Return to Ribblestrop

by Andy Mulligan

  Perhaps the world was ready for a boy-circus, with animals.

  The animals were all happier and healthier. Their diet was superb, as the local butcher drove in every morning with fresh supplies. They had a very fine exercise yard, now that the railings had been welded together. The tigers spent most of their time inside it, stretching and rolling; the old lion, Sushamila, was never chained or caged. She padded around the lorry, her short-sighted eyes always on the alert for a glimpse of Sam. Even the bitter-looking crocodile seemed contented, since a large stone trough had been unearthed for it. Violetta, the panther, slept most of the time and the boys took it in turns to spoon-feed her, mincing her meat so she didn’t have to put any energy into chewing.

  One of the headmaster’s zoology-art projects had been the completion of signs about each animal, listing its habitat, its diet, and any crucial statistics. Routon had thought it wise to create warning-signs as well, and everyone had enjoyed illustrating them. There were pictures of half-eaten people and dismembered limbs. There were ferocious, snarling teeth and lethal-looking claws – everything was blood-red on a white background. Millie had drawn a fat policeman being torn apart and eaten. It was a complicated storyboard with captions, but the headmaster had vetoed it.

  ‘Let bygones be bygones,’ he had said.

  ‘I bet he’s still after me,’ said Millie. ‘I’m keeping ready.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s far too busy to even think about Ribblestrop,’ said the headmaster. ‘I’d be surprised if you ever saw him again.’

  Millie decided not to mention the fact that she’d broken his window with a stone-filled snowball and made a definite sighting. She threw her pictures away and watched as Vijay, one of the leanest orphans, squeezed through the bars of the tiger-compound. Asilah passed him the biggest sign of all: Do not come into this cage. If you do, you will die, and it will be your fault.

  One of the tigers stared at him as he passed. The sign bounced over his tail and he snarled with irritation. This tiger was called Ivan and he had one fang that was too large for his own mouth: it had to sit outside his bottom lip, not unlike a cigarette. The other tiger was called Prince and was more watchful and intense. He shifted backwards as Vijay dragged the sign to the wall and leaned it proudly upright.

  Elsewhere, signs were being wired to bars or hung on nails:

  Do not feed us, we are fine.

  I am a camel. I am not interesting. I have no point except in a dessert.

  Up in the east-tower dormitory, by the scorpion’s matchbox, Anjoli had written: Don’t worry! I am alive but I just don’t move much. North Africa. Dangerous.

  Eric tied a label to the python: You wanna know more about me, ssss? Just put your head in my mouth and see what you get: I can swallow you whole so don’t even look at me: Sssss!

  ‘Is everyone here?’ said the headmaster, as he called the children together. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve just had some very upsetting news, and it’s my duty to communicate it straight away. Sit down, children.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday morning dawned and the children changed in silence.

  Grey shirts, grey shorts. Ties looped through belts. Cardboard shin-pads and sensible school shoes. They were determined and they were brave: very few tears had been shed. But disappointment smarts like a wound and every child could feel it burning. Ruskin was pulling on a bright pyjama-jacket to signify his position as goalie, and it reminded them that Sanchez, and Imagio too, were a thousand miles away.

  The High School team had clearly remembered the Ribblestrop facilities from their last visit, because they’d changed on home turf. Fifteen boys in blue-and-amber stripes climbed out of the first coach. The goalie was in shimmering purple. One lad was swathed in a silk tracksuit and had attendants. As the players flexed their limbs on the Ribblestrop lawns, four more coaches came to a halt and two hundred supporters moved towards the pitch. The singing started immediately.

  By the fountain, Captain Routon and the High School trainer shook hands warmly. This was Gary Cuthbertson, brother to D.C.C. Cuthbertson. He was a slimmer model than the policeman, but just as bald.

  ‘Appreciate this,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘There’s a lot of schools can’t raise a side this early in the term and those that can—’ He laughed. ‘Too bloody scared! Ah, now! This is Mr Scanlon, by the way, works for a rather fine London club, so a bit of an honoured guest!’

  ‘Part-time, Gary, part-time.’

  Mr Scanlon was a short man wrapped in a very big coat. He wore neat black shoes and a trilby hat. He had a thin, nasal voice and he was chewing on a wad of gum. ‘Where’s this lad o’ yours? I hope he’s not missed the bus!’

  ‘He’ll be along any sec. I told him to come and say hello. Well then, Routon, any surprises for us? I hope you’ve got that girlie under control – they play a young lass, right up front.’

  ‘Do they?’ said Scanlon. ‘I don’t like that myself. I think that’s feminism gone mad, that is – oh, I say! Look at this!’

  The Ribblestrop team was emerging through the main doors of Ribblestrop Towers.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ chortled Scanlon. ‘Look at those shorts. We’re back in the war!’ He and Gary Cuthbertson laughed heartily. ‘I’m going backwards – we’re back in the nineteen-fifties! Ah, now, this is more like it, eh? Is this your Darren?’

  The tracksuited boy appeared from a cluster of girls. He was chewing gum too and his eyes were concealed by a baseball cap.

  ‘I told him to come and say hello,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘This is Darren and this is Mr Scanlon, Darren.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Darren, not knowing where to put his eyes. ‘Hope you enjoy the game, sir.’

  ‘I hope so too, lad. I hope this lot can put you to your best – you don’t see much if it’s a walkover.’

  ‘I’ll work hard for you, sir.’

  ‘Dickie Rainbow saw you last month and he says you’re mustard. I keep an open mind.’

  The crowd had formed round the football pitch. As the Ribblestrop team ran on, there was a gale of laughter, jeers, and whistles. As the High School came out, a chant soon began: ‘Dar-ren! Dar-ren! Dar-ren!’

  It was a chant that would return regularly. A banner was unfurled: Good Luck Darren, it read. Some girls approached and Darren was carefully disrobed of tracksuit and cap. He did a quick stretch, touched his toes a few times, and bounded forward. The crowd cheered yet louder.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Millie, quietly.

  ‘What?’ said Miles.

  ‘That thug they called Darren. He was in a builders’ van. When I was hitch-hiking. I knew I’d seen him before!’

  Ruskin was trotting in circles, and Asilah called him to his spot and began some practice shots. The boy took them well and passed them back. Anjoli kept his ball moving, making sure everyone got a touch. All the Ribblestrop players were working hard just to ignore the crowd.

  The High School team had formed a scrum and was wrestling together, roaring. At some unseen signal, they stood up, clenched their fists, and started to chant a grunting, animal chant: the crowd went wild again and the first empty lager can flew onto the pitch. The players broke into an orgy of fast passing, hard and intense. Shots at goal became constant and the High School goalkeeper was soon twirling and diving. One cannonball shot bent the goalpost out of square, and Flavio and Captain Routon moved in quickly to repair it. The High School players started jumping on the spot and that was the cue for Gary Cuthbertson to blow for the start. It was ten past eleven.

  ‘My, my, my,’ said Cuthbertson, as Darren and Millie approached the centre spot. ‘Old friends meet again. Remember me, girlie?’ he said.

  ‘You’re a bit balder,’ said Millie. ‘Just as dumb.’

  Gary Cuthbertson gasped. He licked his lips. ‘Am I really?’ He was bright red, instantly.

  ‘Breath’s about the same,’ said Millie. ‘I can’t forget that.’

  The man could hardly speak. ‘Heads or tails? In fact
. . . forget it.’ He found his voice. ‘I’ll choose for you, you rude little . . .’ He was getting blinding white flashes across his vision: how could a child so small and frail have such an effect on him? He managed to look squarely into Millie’s eyes. ‘You’re gonna lose everything, girlie: what’s the toss of a coin matter? My brother’s back and he means business.’

  ‘He’s still a policeman, isn’t he?’ said Millie.

  ‘He’s working on a very nice little deal and he will close you down!’

  ‘My word,’ said Millie. ‘A bent cop and a bent ref. Are your kids all benders too?’

  Cuthbertson fought to keep his hands down. He had a vision of his fingers tightening around her throat. ‘I tell you what,’ he hissed. ‘You’re going to wish you’d died in that freezer. We’ve got plans for you!’

  He looked up at Darren. ‘Let’s keep this to thirty minutes – our kick-off, playing downhill.’

  He blew his whistle, waved for a change of ends, and jogged off.

  Darren spat a big globule of spittle and it landed on Millie’s shoe. ‘Time to die,’ he said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A tall, shaven-headed boy with the numbers 666 on his forehead kicked-off. Immediately, the High School came forward like a wave, to the roaring of the supporters. They were colossal and had a new strategy, devised specially – no doubt – for the Ribblestrop side. They kept the ball moving in short, hard, accurate passes, drawing their opponents and then slotting the ball around them. In seconds they were dangerously close to the goal. A forward pushed it sideways; it crossed the pitch in three quick zig-zags, and came to Darren.

  The chant started, fast and frenzied. Miles came for the tackle and Darren dummied it past him – the crowd was delirious and they were just thirty seconds into the game. Darren stayed in control, his nerves under an iron hand, and he unleashed a comet of a shot. It was cruel. It swerved towards the goal: it would take the bar off if it struck.

  Ruskin didn’t flinch: he’d learned to stand firm. He just got his hands up, but the ball went through them and hit him full-square in the face, knocking him backwards. The rebound was cleared by Israel, who found Sam; Sam played it forward, dodging a scythe of a tackle, and Ribblestrop were out of danger.

  Millie ran to Ruskin, who sat bloody-faced in the goalmouth.

  ‘That was superb!’ she said. ‘If you can do that, we’re laughing.’

  ‘Millie. . .’

  The boy seemed to be having trouble breathing. There was something wrong. Israel had dropped back as well and saw the problem at once.

  ‘Oh man,’ he said. ‘Look at his specs.’

  A nosebleed had started. But worse than that, Millie saw that the two lenses had been knocked from Ruskin’s spectacles. They were on the ground at his feet.

  ‘What can you see without them?’ said Millie.

  Ruskin simply shook his head. There was a shout from Asilah: the High School had possession again and were breaking through.

  The crowd was starting a new chant and it was very unsettling: ‘Have them! Have them! Have them!’

  It got louder and louder. Same tactics, they kept passing along the line. The orphans were failing to predict where the ball would go. Miles was yelling at them, trying to keep them back and mark rather than run, but he couldn’t make himself understood. Then he intercepted a pass himself and flicked it forward, leaping a dangerously high tackle. He got it to Asilah, who got it to Anjoli, and for a moment the Anjoli-Sam double act was there, both boys perfectly positioned. Number 6 came carving in and Sam went head over heels, at least – thank goodness – landing on his feet.

  ‘Have them! Have them!’

  The chant got into Ribblestrop’s ears. It was like listening to your own death sentence. The High School were over the centre line, pushing down, same tactics. They were very, very good at it: the ball shot from boy to boy and, just like last time, it went to Darren. The chant rose into a monstrous wailing. Eric was there and saw the identical feint to the left: he whisked it off the monster’s feet, but was too weak to clear it. He passed it limply to Millie, still hanging back, and she booted it up the field as Darren came at her.

  She went down and he simply rode over her.

  How had she forgotten?

  It was a war, brutal and terrifying. She lay there, the breath knocked out of her, her arm on fire. She rolled back her sleeve and there were a dozen stud marks on her forearm, several of them leaking blood. When she stood up, she noticed that another Ribblestrop player was down.

  The referee didn’t appear to be interested.

  It was Miles on the ground. He lay on his back, holding his face. Asilah had the ball and booted it out of play: there was a chorus of booing and whistling. Millie and Henry got to him together.

  ‘You didn’t warn me,’ he said.

  ‘What about?’

  Captain Routon was running on with a carrier bag in hand. He had a sponge and various creams. Miles was sitting up, holding his eye. There was blood in his mouth and the cruel bruising around the eye was purple and yellow already. His shirt was ripped wide open.

  ‘They’re big, rough boys, aren’t they?’ said Miles. He was smiling through the blood. ‘I thought we were here to play football. I didn’t realise they wanted something else.’

  ‘What happened?’ said Routon. ‘I didn’t see.’

  The crowd was whistling. Routon started to sponge Miles down. Henry knelt beside him and stared. His own nose was bleeding, but he seemed more interested in Miles, who was spitting red mucus onto the turf.

  ‘Their number 6,’ he said. ‘He didn’t like the way I tackled him so he elbowed me in the face.’ Miles sounded amused. ‘And just in case I didn’t get it, he punched me in the mouth. I think most people saw.’

  ‘Is he on or off?’ shouted Cuthbertson. ‘You’ve had your time!’

  ‘On, thank you,’ said Miles. He smiled at Millie, with bloodied teeth. ‘It’s fine. I don’t mind a bit of violence.’

  Henry helped him to his feet and the game restarted.

  From that point on, it was Miles who kept Ribblestrop alive. He was everywhere, fast and fearless. He was cut down regularly, but rose again, leaping into the most dangerous tackles. He threw in every ounce of his minimal weight, jabbing and snatching at the ball, ignoring the countless blows he received. Indeed, it was as if he sought them. He was headbutted and body-checked to the ground, but was always there, wide-eyed and manic. His team-mates picked him up, Routon sponged him down, and he was back in the fray.

  Ruskin had rescued his lenses and held them to his eyes. This meant he could follow the play, but that his hands were unavailable. He shuffled up and down his line peering at the action, calling and encouraging.

  In defence, Henry was like a large, faithful dog, and remained in the goalmouth as the final obstacle. Despite it all, the High School were dominating – and it was only a question of time. They came in waves, again and again. The passing was the same and, though it was predictable, the ball came dangerously close to goal. At last, Darren found his space; the ball soared high and he chested it down. Miles was there, but he was giddy and weak. He got it away from the boy’s left foot, but then his legs were hacked from under him and he was flat on his face. The ball trickled and Darren was ready again. Ruskin peered and scuttled, but there wasn’t much hope. Darren slotted the ball precisely into the lefthand corner of the net.

  One-nil.

  A clap of thunder seemed to roll over the world. The crowd swarmed onto the pitch and Darren found himself borne aloft and bounced. His team-mates crowded around him, leaping, punching the air, and Flavio could stand it no more. He’d been watching the game and the crowd with growing disbelief: now he went onto the pitch himself and let forth a torrent of Portuguese abuse over the referee. Gary Cuthbertson only smiled and took a long time recording things in his notebook. It was a full five minutes before play could continue.

  The High School boys were also smiling. They rubbed their hands
and took possession almost immediately. In seconds, they were close to goal, confident of their plans.

  Ribblestrop – if truth be told – had gone to pieces. Apart from Henry and Miles, the defenders had lost their nerve. Henry was slow and Miles was limping. Darren relaxed and began to show off. Twirls, knees, intricate little flicks of the heel – he saw he could enjoy himself and the crowd went wild for it. The ‘Darren!’ chant started again, and ten minutes before half-time he’d scored his hat-trick.

  Worst of all, some of the Ribblestrop players now began to pick on each other. Millie cursed Asilah for a dismal pass and Anjoli suddenly lost his temper with Sanjay. Taunting laughter gusted from the crowd. Some of the boys by the High School goalmouth unfurled a banner: Private School Snobs Go Down and the ref ignored it. The Ribblestrop tactics were forgotten and, despite Sam’s cries and pleas of encouragement, his axis with Millie and Anjoli collapsed. The closest the team came to a goal was when Millie made a breathtaking run past three players and crossed perfectly to Tomaz. The goalie was committed right; the goal was open. Tomaz shot and the ball spun crazily from his shoe way over the bar. The scorn, laughter, and whistling from the crowd was ear-splitting. At just that moment, the ref blew for half-time. The High School was laughing and high-fiving. Darren disappeared under a crowd of girls. It was a rout and the Ribblestrop players staggered to the touchline.

  The score now stood at five-nil.

  Chapter Eighteen