdown lights in the stadium roof extinguish one by one, and the three minutes are over. Dusty is pleased. It is not easy to watch the match while you’re pumping.
The arena is silent again, but for the urgent cries of the contestants and the faint murmur around the stands of citizens catching their breath and talking with each other between pumps. Since Ivon’s penalty, the ball has remained mostly in the University of Aberdeen’s possession. They are developing a maul, the working chatter of which is now revealed.
Dusty’s eyes keep flitting towards Ivon, but for the next few minutes the boy is powerless. His voice is prominent as London’s defence marshal themselves against a series of attacks. He looks and sounds confident.
But oh no! Aberdeen are clean through! There was a huge gap in midfield. Now their winger is running for the corner. Ivon has managed to recover. He hits him into touch as he dives for the line. Is it a try? Yes. The siren wails to confirm it.
Ivon is gesticulating. Just like Ricky.
‘There’s no way that’s a try!’
‘Of course it’s a try,’ says Moby Trent. ‘Can’t you hear the siren?’
‘Well, the fucking siren’s wrong! I hammered him! If this was proper grass, you’d see the marks.’
‘He got it down before he went into touch.’
‘Bollocks!’
Moby looks down on Ivon with confusion and contempt. He shrugs and shakes his head. ‘The stadium computer says it’s a try. Get back behind the line! We’ve a conversion to face.’
Now Coach Davis joins in. ‘Ten, you were at fault for the initial break,’ he says in Ivon’s head.
‘Oh, come on! What is this? Pick on the new boy, is it? And my name’s Ivon, not 10.’
‘You should have been tighter to 12. Their centre went through the gap you left.’
‘Twelve drifted too soon. He followed the dummy runner.’
‘I’ve just run the sequence through the system. It’s saying you were at fault.’
‘Do you lot listen to anything that’s not a computer?’
The conversion is missed, and Ivon trots back to the halfway line for the restart. Strangely, he is encouraged by the try. That was a sweetly timed move they pulled off. So, there is room for artistry over here. Heavily choreographed, mind.
Ivon’s restart is well struck. It hangs in the air and teases out a tissue of grasping hands towards it. Moby’s rise the highest. He pulls in the ball, and London are on the attack.
Ivon does as he is told while they build some rhythm, but he is no longer listening to the instructions of Coach Davis – ‘Inside ball’, ‘To 6 on your right shoulder’. If he is giving the impression of following orders it is because the orders represent standard procedure, while he waits for the opportunity to break the pattern.
It comes during the same passage of play. Ivon shapes to play yet another inside ball to a frowning forward, when he spots a moment of doubt in the eyes of the flanker opposite, who hesitates as if trying to remember his lines. Ivon does not release the pass, but sweeps the ball beneath the nose of the flanker, who turns towards the man inside.
And Ivon is off. Adrenaline rises in him, as he accelerates into space. For a second or two, his vision widens and as he crosses the 22 he changes direction, drawing the full-back towards the right-hand touchline. He will not score – the full-back reacts with speed and seeming confidence – but a support runner of any kind surely would. There is none. The full-back’s shoulder crunches into Ivon’s ribs. He tries to go to ground, but the full-back is strong and drives him into touch.
‘We’ve lost the ball, 10!’ cries Coach Davis. ‘We were building nicely, and you’ve lost us the ball!’
Ivon is flabbergasted. ‘We’ve gained 40 metres! And if there’d been just one player in support we would have scored. Where were you all?’
His teammates stare at him blankly.
‘They were all doing what they were supposed to,’ continues Coach Davis. ‘You went off-message.’
‘But I saw a gap. You’re not seriously saying I shouldn’t take it, are you?’
‘No one takes a gap unless I tell them it’s on. We have all the data up here, and the projections. We know how the match is unfolding before you do. If there’s a gap opening we’ll let you know. And then we’ll make sure you have support runners to hand. Not before.’
‘But there was a gap! I proved that much by running clean through it, for fuck’s sake!’
‘It’s no use taking a gap if no one else is ready for it. You’ll become isolated and lose the ball.’
‘Well, make them ready for it! If they’re that brain-dead, you could have told someone to get in support. But you didn’t. You just sat there and said nothing.’
‘Stick to your orders, 10!’
Ivon turns to his teammates. ‘Lads! You’re not telling me you can’t think for yourselves!’
His forwards march past towards the line-out. No one so much as looks at him.
Tim the scrum-half follows. He has a twinkle in his eye. As he trots on to the line-out, he whispers. ‘Great break, Ivon! Next time, I’ll get there.’
It’s all Ivon needs. Encouragement, recognition. Sanity. He’s through again a few minutes later, and this time he makes it to the try line himself. The relief of more noise to fill the arena is inspiring. Coach Davis seems to raise his game, too, because now he is calling more ambitiously. With his endorsement, the rest of the team start to wake up. Some of them can play a bit, it turns out, and by half-time London have scored three tries. The place is thundering to the workout of 33 000 people.
Oh, the agony! The sweet, sweet agony! Dusty is gasping. It has been almost an hour of non-stop pumping. The vets around him struggle to maintain kinesis, but all are smiling – laughing, even. When was the last time London enjoyed a surfeit of pumping like this? Certainly n
ot since Dusty became a comp. The elite comps in the adjacent block are whooping and hollering as their fearsome sinews thrash at the turbines. Relief has been sent for so that the vets can be substituted, such is their exhaustion. They will have to carry on till the points have been pumped through, which is already set to be beyond full-time. London have been scoring at a rate of more than a point a minute in the second half. The score is past 60 with more than 5 minutes to run. But relief will arrive for the 40-minute victory pump afterwards. Dusty is aware of pandemonium in the wings. The commune of London hasn’t needed to supply relief to its comps for a long time.
Ivon. What a contestant! And, what the hell, why not use the Welsh vernacular – what a player! Dusty’s beginning to see the difference.
Here he is, on the ball again! Time seems to stand still as he shapes to pass to a comrade cutting inside him. The defender opposite is transfixed, and Ivon darts round him like a child at the base of a statue. He closes in on the last man, with another closing in on him. The ball rocks this way and that, as he taunts the defenders with it. But what was that?! How did he get that pass away? Was it behind his back? It was! Almost too quick to see! Try number 10! Ha! It’s the best yet! Dusty laughs out loud and looks about him to share the moment with someone. There are smiles everywhere, but it is at the siren for yet another score. No one has seen the try itself. That’s seventy up! And another seven minutes of pumping is added on.
The vets are exhausted. Exhausted but abuzz. It may have been only tertiary level, but 72 points! That’s a lot of energy by any standards. Where did that productivity come from?
Dusty knows, but it is not politic to point to the contribution of one man. The Perpetual mindset would not even deem it plausible. It is the commune’s win, after all. Not long ago, Dusty would have agreed. Now, though, he is alive to the power of something more magical. It is charisma, if only he knew it. But, to Dusty, it is simply Ivon.
VII
Alanis raises her arms and, with eyes closed, turns blissfully amid the jets of hot air. She can feel the moisture leaving her skin. She shakes out her hair and runs her fingers through it, helping the droplets of water towards their end.
‘So, what was the score?’ she asks Melissa Toni, as they take their conversation from the shower into the dry-off.
‘Seventy-two–fifteen.’
‘Seventy-two?! Oh, my joules! That’s incredible!’
‘So, there were 33 000 comps at the match, and the yield was 58.7 gigajoules,’ Melissa continues, above the gentle drone of the air jets. ‘Guess how many times London Rugby have generated more this season at Twickenham with 82 750?’
Alanis doesn’t answer. Her eyes remain closed, as she passes her hands lightly across her body. But she is listening.
‘Once,’ says Melissa, with some derision.
‘I thought URL had been struggling like everyone else.’
‘They have been. This has come completely out of the blue.’
‘Oh, Melissa! Do you think this could be the turning point the commune’s been longing for?’
Alanis looks to her comrade imploringly. Melissa is shorter than she is, but there is such spring in those powerful legs. She admires them now, as Melissa bends down to caress her calves dry. Alanis has always felt grateful for her comrade’s prowess on the field – and safe.
‘If it had happened at elite level, maybe. But tertiary? I don’t know.’ Melissa straightens up to receive the warm air across her breasts again. ‘It’s a remarkable result, though. The fact we’re talking about it now says a lot.’
Alanis is dry. To stand any longer between the hot jets would be gratuitous. She follows Melissa, who is already marching purposefully towards the dusting chamber. Leaving the sensuousness of the dry-off is a regret Alanis barely notices.
‘Oh, but doesn’t it just give you hope! News like that justifies all the work we do.’
‘It reminds you how good things once were, and could be again. If we keep working.’
‘Exactly!’
London is one of the great communes! How quickly that can be forgotten! Could you ever imagine East Anglia putting 72 points past someone, or the South East? At any level? Alanis laughs at the idea. No, a prolonged slump this may be, but pedigree is pedigree. London is magnificent, and Alanis is part of that. She turns in the dusting chamber with confidence and a flourish. Today is going to be a good day.
Decisions, decisions. She has a bout booked at the club with Ivon in 1 hour 43 minutes. After her training session and protein supplement with Melissa, Alanis should really take the aerobus to NorthWest3 and pass the time till her bout in the recovery lounge, but it’s such a lovely day she wonders if she could get away with cycling there. If she takes her time, it could qualify as part of her low-intensity programme for the week.
She sets max. output at 128 watts and heads off. The roads are gleaming today, and they teem with citizens about their business. There is a new energy about London, no question. The aerobus glides past her. Alanis is so glad she’s not on it. It is all but empty, even fewer passengers than usual, and she smiles to herself at the eagerness of Londoners to propel themselves around town. Truly, with spirit like theirs, a slump can never last long!
Through Finsbury Park and Tufnell Park she maintains steady progress. She would dearly love to go faster. The sun is on her shoulders, the road is clean and blue and seems to impart momentum itself, so joyful is its lustre. But she has a responsibility towards London not to over-exercise. Cycling to the club is already close to an indulgence, what with her high-intensity workout with Melissa this morning and a bout with Ivon to come. And all this in her Spring Recess.
It is Ivon, though, so she is prepared for a light bout. Frank Hiscock told her yesterday that he would likely be around with joules to spend this afternoon. If Ivon comes up short again she’ll take a cot with him. Or someone. No matter. She’ll somehow bank the sort of energy she intends to. Just looking around convinces her of that. So many citizens; so many joules.
Now, this is interesting. Alanis arrives at the club, and it is clear even from the outside that something is going on in the foyer. When she enters, she can see, indeed, that the place is in a state of rare confusion, a throng having gathered at the desk.
Alanis loiters amid the hubbub, trying to identify the source of the unrest. She is relieved to note that the twenty or so agitants are all wearing the yellow of the tertiary class, for such behaviour would be unbecoming of elites. Alanis knew there would be trouble when the club opened its membership to the tertiaries.
‘Please! Citizens!’ cries John Garcia, the club manager. ‘We cannot accept any more new members today. Our monthly quota has now been filled.’
‘So when can we next enrol?’ replies one of the tertiaries.
‘The first of June.’
‘But that’s more than a week away!’
Further cries of protest ring round the foyer.
‘There’s nothing more we can do!’ adds John. ‘I’m sorry. Why are you all so keen to join? There are countless clubs like ours across London.’
The question is ignored as the unseemly commotion flares up again. Alanis is disgusted, but she notices Jessica the receptionist in a conversation to one side of the desk and slips through the melee towards her. When their eyes meet, Jessica waves at her.
‘Here she is now,’ she says to two tertiaries, who turn to Alanis plaintively.
‘The register says you have a bout with Ivon at 14.30?’ says one of them, a brunette with a dimple in her cheek. ‘Would you mind swapping?’
‘Now, hang on!’ says the other. ‘I enrolled first! If she’s going to swap with anyone it should be me!’
Alanis is taken aback by the request. How odd that someone should want to swap! ‘I’m sure there are plenty of men in the recovery lounges available for a bout. Why don’t you book with one of them?’
The brunette seems to flex and stand a little taller. ‘No, no. I quite specifically want a bout with Ivon.
’
Alanis glances at Jessica, who shrugs. She is about to agree – Frank Hiscock is available, after all – when defiance flares in her. No, she will not swap! Why should she, a long-standing member of the club, an elite, pander to the irregular whims of a tertiary?
‘I’m sorry, but the appointment has been in the diary for a while. We’ve already had to rearrange it once. Why don’t you just book one with him another time?’
‘We’ve been through his schedule. He has booking requests in place for every viable slot from now until the diary horizon.’
‘Well then make a booking with somebody else!’
‘I don’t want anybody else!’
The tertiary’s outburst is piercing. A hush descends among the throng, as the two women face each other.
She doesn’t want anybody else?!
‘Look to yourself, sister!’ hisses Alanis. ‘This is Misalignment!’
The tertiary knows it and backs down, glancing awkwardly towards the desk. Alanis, a good few inches taller, sweeps past her towards the lounges.
This is more like it. Not that it’s necessarily a good thing, this attention. Ivon hasn’t decided on that yet. In Wales, he found it invigorating to be hailed in the street. And warming. A drink was never far away, nor a friendly word. No chance of that here. He senses a different attitude on London’s sterilised streets. They’re not so easily impressed. No, that’s not it. They’re not so easily moved.
But he is relieved, at least, that some people have noticed his performance yesterday. He thought he played pretty bloody well. So, it turns out, do these folk standing over him now, swarming round in the same yellow suits as his, peering at him reclined on one of these space-age chaise-longue things they arrange so neatly in pairs up and down the lounges. One of them, the first to notice him, has flung herself on the twin of the one he is lying on. She studies him coolly, but with a twist of intensity. She says she has put in for a slot with him next Monday. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. The rest have gathered round since, some loose enough to ask him questions, others watching like students at a dissection.
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