Extra Time Read Free Page A

wouldn’t play rough. How many times do I have to remind you? Your legs are held together by bits of metal.’
    â€˜Only three,’ mutters Matt. ‘Three tiny bits.’
    Mum glares at him. They argue about this a lot.
    It’s not Mum’s fault. When parents have kids that get killed, they end up extra anxious about their other ones. It’s why I’ve got more asthma puffers than any other kid in my class. Including one that Mum hides in a tree on the corner of Bentley Street in case I run out on the way to school.
    â€˜Easy, love,’ says Dad, putting his arm round Mum. ‘It’s only a bruise. It’ll be gone in a week.’
    â€˜It’s getting smaller already,’ says Matt.
    â€˜It could be worse,’ I say. ‘My friend Shay, last week her big brother had an accident with a power sander and one of his tattoos got scraped off.’
    Mum and Dad both look at me.
    â€˜It was only a stick-on one,’ I say. ‘But still.’
    Mum laughs. One of those laughs that’s almost tearful. Then she sighs and the expression on her face is just like Gael-Anne gets after missing a goal. A mixture of upset and annoyed with herself.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Matt,’ she says. ‘I am trying.’
    â€˜You are love,’ says Dad.
    We all know she is.
    Uncle Cliff put it best. ‘When your sons go off to a football match in the next town,’ he said at the funeral, ‘and for two of them the final whistle blows seventy years too early, and there’s no extra time even when you beg, it’s pretty hard to ever trust the ref again.’
    I thought that was amazing. Uncle Cliff hasn’t even got kids. And he used to be a ref in the under-six Sunday league.
    Dad kisses Mum, then looks more closely at Matt’s bruise.
    â€˜Hope the other bloke’s is bigger,’ he says.
    Matt doesn’t know what to say. We tell the truth in our family. But we also look after Mum.
    â€˜Let’s get home,’ says Dad. ‘I need my tea.’
    Me and Matt swap a relieved glance. No need for Mum to know about stampeding cattle. Except suddenly a thought plummets into my mind like a tree seed from the bum hole of a bird.
    Those TV news cameras at the cattle yard, were any of them pointing at Matt?

No sign of Matt on the news.
    So far.
    On the TV, the visiting politician is telling the cattle-yard crowd about our beef going to China.
    â€˜Good news for a change,’ says Mum.
    I know why she’s pleased. When our cattle go to China, they leave their skins behind. That means more leather for the leather goods factory where Mum works.
    Dad nods, his mouth full.
    Mum and Dad like to eat dinner while we watch the news. That way there’s not too much chat and they don’t miss the important stuff.
    I pray Matt won’t be on. If he is, Mum will definitely see it. She can cut a fish finger up and put it in her mouth without taking her eyes off the screen for a blink.
    â€˜Love, don’t do that,’ says Mum to Matt.
    Matt’s doing what he usually does when he sits on the lounge. Flicking something from one foot to the other. Tonight it’s a dirty sock.
    â€˜He’s just practising,’ I say. ‘You need at least ten thousand hours of practice to get really good at anything. They’ve done studies.’
    â€˜And have they done studies,’ says Dad, ‘on how many hours of practice it takes to do what your parents tell you?’
    Because he’s Dad, he grins after he says it.
    Matt stops flicking the sock.
    I think the main reason Mum and Dad don’t like Matt practising at dinner is it reminds us all of what he’s lost. Before the accident everyone thought he’d be a professional soccer player one day. Now the doctors reckon his legs probably wouldn’t stand the strain. We don’t talk about it much, but we all know how disappointed Matt must be.
    â€˜What