by Keren David
“Yes,” I say. “I’d like that.”
She gets up. “Stay there,” she says. “I’ve something to show you.”
I sit and wait and look at the clock on the mantelpiece. It’s a family heirloom. Will it be mine one day?
She comes back with a piece of paper in her hand. It looks like the birth certificate that I’ve just shown her.
“I’m very sorry, River. It’s nice to meet you, and there’s nothing I’d like better than to have a grandson. But it’s just not possible.”
She hands me the paper. It’s not a birth certificate at all. It’s the exact opposite.
It’s a certificate of the death of Matthew Peter Jordan.
He died of pneumonia. In 1974. Here in this house.
He was only eleven months old.
16: SOME LIES ARE EVIL
I sit and look at the death certificate for what feels like an hour but is really only five minutes, according to the clock on the mantelpiece.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “How can they have the same name and the same birthday?”
“They can’t,” she says. She opens up my dad’s passport at the photo page, and stabs a finger at his face. “I think he stole my baby’s name,” she says and I can hear anger in her voice. “I think he’s gone around calling himself Matthew Peter Jordan, when he has no right to. I think that this person – your father – lied to your poor mother, and ran away before she could find out. Maybe he’s still doing it now. Maybe he’s still living our Matthew’s life. Or maybe he’s stolen some other dead baby’s name.”
The room has gone all blurry. Why would anyone do this? Why would my dad do this? That makes him worse than any ordinary liar. His lies weren’t just stories. They were weapons.
And if he lied about his name and his birthday, then what do I know about him? Only that he had a snub nose and sandy hair. Only that he had a tattoo of a rose and a spider’s web. Only that my mum thought he loved her.
A stupid tear splashes onto my hand. I look at Mrs Jordan and I see that she’s crying too.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” she says. “It breaks your heart. My Matthew was a lovely baby. He had little dimples in his cheeks and he was very cheery, very happy. He never crawled, but he used to shuffle around on his bum. So comical he looked. So lovely.”
She goes over to the fireplace and picks up a framed photo. A baby beams out at me. He has a curl in the middle of his head, and one tooth.
“Two weeks later he was dead,” she says. “He didn’t deserve to die, and he doesn’t deserve this. He only had his name and our love. How can someone steal that away from him?”
I haven’t got an answer. I’m thinking about Hagrid, the gigantic goalie. I’m thinking about his dad with his tattoo and his snub nose.
“I don’t suppose you have a person called Steve in your family?” I ask. “A police officer? Works at Scotland Yard? Has a son called Ollie?”
She shakes her head, her eyes still full of tears. “No,” she says. “Is he a friend of yours? Can he help us find out who did this?”
“No,” I say.
I’m thinking hard. If my dad stole a dead baby’s identity, then he did that for a reason. He didn’t want anyone to know who he really was. Why would he do that? Is he a criminal?
Or a spy? Is that the sort of thing that a spy would do?
Could a police officer be like a spy?
I think again about Hagrid the Hulk. He must be about my age. An Under 16 team is meant to be for anyone born in the year from 1st September to 31st August, but in practice the best teams are full of the oldest boys in the year. My team is full of people with autumn birthdays. I bet the Barbarian team is too.
Maybe the Hulk’s dad isn’t actually his dad. Maybe he’s a step-dad, like Jason wants to be to me.
But the Hulk and his dad both have the same sort of nose. And I have that nose too.
“Has this been a terrible shock?” Mrs Jordan says. Her voice jolts me out of a maze of questions. “Tell you what, I’ll make a nice cup of tea and you can tell me a bit about yourself.”
The tea is hot and sweet and sort of comforting. She gives me a big slice of ginger cake too. And when I tell her all about school and Mum and Jason and Kai, I stick to the truth.
It’s all I’ve got left.
17: IF YOU'RE A KNOWN LIAR, NO ONE BELIEVES YOU WHEN YOU TELL THE TRUTH
“You know this airport in Kent?” says Kai.
It’s Tuesday and it’s break time and we’re hanging around outside the staff room. Kai forgot to hand in his homework and I’m meant to be explaining why I was absent yesterday.
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m not really listening. Who cares about airports when your dad is the sort of person who steals a dead baby’s name and birthday and makes them his own?
Kai chunters on about bird life and noise and pollution and what Sean says about it all, and blah blah blah. I think about Hagrid the Hulk and his dad, and how and when I’m going to do anything about it. We play the Barbarians again on Sunday.
“So, I might miss the match,” Kai says. “I need to think of a cover story for Bob.”
“What?” I say. He clearly thinks he’s explained something to me.
“A cover story. To explain why I’m not playing football.”
“So, you’re going to miss the match on Sunday?” I say. Bob the Builder always comes to support Kai.
“Duh, yeah.” Kai pulls a face. “How can I be in two places at once? So what do I tell Bob and my mum?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That you’ve sprained your ankle?”
Kai isn’t impressed. “That’s lame coming from you.”
“Yeah, well, sorry, but I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I say.
Of course I should tell Kai what happened, but somehow I can’t. His real dad is a proper hero, saving the Arctic from evil oil companies. His step-dad is a builder and eats meat, but he’s a nice guy and he likes Kai and he’s straight down the line. My step-dad is probably a fake. My real dad is a liar and a fake. And he’s possibly – but I can’t even think about Hagrid’s dad. He can’t be my dad. He can’t be.
Kai’s teacher comes out and takes the Maths homework, and Kai asks if I want him to stay, but I say, “Nah, don’t worry, it’s OK.”
“So, you want to do this protest with me?” he asks.
I have no idea what he’s on about. “When is it again?” I ask him, to stall for time.
“Sunday! Look, don’t tell anyone, will you? It’s serious stuff. We could get arrested.”
At last I’m listening. “Arrested? Whoa! What are you on about?”
Kai’s got one of those faces that never really looks annoyed. He’s always smiling. But right now he scrunches up his nose, and says, “Forget it.” Then he marches off down the corridor.
Oh. I’ve said something wrong. I ought to go after him. But Mr Zakouri’s just come out of the staff room.
“River,” he says. “Come in.” His office is small and airless and hot. He sits down and nods at a chair for me.
“So,” he says. “Talk me through yesterday. Mown down by a runaway elephant? Kidnapped by a gang of bank robbers?”
I can’t think of anything to say.
“Why don’t you tell me the truth?” Mr Zakouri says.
Why not?
“I had to go and see someone,” I start. “I thought she was my gran. But she wasn’t. I think my dad might be a cross between a spy and a cop. I think he steals names from dead babies. I think he might have another son, the same age as me. And –”
Mr Zakouri holds his hand up to stop me.
“Enough!” he says and I see that he’s glaring at me.
“But I –”
“You’ve done well in recent weeks, River,” he says. “We all thought you’d stopped with the lies.”
“Yes, but –”
“I thought we’d made some progress. Got through to you.”
“Yes, but I –”
“Take a de
tention. You’ve let yourself down.”
18: YOU CAN'T RUN AWAY FROM YOUR LIES
“So, how come Kai’s not playing?” Jason asks me on the way to the match. “He knows how important this game is. We need to beat those Barbarians once and for all.”
Six months ago, all I’d have been able to think about was the match ahead. Life was simpler then. Now, football is the last thing on my mind. I’m obsessing about him. Steve. Hagrid’s dad. My dad.
He must be my dad.
The thought is almost unbearable. When I think about it my chest goes tight and I feel like I can’t breathe. Blood booms in my ears. He can’t be. He can’t be.
We get to the pitch and Jason helps Marcus put the goals up and they talk tactics, and how they’re going to cover for Kai’s absence. He’s improved a lot recently. He’s a vital plank of our defence.
“How about you play in defence, River?” Jason asks. “I know you prefer midfield, but just this once?”
“OK,” I say, as I lace my boots. “No problem.” It’s not as though I’m going to be on the pitch for long. I have a plan.
I play for fifteen minutes. That is, I loiter around in defence, watching the action, which is all taking place around Hagrid’s goal. He saves one shot, another, and then Raffi takes a corner and Sonny boots it into the back of the net.
Hagrid didn’t stand a chance. His cheeks go pink and his mouth turns down.
But then the whistle blows and the ball’s coming my way. I put myself in front of their striker and go for the ball. It’s not difficult to win it. It’s also not difficult to fall over my own feet and lie there moaning on the ground like I’ve been fouled.
“River?” Jason’s on the pitch with the first aid kit and my water bottle. “What happened?”
“Argh!” I cry. “I’m in agony! My ankle!”
I limp off, supported by Jason. Marcus gives me a look. “What happened there, River, fall over your own shadow?”
“I just twisted my ankle.”
“Rest it. There’s a bench over there if you want.”
The bench is near the other side’s supporters. If I limp over, I can put Part Two of my plan into action.
I sit on the bench and look for Steve. He’s not chatting to anyone today. He’s watching Hagrid, and checking his phone now and again.
Marcus and Jason are focused on the action. The other subs are way over the other side. No one will notice if I sidle over to the group of Barbarian dads.
“Anyone here got a grey BMW?” I ask them. “I saw a guy in the car park earlier, looked like he was scratching the bodywork.”
Steve’s head jerks up. “That could be my car. Where was it parked?”
“I’ll show you,” I say.
And just like that we’re leaving the match, walking down the slope to the car park, side by side.
Me and him.
Me and Steve.
Me and the baby name thief?
Me and my dad?
My mouth’s gone as dry as the desert where Jason claims he ran his marathon in the sand.
“That’s my car – was it that one?”
I can’t speak. I nod instead.
“It looks OK from here,” he says, puzzled. “Can you show me where he was scratching it?”
Another nod.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.
“I … I … I’ve got something to ask you,” I say.
“What’s that?”
We’ve reached his car now and he’s inspecting the bodywork. It’s gleaming, spotless, perfect. Inside I can see an anorak, a boot bag, the Sunday papers. A headline. VIOLENCE FEARS AT AIRPORT MARCH.
“Can’t see any damage,” he says.
“You’re a policeman, aren’t you?” I manage to ask.
He raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re a policeman. Have you always been a policeman?” My voice is shaking. “Can you tell me something?” I say. “Is it a crime to pretend to be someone else?”
“What is this?” Steve’s frowning. His hands curl into fists.
“To steal a baby’s identity?” I press on, reckless. “Is that a crime?”
“What the –?” He’s staring at me. “You’re not … you look …”
“River!” Jason’s at my side. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or angry. “What’s going on?”
“You tell me,” Hagrid’s dad says. “You tell me. Is this your kid? He told me he’d seen someone scratch my car. But it’s fine and he’s –”
“I’m not his kid,” I say.
“Step-dad,” says Jason.
“I never knew my dad,” I say.
“Well, since my car’s OK …” Steve’s backing away from us.
“I asked you a question,” I say.
Jason looks at me. Then he looks at Steve. Really looks. Back and forth a few times – I can see him compare eyes, mouths, noses.
Then he says, “Does the name Matthew Jordan mean anything to you?”
Someone makes a weird, sighing sort of noise. I think it was me. Steve’s mouth opens and closes. He looks at Jason. He looks at me, and blinks three times. One, two, three.
I think he’s going to say something. But then he backs off, jumps into his shiny grey BMW and speeds out of the car park.
19: YOU NEED TO KNOW WHO YOU CAN TRUST
I don’t know what to say. Jason doesn’t either.
“Ankle feeling better then?” is the best he can do.
“Yes,” I say. Then, “How did you know it was him? It was him, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m pretty sure that was him. I’m sorry, River. What a total scumbag.”
“What about Hagrid?” I say.
I imagine how Hagrid the Hulk will feel when he realises his dad has disappeared. That he’s not watching him play football any more. My throat feels all shredded and bloody, like I’ve swallowed a bag of razor blades. And my eyes are sore and gritty. I rub them to try and make them feel better. It doesn’t work.
“Hagrid?” Jason says.
“Their goalie. It’s his … he’s his … he was here because …”
“That’s his son?” Jason shakes his head. “I didn’t realise. I thought he’d tracked you down somehow.”
“No. I tracked him down. Sort of.”
“River,” Jason says, “would it help to play the rest of the match? Or shall we go? If you limp like you mean it I could say I’m taking you to A&E.”
I take a long, shuddering breath. “I want to play,” I say. “I don’t want to tell any more lies.”
When we get back to the pitch it’s the end of half time, and Marcus is looking pained – I guess he had to do the strategy talk. He swaps us around so I’m back in midfield. But I play like a three-legged donkey. I can’t bear to look at Hagrid, his innocent eyes, his bulky torso, his chunky thighs.
‘He’s my brother,’ I keep thinking, and then I want to vomit.
At last the ref blows the whistle. It’s a draw, but at least we’ve survived the match. I know what’s going to happen now. Because it’s a cup match and because we’ve already played twice the ref says it’s time for a penalty shoot-out.
We all gather round so Marcus can pick who will shoot first.
“Raffi,” he says. “Max. Nathan. Sonny. And River.”
“I can’t,” I say. “My ankle.”
“You’re all right,” says Marcus. He’s totally ruthless. He says his style as a manager is slightly to the right of Winston Churchill and Genghis Khan. “We need you,” he tells me. “And we might have won by that point anyway.”
I look at Jason and beg him with my eyes to stop this somehow. I can’t stand in front of Hagrid and take a penalty kick against him. Against Ollie.
But Jason shakes his head and says, “If your ankle hurts, we’ll understand if you miss. But you’re a good footballer, River. You can do it.”
I suppose his words are meant to boost my confidence, but they wash off me, meaning nothi
ng. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Ollie talking to his manager. He’s looking around for his dad. He can’t believe he’s not there.
And suddenly I feel angry. Steaming, stabbing mad. My dad might not feel he owes me anything, and in fairness he never even knew about me. But he shouldn’t abandon his real-life son Ollie half way through a cup match. When there could be a penalty shoot-out, which has to be every goalie’s worst nightmare.
We go first. Raffi looks cool and relaxed, Ollie’s sweating. Raffi saunters up, his foot almost strokes the ball, and bam! It’s in the back of the net. Ollie gets up from the floor. He went totally the wrong way.
But now their forward is taking position, and his ball finds the spot too.
1–1.
Max takes the next one, and Hagrid – Ollie – gets a finger to it but he can’t stop its path to the top left corner of the goal.
“Butter Fingers!” my team shouts. All except me. I don’t know who I want to win any more. It’s weird, but I don’t want them laughing at Ollie.
2–2.
And then Nathan scores and their player misses.
Sonny sends his shot straight over Ollie’s head. Ollie’s cheeks are bright pink and sweat is trickling down his nose. If they miss this time, we’ve won. But they don’t. The shot deflects off the goal post and tricks our goalie into diving the wrong way.
4–3.
The game is mine to win. If I blow it, then we might still win – but if I score the game is definitely ours. They’re crushed, they’re beat, the mighty Barbarians humbled. I try and look confident as I walk towards the spot.
And then I think how horrible it’ll be for Ollie if we win. Will they all give him a hard time? Will he take the blame?
The ball’s in place. I take a short run, my foot goes back and WHAM! The ball flies through the air and smashes into the back of the net. He didn’t even get near.
My team whoops, runs up to me, hugs me and shrieks and cheers. I’m in the middle of the crowd. My back starts to ache from the slaps of congratulations.
