The humiliation of it. The humiliation of it. She was drunk, he was drunk, they were both as drunk as bishops. She had dashed to her car to grab a pashmina and he had accompanied her with a folding brolly (where had he got that from?). On the way back they found themselves shortcutting through a flowerbed, lost, effectively, in the grounds, and one of the heels of her Manolos became hopelessly embedded in the mud, and, as the wedding music mewed somewhere in the background, they found themselves alone and laughing crazily in the bushes, and before she knew it they were lip-to-lip, and tongue-to-tongue – such was their desperation and intoxication – and he was muttering something about a quickie, his words slurred as his mouth was pushed to the side against her cheek, and her hands were inside his shirt against his body in the rain, and with some surprise she saw that her breasts were out and scooped in his large pink palms, and then, beneath a waterfalling tree, she dropped to her knees in the mud, and in a drunken swirl in which the world rolled around her like Plasticine, she took his weight in her mouth and sucked him off.
Afterwards, sobered by the act, they cleaned themselves off as best they could. Shauna felt foolish and ashamed. Still ‘Raspberry Beret’ played on. Hodgy begged her not to tell anyone, and that made it all the worse; he had a girlfriend, he told her now, and if she were to breathe a word of this to anybody she could single-handedly ruin the lives of so many people. Muddied and sullied, they made their way to the marquee separately and sneaked in on opposite sides of the tent. But somebody somehow had spied them, and the gossip had already – already! – circulated. Everybody knew. And did that stop her? Did it make her bow out, cut her losses, slink off home? Did it fuck.
This can’t go on, thought Shauna. This abominable thirst, this headache. This hangover, this life. She could be at home by now, drinking sparkling water and lime, popping paracetamol, running a bath. She could be drinking a peppermint tea. Damn it, so she should be. She shouldn’t be here. More sirens, more lights, whipping past on the hard shoulder, premonitions embodied. She tilted her seat backwards a little, as if that would ease the pain. If this went on much longer she’d have to get out, hope for the best, find somewhere she could buy some pills, some water. Take a piss. She raised herself onto her elbows and could see no sign of civilisation. It was chucking it down, anyway. She would wait it out, or try to. This jam simply couldn’t go on for too much longer. Somebody somewhere must be doing something to sort it, to clear – whatever it was. She shuddered to think. Was that a helicopter? It was so difficult to tell with the noise of the rain. She passed her dry tongue across her dry lips, swallowed with some effort, pinched her eyes tight. She knew then, huddled by herself in the darkness and shadows in the middle lane of a frozen Orbital, cradled in the impersonal embrace of an indifferent universe, that she hadn’t put that curse on Seedie and Chloe all those years ago. She had put it on herself.
She slept, and when she came to her senses the rain had stopped. Her bladder was fit to burst, and she was cold. She stepped out into the fresh air and slammed the door behind her. The squall had moved on. She slipped between bumpers, through the lanes of traffic, and across the hard shoulder to the barrier; there she crossed paths with Hsiao May, and for reasons largely physiological – on Shauna’s part at least – they shared just a comradely nod. Then, concentrating on keeping her bladder clenched, she made her way up the hill towards the copse.
She was so focused on reaching her goal that she didn’t notice the figure standing in the shadows of the trees until she had almost bumped into it. A movement of the hand alerted her to its presence; she jumped, almost overbalanced, let out a yelp.
‘Don’t be scared,’ came a voice. ‘Sorry. Sorry. It’s just me.’
She cast her eyes into the shadows, and at the same time Monty stepped out. He looked tired, dishevelled, and had a slightly otherworldly expression, like somebody awoken freshly from a dream.
‘Monty?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘What . . . what are you doing here?’
‘How shall I put it? How shall I put it?’
‘Call of nature?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too.’
‘Not exactly glamorous,’ said Monty. ‘Anyway, I don’t think I even know your name.’
‘Shauna. Do you want to know my last name?’
‘Why would I want to know that?’
‘I don’t know. You might want to send me a letter or something.’
‘A letter? Who sends letters any more?’
‘I don’t know. Look me up on Facebook, then.’
‘I’m not on Facebook.’
‘Nor am I. Lawyer, you know.’
‘You’re a lawyer?’
‘For my sins.’
‘At least you’re not a banker.’
‘No. More’s the pity.’
‘Oh?’
‘They earn a darn sight more than people like me.’
‘True.’
‘Sorry,’ said Shauna, ‘this is great but I’m desperate for the loo. That is, loo in the most general sense.’
Monty flushed. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
‘You’re lucky being a bloke. Women need more coverage. And tissues and things.’
‘Well, avoid that spot just over there. Three trees back.’
‘Why . . . oh.’
He laughed, awkwardly. Shauna made her way into the copse, and found an appropriate spot. Here and there she could see movement in the trees, figures moving furtively in the shadows, but she was not afraid. This was the loo of the motorway, she thought. And anyway, Monty was there.
But when she emerged from the copse, he was nowhere to be seen.
The beautiful game
It was an hour after midnight. People were snuggling up as best they could. A light, cloudlike drizzle passed without becoming rain, and the motorway was shimmering again. Ursula, having woken briefly, had returned to her sleep, her coat bunched against her cheek; beside her, Max sat in silence. Jim, in the cab of his van, now lay sprawled across the seats, his forearm over his eyes. Popper lay in the reclined front seat of his Golf, looking up at the constellations of stars that could vaguely be seen beyond the orange lights, beyond the clouds. Chris was sound asleep and snoring like a child; Rhys was looking idly out of the window, wondering where Monty had got to, beginning to feel a little tired now. Shauna’s car sat empty. Hsiao May and Harold, in their separate vehicles, were reading by the overhead lights. In the battered Ford estate, Dave, Stevie and Natalie slouched in various states of consciousness, too stoned to make the effort to contrive a pillow or a blanket.
All were contending with the cold, which seemed to grow around them like a living thing. Some huddled into jumpers and coats, some turned on the engine to get a blast of heat, and some mused on the urban myth that it would be best to have a candle, because candles give disproportionate amounts of heat in an enclosed space.
And with that distinctive sharp thunk, a football struck the tarmac of no-man’s-land, the deserted southbound carriageway of the M25.
Cushioning the ball expertly on the bridge of his foot as it came down and commencing a fluid dribble across the lanes, Shahid wondered whether this could be the first ever time the motorway had been graced by the magic of a football. Probably. He dragged the ball around his body, spun, continued, a seamless emulation of Ronaldinho. When he reached the other side he executed a step-over dummy and stopped, foot atop the ball; he wasn’t even slightly out of breath. He looked back over his shoulder. Kabir was crabstepping wide with his hand up, as if preparing to receive a high ball. Mo – typical Mo – was warming up, alternating between stretching his calf muscles and jogging on the spot, his eyes fixed on the ball as if it was the only thing of interest in the world. They both looked tiny, back-dropped by the columns of traffic, the dim hills behind, the black night overhead. Shahid scanned the line of cars, and for a moment could not locate his own. Or rather, his grandfather’s. But then he saw it, nestling humbly, inconspicuously
, amid newer and shinier models, a beaten-up, ancient Peugeot estate, not eccentric enough to be interesting, not new enough to be decent. Like his grandfather himself. Shahid was ashamed to be driving it. That car which still smelled of goat and spice, underpinned by the pungent scent of the ornament on the rear-view mirror, which was engraved with the names of Allah and filled with perfumed Othr. Shahid’s father had left the world of his own father behind, gone up to Oxford, and from there to the Guardian. Shahid himself was even further removed. But the car remained, an echo of a former time, an ancestor that refused to die.
But Shahid was no longer in the car. He was on the M25, a football at his feet, his two best friends jogging out before him like Redskin scouts, and despite the shittiness of his life he felt at peace. Suddenly pumped with exhilaration after the stress of the day, which had been compounded by sitting in this ridiculous traffic, Shahid threw his head back and laughed.
They threw down hoodies for goalposts and began a kick-around. Shahid started off in goal. From his spot between the posts he could allow his eyes to wander all along the great phalanx of traffic, and everywhere he saw pale, pale faces watching. A sour taste crept into his mouth. Fuck you, knobheads, he thought. He could challenge them all to a game, he could take them all on. He picked up the ball and booted it high into the air; it had bounced twice before either of his friends could bring it under control. He turned his head and spat, and for a moment saw a ghostly face in the front seat of the white van – that psycho who had come for the crisps. Fuck him, he thought. Fuck him.
Today had all been his fault. To begin with, it was a dream come true. When the scout came down to watch London APSA train several weeks ago, when he offered Shahid his card and asked him to come up for a trial, he had not been able to believe it. Chelsea? Chelsea? You’re lying, brah. Serious. This is bare lies. But it hadn’t been. It had been the truth.
Excited, and without properly thinking it through, he told his parents.
‘Dad, Mum,’ he said, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, beaming as if he was about to break news of his engagement. They both looked up: his father was tamping down espresso coffee into the wand of his coffee machine; his mother was writing something on the magnetic calendar on the fridge. The late afternoon light was casting them in partial silhouette, creating halos around their heads. His mother lowered her pen. His father raised his eyebrows and ran a hand through his mane of hair.
Shahid took a breath. ‘I’ve been offered a trial at Chelsea.’
‘Chelsea?’ said his father.
‘Yes, Chelsea. The Blues.’
‘A trial?’ said his mother.
‘Yes, Mum, yes. Chelsea.’
‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ she said.
Then his father’s eyebrows knitted low and he walked purposefully, once, around the table, coming to rest with steepled fingers in the exact spot he had previously vacated, in front of the coffee machine. He took his iPhone out of his pocket, began polishing the screen. His mother slipped the end of the pen into her mouth, pondered, carried on writing.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said his father, ‘this is brilliant news. Brilliant news. You must be over the moon.’
‘Yes, Dad, I am. Just got to give it my best shot.’
‘You know we’ll stand behind you, whatever you do.’
‘I know.’
‘So.’ He put his iPhone back in his pocket, and with all eight of his fingers he scratched his trim beard. Then he returned them to their steepled position.
‘Yes, we’re right behind you,’ said his mother softly, still writing on the calendar. ‘But you’ve got to listen to us as well.’
‘I am listening.’
‘We don’t want you to give up on university for this.’
‘Mum . . .’
‘We’re all for you giving it a go, a proper go, but we don’t want you to close down your options.’
‘It’s football, Mum. You can’t do it by halves.’
‘You’re still young, Shahid. We can’t have you giving up on your life before it’s even started.’
‘Everyone knows I’m the best player on our team.’
‘The London All Peoples’ Sports Association.’
‘London APSA, Mum. London APSA.’
‘All-Asian.’
‘But I’m good enough to play mainstream. I’m good enough for the Premiership. At least, I will be one day. They scouted me.’
‘It’s an amazing achievement, and I’m so proud. Like I said, we’re all for you pursuing your dreams. But a lot of people are scouted.’
‘No, they’re not. Barely anyone is. This is Chelsea. It means I’m bloody good.’ Shahid felt stupid saying all of these things that should never be said so plainly, and he flushed.
‘And if you don’t make it?’
‘I will.’
‘I believe in you. But if you get injured, say?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll do something else.’
‘What something else will you do? Without a university degree?’
‘I’m not going to fail, Mum.’
‘But if you do?’
‘I won’t.’
‘You might.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You’ll at least need something to fall back on.’
She pressed the pen into a bolus of Blu-Tak on the fridge, and exchanged a glance with her husband.
‘You’re a clever boy,’ he said. Somehow he had walked back around the table without Shahid noticing, and was now sitting with elbows askance, hands folded. The light danced on his grey-flecked hair. ‘The world is at your feet, and not only the world of football. You’re on track for some sterling A-level grades. You could go to any university you choose. Oxford might be an option. Everyone was very impressed when you did work experience at the Guardian. Your mother and I . . . we just want what’s best for you. If you get off the racetrack now, there’d be no knowing whether you can get back on again.’
‘A chance like this doesn’t come along very often, Dad.’
‘I know. You’re doing brilliantly. But you still need something to fall back on. Like Mum said, you might get injured.’
‘Dad, I’m not going to fail.’
‘Football is one of the most unstable professions around. I’m not trying to be pessimistic, just realistic.’
‘It’s difficult to get in to the Guardian, Dad. But you made it, didn’t you?’
‘Sure. But I got my degree. If it hadn’t worked out, I could have done something else. Look, you’re a lucky boy, Shahid. We’re offering to pay your tuition fees with no questions asked. You don’t share many of the worries and pressures that a lot of young people face today. The world is at your feet.’
Shahid said nothing. All his life, his parents had been pushing him. On principle he had been sent to the local comprehensive, but his education had been supplemented by countless private lessons. His father in particular had been constantly on his back for as long as he could remember, trying to instil in him the ambition to succeed in a different kind of world. Out of nowhere, he felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up into his father’s glasses, saw himself lensed upside-down within them. Behind him, his mother was rooting around in the fridge.
‘If I don’t give it my all, I might as well not bother,’ he said.
‘Take it from me, Shahid,’ his father replied. ‘Don’t throw away your studies. Don’t throw away your life. You can still play football as much as you like when you are at university. That would be the best way. Do it for the love of it.’
‘So you’re saying I shouldn’t go to the trial?’
‘Of course I’m not. You can’t pass up on something like that. I’m just talking about university.’
‘What about Zesh Rehman?’ said Shahid. ‘He’s played at the highest level.’
‘I know,’ said his father. He drew a breath, exhaled, dropped his arm from the shoulder of his son.
Kabir aimed a playful, looping shot from his position
on the deserted southbound fast lane. Shahid stepped to the left and caught it, then spun and tossed it neatly to Mo’s feet. Mo, from the far side of the middle lane, screwed in a low drive, but again Shahid was too quick; he trapped it dead beneath the sole of his trainer, flicked it into the air, and booted a high ball back out to Kabir. He tried to bring it down on his chest but muffed it, and the ball caromed away across the tarmac. He shrugged, turned and jogged after it. Shahid, both feet on the boundary with the hard shoulder, jogged on the spot and grinned.
It was good to be out in the open, after sitting in the traffic jam, after the long and tortuous car journey, after the hellish Chelsea trial. Shahid secretly suspected that his parents’ lack of enthusiasm had jinxed it. That’s how it had felt at the training ground in Cobham – as if he had been cursed. A disaster. But fuck, he had thought about it enough, they had talked about it enough, and now he just wanted a kick-around. Let off some steam. Try to take his mind off this nasty weight, this dull ache that sat inside him like a parasite. The ball flew towards him from Mo’s trainer, and Shahid trapped it without difficulty. Aggressively, he booted it into the heavens. It hung there for a moment, a circle of starless sky.
Jam Page 13
