Season of Sid

by Nasser Hashmi

  That fuckin’ ball again. She seems obsessed with it and I can’t understand why. By now I reckon some yellowcoat – cowardly steward, in other words – has probably taken it home so he can play with it for his pub team on a Sunday. It’s gone now, so get over it.

  Amejee came to the door. She waved as she watched Rukshana reversing out of the driveway. ‘See what you’ve missed, Sadiq? What a lovely girl.’

  I turned and ran inside the house. I sprinted up the stairs and began the chin-ups harder than ever.

  NINE

  While I were happy with chips, kebabs and the odd Chinese, Jamil had to have his Italian experience once a month. So he went to Juliano’s at least twice a month to stuff his face with pasta and whatever else straggly stuff they served. The restaurant had only been open for about a year but attracted the kind of people who wore turtle necks, had perfect tans and knew how to twirl spaghetti between their fork and spoon.

  So Jamil were knocking down some horrendous green stuff – Paulo Di Canneloni or something – while flicking through the Evening Chronicle.

  ‘There seems to be no mention of it, in here,’ said Jamil, looking at the paper and sucking on a straw for his still mineral water. ‘The coppers always release details to the media about errant players, but this time they haven’t done it.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘A few quid to a copper to keep it all hush-hush is always worth it.’

  ‘What, you paid a copper to keep it quiet?’

  ‘Course not,’ he said, closing the paper and getting back to his Di Canneloni. ‘A couple of them are good friends of mine, so they just did me a favour. And anyway, if you lot hadn’t been so pissed-up, none of this would have happened.’

  Look, Mr Smooth Operator, I know you’ve got your own ‘pissed-up’ demons to deal with. I remember the taunts about your late father whenever we played football at Ferry Barn after school. One of the boys said your father were a drunk and that’s what killed him. So you had a fight with this lad, which we all loved because we could shout ‘barney’, but you ended up stabbing him in the eye with your glasses. I also know how you got all your contacts now too because the barney went on for five hours and both of you ended up half a mile away from where you began. The audience just got bigger and bigger and they were providing refreshments, boxing tips and wet towels too.

  ‘So how do we get Bowker in our favour then?’ he said, sucking on his straw again. ‘We’re losing a lot of sponsorship and stuff when you’re not in the team.’

  I folded my arms and sighed. ‘It’s frustrating because he won’t even put us in the reserves. He says he doesn’t want us to get injured because we’ve got a small squad.’

  Jamil ushered a waiter to come over to the table. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll get it sorted when I come back from Oslo. Elina’s good at strategy.’

  ‘Do you have to share my problems with the world?’

  ‘She’s a psychologist, she knows how to manoeuvre and probe.’

  The waiter approached and were wearing a smart turquoise shirt, dark trousers and shiny shoes. I spotted the restaurant’s name stitched into one of his cufflinks in a nice shade of red.

  ‘Have you got any parmesan?’ said Jamil to the waiter.

  ‘Erm, is there none there…’ he said, picking up the salt and pepper while looking for the phantom parmesan.

  ‘I don’t think there is.’

  ‘Oh okay, I’ll get some,’ he said, walking quickly away from the table.

  I looked beyond our table and watched a woman about to leave the restaurant. ‘Hey, I’m sure that’s Emily. What’s she doing here?’

  ‘Where?’ said Jamil, turning his head.

  ‘Over there by the door…’

  Emily were wearing a flowing peach and blue dress, no glasses and surprisingly large heels.

  ‘Oh yeah, it is her,’ said Jamil.

  ‘I think she’s here on her own. Maybe she’s got some Italian Stallion we don’t know about.’

  ‘She was probably here to pick up some food tips.’

  ‘From an Italian restaurant?’

  ‘Lots of these places spy on each other…or help each other out,’ said Jamil, turning around again. ‘Anyway, you need to think about getting back in the team.’

  I hesitated and continued to watch Emily as she closed the door behind her ‘Hmm…wonder if Jimmy knows she’s here,’ I mumbled.

  ‘For God’s sake, leave her be. We’re not here to talk about her.’

  The waiter approached the table again with a small pot of parmesan cheese.

  ‘Here you go, sir,’ he said, putting it on the table.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jamil, picking it up and sprinkling some of it on his food.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said the waiter, who then quickly turned to us and smiled.

  I smiled back but knew he were about to open his cakehole.

  ‘Sid Karim, yes?’ he said.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I knew it was you, my boss is such a big fan.’

  ‘And you’re not?’ I snapped jovially.

  I picked up the Evening Chronicle and started flicking through it.

  ‘No, I don’t support Albion.’

  ‘Who do you support?’ I asked, without looking up at him.

  ‘Perugia.’

  ‘Peru?’

  He tutted and looked away. ‘No, Perugia.’ He bent down and closed the newspaper page while I was reading it. ‘Perugia,’ he said, looking into my eyes as I looked up.

  ‘They’re in the Italian league,’ said Jamil, trying to diffuse the situation.

  ‘What did you close the newspaper for?’ I asked, looking up at him.

  ‘Peru is a country in South America,’ he said, with impeccable calm. ‘PeruGIA is an Italian football team with a great history.’

  I looked down and opened the newspaper again. ‘They’re all corrupt as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Please don’t insult my team,’ he said.

  ‘Calm down mate, I’m not insulting it.’

  ‘Maybe you’re not happy at the moment,’ he said, beginning to walk away. ‘You’re not in the team, so that’s understandable.’

  Well, I’m in the team that plays football, at least, you geeky busboy. I don’t have to go around scrubbing floors and waiting on knobheads who won’t give me the time of day. Granted, Mr Starmer played Colonial Cuisine at the club’s Christmas Party a couple of years ago – with Kai and us the slaves – but that were different. It were just a bit of fun.

  ‘What’s your name anyway?’ asked Jamil, looking at the waiter.

  He turned round and hesitated. ‘Zep,’ he said, walking away again.

  ‘Don’t walk away.’ I said, raising my voice.

  Zep stopped and turned to look at us again from a few yards.

  ‘You’re not worth it,’ he said, walking off briskly to another table.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I said, looking across at Jamil. ‘Did you fuckin’ hear that? A two-bob waiter tells a two million pound player he’s not worth it. What’s this world coming to?’

  Jamil didn’t reply and instead pulled out a Papermate pen from his inside jacket pocket.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Just a little note for Zep. Somebody’s got to repair the damage. I’m going to invite him to the party.’

  ‘What, to Birthweek?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I’m not coming then,’ I said, opening the newspaper up again.

  ‘There’s always the other days when he’s not there.’

  Birthweek were the week-long celebration of Jamil’s disputed birth date. He were born in Rawalpindi and came to England at the age of four. His birth certificate and passport were four days apart in date of birth. His mother and father didn’t register him at the time and despite his efforts to find out the real date, he never could. So he plumped for a date in between the four days for the purposes of a UK p
assport. But for the purposes of celebration he decided Birthweek were the only genuine solution. This were a weekday-long, Monday to Friday, party – held at Jamil’s house – where each evening were used to celebrate his birthday. Flexibility, fun and five small birthday cakes, it usually stated on his invites. Now that he’d invited Zep though, it didn’t seem too appealing.

  There were a loud cheer in the living room and we rushed in from the back garden to see what had happened. Molly and I raced in through the open back door, stampeded through the kitchen and bundled into the living room to see Pearly and Mags smiling and looking satisfied. They were both sat on Jamil’s luxury beige carpet with their backs against the sofa, thrilled by what were unfolding on the TV.

  ‘What’s happened? asked Molly.

  ‘The England boss has been sacked,’ laughed Pearly. ‘It’s breaking news now.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Molly, with his hands on his hips. ‘We’ve qualified for the World Cup, why has he been sacked now?

  Mags took a long drag of his joint. ‘Because they can’t find him; he’s vanished.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ I asked.

  ‘They say he might have gone crying to his ex-wife. He couldn’t take the pressure.’

  ‘She won’t do him any good,’ said Pearly, deep in concentration as he tried to prepare his joint. ‘She’ll ruin what’s left of him.’

  Mags tutted and raised his joint in the air. ‘And this is our great captain, comrades. Hail to the chief.’

  Pearly didn’t answer and sprinkled some cannabis into his joint. He used the edge of a Silk Cut fag packet as a filter and rolled it up. He put the joint up to his mouth, lit it with his cheapo lighter and took a long, lingering drag.

  ‘So who’s gonna take the job now?’ asked Pearly.

  ‘Another foreigner, I hope,’ replied Mags, with a smile.

  ‘As long as it’s an Englishman,’ said Molly.

  ‘No fuckin’ way,’ said Pearly. ‘Anybody but another Swede or Italian. There’s too many Swedes around here anyway…’

  Mags shook his head and took another drag. ‘Same old Pearly, thought divorce might have made you a better citizen…anyway if it was up to me, I’d give a tabloid journalist the job. They seem to know everything.’

  The slightly dizzying, but sickly-sweet, smell of the cannabis were now swirling across the living room. I could hardly see the TV through the hazy, woolly smoke.

  ‘Do you have to smoke that in here?’ I said, wafting my hand without much success. ‘Does Jamil know about it?’

  ‘He had some before,’ said Mags. ‘Loosen up, man.’

  ‘You never know, you might enjoy it,’ said Pearly.

  I don’t think so, Skip. After spending years smelling the shite in my front room, I thought I’d try a bit to see what all the fuss were about. I were only 15 at the time but Eddie Brackstone had a sixteenth – what a stupid name for a drug – and were sharing it around the pupils behind the Chemistry lab. Everyone had taken a long drag and it got round to us. So I held the joint – a real fat bastard – in my hand and took a drag as long as the others. It seemed all right for a moment but then I inhaled and it felt as though my fairway throat had just become some thick ugly rough. I ran off grabbing my throat and coughing like a codger. Brackstone said I were a wuss, but I didn’t care. He works at Debenhams now, look at us.

  Jamil came into the room and stood by the door. ‘Gub’s ready guys,’ he said, shakily rubbing his forehead.

  ‘GUB!’ said Mags. ‘Have you had too much liquid…or is it the black magic?’

  Jamil stumbled into the living room and stood by the TV. ‘Fuck football,’ he said, and walked back towards the door.

  ‘Oi, it’s our living your insulting there,’ said Pearly. ‘And anyway, the England boss has been sacked.’

  Jamil stopped and walked back towards us. He stopped by the TV again and looked at the four of us. He then closed his eyes and screamed. ‘Lord Nelson, Lord Beaverbrook, Sir Winston Churchill, Sir Anthony Eden…’

  ‘What’s he on about?’ whispered Pearly, looking bemused.

  ‘His girlfriend’s Norwegian,’ I said.

  ‘…Clement Atlee, Henry Cooper, Lady Diana, Maggie Thatcher…’ continued Jamil, who seemed to be addressing a bigger audience than just us in the room. ‘…Your boys WILL take a hell of a beating.’

  ‘Stop it,’ screamed Mags,’ with his hands over his ears. ‘Norway is evil…’

  Jamil opened his eyes and smiled. ‘G-R-U-B is ready,’ he said. He walked towards Pearly and grabbed the joint out of his hand. He slowly wrapped his lips around it and took a drag. ‘This stuff provides all the answers. It’s what Lord Nelson was on…and Lord Beaver…Beaver who?’

  ‘Brook,’ said Molly.

  ‘I need some Beaver,’ said Jamil, suddenly feeling dizzy and falling to the floor.

  Most of the 25 people who turned up were sat at four oval-shaped tables with matching light blue chairs in Jamil’s spacious back garden. Their tables were packed with snack-filled paper plates, wine bottles, glasses and lager cans. All the snacks – light sandwiches, peanuts and crisps – were placed neatly on a single white table at the head of the guests.

  We made our way hurriedly towards the snack buffet. Mags were giggling and trying to control himself from attracting too much attention.

  ‘Bloody sarnies,’ huffed Pearly, filling his paper plate with sandwiches and crisps. ‘I need something more substantial.’

  ‘You could eat her over there,’ said Molly, picking up some peanuts from the tray and putting them straight into his mouth.

  ‘Who, that one at the front?’ said Pearly. ‘She looks like a les.’

  ‘Any one of those three, really,’ said Molly.

  ‘From Wags to witches,’ said Pearly.

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ I said.

  A couple of hours later, Pearly were cuddled up with Natasha on the sofa while Mags and Sara, who were sharing a can of Stella as well as a joint, were dancing – with their shoes off – on the unresponsive carpet. Molly had gone home because Kathy had wanted some Gripe Water for the baby. He called back asking us if we knew anywhere that were still open and Pearly said he knew but that it would take time. So Molly waited and Pearly put his mobile on his backside and farted down the phone. ‘Can you get some for me too, Molls,’ he said.

  We had to endure Jamil’s computer blurting out his playlist for the last hour and a half, while he were slumped against the wall near the front door. His favourite songs included Chesney Hawkes’ I am The One and Only, Julian Cope’s World Shut Your Mouth and Radiohead’s Creep but most of the time were taken up by a band called Royksopp. I hadn’t heard of most of them and had to go to the computer to find out who the singers were.

  There were a bottle of whisky, with no labels on it, to Jamil’s right which he picked up. It were about a third full and he got up, with difficulty, and slowly headed towards the computer. The last song were fading out and Jamil clicked on his mouse a couple of times. He turned to look at the rest of us and seemed to be waiting for the song to start.

  Thin Lizzy’s Whiskey in the Jar blasted into the living room and Jamil launched into the centre of the living room with his arms flailing. He opened the bottle of whisky, took a lengthy swig and then sung along ferociously. His face were twisted and passionate as he nearly barged into Sara and fell over. He kept his feet and seemed to be getting something out from his back pocket. He carried on singing, took another swig and brought out what looked like a piece of paper. He were now lost in the exuberant haze of the music; his eyes closed, his head looking up to the ceiling and his body bristling with energy. He stretched out his arms – the piece of paper in his left hand seemed to be a blank cheque – and his hands were clenched tight. The whisky bottle and blank cheque were on display now for all of us to see. His arms shook as he prepared for the pay-off. He started singing ‘Whiskey and the Giro…’ He didn’t open his eyes and subs
equently fell over because he’d put so much effort into his words. He lay on the floor, his head near Mags’s feet, and carried on singing. He writhed around on the carpet feeling every word; the sound of the guitar screeching into his soul.

  ‘Is he okay?’ said Pearly, after kissing Natasha on the cheek.

  ‘He’s just out of his head,’ said Mags. ‘Norweigans do that to you…’

  The song eventually came to the end and I walked over to the computer to stop the music. I walked towards the motionless Jamil lying on the floor. Elina came in from the kitchen and rushed towards us. She crouched over Jamil and stroked his forehead slowly. She tried to get the whisky bottle off him but it were gripped too tight.

  ‘Should have left Royksopp on,’ she said, turning to us.

  ‘What’s with the giro?’ I asked, managing to slip it from his fingers.

  ‘That and the bottle. I think they were the only two things he remembers about his father.’

  Jamil mumbled something and his lips almost tasted the carpet as he lay on his side.

  ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘360,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m Mr 360.’

  I turned to Elina for help. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  Laura rolled her eyes. ‘365 days in the year, five days off that and what do you have?’

  ‘360…’ mumbled Jamil, slightly raising his head. ‘…360, I’m whole…I’m complete…I’m fully-rounded…you might have one degree, I’ve got them all.’

  ‘I think this Birthweek stuff might be a bad idea,’ I said.

  ‘He loves it,’ said Elina. ‘But as we’re going on holiday next week, you might have a point.’

  I got up and felt a tweak in my right knee. Mags and Sara were sat on the floor laughing and joking. Pearly and Natasha were lying on the sofa kissing; Pearly were on top and had Natasha in the tightest clench imaginable. I walked towards the front door and stopped a moment. I turned and saw Elina kiss Jamil on the cheek. I carried on walking through the open front door. As I stepped out, I savoured the freshness of the air, leaving the booze and smoke-infected pad behind. My car were parked on the opposite side of the road. There were only one thing on my mind as took out my car keys: First Frames.