Season of Sid

by Nasser Hashmi

‘Well, Lassie…I mean Tony Lemmings had drunk a bit too much and we wanted him to get home as quick as possible.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the officer, who got up from his chair and began to pace around. ‘So Terry Rathbone must have booted the ball at Mr Mercer?’

  ‘I don’t know…I don’t know these people.’

  ‘Rathbone came into Tiffs. Everyone saw him with a ball in his hand. He went up the stairs. After a few moments the ball comes flying downstairs and hits Mr Mercer’s glass causing it to break. Mr Mercer’s face bleeds and he needs eight stitches as well as being treated for concussion. Why would Terry Rathbone want to do that? And if he did why would he want to blame you lot?

  ‘Footballers have a lot of hangers-on these days.’

  ‘So you do know him?’

  ‘No I didn’t mean him, I were speaking generally.’

  ‘Do you know Steve Clayton?’

  ‘The owner? Aye.’

  ‘Do you have a good relationship with him?’

  ‘Aye…I think so.’

  ‘A regular haunt for you lot is it, Tiffs?’

  ‘We go in there a bit.

  ‘Looks after you does he, Mr Clayton? Gives you what you want, freebies and the like?

  ‘Not really.’

  The officer rushed back towards us and stamped his hand on the table. ‘What does he give you?’ he shouted, ‘Got him on your side have you? Got a corrupt relationship?’

  ‘Don’t answer that, Sid?’ said Jamil calmly. ‘It’s a ridiculous question.’

  ‘Not as ridiculous as Albion Town these days,’ said the officer, sitting down again. He looked at us intensely but said nothing. He turned away from us and looked at Jamil. He raised his right arm towards the tape machine to his right. He looked at us again and then pressed the stop button. The tape machine clicked the power into my legs like a physio restoring a fracture to its rightful place.

  ‘Interview terminated at 1.17pm…’

  After a nice little ‘steaming-off’ session at the Black Pig pub with Molly, Pearly and Lassie where we spoke about our close shave with the coppers, I returned home and settled down to watch MTV Base on my plasma. I were hoping for a quiet evening but just as I were about to sink my fork into a chicken chow mein and fried rice, Amejee came along to mess up my karma. She spent more time laying in to the food rather than the coppers who’d arrested us, and I couldn’t believe it when she nabbed the chow mein and chucked it into the bin. After that, she brought in this giant framed picture of Mecca and put it on my living room wall. She said it would bring us peace because I were going through a lot of turmoil right now. I were just about to protest but then she said she were going to make us a nice meal and, after a bit of jousting, I gave in and got back to Pimp My Ride.

  And just when I were settling down again, I got another surprise when the doorbell rang. I walked slowly to the door, because I were starving, and opened it.

  ‘Salaam-a-laikum,’ said Yousuf, edging forward.

  ‘What do you want?

  ‘You no very polite.’

  I’ll give him polite, the wife-snatcher. Who does he think he is coming to my house after I’ve been shafted by the coppers and my mother? And now I’m missing Pimp My Ride too.

  ‘Ruki’s mother gave me address,’ he said.

  ‘Right…that’s nice of her.’

  He were dressed in a purple and black patterned shirt that hung out of his blue corduroy trousers. His dark blue suit jacket were pointless as the shirt overwhelmed it like one of the garish away tops we wore in the late 90s.

  ‘Cooking?’ he said, looking beyond us into the hallway.

  ‘Aye, my mother’s come round.’

  ‘You still eat this food?’

  ‘Not much, but once in a while…look did you want to talk about something.’

  ‘Not really…just…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know many people…’

  I looked at his straggly hair and dodgy shirt and compared it with the smooth driveway, polished houses and gleaming cars behind him. It were no contest but as this were a day of new experiences – watching a domestic, being arrested in front of your parents, being banged up in a cell and not being allowed to tuck into a chicken chow mein – I thought I might as well be accommodating, you know, in the spririt of Mecca and all that.

  ‘Okay, come in,’ I said, holding the door open.

  ‘Thanks man.’

  I had many regrets when I came off the pitch, but they only lasted until the next game. The problem were I didn’t know where my next game were coming from, so the last set of regrets – the missed chances, dodgy passes and cold cabbage for lunch – were still stocked up to be exorcised. But it were the regret of letting Yousuf onto the dining table that were dominating my thoughts right now. He were scooping up the last remnants of spinach from a white bowl after having gobbled up four chappatis. He had the soggy, dark green stuff all over his fingers but that didn’t stop him from licking each digit with relish. He looked at us after putting the bowl back on the table.

  ‘You not hungry?’ he said, picking up a sliced orange from the fruit and salad plate.

  ‘Got to look after myself.’

  ‘Roti never give problems.’

  ‘Yeah, Popeye wouldn’t approve either.’

  ‘Popeye?’

  ‘He’s a cartoon character…’

  He looked at me nonplussed and continued to raid the fruit and salad plate.

  ‘…Doesn’t matter,’ I said.

  ‘Does matter,’ he said, biting into a sliced pear. ‘I know Mickey Mouse and Bugs Bunny, that’s it.’

  And I know you’re a Mickey Mouse character too, mate. You’ve hit the jackpot in terms of hitching up with a lass who’s way over your head. There’s no way you two are going the distance. If you do, then I’ll wear a nappy and drop my shorts for Molly any time he wants us to.

  ‘Got a job yet?’ I asked.

  He got up from the table and burped. He picked up a tissue from the box on the mantelpiece and slumped on the sofa.

  ‘Ah, feel good now. I work nights.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘First Frames.’

  ‘Are you working tonight?’

  He looked up at the circular clock hung up on the opposite wall. ‘In three hours.’

  ‘Well, at least you’ve got a job. I’ve heard it’s been a bit difficult around here lately.’

  ‘Where you play?’ he asked, getting out a packet of Gold Leaf from his suit jacket pocket.

  ‘At Starcot Lane.’

  ‘Near Rickman…’

  ‘Aye, near Rickman Way.’

  ‘Lings Mill?’ he said, picking out a fag and dabbing it on the packet before putting it into his mouth.

  ‘Aye, that’s where Ibrahim and my father used to work.’

  ‘Houston Street. Lings Mill in Houston Street.’

  ‘Hmm…why are you learning street and road names?’

  ‘I want to drive taxis,’ he mumbled with the fag in his mouth. ‘Can you give me light?’

  Now listen Yousufine, don’t push your luck. As far as I know, smoking is banned in all public places and, as far as I’m concerned, Shaw Crescent has become a public place, at least it has tonight. I don’t like the filthy habit anyhow and I’m sure I’ve got some fuckin’ disease from passive smoking. I remember Partington puffing away after a defeat at Hull City six years ago and I ended up coughing my guts up all the way home. Okay, it’s true I did have a can of Dr Pepper, a Snickers bar and two doughnuts too but they went down really well.

  ‘I don’t like any smoking in here; you know I have to keep fit,’ I said.

  He looked at us sternly and then broke into a smile. His thin moustache weren’t quite evenly trimmed down both sides of his lips making his grin dodgier than a ref’s in a red light district.

  ‘Is okay,’ he said, putting his fag back in his packet. �
��I have one later.’

  Amejee walked in with a tray of two mugs and two small glass bowls of sweet yellow rice. She placed the tray on the dining table, pulled up a chair and sat down. She picked up a teaspoon, placed it into the small sugar pot and started transferring spoonfuls into the mugs.

  ‘I’ve made milky tea for you, Yousuf, is that what you drink?’ she asked.

  ‘I no drink anything else.’

  ‘Sadiq, how many sugars?’ she added.

  ‘I don’t think I really want any.’

  ‘You worry too much about your training sessions,’ she said. ‘Spinach is good for you, potatoes are good for you. And tea won’t do you any harm. You’re not playing at the moment anyway.’

  That just about did it for the day. If I were steaming already, Amejee turned up the heat and twisted the knife further. So I got up and walked out of the living room. I took a deep breath and ran up the stairs like a sprinter who’s just tested positive. The stairs acted as a springboard to propel us forward onto the bathroom door frame for some chin-ups. I locked my fingers onto the top of the frame and began pumping the chin-ups with relish and intensity. The whiff of paint swirled into my nostrils with every spring. Not playing? Maybe not, but I’d be ready.

  I did 120 chin-ups and decided that were enough. I felt alert and re-energized and pulled down both toilet seats to sit down to recover. But the doorbell rang again. Now I were really steaming and got off the toilet seat with a new sense of purpose. I ran down the stairs and jumped the last six or seven. I hesitated and took a deep breath before I opened the door. My heart rate, which were stabilizing, shot up again.

  ‘Is he here?’ said Rukhsana, stepping forward.

  ‘Aye,’ I said, as the tiredness of the exercise turned into exhilaration.

  The light from the porch beamed on to her face to provide a clarity I’d never seen before. The beautiful borders of long, black hair – previously tied up – electrified her delicate face. Her overpowering brown eyes had been diminished by a burst of lipstick and softer, golden cheeks. Her red pullover, cream-coloured jacket and ultra-light blue jeans completed the sense of transformation.

  ‘How long’s he been here?’ she said, as she stepped in and I closed the door.

  ‘For a while, I think.’

  ‘You didn’t have a game today, did you? You look a bit tired.’

  ‘No, no, I just did a bit of exercise.’

  I never thought spinach could do the trick but now it were obviously true. Something were happening within us that I couldn’t understand or control. Okay, I couldn’t control the diarrhoea when Amejee had first given us spinach and lentils for dinner but this were something different. This were about my power, vitality and energy being turned on to its maximum. It were better than scoring at the Billy Moss End.

  She walked towards the living room door. ‘You made him dinner?’

  ‘No, mum did.’

  She opened the door and I followed her in. I closed the door behind us and stood by it. Yousuf were still on the sofa and Amejee near the dining table. Yousuf had both his hands cupped around the mug as he put it to his mouth. Rukhsana walked towards the sofa and stood in front of Yousuf.

  ‘Are you planning to work tonight?’

  ‘Yes, but I needed change,’ he said, taking another sip.

  ‘You have to work tonight. Come on, I’ve made you some butties. You’ve already missed a couple of days last week. ’

  Jesus and Mohammed, if you’ve already missed a couple of days, you’re a lazier lizard than I thought. If I worked nights, I’d have clocked in on the button and then worked like a dog throughout the night. It’s a bit like playing a 7.45 kick-off at Torquay and then coming back to Town on the coach after the match: that’s a nightshift as far as I’m concerned. We got back at 4.30am for that one – and I slept all the way – so I know how tough it can be.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Rukhsana, gesturing with her hand. ‘Sid and his mum have done enough for you tonight.’

  ‘Let him finish his tea,’ I said.

  ‘Yes Rukhsana,’ said Amejee. ‘Sit down and have some tea yourself.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Karim, I would normally but we’ve got to go,’ said Rukhsana, looking over at Amejee. ‘I’ve still got some prep to do for school tomorrow and I’ve got to drop him off at work.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ said Amejee.

  ‘Just coping really,’ said Rukhsana, wiping her brow. ‘…Things have got back to normal I suppose but…’

  ‘If you need some help, just say,’ said Amejee. ‘We’re here for you.’

  ‘Thanks, I know you are.’

  ‘Have the visitors gone now?’ asked Amejee.

  ‘It’s finished now,’ said Rukhsana, sitting down on the sofa next to Yousuf but perching herself on the edge. ‘To tell you the truth I couldn’t take any more…you know, the bawling and the wailing. I had nothing left after about three days.’

  With all due respect to Ibrahim, I think there were a fair few fans doing a bit of ‘bawling and wailing’ about my non-selection in the first team. I had one letter of support that had teardrops all over it. The smudged ink were almost too much too bear. It were signed by someone called U R IN, and it kept us going through the hard times. The note were a bit yellow, though.

  Amejee began pouring tea from the kettle into another mug. ‘Sadiq didn’t want any, so I’ll just pour you some.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Rukhsana, getting up. ‘We really haven’t got time.’

  ‘Time, time, time,’ mumbled Yousuf. ‘Time this, time that.’

  ‘Yes, and you need to clock in soon, so come on.’

  Yousuf got up awkwardly from the sofa and walked towards the dining table. He took one last gulp from his mug and placed it on the tray. He walked back towards the door and I opened it for him.

  ‘Any news on the ball yet?’ asked Rukhsana.

  ‘No, I’d forgotten about that. A steward or the ambulance driver’s probably got it now. What’s important about it anyhow?’

  She looked at Yousuf and then turned back to us. ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve got a bit more time.’ She put her hand on Yousuf’s shoulder. ‘Come on then, get up. Time to burn the midnight oil.’

  Yousuf got up and looked at us. ‘Can you get me ticket?’ he said, preparing to leave the room.

  ‘For a game?’ I asked.

  He nodded and then turned to see if Rukhsana or Amejee were looking at him.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll just ask Spares, it won’t be a problem.’

  There were some strange force at work, like when a ref blows and no-one listens. This were the same. I weren’t really listening to Yousufine when he asked for the tickets, I were thinking about Rukhsana instead.

  ‘Have you started back at work yet?’ I asked, as I followed them out into the hallway.

  ‘Yes, but it’s difficult,’ said Rukhsana. ‘I’m trying to sort out lots of my dad’s paperwork at the moment. Life insurance, bank accounts and stuff. He kept it all going even though he went to Pakistan. I thought he’d just stopped everything, but he didn’t.’

  ‘Maybe he were intending to come back a bit quicker than he did.’

  ‘Maybe…but my mother’s a demanding woman.’

  You’re not wrong there, Ruki. Accusing us of being responsible for Ibrahim’s death were bad enough but saying I were a dirty boy were a step too far. I mean, I sat up in Lassie’s bedroom reading Golf Digest while the lads were downstairs watching Basic Instinct 2 so she got that wrong. There were also old Stanley Collymore in the film – a former footballer – so surely I’d have had every reason to see it but I didn’t. I think I had good cause to sue your mother for that. Calling old Stanley as a star witness would have won me the case, no sweat. He knows my character.

  Yousuf opened the front door and Rukhsana followed him out. I tapped her on the shoulder before she caught up with him.

  ‘Look, Jamil’s having a do next week,’ I
said quietly. ‘Why don’t you come along? It might do you some good.’

  ‘Jamil?’

  ‘My agent. You don’t remember?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m just a bit frazzled,’ she said, looking at us while turning to see what Yousuf were doing. ‘No I don’t think there’s a cat in hell’s chance I can make that. I might be leaving my job anyway so everything’s a bit up in the air at the moment.’

  ‘To do what?’

  She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Acting maybe…’

  ‘Larry’s always going on about that,’ I huffed.

  ‘Who’s Larry?’

  ‘Lars, one of our midfielders…so how would you get into something like that anyhow?’

  She jangled the keys in her hand as she watched Yousuf approaching the Astra. ‘I did film studies at university and there was a bit of acting involved. I appeared in our graduation film as well as a few others at university. So I’ve got some idea of what it’s all about…’

  Hope so Ruki, because as far as I can see the film industry discriminates against lasses with a Lancashire accent. They’ve turned Anna Friel into a Geordie for the Goal movies, and as for Jane Horrocks, they virtually cut her tongue out in Little Voice so there were no trace of her roots.

  ‘Do you reckon you’d have to change your accent then?’ I asked.

  ‘You seem interested in this all of a sudden…’

  ‘Well, I’m not playing football at the moment…’

  She pointed her key at the car and pressed the button to open the central locking. ‘Just get in,’ she shouted at Yousuf. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’ She blew her cheeks and continued. ‘It’s part of the job,’ she said, turning back towards us. ‘When we made our graduation film, I had to do a London accent and it wasn’t too bad. I don’t think that’s the problem. The real problem is getting hired. For our student film we put a little ad in the local paper and in a theatre magazine for proper actors. We got about 300 CVs from some very good people. We couldn’t believe it. They all wanted to appear in this short film about nothing in particular.’ She looked across to Yousuf who was in the passenger seat. ‘Look, I’ve got to go now, say goodbye to your mum for me…Oh and don’t forget about the ball.’