Noah caressed the ball with the outside of his right boot, sending it on a gentle parabola. It curled round the outstretched foot of the full-back and into the space between the two central defenders. Jim Reynolds, the lightning-fast striker, had seen his teammate play a through ball like this before. Even though they disliked each other in real life, on the pitch they had a great understanding. Reynolds had started his run as soon as he’d seen Noah look up.
The centre-backs were slow to turn and Jim already had a couple of metres on them when the ball landed ahead of him, just in the right spot to take it in his stride. He cushioned it with his instep. Jim was in the penalty area with only the keeper to beat when Noah felt studs crunch into his ankle. There was a flash of nerve-shredding pain as his leg went from under him. For a second he was airborne and had a moment to consider the ugly, cold darkness of the sky, before he returned to earth with a splash as he landed in a puddle of dirty, icy-cold water. He heard the cheers of his teammates as Jim took the ball round the keeper and tapped it into the empty net.
‘Get up. I barely touched you.’
Noah pulled down his sock and glanced at the six red stud marks on his ankle before turning his attention to his assailant. The defender was even more intimidating close up. He stood above Noah, leaning forward until Noah could clearly see the white pimple on the end of his square chin. The rest of his face appeared to have reddened up a notch, as if it was going to explode at any moment.
‘Did you hear me? I told you to get up, you diving, whingeing, mammy’s boy.’
Noah was used to being targeted in matches. He was one of the danger players, one to watch, which meant he spent half his time on the pitch getting kicked black and blue. He usually responded by partaking in some sneaky revenge when the ref wasn’t looking – a little kick here, a sly dig there. He wasn’t going to do anything now though, no matter how much he was provoked. There was too much at stake.
‘I won’t tell you a third time, you sh—’
‘Take it easy,’ Noah said.
‘What did you call me?’
The alarm bells went off in Noah’s head. He hadn’t called him anything. The big bruiser was looking for a fight.
‘If I wanted to call you something, I would have, but I didn’t, so back off,’ Noah said.
‘Get him, Brick,’ someone shouted.
‘Your name is Brick?’
‘Yeah, what’s it to you?’
‘Nothing, but your friends must really hate you if they call you Brick. It rhymes with too many things,’ Noah said.
‘Like what?’
Noah struggled to his feet as the referee peep-peep-peeped on his whistle. Brick must have figured out one of the rhymes because the next thing Noah saw was his opponent’s fleshy fist hurtling towards him. And then all hell broke loose.
Name: Noah Murphy
Nickname: None really. Sometimes people call me Moses. You can probably figure out why.
Age: 12
Position: Central midfield, but as long as I get a game I don’t mind where I play.
Team you play for: St Killian’s is my school team. I used to play for CC United, which was the only football club in town, but it closed down last year so now it’s schools’ football or nothing.
Training schedule: St Killian’s train on Wednesday evenings, but I do a lot of extra training myself. For the last few months, I’ve been getting up at 6 a.m. on school mornings to practise shooting with both feet and to improve my touch. I usually do that for an hour or two. I do a few exercises as well to improve my speed and spring. I don’t eat sweets or any sugary stuff, and I make sure I eat plenty of fruit and drink lots of water. Three times a week I go jogging around the local football pitch. When I get the chance to use the internet, I go on YouTube and watch a lot of football videos to learn new skills.
Player you’re most like: Fàbregas, I think.
Favourite player: Arjen Robben. He’s outstanding.
Favourite goal: Zlatan’s goal against FC Breda. Look it up on YouTube. It’s amazing.
Messi or Ronaldo: Messi
CHAPTER TWO
‘The Baggio brothers, of course, are not related’
George Hamilton
‘Wow, that eye’s going to look fantastic tomorrow,’ Stevie said chirpily.
Noah’s left eye had swelled up. A ragged fingernail scratch ran down one cheek and even though he’d had a shower after the match there was still a smear of caked blood beneath his nose.
‘It’s already turned into quite a shiner,’ Stevie continued, ‘and that mark on your face looks pretty sore too.’
Noah had left the dressing room to find Stevie waiting for him outside, just as he’d expected. The rain had eased off to a drizzle, but his friend was still in his oil slickers and hat. His mother had told him not to get wet, and unlike most of their classmates Stevie usually did what he was told.
‘I’m fine,’ Noah said, sounding a little more surly than he meant to.
He was still annoyed at having been sent off. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong, but the referee wouldn’t listen. There had been seven punches thrown and he’d been on the receiving end of each of them. They’d hurt too. Brick might not be much of a footballer, but he could certainly throw a solid right-hander.
They strolled out of the changing rooms, which were tucked in beside the football pitch at the back of the school grounds, then walked past the school itself and down the long driveway that led to the front gates. There was no one else around. Most people didn’t need a second invitation to go home once the school day was over.
‘I’ve got some fantastic footage of the fight. Want to see it?’ Stevie asked.
‘Much as I’d love to see myself getting beaten up, I think I’ll wait till later to have a look. What did you say to that man?’
‘The scout?’
Upon hearing the word ‘scout’, Noah felt a flutter in his stomach. It was a mixture of nerves and excitement.
‘He told me to go away and stop annoying him, but everybody says I annoy them so I wasn’t going to let that hold me back,’ Stevie said. He anticipated Noah’s next question. ‘He didn’t actually say he was a scout, but he definitely was. No doubt about it. He was writing stuff about you and it’s not like we get journalists covering our matches.’
‘Did you see what he wrote?’
‘I barely came up to his elbow so I couldn’t really make too much of it out, but I definitely saw your shirt number and the letters EXC were right beside it.’
‘EXC? What does that mean?’
‘It means he was writing something good about you. A word beginning with EXC has to be good news. I mean what are the options? Excellent. Exciting. Exceptional?’ Stevie grinned.
As hard as he tried, Noah couldn’t think of any other words.
‘There is excruciating, of course,’ Stevie said, his grin fading. ‘Like excruciatingly bad, but it’s highly unlikely he wrote that down. And there’s a word that means poop, but surely he wouldn’t . . .’ Stevie blushed.
‘I hope he doesn’t blame me for that stupid fight like the referee did. If he tells his club I’m a troublemaker they’ll never give me a trial,’ Noah said.
They walked along in silence for a couple of minutes before Noah spoke again.
‘Thanks for the effort, Stevie, but you shouldn’t have gone up to him. Your mum probably wouldn’t like it if she knew you’d been talking to a stranger.’
‘Wouldn’t like it? Hello? Have you met my parents? They only warn me about the dangers of the world fifty times a day. Don’t talk to strangers, Stevie. Don’t drink milk after the best-before date, Stevie. Last week they said: Don’t go out without sunscreen, Stevie. Sunscreen? It was raining.’
Noah smiled. Poor Stevie had the strictest parents ever. Still, he wouldn’t have minded that. He wouldn’t have minded at all. Sometimes Stevie didn’t realize how lucky he was.
‘Anyway, you don’t need to worry about me,’ Stevie said. �
��I took a picture of the car he came in, wrote down the car registration then took a secret photo of him on my tablet and emailed all the details to my own account so that if I do go missing the authorities will know who to look for.’
The littered streets were still slick with rain when Noah took a turn Stevie hadn’t expected. They usually carried on until the end of Shoulders’ Lane where Stevie went left and on towards his estate, which was by far the nicest one in town.
‘Hey, you’re going the wrong way,’ he called.
‘I’m meeting Simone. Today’s shopping day,’ Noah said. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Stevie gave him the thumbs up. ‘I’ll have all the match stats ready for you,’ he shouted after him.
There was a solitary girl standing by the gates of St Mary’s school, but it wasn’t Noah’s sister. He’d never seen this particular girl before. She looked a little lost. She had fair hair and a nose that was slightly too long for her face. He would hardly have noticed her at all if she hadn’t been wearing a replica football shirt over her green school uniform. Noah knew his football jerseys, but it still took him a few moments to recognize the team because it was such an unusual one to see around these parts. It was from MLS, the American league. Columbus Crew. Yellow with some black stripes.
The girl caught him staring at her. She seemed to take it as a challenge and stared back.
‘Nice jersey,’ Noah said.
‘Nice black eye,’ the girl replied.
A sleek maroon car approached, pulling up to the kerb with a whoosh. The passenger door opened and the girl jumped in. As the car took off, Noah found himself waving goodbye. He didn’t know why he did it and he knew it looked odd, especially when he saw the girl shake her head at him as if she felt sorry for someone who was so obviously pathetic.
He made his way into the school and strode down the empty corridor checking each classroom in turn for his sister until he heard voices coming from the last room on the left.
Simone was dressed in her cleaner’s uniform of baggy overalls, and when Noah reached the door she was on her hands and knees scrubbing the linoleum floor, doing her best to remove an ink stain that had proven to be extremely stubborn.
Before the hello had left his lips, Noah saw two final-year girls approach her from the back of the otherwise empty class. One, with red hair, had a wastepaper basket clasped between her freckled fingers. The other, taller girl, was blonde and tanned, and carried herself with an astonishing degree of self-importance. She was Jacinta Hegarty, Noah’s school principal’s daughter. Noah didn’t know her very well, but he’d seen enough to know she wasn’t a nice person.
‘You know, I really admire you, Simone. I don’t think I’d be able to your job,’ Jacinta said in a voice that sounded sweet but was filled with nastiness. ‘Not that I ever would, of course. I mean, cleaning up someone else’s mess? That’s got to be humiliating.’
She turned to her companion and knocked the wastepaper basket from her hand. The contents – a tuna sandwich, some crumpled copybook pages and a half-finished pink Slurpee drink – fell to the floor. The thick Slurpee spread slowly across the surface of the lino.
‘Ah, Fiona, look what you’ve done now,’ Jacinta said reproachfully. ‘And just after Simone had done such a good job cleaning the floors.’
Noah couldn’t hold back. ‘You did that deliberately,’ he cried. ‘Clean it up yourself.’
‘It’s OK, Noah,’ Simone said evenly. ‘I’ve got it.’
Jacinta Hegarty turned her gaze on Noah. She looked him up and down, and from the unpleasant expression on her face Noah guessed she didn’t approve of what she saw. He didn’t care what she thought. No one treated his sister like that.
‘You’ve brought your own little pet bodyguard. Isn’t that sweet?’ Jacinta said. She sniffed the air. ‘Whoa, he stinks. If you’re too poor to buy soap and groom him, Simone, you could at least tell him to wash himself with some of those detergents on your cleaning cart. I won’t tell Mrs Power you’re taking them for your personal use. It’ll be our little secret.’
Noah’s face was almost purple with rage. If Hegarty had been a boy, he was certain he’d have punched her on the nose by now.
‘Jacinta Hegarty and Fiona Quigley! What are you two still doing here at this hour? You don’t come in on time in the morning and you won’t go home in the evening. Clear out now or I’ll give you some work that’ll keep you here until ten o’clock tonight.’
The woman who had appeared at the door was the St Mary’s principal, Mrs Power, a stick-thin woman with long, black hair. Her words had an immediate effect and the two girls grabbed their schoolbags and scarpered from the classroom as quickly as they could.
Mrs Power sighed and turned to Simone. ‘That girl is turning out to be just as bad as her father. The last thing this town needs is another Hega—’
She stopped mid-sentence when she saw Noah. He was still annoyed, but his rage was slowly subsiding.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked him.
‘That’s my brother, Noah,’ Simone said, getting to her feet. ‘I asked him to meet me here.’
‘What happened to your face?’ Mrs Power asked.
‘Oh. It’s nothing,’ he mumbled. ‘I fell.’
‘It must have been a spectacular fall. What class are you in, Noah?’
Mrs Power spat the question at him. She was being nice, but she had a sharp way of being nice, and it unnerved him. He felt as if he was being interrogated and a wave of guilt washed over him even though he hadn’t committed any crime.
‘Mr Moran’s class,’ he said.
‘Getting top marks like your sister always did, I hope.’
‘Not always,’ Noah mumbled. Never was a more accurate answer. He was a solid C student.
‘Well, study harder, then,’ she said.
After he’d answered enough questions to satisfy her curiosity, Mrs Power strode back to her office in double-quick time, moving with the speed of someone with one hundred things to do, but only enough time to complete ninety-nine of them.
Noah spent the next few minutes helping Simone clean up the spilled Slurpee. Once she’d finished her work, they left the school and went to the supermarket at the end of town, only a couple of hundred metres from the terraced house they called home.
Shopping was the least favourite of Noah’s chores because it meant he got to see shelves of delicious and tempting food they couldn’t really afford. Noah had been lost in thought on the walk to the supermarket. Simone was the sort of person who always stood up for herself. He’d never imagined that she’d let someone talk to her the way that Hegarty girl had. He wasn’t planning on saying anything, but suddenly found himself blurting out the words as Simone was trying to choose between two different brands of tomato ketchup.
‘Why did you let her away with it?’
‘I need the job, Noah,’ she said.
‘But—’
‘No buts. I need the job. I can’t afford to have any complaints made against me so I’m going to keep my mouth shut and just keep working.’ She placed the cheaper bottle of ketchup in her basket and turned to her brother. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened to your face this time?’
‘I got in a fight.’
‘What did I tell you about fighting?’ she continued.
‘That it’s fun and I should do more of it.’
She gave him a withering look.
‘It’s not that bad,’ he said. ‘Anyway, you should see the other guy.’
‘What did you do to him?’
‘Nothing. He hasn’t got a scratch on him. I took your advice. I didn’t react at all. That’s not easy, you know.’
‘You really didn’t lay a finger on him?’ she asked. Her voice was filled with suspicion.
‘I’m telling you, Simone, he looks better now than he did before. Punching my face gave him a really good workout. He had a very healthy glow afterwards.’
She grabbed him by the chin and twisted his h
ead left and right to assess the damage. One or two of the nosier shoppers began to look in their direction. Noah tried to break free, embarrassed by the attention, but his sister had a grip like a steel clamp.
‘So, who was it this time? Another argument with Jim Reynolds?’
‘No.’
‘One of the McCooleys?’
‘If I’d fought a McCooley, I’d be in a body bag right now.’
‘Who was it, then?’ Simone asked.
‘A guy called Brick,’ Noah said.
‘Fighting people isn’t enough for you, huh? Now you’ve moved on to inanimate objects.’
The outside of the Murphy home had seen better days and those better days had been quite some time ago. The house was in need of several coats of paint and the tiny front garden had more weeds than lawn. Dad was the one who’d always kept it tidy.
As the dull grey of the afternoon transformed into the slightly duller grey of the evening, Noah sat in his small and, it has to be said, messy bedroom. The posters on the walls were of footballers from a variety of different clubs. Unlike almost every other football fan in the world, Noah didn’t follow any team in particular. He loved the game, not the clubs.
He was still annoyed by the fight with Brick, but more annoyed by the way in which that Hegarty girl had treated his sister. He got to his feet and lifted the mattress with his left hand, reaching underneath it with his right, fingers moving along the bed springs until they located what he was looking for.
Technically, it wasn’t even Noah’s notebook. It had belonged to his mother. He had found it when they were clearing out an old wardrobe a few months after she’d died. There were pictures of the 1980s pop stars Duran Duran on the cover. He opened it up and flicked past the pages she’d filled in over the years – names of songs she liked, phone numbers of friends in college, a glued-in picture of Simone as a baby and then a small sketch she’d done of Noah playing football in the back garden when he was only five or six. Underneath she’d written the words My Mighty Dynamo. He ran his fingers across the page, but then, just as the image of her face popped into his head, he thumbed through a few more pages until he found the one he was looking for.
The Mighty Dynamo Page 2
