Only two minutes of extra time left, a hundred and twenty seconds, every one of them precious.

Against all odds the Rangers have proved a match for the Samurai, the score one all. Both goals were kicked in the first half, the Rangers’ one by Hotaka’s fellow striker. Since then the Samurai have controlled play and been ruthless. The Rangers have held them off, mainly with loads of good luck, but are worn out now. In the last ten minutes the Samurai have landed four shots on goal, two seriously close. With the end in sight, they’ve ramped up the charge, putting almost the entire team in attack. The Rangers are in real danger of crumbling.

Hotaka has had some rough treatment from the Samurai. It’s what he expects as a striker, but it has been relentless – bumped and thumped on the sly, knees and elbows rammed into his back, kicks to his shins and ankles, a punch in the guts when the ref wasn’t looking, and blows to the head. He’s taken it all in his stride; to react would be both pointless and unsporting.

‘Come on, Rangers!’ he calls out to urge on his team. But he’s also letting them know he’s ready for any ball they can send his way. He can put on real speed if need be, aware that there are only two Samurai defenders between him and their goal. To score against the run of play would be awesome.

As if on cue, a strike on the Rangers’ goal bounces off the top rail into the keeper’s hands. He spins round and kicks the ball down the field. Hotaka takes it and sprints away.

You can do it!

He hears Takeshi’s voice and feels him at his side, locking into total concentration as he heads down the field. The goal posts are beacons beckoning him. He has his line of attack mapped out ahead, aware of the defenders rushing at him, the rest of the Samurai rapidly gaining. Twenty metres out, he weaves sideways as though intending to send a long pass to the other striker. But with two defenders charging at him, he pivots on the spot and wrong-foots the goalie with a killer kick. The ball curves beautifully towards the top right-hand corner of the goal. A winner for sure, he tells himself.

Do it!

Hotaka doesn’t see if he scores. The two defenders slam into him. He crashes to the ground, trampled by one, crushed under the other, the air knocked out of him. Gasping, he tries to scramble to his feet, but the pain is too great. He slumps, groans, and falls into a semiconscious swirl. Faces peer, hands reach down, voices call. He blacks out.

A whirlpool of debris spills into his mind. A viscous black wave more solid than liquid churns him into a world that wallows between life and death. A town obliterated. A whole town swallowed and masticated, spat out, spewed up – bits and pieces, parts of buildings, floating rooftops, household items, buckled boats, trees, logs, cars, trucks.

And people – squirming in among it all like worms. People.

‘I tried.’

Hotaka hears himself calling, but at the same time sees himself. He’s somewhere within that world, and yet he’s within this one as well, for the veil between the two has worn thin. Arms rise from the rubble, wriggle and writhe, then slip out of sight. Cries for help echo all around. Screams mingle with weeping and wailing, crunching and grinding, the hissing of gas tanks, the howling of sirens, the roar of explosions and flares.

A mother’s tortured face looms at him, arms outstretched, hands grabbing air as her two daughters are ripped away by the wave. Her animal howl chases theirs as she plunges after them. An old man drifts by, eyes peering at Hotaka for a moment, then sinking, unblinking, into murkiness. A body bumps lazily into a car and sprawls across its bonnet as though resting for a bit before rejoining the spew. A dog whimpers. A tiny girl cringes on a floating roof, shivering with fear and cold. An old woman clings to the edge of the roof, struggling to pull herself up. A flurry of snow scatters ice-cold confetti as the tremors continue, reminders rumbling up from the deep.

Hotaka knows it’s pointless to look away. All this and much more is inside him and won’t be denied. He has no choice but to stare at the grim parade, and soon the yokai is there.

‘I wanted you to stop,’ Hotaka calls. ‘But you kept going.’

The legless spectre in its pure white kimono floats above the water, drifting towards him. The head is bowed, its long hair matted with seaweed, its eyes downcast, while two multicoloured flames, the telltale hitodama, flicker above the figure, bathing it in eerie light.

‘Please don’t blame me. I couldn’t help you.’

The yokai drifts closer, elbows held at the waist, forearms reaching out, pale hands hanging listlessly. Barely a metre away, it stops and lifts its head. Hotaka gasps. Even though he’s seen the face many times, its deep and utter sadness always steals his breath away.

‘You wouldn’t stop.’

The figure lifts its head slightly, then raises its right arm and stretches towards Hotaka. Breathless, he watches the thin translucent hand float across to hover above his shoulder. As it descends, he closes his eyes.

It’s okay, the hand seems to say as it rests on his shoulder and sinks gently into his very being. It’s all okay.

The touch is so light as to be barely perceptible, and yet it sends a wave of overwhelming emotion through Hotaka.

‘No!’ he shouts and sits bolt upright. ‘No it isn’t!’

‘You’re okay.’

Hotaka opens his eyes and looks around, taking a while to realise where he is – on the football field, surrounded by faces. His team members are among them, and right next to him is the team’s doctor, his hand on Hotaka’s shoulder.

‘Someone must be watching over you,’ he says. ‘That was a nasty collision, but I’ve checked you all over and you’re fine to go home.’

The crowd cheers and Hotaka’s team chants: ‘We won, we won!’ He laughs and slowly stands, wincing.

The doctor steadies him. ‘You’ll be sore for a while, but this will help,’ he adds, handing Hotaka a tablet. ‘And the coach will drive you home. Tell your mother I’ll call later to check on you.’

Hotaka would love to stay and celebrate with his team, but decides he’d best follow the doctor’s orders.