Silent Striker (7 page)

‘Yes, I am,’ Adele said, spinning round to look him right in the face. ‘I’ve got a spy hat and secret writing ink under the stairs.’

Marcus tried again. ‘Did Anthony or your dad ask you to come here?’

‘Okay, stupid. What would I report? “Six lads running around in the rain.” That’s hardly gonna get me a spy medal is it?’

It was like wrestling with an eel, Marcus thought. Not that he had actually wrestled any eels. ‘Why did you come then?’

Adele looked at him. She was about to say one thing, he could see it in the dance of her eyes. But she said something else.

‘Dad wanted me out of the house. They’re both talking about you non-stop. You are “A-Phenomenon”, I don’t get it. They see the Lady Gaga of football, I see some sweaty boy with a … ball at his feet. Anyway I’ve got good news for you.’

‘What’s that?’ said Marcus, sceptical.

Her hand was resting in his now as they walked. He didn’t know how that had happened.

‘The Bowker Vale coach has got cancer and can’t do the team anymore. My dad thinks he can step in. And if my dad steps in, it will be all about Anthony.’

‘So you’re a spy, but you’re a spy for us?’ Marcus said, swinging her hand a little.

‘Or maybe I’m a double agent?’ Adele said. ‘Pretending to spy for you but really spying for them? Or pretending to spy for them, but really spying for you? Or a triple agent. Pretending to you that I’m pretending to spy for them and actually spying for you, but really I’m spying for them?’

Marcus tried to work it out. She had him all twisted up.

‘And if I’m a spy,’ she smiled, ‘that makes you James Bond, don’t it?’ She nudged him in the ribs.

Marcus liked that. He saw himself as more Will Smith than James Bond, but nevertheless.

‘Isn’t there a film called
The Spy Who Loved Me
?’ she asked.

Now he knew she was teasing him. He flicked water off a wet tree leaf at her, then chased her.

I
t was the final practice session before the match that would decide who won the schools league. Mr Davies was in the middle of the pitch. His brow was furrowed, his head down. ‘Alright, let’s concentrate. Where’s the bibs, Leonard? Two teams. Red team. Green team. Red team is …’ The coach called out six names. ‘Blue team is …’ He called out another six names.

‘Which one am I?’ asked Marcus. He hadn’t heard his name.

‘Red. Over here. Marcus, are you looking at me?’

Marcus nodded.

‘You’ve got a special job today. You’re the canary.’

‘What?’

‘Listen,’ the coach said, putting an arm around him. ‘In the old days, they sent a canary down coal mines in a cage, to test for gas. If it came back up dead, the miners knew not to go there.’

‘So I’m going to end up dead?’

‘Don’t be soft.’

‘What then?’

‘You’re going to be Anthony Vialli. And our midfield’s going to practice tackling you. It will be rough, but, if you pick up a little knock here in practice it won’t matter because you’re not playing.’

‘I’m expendable?’

‘I wouldn’t put it like that, but yeah, for today. Now listen you’re Anthony, their key player, the ugly one with the bent nose, you know him, right?’

Marcus nodded, smiling. Somehow Mr Davies could always get under his skin, even when he was trying hard to sulk.

‘Leonard, Horse and the green bib rabble, are us, Ducie. So Bowker’s Anthony gets the ball. How do we stop him playing? Horse and Leonard are going to be looking to get the tackle in. Understand so far, heard everything?’

Marcus nodded.

‘Right. What would you do if you was Anthony and you’ve got Horse and Leonard on tow, middle of the pitch?’

‘I’m dropping deeper, get away from them and get the ball,’ Marcus replied.

‘Fine, takes the canary out of the danger zone. Next question. Horse or Leonard. Who’s going to give you more grief?’

‘Horse is twice the size. Leonard’s faster on his feet. I can lose Horse, not Leonard. But Leonard can’t hurt me.’

‘Okay, thanks Marcus, let’s see how it goes.’ Mr Davies blew his whistle and gathered everyone around to explain the exercise. The pitch was going to be narrowed, the goalposts were cones. And it was midfield versus midfield.

‘We’re coming for you!’ warned Horse. He linked arms conspiratorially with Leonard.

‘Got to catch me first,’ replied Marcus. Horse wouldn’t get anywhere near him, he was sure.

Everyone took their places. The coach blew. The reds played the ball from the back and made the pass to Marcus. Horse steamed in. Marcus vaulted over Horse’s first scything tackle. Leonard followed in, both feet flying, and caught Marcus’s thigh with studs. Marcus fell to the turf.

For a moment, Leonard stood above him, grinning. Then he stepped away to high-five with Horse.

A thin line of blood oozed out of Marcus’s thigh. It was just a scrape.

‘Again!’ the coach called.

The ball came to Marcus again. He dropped a shoulder, sending Horse the wrong way. Leonard came steaming in. Marcus trapped the ball between his heels and hoiked it into the air, carrying the ball and himself over Leonard’s high tackle. He dropped down and flighted the ball perfectly to Jamil, who smashed it between the green’s cones.

‘Only you, Marcus!’ shouted Mr Davies, ‘Nobody else could pull that trick! Alright, again!’

This time Marcus lost Horse easily. He slipped Leonard with a trick called a flip-flap, then zoomed the ball to Jamil again. He’d bamboozled Leonard so badly this time that Leonard had fallen over. It was Marcus’s turn to grin.

‘Alright, forget zonal,’ called Mr Davies. ‘Horse, swap with Leonard, Leonard, man to man on Marcus, stick to him like chewing gum … soon as he gets the ball … the tackle in, annihilate him. Like you’re his anti-matter. Wallop! Let’s go!’

Before the ball had even come to Marcus, Leonard grabbed Marcus’s shirt. Just as Marcus was about to cry foul, Leonard let go of the shirt. Suddenly released, Marcus over-ran the ball. Leonard got it and walloped it away.

‘He had my shirt!’ Marcus protested.

‘Get over it,’ Mr Davies shouted to him. ‘Football’s not a game for fairies, that’s badminton!’ Mr Davies imitated a badminton player wafting the air. Everyone laughed. ‘Good work, Leonard,’ the coach continued, ‘let’s go again.’

This time, as Leonard tried to grab his shoulder, Marcus shoved Leonard off him, broke clear and collected the ball. He turned to pass only for Leonard to slide through him, slicing off his shin guard and dumping Marcus on his backside. Marcus looked at his leg. Blood oozed from his left shin again, the old injury. He’d seen the look as Leonard had slid in. Leonard had deliberately reopened the wound he’d picked up in the semi-final.

‘Idiot!’ Marcus muttered at Leonard.

‘Way to go, Leonard!’ called out Mr Davies.

Leonard was right on Marcus’s shoulder. ‘Bleed easy, don’t you?’ Leonard said to him.

Marcus ignored him. He turned away, looking for the ball. Concentration.

‘You’re a wuss,’ Leonard continued. ‘Crying in Miss Podborsky’s …? A big girl. Waaa!’

Marcus felt his face heat up. He turned. ‘What?’

‘What? Can’t hear can you either? Eh? Eh? Eh?’

That was it. Marcus swung a fist at Leonard’s face.

He missed but Leonard still fell to the grass and rolled. Marcus fell on him.

Then Mr Davies was between them, shouting. ‘Hey, Marcus, Marcus, don’t take it personal, it’s an exercise.’ Mr Davies held them apart.

‘He’s opened my shin up again. He’s hit it three times tonight,’ Marcus said.

‘Coincidence,’ Leonard smirked from the ground where he’d stopped rolling to reveal his perfectly unmarked face.

‘C’mon, boys, no need for handbags at dawn. Marcus, keep cool. Leonard, well done, good job. You got him riled, as I asked. Do that in the match with Anthony and it’ll wreck his rhythm. Okay. Again!’

Leonard was the sneakiest player on the pitch, Marcus decided. If he wasn’t pulling his shirt, tugging his shorts, chatting shit in his ear, then he was blocking his view or standing on his foot. When all of that failed, Leonard simply clattered him and conceded the foul. Mr Davies loved everything Leonard did. Going deeper had no effect, Leonard simply followed him. It was a battle. Marcus learned to face Leonard rather than have him at his back, and to push off him at the last moment before he got the ball. Then, when he collected it, Marcus controlled it and passed it first touch.

Slowly, Marcus’s one-touch moves began to make Leonard look clumsy. When, in six attempts one after the other, Marcus escaped Leonard and made the pass to Jamil, everyone could see Marcus had the beating of him.

‘Chin up, Leonard,’ Mr Davies rallied, as Leonard’s head dropped. ‘Anthony Vialli can’t play tight like Marky, you’ll eat Anthony alive, Leonard. Keep on!’

Finally Leonard hacked Marcus down in the middle of the pitch, with the ball nowhere near them, right on the left shin injury. Marcus fell to the ground, clutching his leg. Leonard stood over him. ‘Fairy!’

‘Alright, alright!’ called the coach, over them fast. ‘Jamil take Marcus’s place. Marcus lose that frown, Leonard’s only carrying out orders. Easy on Jamil, Leonard, we need him for the match. And don’t bother with the verbals any more, you’re just too good, Lenny!’

‘He calls
me
a fairy and he’s going to Neverland!’ proclaimed Jamil, fists high. ‘I’ll smack him that hard!’

Everyone laughed, even Leonard.

Marcus limped off and the session went on without him. He was bruised all over. His left sock was soaked red with blood. He stood alone by the side of the training grid, watching Leonard call all the shots and the coach love Leonard for it.

M
arcus was on the touchline, shuffling his feet. He hated it there. He belonged in the centre of the pitch, where Leonard was now. The wind was clipping his neck, whipping in from the other side. Over on that side, he could make out Mr Vialli, giving it large with a clipboard and a stopwatch. So Adele was right about that one, her dad had taken over as Bowker coach. He missed Adele. He remembered her fooling around in the car the first time they’d met. The Bowker team was all around Mr Vialli. Marcus spotted among them Dwayne and Mohammad, two of the Bowker players he had teamed up with at Summer School. Around the Bowker players were a bunch of keen parents, two Labradors and a Chihuahua. Adele spotted Marcus looking and waved. Marcus waved back quickly. He wanted her to run over to him but he knew that was not on. He quickly texted her a ‘hiya’ instead. Then he looked along the Ducie touchline.

Mr Davies was next to Marcus in his sleeping-bag-coat-thing, talking with the Manchester United scout. A stray dog appeared to be listening in. ‘Have you ever seen a better pitch?’ Mr Davies was saying. ‘Look at that semi-circle, we re-turfed it, same with the goal-line and the penalty spot zones. We’ve had the …ker up and down it for …age, then rollered it. See how level it is? Got to … the best pitch in the schools league or my name’s not Larry.’

The stray dog sniffed Mr Davies’s bottom half-heartedly.

‘It looks a good pitch, Mr Davies,’ the scout smiled, ‘Why’s Marcus … playing?’

Mr Davies scowled, swiping at the dog behind him. ‘Disciplinary matters. I begged the head of year, but he’s a sandwich short, doesn’t understand football at all. One point … the league’s ours for the first time in a decade, yet he pulls our best player – sabotage. Like I say, a sandwich short, between you and me. You’ve got to give leeway with the council estate kids, lower your expectations; parents’ chaotic lifestyles and all that.’ Mr Davies’s eyebrows wiggled to emphasise the point.

The coach turned to Marcus. ‘… discipline issue, Marcus?’

Marcus was about to open his mouth, but Mr Davies’s wiggling eyebrows jumped in before he could say anything.

‘You know what they’re like at this age, the hormones. They kick off over anything. Marcus slammed a door too loud, something like that, and he’s very sorry. Right, Marcus?’

Marcus nodded.

The scout kissed his teeth. ‘Pull this guy from your team on the eve of a league decider? By my standards he’d had to have murdered someone.’

‘Like I said, a sandwich short, the head of year is,’ Mr Davies agreed. ‘The new kid’s good though. Watch him. Leonard. It’s a more defensive line-up. We only need one point. We’ve got tactics. It’s the Christmas tree formation, but without the baubles. Leonard’s slotted right in. We’ve been through it in training, we can do this. Right, Marcus?’

Marcus duly nodded.

The scout checked his watch and Mr Davies became even more eager. ‘Got my full set of coaching badges this summer … appointments arise, I’m your man. I left Bowker for Ducie, you know. I wasn’t sacked for poor results, despite what they say. Left for the toughest council estate school in the borough. Tougher challenge. And it’s come good now, just watch. When it comes to coaching I’m up there, though I say so myself. Ready for the next challenge. If Man United want me, even in a part-time or voluntary capacity for their youth teams …’

‘Well, good luck, Mr Davies,’ said the scout, cutting him short. He shook Mr Davies’s hand then offered his hand to Marcus, to Marcus’s surprise. Marcus turned away, flipped his ATC onto his head and balanced it there.

‘Please yourself,’ the scout said. ‘Tell you what, Mr Davies,’ the scout shouted, ‘that boy can sulk!’

Mr Davies mouthed ‘stupid boy’ silently at him. Marcus ignored Mr Davies and watched the scout make his way across the pitch to where the Bowker Vale camp were gathered. Only the stray dog remained with Marcus and Mr Davies on the Ducie touchline.

Marcus’s phone vibrated. He checked it. From Adele:

Hiya
☺

It pulled Marcus’s mood up a bit. The whistle went. Bowker kicked off. The game started tentatively, both teams finding their feet. Leonard slammed a tackle in, collected the ball, fed it to Horse. Horse skidded in the mud, steadied himself, turned and flighted it high up in the air towards the Bowker Vale goalmouth. Jamil jumped and, if he’d reached it with his head, it might have gone in.

‘Nice try, Jamil, keep it up!’ yelled Mr Davies, by Marcus’ side. ‘Horse, more like that! We’ve got them on the run!’