‘Quite simply, yes.’
‘But—’
‘I know.’
‘It—’
‘I know.’
‘So what does he think is going on? Four new players on his school team all of a sudden? Where will he think they’ve come from?’
‘He won’t think about it. He doesn’t care about anything but himself. It’s all happening without Barney even noticing or caring. It’s like this, Mr Sheehan: Barney goes to Pengardon Academy. Barney wants to win the tournament. The current Pengardon football team is not good enough to win it, so our scouts have located some of the best underage players in the country. The headmaster has registered them as students in the school because Mr Figg makes large donations of cash to Pengardon and the headmaster wants that to continue. He has turned a blind eye to the ethical problems of the situation. So now the players are eligible to represent Pengardon. They, and by they I mean you too, are getting paid to play in the tournament as ringers – I believe that’s the right term – so that Barney can win and revel in the glory of his tainted achievement.’
‘All right, but what if he realizes his father’s buying him the tournament?’
‘I suspect he won’t really pay it that much attention. He doesn’t engage with that sort of thing. He’s what you might call self-absorbed. Everything is about him.’
‘And because his father’s super-rich he gets what he wants.’ William smiled, although it was rather a grim sort of smile. ‘Here I am scrabbling around trying to make money for my family and Barney gets everything handed to him on a plate. I guess the world isn’t fair.’
‘No, it’s not. Which is why we have to get to work now. By the way, with the contracts, you’re right, your mother has to co-sign to make it appear to be legal, but Mr Figg will have her signature forged if necessary and if you break the contract, by which I mean breathe a single word about it to anyone, he’ll have you sued. He’ll drag the case out for years and your family will have to hire lawyers. Mr Figg’s lawyers are the best in the business, so they’ll bring things right up to the point of going to court, then withdraw it at the last minute. Your family will have to sell everything they own just to pay their legal fees. I don’t mean to sound heavy-handed, William, but that’s the kind of person that’s employing us.’
‘Best thing to do is keep my mouth shut, then.’
‘That is indeed the best thing to do. Now, let’s collect your colleagues and we’ll go to the training pitch.’
Plunkett led them outside to the gravel-covered courtyard. Two white Range Rover Evoques were parked alongside each other, a chauffeur sitting behind the wheel of each one. William could see the town in the distance beyond the rolling hills.
‘Everything you can see from here to the town is owned by Mr Figg,’ Plunkett said.
William saw lush fields full of horses and, to his right, a huge stable yard. Further on there were houses, farms and perfectly manicured gardens stretching all the way down to a man-made lake. It was hard to believe that one person could own so much.
‘All right, gentlemen. Into the cars, please.’
‘Oh,’ a tall boy said. ‘I thought you said the pitches were on the estate.’
‘They are. They’re on the far side, behind the house,’ Healy replied. ‘But if we travelled by foot it would take us over forty minutes to reach them.’
‘A forty-minute walk and we’re still at his house? Damn, this man is super-rich,’ McGuckian grinned, elbowing William in the side.
‘Yeah,’ William replied. ‘He sure is.’
Name: Barney Figg
Nickname: The Man. Like, ‘You’re the man, Barney.’
Age: 13
Position: When you have my level of talent, you can play any position you like. I wouldn’t play as a goalkeeper, though; you always put the worst player in goal.
Likes: Adam Sandler movies. Designer clothes and sunglasses – you have to look good to wear them, though, so most people shouldn’t bother. Getting new gadgets and phones and all kinds of stuff ages before anyone else gets them.
Dislikes: Poverty. If you’re poor, you don’t have the money to buy cool stuff and you probably have to spend your time with all sorts of horrible people cos you can’t afford to go anywhere. Sounds awful to me.
What you like about football: If you play for a top club, people worship you and you get to be famous and you can do whatever you want. Who wouldn’t like that?
Player you’re most like: I’m Paul Pogba and Alexis Sanchez and Kevin De Bruyne and Gareth Bale and Anthony Martial all rolled into one. Yeah, physical power and technique and pace and skill and vision. I’ve got it all!
Favourite player: Luis Suárez.
Favourite goal: I scored an amazing goal in a match last year – a diving header. People gasped when they saw how good it was.
Messi or Ronaldo: Ronaldo has his own clothing range, so definitely Ronaldo. Also, Messi’s small and I don’t like short people.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ONE HOUR, FOUR MINUTES AND FORTY-THREE SECONDS TO TOURNAMENT DEADLINE
‘Take a walk around my centre-half, gentlemen. He’s a colossus’
Bill Shankly
‘It’s brilliant, Dave. Really, really great,’ Noah said.
The big man grinned so widely that the edges of his beard tickled his ears. It was four o’clock on Friday afternoon and Noah was surveying one of the worst football pitches he’d ever seen. He didn’t care how bad it looked. They could fix it up. What mattered was that they had somewhere to train and play practice matches.
All they needed now was a team.
The pitch was on the far side of the town at the back of a half-empty housing estate and it looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. It was uneven and bumpy and strewn with rubbish. The grass was patchy, ragwort grew everywhere and the goalposts were in dire need of repair. But it was theirs for the next six weeks. Dave’s boss owned the land, an area known locally as The Hatch, and had given Dave permission to use it in exchange for some free overtime.
‘Here come the lads,’ Dave said.
Tony, whom Dave called his little brother, even though he was very far from little, was deep in conversation with Stevie. Tony looked like a thinner, ganglier version of Dave. A sundried version, Stevie had said. He didn’t have a beard, but he did have the same huge mop of hair. His family called him by his nickname, Limbsy, and he asked the others to call him that too.
‘Right, it’s not much,’ Dave said to Noah, ‘but here it is.’
The outside of the wooden hut they’d be using as a dressing room was covered in fairly crude, and in most cases misspelled, graffiti. Dave unlocked the door. The smell of damp rushed out to meet them.
‘Wow, it really stinks,’ Dave said.
‘It’s perfect,’ Noah replied, and he meant it.
The hut wasn’t too big, just about large enough to accommodate a football team as long as they didn’t all stand up at the same time. A wooden bench ran along the edges of the walls. There weren’t any windows. Dave switched on the only light source, a single bulb that hung from the ceiling. He seemed surprised that it was still working.
‘Well, here’s the key,’ Dave said, handing it over to Noah. ‘Word of warning – don’t come here after dark. A lot of the town’s most, y’know, unpleasant characters like hanging out here at night, but during the day you’ll be fine. If there’s any trouble, you can always give me a call.’
‘I can’t believe it’s almost four o’clock and there are only two players here,’ Stevie said.
‘Don’t worry about it – it’ll be cool,’ said Limbsy.
‘I don’t know if it will in fact be cool. We have to get these forms sorted and faxed through in less than an hour. Factoring in the time it takes me to get home, we’re going to need to find a player once every three minutes and seventeen seconds,’ Stevie said. He stepped into the dressing room and was nearly knocked over by the powerful smell. ‘Whoa, that’s not going to be good
for my allergies.’
He pulled a cloth handkerchief from his pocket and used it to cover his nose and mouth.
‘Don’t worry, Stevie. I’m sure lots of players will turn up,’ Dave said softly.
They’d worked hard, but finding players at such short notice had been a difficult task. Stevie had put the word out on Facebook and Twitter the previous night. He’d asked for anyone who was interested in playing to turn up at The Hatch at four o’clock after school on Friday evening. He said he’d had a good response, but Noah thought it was easy for people to say yes online; when they had to get out of their comfy chairs on a cold Friday afternoon, they might not be as enthusiastic.
Maggie had said she’d ask around too, but since she’d only moved to the town recently she didn’t know that many people, and it turned out that most of those she did know, she hated. She said she’d ask her neighbours, a twin brother and sister, who often played football in their back garden, and seemed, in Maggie’s words, relatively normal.
Stevie had printed up posters on his parents’ computer, and Simone and Noah had walked all over town on Thursday night dropping them into shops and asking the owners to display them in their windows. Most had said no, but a few had agreed, including Jack in Dee’s Diner.
The next day in school, Noah and Stevie had mentioned it to everyone in their classes and plenty of others they’d met in the corridors and in the yard at break-time. Word must have got back to Jim Reynolds because he ran up to Noah when he saw him heading back to class after lunch.
‘I heard you’re going to play for St Mary’s. I know you always acted like one, Murphy, but I never knew you really were a little girl.’
‘Good one, Jim,’ Noah had said. ‘Been thinking that one up since you saw the message online last night?’
The disappointed look on Reynolds’s face told Noah he had been doing exactly that.
By the time the school bell rang at three o’clock and they were ready to make their way to The Hatch, Noah reckoned they’d made contact with everyone in town who’d ever kicked a ball. That was no guarantee anyone would turn up, of course. He hadn’t been worried, not since his dad had sent him an encouraging email the previous night telling him that he was right to stand up to Hegarty. He was delighted his dad had said that – it gave him a boost. Noah hadn’t told him why he was so eager to play in the tournament, though. He suspected his old man was just pleased that his son seemed to have fallen in love with football again. But, as the clock ticked past four, Noah had begun to fret a little. It was getting close to the deadline and they only had three definites – Noah himself, Maggie and Tony ‘Limbsy’ Donnelly. And Limbsy, as pleasant as he was, looked about as coordinated as a drunken spider on a wild night out. He’d managed to fall over twice already and they’d only met him twenty minutes earlier.
‘People will turn up. It’ll be fine,’ Noah said to Stevie, not sure if he was trying to convince his friend or himself.
His stomach rumbled and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything since the night before. All the running around was taking its toll. The rumble was drowned out by Stevie’s phone ringing for the twentieth time that day – the ringtone was the ‘Maradona es mi amigo’ song.
‘The Hatch. The Hatch. Behind the River Valley estate. Hurry up. We have forms to fill in and they need to be sent in –’ he checked his watch – ‘fifty-six minutes. Please hurry.’ He hung up. ‘Why anyone ever chooses to do a job that involves stress is beyond me.’
‘How many players have you got locked in, little dudes?’ Dave asked, just ducking in time to prevent his head from hitting the light bulb.
‘We’ve got between twenty and thirty who said they’re interested, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to turn up. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens,’ Noah said.
Within five minutes they had their first arrivals. Maggie had brought along her neighbours just as she’d said she would. Frank Courtney was five feet seven and a half inches tall, quite big for a twelve-year-old, but his twin sister, Barbara, was five feet eleven. She hunched her shoulders as if she was trying to make herself smaller. Her clothes were black and shapeless and her fringe hung down over her eyes, like a curtain blocking out the world. Maggie had told Noah and Stevie that her neighbour was self-conscious about her height and warned them not to mention it. Standing beside those two, as well as Limbsy and Dave, Noah felt as if he’d been transported to a land of giants. He could only imagine how Stevie felt.
‘Frank and Barbara live two doors down from me,’ Maggie said by way of introduction.
‘Hi, I’m Noah,’ Noah said, with an awkward little wave that he immediately regretted. What is it with me and waving at people I’ve only just met? he wondered.
‘Hi, I’m Frank, obviously. This is my sister, Barbara,’ Frank smiled.
He had a relaxed, easy manner in contrast to his sister’s self-consciousness. He seemed like the sort of person who hadn’t a care in the world. Stevie didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t even notice Frank. He just stared at Barbara intently until Maggie was on the verge of telling him to quit it.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Look at how tall you are.’
Maggie swore under her breath and Barbara mumbled something incomprehensible.
‘I’d love to be that tall,’ he added. ‘You’re amazing.’
To everyone’s surprise, she parted her curtain of hair so that enough of her face was visible to allow her smile to be seen.
‘I’m Barbara,’ she said shyly.
‘OK,’ Frank said. ‘This is becoming weird and uncomfortable. We’re here to join a football team.’
‘Stevie, start filling in the forms,’ Noah said. ‘We’re in a rush, remember.’
Snapping out of it, Stevie immediately set to work.
‘I’ll get out of your way. You have a lot to do,’ Dave said, almost bent double to get through the doorway. ‘Catch you later.’
When the familiar faces of Darren and Sunday arrived at the door five minutes later, Noah’s nerves began to disappear. They were replaced by a feeling of excitement. It just might work. If the players that turned up were even half decent, then they had enough time to get them into some sort of shape. If they were smart and organized themselves well, they might have a slight chance. He could live with that. That was all he needed from the team if he was going to show off his talents and make an impression on the scouts at the tournament.
He introduced the newcomers to the rest.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Maggie said as she shook Darren’s hand. ‘In the future you’ll remember this moment – the day you met the greatest player that ever lived. When I’m rich and famous and far too important to talk to the likes of you, you’ll be telling all your friends that you once knew me.’
‘Wow, just wow,’ Darren said.
‘She makes Cristiano Ronaldo look humble,’ Sunday said.
The next person that arrived was someone Noah and Stevie recognized immediately. He was a boy who sat behind Noah in class. He was always on his own at lunchtime and didn’t appear to have any friends. Everybody said he was weird. He didn’t look as if he cared what anyone thought of him. He was comfortable in his own skin. He had mousy brown hair and a pale complexion. His name was Michael Griffin.
‘Hey, Michael, isn’t it?’ Stevie said.
Michael Griffin nodded.
‘You’re here to join the team?’ Noah asked.
Michael Griffin nodded again. This nod was less emphatic than the first, as if he regretted the extravagance of his opening nod. This one was more to his liking. It was barely perceptible.
‘Well, it was great talking to you,’ Noah said. ‘If you want to grab a pen from Frank and fill out the pages. Just some information we need for the entry form.’
The next person through the door was someone Noah was delighted to see even though he’d never clapped eyes on him before. He was wearing a full goalkeeper’s outfit. He had the big thick gloves, the long-sleeved jersey, and the
baseball cap to protect his eyes from the sun, not that there was much sun out today. He was even wearing football boots, which meant he could be heard clip-clopping his way down the footpath before he was seen.
Noah grinned as he fist-bumped a gloved hand. ‘I don’t need to ask what position you play.’
‘That is correct. I am a striker.’
Noah stared at the boy’s extremely serious face. Suddenly the newcomer began to roar with laughter. He gave Noah a friendly thump on the shoulder, which was strong enough to knock him off balance.
‘I am joking with you. I am the goalkeeper. I am Piotr.’ He waved to the room. ‘Hello, everyone!’ he boomed.
He got a few hellos and waves in return. When Noah had finished introducing Piotr to the others, there was someone else waiting at the shed door.
‘Hey, Hawk,’ Stevie said, recognizing the boy from his class.
Hawk Willis, who was small and thin, regularly claimed he was faster than Usain Bolt was at his age. He looked around the room, taking in all the faces.
‘Hey man, this is where the football’s at, right?’
‘That’s right,’ Noah said.
‘What’s with the girls? Are they here to look after our kit or something?’
Noah and Stevie exchanged worried glances. Luckily, Maggie and Barbara were deep in conversation and hadn’t overheard Hawk, otherwise there would have been trouble.
‘It’s a mixed team, Hawk. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?’ Noah asked.
‘Nope, it’s all cool. Wait, why is it a mixed team? Nobody told me about that,’ Hawk said, his face wrinkling up in confusion.
‘It was on the Facebook page. It’s on the posters in the shops. And it’s on the leaflet I personally handed to you yesterday,’ Stevie said. ‘I think I even said the words “it’s a mixed team”.’
‘Huh. First I’ve heard of it. So there are girls playing on our team?’
‘Technically, we’re on their team. We’re playing for the girls’ school.’
Hawk Willis’s mouth opened and formed a perfect circle of surprise.
The Mighty Dynamo Page 10
