by Carys Bray
As they walk into the building, Al is gutted to hear the distant drone of the vacuum cleaner. Vacuuming has to be the least crappy of all the cleaning jobs. You can vacuum with your iPod on and everyone leaves you alone to get on with it. He watches as the appliance shoots into view at the far end of the long corridor, propelled by Sister Campbell, who is launching it at the baseboards, her braid swaying like a pendulum. Brother Campbell follows, waving a duster and a bottle of window spray.
“Alma Bradley, just the man!” Brother Campbell flicks the duster like a linesman’s flag. “The men’s toilets need a good clean. Sister Campbell was all set to do it, but I thought she should be saved from such an experience!”
Al watches Sister Campbell smash the Hoover into a small gap between several stacks of chairs. She is quite clearly not in need of being saved from anything.
“Go and have a look for some bleach in the cleaning cupboard. I’ll come and help you in a minute.” Brother Campbell waves the duster again as if to say, “Play on.”
Al looks at Dad and considers protesting. Surely it’s dangerous for kids to be in charge of bleach? Dad stares back, practically daring him to complain. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before Al capitulates. He ties his hoodie around his waist and they head for the cleaning cupboard.
The bleach is in a huge container, much bigger than the containers in the bathroom at home. Dad reaches and passes it to him.
“Don’t get it on your clothes. I didn’t think we’d be doing this sort of cleaning; we’re not exactly dressed for it.”
“I could do something else.”
“Do what Brother Campbell says for the moment.”
Al lugs the bleach to the men’s toilets. They reek of pee and the floor is stained and wet around the urinal. He wonders if it’s always this dirty; maybe he’s noticing only because he’s got to clean it up. He puts the bleach down next to the sink. He may as well pee before he cleans. He stands farther back than he should because of the wet patch, takes aim, and squirts on target. It’s only as he’s finishing that he joins everyone else who’s stood back to avoid standing in the wet, and dribbles on the floor.
He washes his hands and waits for a moment. When Brother Campbell doesn’t appear, he steps out into the corridor where he can hear the vacuum humming in the distance, probably on the parallel corridor that runs along the other side of the hall and chapel. He unties the hoodie from his waist and slides it over his head. The back door is still open. It would take only a few seconds to sprint to the end of the corridor and outside to freedom. He’ll get in big trouble if he runs away, but what’s worse, a major telling off or cleaning the toilets?
He runs. And when he passes through the open door he keeps running. He runs through the lot at the back of the building and out onto the street. He turns right and keeps running until he reckons he’s gone far enough to safely stop. He’s barely out of breath, pleased with himself and slightly surprised at his own daring. He’s going to be in trouble, but when it comes down to it, all Dad’s got is the disappointment speech and, having heard it so many times, Al is almost immune to its particular hurt.
He decides to walk straight down Queens Drive. That way, when he’s had enough, he’ll be able to turn round and retrace his steps. He walks past houses and a school and a small row of shops: laundromat, newsagent, Bargain Booze, and a betting shop. The betting shop is packed; people are probably betting on the match. He looks through the window at several televisions and wonders whether they’ll show the footie later. He never gets to watch live football. Dad says TV extras are too expensive so Al has to settle for recording the highlights on Match of the Day. He’ll return to the betting shop in a bit, after kickoff, to check on the score.
He carries on down Queens Drive until he reaches a big square of grass where some lads are having a kick-about. There’s five of them, all wearing Everton shirts. A little lad with dark hair is the best player, the others are OK but he can tell they don’t play regularly, they’re probably here ’cause it’s Derby Day. He sits on a graffitied bench and watches their game.
AL USED TO dream of being a professional footballer but right in the pit of his stomach, in the part that’s so deep and airless a visiting canary would snuff it, he knows it’s too late. He’s missed his chance. It was only a small chance and probably wouldn’t have come to anything, but still.
At first Dad thought football was a good idea. He said if the Devil made work for idle hands he’d probably got plans for idle feet too. Al trained with Sefton Rangers. Matty’s dad, Steve, gave him lifts ’cause Dad was usually busy with church. Traveling with Steve was brilliant. He told jokes and called everyone “mate”; sometimes he farted in the car, shouted “Gas attack!” and made all the windows roll down at once. When Sefton Rangers started to play competitively, Steve drove Al to Saturday-morning matches. The first time they edged along the narrow track that led to the pitches at Hightown, it was like entering a different world. At the end of the track hundreds of cars were directed onto the corner of an enormous expanse of grass and sardined into tight rows. Al watched as parents, kids, and dogs burst out of the cars hauling wellies, umbrellas, and camping chairs. He’d never seen so many pitches, players, and parents; he realized he was part of something massive and it felt really good.
Dad came occasionally, when he didn’t have to attend meetings or help with service projects, but he looked bored standing on the sideline. He didn’t really talk to the other parents and he never cheered or shouted when Al set someone up or scored. At halftime, when the players were all swigging from their water bottles, Steve used to say, “Let me get you a tea, Ian, mate.” And Dad, who’s not really anyone’s mate, would stand there awkwardly with his hands in his pockets and say, “No thanks. I don’t drink tea.” Al used to worry that Steve might ask, “Why not?”—a question that would give Dad the perfect excuse to do some missionary work by explaining about not drinking tea or coffee because of the Word of Wisdom. But Steve never asked, he just dashed down to the burger van so he didn’t miss the start of the second half.
It was at the end of last season that Al was spotted. The Everton scout had come to look at another boy, but he noticed Al as well. Dad wasn’t there, so the scout spoke to Steve and gave him the letter. Steve explained it all in the car on the drive home. Al had been invited to go to Finch Farm, the Everton training ground, so they could have a proper look at him and decide whether they were interested. Steve blathered all the way home, ricocheting between excitement and restraint. “It’s the dog’s bollocks, this is! I’m thrilled for you! Don’t get your hopes up, though, eh? They’re just having a look.”
Later, when Dad read the letter, he said absolutely not. It was one thing playing football for a hobby, but it was another to consider it for a career. Football was absolutely not conducive to living the gospel.
And that was that.
After Sefton Rangers played their last match of the season, Dad said he couldn’t afford to pay the registration fee anymore and Al knew he was stretching the definition of “afford” to include the cost of the eternal consequences of football-related immorality. The club wasn’t insured for unregistered boys to play in league matches, but Al was still allowed to come to training. The new season started two weeks ago. He thought he’d take his mind off missed matches by practicing skills in the back garden, but whenever he steps out there he remembers Issy won’t be following, which makes the hurt in his stomach worse.
A FAT LAD in jeans stops playing football and saunters over to Al’s bench, squeezing his hands into his front pockets in an attempt to look hard. “What’re you lookin at?” he says.
“Just the footie.”
“You play, then?”
“Yeah.”
“For a team?”
“Used to.”
“Who?”
“Sefton Rangers.”
“Never heard of ’em.”
Al would be surprised if the fat lad had heard of any of the teams i
n the Hightown Junior League; he’s probably never watched an amateur game. He looks like a member of the Couch Potato Brigade.
“Who d’you support?”
“Liverpool.”
The fat lad spits on the grass and the others stop playing and wander over.
“Looking for a win for the Pool today, la’?” one of them asks.
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t yer have a look for some rocking-horse shit while you’re at it?”
The lads laugh and high-five one another.
“You any good?” the littlest lad, the one who can actually play, asks.
“I’m OK.”
“Bit of a posh git, aren’t yer?” The fat lad gives Al a measuring look.
Al doesn’t say anything. He reckons they’ll let him play in a minute, when they’ve finished ribbing him.
“What yer dressed up in posh trousers for?”
“Wedding,” he lies. “Got bored.”
“Yer might be posh, but I reckon yer ma’s a big prozzie. I bet Rooney’s had her.” The fat lad raises his arms and celebrates his joke like a goal while the others laugh.
Al doesn’t react. It’s OK, it’s just a sort of test. All he has to do is wait.
“I bet yer ma’s so massive that when she goes to the cinema she sits next to everyone.”
There’s more laughter and the fat kid jogs on the spot, warming up for his next joke as his belly wriggles under his football shirt.
“All right, stop mucking about, Danny.” The little lad takes charge. “Yer wanna play, then? Three on three?” He doesn’t wait for a response; instead he kicks the ball to Al and Al knocks it straight back. “What’s yer name?”
“I’m Al. You?”
“Joe. Get on the end of this, Al.”
Joe whacks the ball forward with the inside of his foot. Fat Danny gets a slight head start, but Al knows he can beat him and he sprints along the grass, wishing he was allowed to wear trainers with his church clothes.
“Yer ma’s muggin,” fat Danny puffs.
Al ignores him and keeps running. They reach the ball at the same time and Danny extends his leg for a sliding tackle.
“What’s Al short for, then? Al-Qaeda?”
Al jumps over Danny’s leg and executes a practiced Sombrero flick. “Watch and learn,” he calls as he reclaims the ball, dribbles along the wing of the makeshift pitch, and shoots between the coat-posts of the goal.
“Goooooooooooooal.” Little Joe shouts it like a Spanish commentator, as if it’s the goal of the season, and Al can’t stop his mouth from relaxing into a smile as they jog back to the center of the pitch.
“How about you and me against the others?” Joe says as he lobs the ball to fat Danny for the restart.
Danny tries a bit of fancy footwork. It takes only a moment for Al to dispossess him, then he pounds along the grass, nudging the ball from foot to foot, gulping the cool autumn air, savoring the way it slices past his throat and into his chest. His lungs are pumping and his nose is full of the best smell in the world—football. It reeks of grass and the wet-potato-skin smell of soil; it’s a smell that creeps up your nose at the end of August when the mornings get nippy and the rot of summer starts to soften the ground, a smell that sends your thoughts deep into your feet where there’s no room for God, no space for Eternity. Right foot, step over, left foot, scissor dribble—he would play footie all day every day if he could, and at night he would go to bed brimming with uncomplicated, bone-deep contentment. He chips the ball to little Joe and dashes forward to get on the end of the one-two.
“Goooooooooooooal,” Joe howls.
Fat Danny grabs the ball, puffs back to the approximate center of the pitch, and kicks off again. One of the other lads passes back to Danny but Danny can’t block Joe’s tackle and the chase is on for another goal. Joe passes to Al, who races along the wing. Danny tries to keep up. He looks like a sweaty tomato, utterly pooped except for his gob, which seems to run on Duracell batteries.
“Yer ma’s so poor, when she goes to KFC she has to lick other people’s fingers.”
Al flips Danny off and leaves him standing.
“Yer ma’s so fat, she doesn’t need the Internet—she’s already worldwide.” Danny wheezes as Al and Joe celebrate another goal.
They all jog back to the center together and Danny flops onto the grass, where he lies on his back, panting.
“Shall we swap things around?” Al asks. “Let’s start from scratch and pick teams.”
One of the lads checks his watch. “Sorry, mate. We’re gonna have to go. We’re meant to be watching the match at mine, kickoff was ten minutes ago.”
“Aw, you could’ve said,” Danny complains. “Someone get me coat for me.”
Al watches the lads retrieve their coats. When they come back they heave Danny to his feet and Al wishes they weren’t going. He doesn’t want them to walk away and leave him standing, so he heads off first.
“See ya, then,” he says.
As he reaches the pavement, someone calls after him, and when he turns, Danny and the others start singing:
If I had the wings of a sparrow,
If I had the arse of a crow,
I’d fly over Anfield tomorrow,
And shit on the bastards below,
Shit on, shit on,
Shit on the bastards below.
“Jog on, Al-Qaeda,” Danny shouts.
Al gives Danny a wave and heads back up Queens Drive. His stomach aches. He pretends it’s just the adrenaline crash at first before conceding that he’s sad. Everyone is, even Dad, it’s obvious ’cause he’s left all his normal words at Cliché Converters—he can’t stop saying crap like “This life is but a moment” and “Time heals all wounds,” as if he thinks everything will be better once Issy is forgotten. Al isn’t going to let time heal anything. He isn’t going to allow himself to forget, in fact he’s glad his stomach hurts because it’s evidence of his ability to remember and he deserves to be punished by memory.
ISSY’S FIRST WORD was “Ma.” Everyone thought she meant “Mum,” but Al knew she was saying the second half of his name, and when he came into a room and she called “Ma, ma, ma,” and waved her tiny, starfish hands, it made him feel happy. It wasn’t like she was anything special—she always had dribble on her chin and half the time she stank of poo—but she noticed something good in him, something no one else could see, and so he didn’t mind her; he thought she was all right. As soon as she started to walk she began to follow him around. He pretended it was annoying; sometimes he would jump over the stair gate and sprint upstairs just to hear her call his name from the bottom step: “Al-ma, Al-ma!” Once she was old enough to be out in the garden without Mum following her around saying “Careful, Issy!” she watched him play football, and when he practiced free kicks and precision shots against the apple trees she retrieved the ball for him like a little dog. Sometimes he tested her, but she still liked him. Occasionally he kicked the ball at her and watched as she tried dead hard not to cry. Sometimes he said, “I don’t like you,” and then, just as her face folded, he said, “I don’t mean it.” He can’t remember being nice to her; he knows he was, but he can’t remember it at the moment. All the mean stuff has risen to the surface and it’s floating there like shit in the sea. He wasn’t nice to her even while she was ill in bed—dying in bed—he was too busy being a smart-arse to notice how sick she was. He is a first-class shit. What he would like most in the world, besides her not being dead, is to go back in time and say something nice: Thanks for collecting the ball for me. I like you. I’ll miss you.
WHEN HE GETS to the betting shop he stops and looks through the window. There aren’t many people there now, they probably prefer to watch the match in the pub—betting shops and pubs, two places he’s never supposed to set foot in, even when he’s older.
The match is showing on several TVs. It doesn’t matter that he can’t hear the commentary, he’s just happy to watch. He reckons Liverpool can win, even w
ith Gerrard on the bench. He leans closer to the window as Rodwell and Suárez clash in what looks like a soft tackle. The replay confirms there was no malice in it, but when the camera pans back to the action, Rodwell’s getting a red card.
Rodwell’s only a teenager and he’s local; he trained at Finch Farm and played his first match for the Everton Reserves when he was just fifteen, which means he’s brilliant, even though he’s a Toffee. Al is sorry for Rodwell for a moment, but the feeling doesn’t last long: Rodwell’s parents probably took him to matches and cheered when he played well, they probably let him practice on Sundays. He thinks of his own Sundays—three hours of church followed by a whole afternoon of time-wasting and reverence, and the thought sends him straight back to the Sunday before Issy died.
He was sneaking out of the house, a tennis ball hidden in his right armpit, just centimeters from freedom, when Dad poked his head round the kitchen door.
“Alma, just the man. Let’s do your interview now.”
He followed Dad back to the living room, wishing bodily harm on the individual who’d decided that righteous fathers must interview their children once a month.
Dad closed the door behind them. “Sit down.” He gestured at a chair in a way that made Al feel like a visitor.
“Let’s start with a prayer. You say it, please.” Dad bowed his head and folded his arms.
Al didn’t fold his arms and he kept his eyes wide open as he said, “Dear Heavenly Father. Thank you for this sunny day. Thank you for this interview. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”
