They sucked oranges.
Brother Doonan said, ‘There’s no shame. They’re a strong bunch of boys and they play well.’
‘They’re dirty sods,’ said Millie. ‘And they don’t play well.’
Israel said, ‘Look at this.’
His left leg had a cut all down the inner thigh, past the knee. It was black with congealed blood. Other orphans showed their injuries. Sam had a black eye coming and Millie was having trouble walking. As for Miles, his swollen mouth hung open, and his eyes were dazed and exhausted. His shirt had long been ripped off and his arms, face, and torso were a mess of mud and blood. He sat quietly, too weak to peel his own orange. Henry was feeding him segments from his own.
‘There’s no shame,’ said Doonan. ‘We’re doing our best. I just wish Father O’Hanrahan was here to give a little . . . boost.’
‘We’re crap,’ said Sanjay. ‘Five-nil!’
Flavio said, ‘I never see football like this, an’ I see some tough games. Is the ref, I wanna . . . Man, I wanna to talk to him properly, just him and me.’
‘Who cares?’ said Millie. ‘If we do get a chance, we waste it. Give up.’
‘Hey, you gotta fight,’ said Flavio. ‘I learn that in the favela: you give up, you die.’
‘Listen,’ said Brother Doonan. ‘You might think this a little bit inappropriate, because I know not all of you share the faith. But I think we should say a prayer. Together.’
Millie happened to be kneeling, attending to her laces. She put her hands together and said, in a voice so heavy with contempt Brother Doonan winced, ‘Dear God. Where were you?’
Miles laughed.
Asilah said, ‘Maybe He’s playing for the High School. Maybe they say their prayers.’
‘No, listen to me,’ said Brother Doonan, gently. ‘I’m quite serious. If we were to hold hands for a moment . . . just a moment of contemplation—’
Millie interrupted again, with withering scorn. ‘If God sends us a miracle, I’ll become a nun. I’ll give up smoking; I’ll never do a bad thing and Miles won’t, either.’
‘Look at Darren,’ said Sam.
They looked over at the High School team. Cuthbertson had separated his striker from the crowds and he and Mr Scanlon were deep in conversation. Darren himself was sitting tracksuited, in a folding chair. A girl was massaging his shoulders as Scanlon put some papers in his lap.
‘Well then, boys and girls,’ said a voice.
They all looked up. Gary Cuthbertson was standing close by. He was smiling and he winked at Millie. ‘Shall we abandon the game?’ he said.
Captain Routon said, ‘Abandon it? It’s only half-time.’
‘I know, but to be honest, the fixture was for Darren really, and Scanlon says he’s seen enough. Says the boy’s ready to move up, which we all knew really – he needs to play a bit of serious football.’ He raised his voice. ‘So, if you want to call it a day . . .?’
Somewhere, an engine was roaring.
‘Speak louder,’ said Millie. ‘We can’t hear you!’
‘I said, shall we abandon the match?’
A number of people had heard the helicopter, but nobody had thought much about it. Helicopters are not uncommon. However, the engines of this particular craft were getting ear-splittingly loud, to the point where many people were wincing. Hair was becoming tousled and clothes were flapping.
Captain Routon had to shout to be heard. ‘I say play on!’ he roared. Cuthbertson couldn’t hear and had his hand cupped behind his ear.
‘What?’ he was shouting. ‘What do you say?’
The helicopter was getting yet lower. It was looking for somewhere to land. The pilot had seen the football pitch and swung his machine closer. It was dropping fast.
‘Back! Get back!’ shouted the headmaster, rushing at the crowd.
Professor Worthington was anxious. ‘It could be an emergency!’ she shouted. ‘Can we all get right back?’
She was inaudible. The helicopter was getting bigger and yet louder, and floated down within its own tornado.
Millie found herself clutching Sam.
Sam found himself clutching Brother Doonan – who was the one person not standing. He was on his knees, deep in prayer. The undercarriage bounced gently on the rippling grass, taking the strain, and the door in the side flipped upwards.
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Millie. ‘This is not possible.’
As one, the Ribblestrop team moved in. The hurricane didn’t matter, nor did the shattering noise. They moved in because they could see a boy who looked just like their dear friend Sanchez. There was another boy with him, but hidden in the aircraft. Sanchez was in the doorway, pulling himself up and out. In a moment he was on the grass, his goalie’s shirt rippling emerald-green.
He turned and the other boy pushed out a cardboard box. Then another, then another. Sanchez set them on the grass and kit-bags followed. The luggage taken care of, the second boy emerged. He wore black shorts and a football shirt that gleamed with golden stripes. His long hair flew under the rotor-blades and he held it to his head with both hands. It was the boy from the film. It was Imagio, but he might have been an angel.
Brother Doonan looked up and promptly fainted.
The helicopter door slammed and, as if released on elastic, the craft shot upwards, taking the noise with it. The sun chose that moment to break through a cloud and the two boys shimmered like apparitions, caught in a shaft of light. Then they were lost in a frenzy of hugs and handshakes, dances and kisses.
Millie could not get to Sanchez: the orphans had him for themselves, sweeping Imagio up as well in their joy. When they finally broke away to look at the boxes, Millie found he was in front of her.
‘Hello,’ she said. He held out his hand and she shook it.
‘How are you?’ he said.
‘I’m fine. We’re losing.’
‘What’s the score?’
‘Five-nil.’
She looked into his eyes and he looked into hers. ‘Do you remember Miles?’ she said, after several long seconds.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s amazing.’
Miles was right behind her and heard. He grinned and put out his hand; Sanchez put out his arms and hugged his thin shoulders to him, hard.
Then there was Sam to be embraced, and then there was Ruskin, moist behind a pair of glasses that were almost obliterated by sellotape. Finally, there was Tomaz and the hugs could get no tighter.
Behind them, the team was getting changed. Imagio had taken charge and was dishing out boots, shorts, and shirts. Plastic bags were ripped open and left to sail off in the breeze. School uniform was being flung into a bloody, muddy pile. In seconds, black-and-gold warriors were emerging. In the space of five minutes, ten children were changed and ready: ten hornets and their goalie.
Captain Routon stood close to Gary Cuthbertson and said in his ear, ‘Two subs. Ready when you are.’
Chapter Nineteen
That night, when Sam and Ruskin were together, they opened a brand-new exercise book and looked at the bright, white pages. How would they describe the game now that it was over? Even a heading was impossible. Ruskin wrote the date. Sam underlined it. They then simply looked at the empty lines.
Millie was sitting with a Bible. She had decided to read it, convinced at last that it might have something to say about the world. Page one was long and tricky, but she persevered. She had asked Doonan about confirmation classes.
Amazing scenes, wrote Ruskin.
The miracle from the skies, wrote Sam. He sucked the fountain pen and pulled a thread of blotter from its golden nib. The Turning of the Tide . . .
Anjoli crept over to them as they contemplated their work and leaned between them. He had a big, fat felt-tip with chisel-edge, and he simply wrote the final score in letters as high as the page. Then he climbed onto the table and danced.
Sushamila crept in and gazed at Sam from the doorway, purring longingly.
The Ribblestrop teachers yelled
support as the teams returned to the pitch, but their voices were lost in the tide of hooting laughter and derision that came from the High School crowds.
Mr Scanlon was about to leave, but he paused. The Ribblestrop team was transformed visually. He’d watch for five minutes, he decided – he was due back in London, but his taxi could wait a moment.
Ribblestrop kicked off and lost possession immediately. A long pass went out to the High School winger, who booted it midfield again: same tactics, no surprises. Their triangles formed efficiently, but the Ribblestrop players were anticipating and watching. They were controlling themselves. The passes continued, Ribblestrop holding back; the ball fell for Darren and the supporters’ chant kicked in as usual. He took it past a defender and shot a hard, curling ball. The Ribblestrop goalie snatched it from the air and brought it to his chest.
Mr Scanlon liked Darren’s play and would certainly call him up for a trial in the next few weeks. But he was aware the lad hadn’t been stretched. It would be nice to see him under a bit of pressure. He folded his arms and went back to the touchline.
Sanchez rolled the ball briskly to Israel, as the crowd bayed and hooted. Israel found Anjoli. Anjoli’s confidence was back: he took it past two of the High School players before trickling it to Sam, who dummied neatly and got it to Asilah. Asilah found Miles, up front again, and he found Millie; by this time Anjoli had made the run and was dangerous. Millie got it to him. All through this, there was one boy, not running. Imagio was still and simply watched. He looked a little tired from his flight and he sat down on the grass. He was pulling his hair back with both hands, lazily twisting it into a plait and slipping a sweatband around it. He watched as Anjoli was surrounded. He watched Anjoli panic and boot the ball anywhere. It ran in his direction and he idly punted it to Millie without even standing.
Millie got the ball to Sam, who crossed hard. It was only the second Ribblestrop attack and the High School goalie seemed unable to believe it. The cross was low and Miles was there. He dived headfirst and the header cracked the post. There was another thunderclap of jeering and another beer can was hurled onto the pitch. Goal kick.
Imagio had seen enough. He trotted into midfield and – inevitably – the magic started.
The High School goalie played a long ball and, as if Imagio had called it like a dog, it bounced straight to him. He trapped it, turned, and waited for attack. Number 666, it was; he came in hard and saw a football disappear. It was simply gone. He turned fast, caught sight of it, lunged; it flipped over his head. He chopped at the player’s legs, but they too were suddenly in the air. Another High School boy joined the assault, leaping up to head it: Imagio’s head was faster and higher and harder, and clicked the ball to Anjoli, who simply back-heeled it to Sam.
Sam and Imagio decided to play football.
Imagio just wanted to feel the space, of course, and acclimatise himself. He’d been crammed under boxes in the helicopter for two hours; prior to that was a crazy car ride from Lisbon to Malaga, to the Sanchez jet, scrambled from North Africa. Now he limbered up and cleared his head. The High School boys reminded him of South American buffalo: dangerous if mishandled, but slow, stupid, and utterly predictable. They were like the tourists on the beach . . . the men who thought they could play football. There were seven of them now, all rushing from point to point, snorting and booting at the ball.
Imagio started to smile, and when he smelled in his nostrils the heat of the boys’ anger – and their terrible sweat – he started to enjoy himself. He flicked and tucked, stood on the ball, played wild dummies in which the ball rolled slowly on its own, untouchable under his dancing feet. Then he’d twirl it to Sam, who’d rest him, and flick it back. In this way the two boys edged from side to side and a minute passed. The crowd had started whistling, but it petered out. There were just a few cries now: ‘Come on the High!’ ‘Close him down!’ But most of the supporters were silent.
The ball was still around the centre line when Imagio spun round and knocked it to Miles. Miles played it to Anjoli, who was grinning, and he passed it back to Imagio. Imagio broke.
A whippet? A missile? A stone skimmed on water? Imagio was a blur of black-and-gold, poking the ball through legs and over shoulders: the goalkeeper came at him – why? Imagio simply let the ball bounce and the goalie was too low, it fell over his head tenderly for the volley and it was five-one. Imagio raised a hand.
Then he was shoulder-high.
He was up on someone’s back, but felt his feet grabbed and he was hoisted higher; when he let himself fall, it was into the arms of all his team-mates, who threw him up again. He spun, they caught him, he was kissed and patted, and was finally allowed to stand. Sanchez had both arms round him, hugging him tight. ‘Oh man, we want ten,’ he said, in the boy’s ear.
‘Te doy cinquo, y me voy a dormir,’ Imagio said.
‘What did he say?’ cried Sam.
Sanchez said, ’He said, “I’ll give you five, then I’m sleeping.” Five’s his lucky number.’
For the next quarter of an hour, the High School team watched a display. They took no real part. They ran about and kicked hard at space. They had possession immediately after the goals they conceded, and at the free kicks they were awarded for a rash of theatrical dives. But in fairness, they were spectators; Imagio simply danced amongst them. The ball zig-zagged one minute, if he played close with Sam or Anjoli. The next it was long balls, Miles, Tomaz, and Millie all crucial to the routines. Suddenly, it was the extended run: the dribble. He was a spiralling fighter jet and he simply cut through everything. The High School goalie spent as much time in the back of his net as in front of it; the shots came long and short, the woodwork was cracked again and again, and the net was torn from its hooks. The High School collapsed and their supporters went silent.
Three goals were disallowed for no reason. Nobody cared: the score was still five-all, with twenty minutes left. Imagio had scored them all: could Cuthbertson disallow any more? He called fouls at whim, offside at random, throw-ins that weren’t. He lost his temper and yellow-carded Sam for smiling. He shouted at Darren and Darren shouted back.
Poor Darren was helpless and he’d barely touched the ball.
It wasn’t just the two newcomers: every Ribblestrop player now seemed to whisk the ball from his boot. He tried to fight dirty, of course, but neither blows nor kicks connected. He ran up the field, sweat and tears blinding him: he couldn’t get back in time. All the High School could hope for now was to keep the draw. They piled back into defence and built walls in the goalmouth. Imagio was lethal, though – however many defenders cornered and surrounded him he’d still poke the ball through. Five minutes from the end, he had closed in again. Ten men opposed him, but he juggled it to Sam. Sam took it backwards, into the centre; Anjoli was waiting and lobbed it. A lob was a dangerous move considering the height of the High School players, and time was ticking. They took possession but muffed it, two boys struggling for the same ball. It was Miles who nipped it from their toes and sprang like a deer, into the penalty area. He drew back his right foot, and for a moment time froze.
It was a photograph: a blood-stained Miles Seyton-Shandy, about to shoot at goal, not wanting to shoot. It was five-all and he wanted the moment to last forever. That night, when he talked about it with Millie and Sanchez, he explained the pain and the joy – the knowledge that the goal was wide and the goalie on his knees. He’d thought: Sam should score this goal – or Millie, or Tomaz, or anyone else. Why me? How can I deserve this? And then, for a ridiculous moment, he had thought of his mother, and wondered why she wasn’t on the touchline, watching.
He shot, hard and true.
To watch – not the goalie, he was nowhere near – but the perfect swish of the net, as it sighed with satisfaction. To turn and see the firework display of joy from his own side. To see Imagio handspring back to the centre line. To see Millie run the length of the pitch and meet Sanchez in the centre and embrace, Sanchez swinging her off her feet and
kissing her. It was six-five, six-five, six-five to Ribblestrop. The headmaster and Professor Worthingon were in each other’s arms. Flavio and Routon were dancing together. Just one little kick and the world had changed.
Those who saw Miles fall to his knees and cry never mentioned it. He was picked up and carried, carefully: every part of him, it seemed, was cut and bruised and he could no longer stand.
Six-five and five more minutes left. Gary Cuthbertson blew for full-time there and then, and nobody cared. The High School boys staggered off the pitch, heads down.
Darren’s girlfriend was there with the tracksuit, but the boy didn’t want to know – he was making straight for the coach.
The Ribblestrop Towers team stayed on the field.
By some instinct, they collected in their own goalmouth and simply sat down. There was nothing to say. Individuals went to speak, but it was as if they were dumb. Some held hands. One by one, they lay down.
The teachers stayed away and left them to their time of grace.
The teachers cleared the refuse. The teachers took down the nets. They left the children out there on the sacred ground until the moon rose.
That very night, Violetta gave birth to six panther cubs. The children watched, in the candlelight and straw. Six healthy parcels of fur, with snarling, yowling mouths and needle-sharp teeth. Professor Worthington was midwife and managed a fascinating lecture on the muscles of the uterus as she delivered them.
Chapter Twenty
Had Father O’Hanrahan been a little less impetuous, he might have saved himself a great deal of trouble. Had he only chosen to go slow and, for example, enjoy the football game, he might have avoided some unfortunate blunders.
When he left the headmaster’s office, he had convinced himself that Lady Vyner had just died. Naturally, he telephoned D.C.C. Cuthbertson with the wonderful news and the two men arranged to meet the next day in a quiet Ribblestrop bar.
‘It’s just what we hoped for,’ whispered the old man. He’d allowed himself a glass of whisky in celebration and he gulped it down in a single mouthful. ‘You told me here in this office. When she goes, the contracts go with her. The Brethren will be forced to move out and—’
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