The decor was unpleasant – harsh lighting and an almost industrial quantity of plastic – but it was still the nicest thing about the place. Maggie ordered a burger while Stevie ordered a diet cola and Noah a bottle of water, the only thing on the menu he could afford until Simone got paid or his father sent on some more of his wages. The bottled water was cheap because Jack filled the bottles from his kitchen tap.
‘Why aren’t you two eating? Watching your figures?’Maggie asked.
‘I don’t like burgers,’ Stevie said.
‘They’re not healthy,’ Noah said.
‘So?’
‘If it’s not good for the body, then it’s not good for my game,’ Noah replied, a little haughtily.
‘Burgers are good. Eating them makes me happy. When I’m happy, I play well. When I play well, I’m one of the best players in the world.’
‘Thanks for telling me. I’d forget you were one of the best players in the world if you didn’t keep reminding me every ten minutes.’
Stevie tried to hide his grin by covering his mouth with his hand, but the glare Maggie gave him made him aware that he hadn’t succeeded.
‘Burger’ll be another few seconds. Take a seat,’ Jack drawled.
They settled on a spot near the back of the room, just a couple of tables up from the door. They sat down and made themselves as comfortable as possible on chairs that seemed to have been designed to produce the maximum amount of discomfort in the body of a human being. Noah decided it was time for a second attempt at being charming.
‘Are you a Crew fan or a Revolution fan?’ he asked.
‘Neither. I don’t support any team in general. I just like football,’ Maggie said. ‘My mom’s American so half my family lives over there. My Uncle Scott travels around the States on business and every time he goes to a city with an MLS franchise he sends me home a jersey.’
‘So how many jerseys have you got?’
‘Ten, maybe twelve,’ she said with a shrug.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Stevie said. ‘But at present we only have two players for our team. We need twelve more and we need them by Friday evening, which is now approximately twenty-four and a half hours away.’
‘Why do we need them so quickly?’ Maggie asked.
‘That’s the tournament entry deadline.’
‘Twenty-four and a half hours? To find twelve players? And we’re sitting around here like saps talking about football shirts?’
They heard a PING.
‘Microwave,’ Stevie said. ‘Your burger’s done.’
Maggie chuckled for a moment, before stopping dead. ‘You’re joking, right? He doesn’t cook them fresh?’
‘Look around you, Maggie. Does this place look like it’s one of those gourmet burger establishments?’ Stevie said.
‘Burger up,’ Jack grunted from behind the counter.
Maggie began to rise from her seat.
‘Stay where you are,’ Noah said. ‘The burger comes to you.’
Jack threw the burger, wrapped in white paper, across the chip shop. It was high and wide. It sailed over Maggie’s head and outstretched arm. A hand flew out, reflexes like a rattlesnake, and caught it before it hit the ground.
‘Great save,’ Maggie said.
Noah and Stevie turned round and spotted the catcher. They looked at each other. They recognized the owner of that tough mug immediately.
‘McCooley,’ they said at the same moment.
‘Throw it back to me,’ Maggie said.
Kevin McCooley grunted. Jack’s grunt was mellow, McCooley’s was full of untamed menace. He was sitting by himself. There was no drink or food on the table in front of him. Slowly, with his eyes firmly locked on Maggie’s, he unwrapped the burger and took a huge bite.
‘Hey, that’s mine!’ she shouted.
A hush came over the other tables. There was a sharp intake of breath. Jack would have ducked behind the counter if it hadn’t been too much of an effort. Instead, he decided to go to the back of the shop, suddenly intent on finding something in the stock room.
‘What are you doing?’ Stevie hissed at Maggie. ‘That’s Kevin McCooley.’
‘He’s eating my burger.’
‘I’ll buy you two burgers, three if you want them, if you just back down and say nothing. That’s Kevin McCooley.’
‘That’s twice you’ve told me his name. I don’t care what he’s called. He stole my burger and he’s not going to get away with it.’
She took a stride forward, but Stevie grabbed her arm. She stared down at his hand. Her eyes burned with the heat of a two-thousand-degree fire.
‘Stevie, you shouldn’t have grabbed her arm. That was a mistake,’ Noah said.
‘Yes, I realize that now,’ Stevie squeaked, not daring to look up at Maggie.
‘Then why are you still holding it?’ Noah asked.
‘I don’t know.’
McCooley took another bite of the burger. He chewed slowly, extravagantly. He wasn’t far off patting his belly and making Mmmmmm noises to show how delicious he found it. He was really rubbing it in.
‘Listen, Maggie, I know you’re new around here,’ Noah whispered, checking over his shoulder to make sure that McCooley didn’t hear what he was saying. ‘But that lad is tough. Not hard-but-fair tough, scary tough. He got bitten by a dog once, a Rottweiler. You know what he did? He bit the dog back.’
Maggie uncurled Stevie’s fingers from her arm one by one. ‘So what? I’m not afraid of him.’
She said it loudly, loudly enough for McCooley and the rest of the quivering population of Dee’s Diner to hear.
‘Then there’s something seriously wrong with you. Because you should be. You should be very, very afraid.’
McCooley took the third and final bite of the burger. He chewed it up, then let out a belch of victory.
Maggie stormed forward. She slammed the palms of her hands on McCooley’s table. There were several clicks and flashes as people from some of the other tables began to video and photograph the unfolding events.
McCooley looked up at Maggie. A slow grin spread across his flat face. Bits of mashed-up burger were stuck to his teeth. He took a bent and twisted paper clip from his pocket and picked at the bits of food.
‘You’re disgusting,’ Maggie said.
Noah arrived at her shoulder. He balled his hands up into fists. Fists that were trembling more than he’d have liked, but fists nonetheless.
‘Stop crowding me, Noah,’ she said. ‘Now you, Burger Boy. Why did you eat it?’
‘Hungry.’
For the first time since he’d encountered McCooley six months earlier, Noah thought he saw a glimpse of something else beneath the terrifying mask.
‘I don’t care. Buy me another one,’ Maggie said.
McCooley growled. It was a deep, low rumbling at the back of his throat. Little Stevie took a hit on his inhaler.
‘This is bad, this is bad,’ he wheezed.
Some of the other customers tried to shuffle their tables out of the way. They found to their dismay that they were bolted down. McCooley got to his feet, still growling.
‘You don’t intimidate me,’ Maggie said.
McCooley lurched forward. ‘Boo.’
Maggie and Noah jumped back as Little Stevie ducked beneath the table. McCooley chuckled to himself and turned and walked out of Dee’s, pausing briefly to grab a handful of chips from another table. He stuffed them into his mouth before he swaggered out into the street.
‘It’s safe to come out now,’ Maggie said.
Stevie peeped out from beneath the table. ‘What? Heh, heh. You make it sound like I was hiding. Not at all. I just dropped a five-euro note and . . . here it is!’
He held up the note and waved it around. ‘You know, why don’t I get you another burger? Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Another burger on me.’
He hurried up to the counter as the sound of silence was replaced by the buzz of conversations in the diner. Jack emerged from his h
iding place, looking mildly surprised that his property hadn’t been reduced to rubble by McCooley.
‘And you, what did you think you were doing?’ Maggie asked Noah.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. She sounded as if she was annoyed with him when McCooley was the one she should have been furious with.
‘You thought I couldn’t handle the situation?’
‘That guy is dangerous. He’ll punch anyone. Even girls. I was trying to back you up.’
‘Oh, you thought I couldn’t handle it because I’m a girl,’ Maggie said.
‘I don’t care whether you’re a girl or a boy,’ Noah said. ‘I – oh, forget it.’
He was exasperated. He’d known Maggie less than an hour and already she was in the top three of the most infuriating people he’d ever known. And she was rapidly heading for number one. He slumped down in his chair. Organizing a team was going to be a lot more troublesome than he ever would have imagined.
Name: Hawk Willis
Nickname: None. Hawk’s my real name, and no nickname could be better than that. It is too my real name and, no, I won’t show you my birth cert to prove it. Get lost.
Age: 12 years, 10 months, 14 days old
Position: Winger. I’m the fastest thing on two legs. Just give me the ball and watch me go, man. You’ll need a speed gun to track me – that’s how swift I am.
Likes: Running. Talking. Music. Hanging out with my mates.
Dislikes: Sitting still. I’m always on the move, man.
Player you’re most like: Arjen Robben. We could be twins, except I look a lot younger and I have way more hair. My hair is brilliant. Sometimes it takes nearly an hour to style it, but it’s worth it because when I leave the house I look deadly.
Favourite player: Raheem Sterling. He burns up the pitch. He’s small like me, but his legs are one big blur when he runs cos he moves so fast. It’s like a cartoon or something. You have to see it to believe it.
Favourite goal: Suárez volley against Norwich from about one hundred metres out when he was playing for Liverpool. My old man was in tears saying it was the sweetest thing he’d ever seen in forty years of supporting Liverpool. Crying about a goal is weird, but it was genius.
Messi or Ronaldo: Ronaldo. He’s fast. I’d love to race him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Please don’t call me arrogant, but I’m a European champion and I think I’m a special one’
José Mourinho
Cornelius Figg, Ireland’s richest man, was on the phone when his call was interrupted by the noise blaring from Barney’s room. Cornelius strode down the enormous hallway, swung the door open and roared at his only child.
‘Barney, turn that racket off. I can’t hear myself think.’
Barney Figg, the sole heir to the enormous Figg fortune, was sitting on the smoked oak floor less than one metre from a seventy-four-inch plasma television screen filled with the animated characters of a football game that wouldn’t be on sale to the general public for another six months. He had a narrow tanned face, spiky blond hair and ice-blue eyes. He wore a Real Madrid jersey with ‘Figg 7’ on the back.
‘Shouldn’t you be training?’
‘I am training,’ the boy scowled. ‘I’m learning tactics.’
‘Tactics,’ Cornelius muttered to himself. ‘Well, keep the noise down. I have business to attend to.’
He shut the door.
Cornelius Figg yelped at the sudden and unexpected appearance of Plunkett Healy, his personal assistant. ‘Healy, stop creeping up on me like that. You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.’
‘My apologies, sir.’
Plunkett was impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. He hadn’t a hair out of place and his skin glowed the way it only can when a man eats nothing but fruit, vegetables and lean meat.
‘How is young Mr Figg?’
‘Good, he’s, er, practising tactics. He’s fantastic, isn’t he?’
‘He’s a delight, sir. Your football players have arrived.’
‘Excellent,’ Figg said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Sort out the legal mumbo jumbo and then send them down to the pitches and I’ll meet them there. We’ll see what they’re made of, huh?’
He slapped his employee on the back, in what he imagined was a hearty fashion. Healy covered up his displeasure and discomfort with a tight smile.
‘Certainly, Mr Figg.’
Healy walked down the long marble hallway towards one of the house’s seven reception rooms. The four young men waiting in the poshest room in which they’d ever been were gripped by a sudden silence the moment Healy arrived. They were glad he’d turned up because they were so fidgety and full of nervous tension that three of them were certain they were going to break something that they couldn’t afford to replace. Each had a kit bag by his side containing boots and shin pads, the tools of the footballer’s trade.
‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’ Healy asked.
They nodded. Healy went to a desk, unlocked the drawer and took out four separate contracts, each one printed on Crane & Co. pearl-white paper. He checked the names then handed them in turn to the appropriate person. Three of the recipients looked at their contracts with a blank expression, as if they didn’t know quite what to do with them. The fourth, thirteen-year-old William Sheehan, began to thumb through the pages. Healy placed a selection of ballpoint pens on the desk.
‘Do we sign ’em?’ one of the teenagers asked.
‘Yes. Once you sign, the deal we made is legally binding,’ Healy said.
‘And we get the money you promised?’
‘Yes, Mr McGuckian.’
The first three signed immediately. They couldn’t wait. This opportunity was far too good to turn down. William Sheehan waited, though. It annoyed Healy slightly, but he didn’t let it show.
‘Is everything all right, Mr Sheehan?’
‘Yeah, it’s just . . . is this real?’
‘I can assure you it is.’
William took another look around the room. Every single item in there looked as if it would cost more than his mother had earned in a year back when she was working.
‘It just seems crazy,’ he said. ‘Five thousand euro to play in a few matches.’
‘Mr Figg is a very generous man.’
‘But why? Why does he need us to do this?’
Plunkett Healy had expected that William might be a problem. The others were like sheep – they’d do whatever they were told. But William was different. Smarter. If he’d had a choice, he’d have left him out completely, but Slugsley had been insistent. The boy was that good a player. It wasn’t easy to find good footballers, especially ones who weren’t well known and were willing to put themselves forward for a scheme that would require the utmost discretion and secrecy.
‘Just one moment, Mr Sheehan.’ He turned to the other three. ‘Those of you who have signed the agreements, if you would like to cross the hall there’s a welcome package waiting for you.’
‘A welcome package?’ McGuckian said.
‘Yes, of course. We want to make your time with us as comfortable as possible. There’s new training gear. Top of the range boots. Tracksuits. Dry-fit tees. A couple of footballs. Ahm, what else? Oh, yes, a new Xbox, an iPad, an android phone that hasn’t been officially released yet, things like that.’
‘Deadly.’
They didn’t need to be asked twice. They were across the hallway like a shot. Their shrieks of excitement could be heard all around the east wing of the house.
‘Now, we can talk,’ Healy said.
He sat on the soft leather couch and signalled for William to sit in the armchair across from him.
‘I’ll be honest with you, William,’ he began dishonestly.
‘Ten thousand.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I don’t want five thousand euro. I want ten. And ten more if we win the tournament.’
‘What? Why you greedy little—’
‘Don’t act
like you’re all upset, Mr Healy. You’re not bothered. You’re just pretending. It’s not your money and Figg can afford it.’
‘Yes, but the contracts will have to be redone and that would take too much time and—’
‘I’m thirteen. You can’t sign a contract until you’re eighteen. You need a parent or guardian with you so anything I sign today is just for show.’
‘You’ve surprised me,’ Healy said. ‘I thought footballers were supposed to be stupid.’
‘People make that mistake all the time,’ William replied.
‘Are you sure you’re only thirteen?’
‘I’m sure. Now that we’re being honest with each other, tell me why we’re doing this.’
Healy sighed. He wasn’t supposed to say anything. Not a single word. But if he didn’t he had the sense that William Sheehan would make things more difficult somehow. He decided the best thing to do was to tell the truth.
‘It’s Barney Figg’s greatest wish to have his football ability recognized by the world, and right now that involves winning a schools’ tournament in Dublin and representing his country in the World Cup in Paris.’
‘Is he good?’
‘There have been dogs who have run on to the pitch during a match who have displayed more skill than he ever has. I’m not just saying that: he’s really awful.’
‘But he’s trying to improve?’
‘Oh no, he’s completely self-delusional. He thinks he’s fantastic already. In his own mind he’s Pelé and Zinedine Zidane and Messi all rolled into one.’
‘That makes no sense. How can he not know how bad he is?’
‘He’s been brought up to think he’s brilliant at everything he’s ever tried. His parents praise him excessively. If he scrapes by in an exam, they tell him he’s Albert Einstein. He puts a plaster on a cut and he’s Jonas Salk. He spots the moon in the night sky and he’s the new Neil Armstrong.’
‘I should have asked for twenty thousand,’ Sheehan said. ‘He thinks he can be a great footballer without working at it.’
The Mighty Dynamo Page 9
