Silent Striker Read Free Page A

‘Look at you, Marcus. Odd socks. Trousers … crumpled.’
    Marcus held his breath. He hardly heard Miss Podborsky anymore; he just concentrated on remaining calm during the shaming.
    ‘Have you … brought up or dragged up? And don’t tell me your family can’t afford an iron. As the clothes, so the boy. Precipitation. Meaning. Please.’
    Marcus went to open his mouth but no words were supplied to his tongue by his brain.
    ‘Well? We are waiting,’ said Miss Podborsky.
    ‘Water in the air, Miss?’ Marcus managed.
    ‘“Water in the air”. How very precise,’ Miss Podborsky mocked. The class all tittered. ‘You will have to do better than that if you want to sit down again.’
    Miss Podborsky was standing beside him, mocking the way he was biting his lower lip. She said, ‘I’ll give you a clue. Falling water.’
    Marcus thought. Still nothing came to his mind. Miss Podborsky issued another ‘Well?’
    One of the girls put her hand up. ‘Please Miss, he’s crying, Miss.’
    Marcus felt his face. There were wet streaks on his cheeks.
    The class went quiet.
    ‘Go and sit down, Marcus,’ Miss Podborsky said quickly. ‘And concentrate better next time. French children are so much better behaved.’
    ‘Fuck you,’ Marcus thought, as he walked back to his seat. His whole face had heated up.
    ‘What did you say?’ Miss Podborsky shouted across to him.
    So he hadn’t just thought it, Marcus realised. He had actually said it.
    ‘Nothing,’ he replied to Miss Podborsky. He didn’t care anymore, he just wanted to get away. Every second spent in this class was a waste of his life.
    Afterwards, nobody mentioned what happened. Marcus splashed water on his face in the toilets then leaned on a radiator and stared out of the toilet window at the clouds. Friday was football training. At least there was that.
    Training went well. He liked the shooting exercises, the dribbling and the fitness drills. Running around lifted his spirits. They did an hour then the coach and most of the squad drifted back to the changing room.
    Horse stayed behind with Marcus on the field so he could work on a new move he’d been trying. It was called the ‘Cryuff Turn’. He had been practicing it on the pitch, if you could describe the small patch of tarmac in the park near his house as a pitch. Every morning for a week he had tried the move without success. Horse gamely ran at him like a defender while Marcus twisted one way but turned the other with the ball.
    ‘You okay? You must hate Podborsky,’ Horse said.
    ‘I’m fine, let’s keep at this. Close me down faster.’
    Horse ran at him again and again. After two hours, Marcus finally nailed it. Horse slapped him on the back. ‘Massive, Marky, like a magician!’
    ‘Thanks, but it’s still not right.’
    Marcus insisted they did it a few more times. By then it was pitch dark. They ran back to the changing room. When they were finally back in their uniforms, Marcus checked his phone and saw his mum had left five messages. The last one said she was about to call the police. He had no credit on his phone, neither had Horse. They ran home together, splitting when they reached the housing estate.
    He let himself in. His mum ranted and raved as he ate his dinner in the living room with the TV turned down low.
    ‘I almost called the police!’ she said, whacking a spoonful of jollof rice onto his plate. ‘And now I have to see the Head.’ She headed back into the kitchen.
    ‘What?’ said Marcus, shocked.
    She came back out with a piece of chicken. ‘The Head rang, left a message. I have to go see her, with you, first thing, Monday.’
    ‘They only call parents in if they’re expelling someone,’ Marcus said.
    That really set his mum off. ‘What the blazes have you been up to at school?’ She chucked a chicken piece onto his plate with a spoon.
    ‘I— ’ began Marcus.
    ‘Don’t bother telling me. Getting expelled, that’s what! Eat your tea and go straight to bed.