Time passed.
The football season continued all year round at Green Cross, and the next game was looming. True, there was a bit of cricket, and some rather feeble athletics. A parent ran a Saturday rugby club, which was well attended, and there was a karate class after school on Tuesday. But football dominated, for the simple reason that Mr Barlow loved the game and spread a real passion for it among girls and boys alike. In his youth he had ‘tried out’ for a London side, so he knew what he was talking about. He wasn’t fit any more, but he pushed the children as hard as he could.
They had beaten Morden Manor three–nil, and it was during that first game that Richard and Rikki were exposed to the more hostile stares of other children. They quickly got used to being called ‘two-heads’, and soon discovered how those who insulted them always seemed to be the most stupid.
‘Oi. Two-heads.’
‘Yes?’ said Rikki.
‘You’re a freak.’
‘Thank you.’
That would usually be the end of it.
‘Do you two snog?’ said one witty boy, just before half time.
Rikki smiled, and Richard waited until the next tackle, then elbowed the boy so hard in the stomach that he was stretchered off.
Richard was astonished to find that he was getting used to his second head. From the beginning, he had been relieved to discover that Rikki did not prevent him sprinting, dribbling or shooting – in fact, he had turned into a much better player. His balance was as good as ever, and he found that in the course of a game, they worked together and followed just the same instincts. The next match was a quarter-final against their arch-rivals, Blagdon Road Juniors. In fact, every other school was an arch-rival, for Mr Barlow liked to whip up a real sense of competition when there was a cup involved.
‘They’re a quick s-s-side,’ he said, spluttering slightly. ‘But they’re not so, so s-strong at the back. I’ve also . . . I shouldn’t be telling you this, maybe, but I was t-talking to their headmaster and one of their strongest has got chickenpox. They’ve got a new f-full-back, and he’s not experienced. That’s why we’ve been w-working on the one-touch pass – I w-want to get that ball forward. Are you . . . are you with me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ everyone said.
Nobody made jokes in the training sessions, and Mr Barlow’s spittle problem was never referred to.
‘Eric, you’re going to be key.’
‘Sir.’
‘I want to st-start with a lot of right-wing work, so Eric’s our front man. Salome, I don’t want you up front at all – I want you way back, p-pushing it up.’
Salome nodded. Her suspension was over. She’d signed a strict contract of behaviour, and she was due to have an anger-management session with Dr Warren, whose visits to the school were getting ever more frequent. He was keen to experiment with mild medication, though Salome’s family was resistant. She and Rikki exchanged bitter looks over the desks – but kept out of each other’s way. Even on the football field, they kept their distance.
When Blagdon Road Juniors kicked off, there was an instant hurricane of whistling and cheering. It was soon clear that the Barlow tactics were working, for Green Cross had most of the possession.
For twenty minutes it was nil–nil, but then Mark got the ball way out to the school’s lethal weapon – Eric – and he hammered in the most gorgeous cross. Salome’s friend Carla muffed it, missing the volley, so a defender booted it hard. Rikki was there: right place, right time. He dived sideways with extraordinary courage – and his forehead made full, glorious contact. The header was unstoppable, and the goalkeeper was open-mouthed as the ball shot straight over his shoulder into the net.
The Green Cross team rushed howling into a huddle, and Richard and Rikki were carried shoulder high to their own half. Jeff, who was goalie, ran all the way from his goalmouth for high-fives, and when the game re-started, the team was solid as a rock. They held their lead through sensible defending, and at half time Mr Barlow congratulated his team warmly.
‘Change of t-tactics, now,’ he said, smiling.
‘Why, sir?’ said Jeff. ‘They don’t know what’s hit them!’
‘Six–nil,’ said Mark. ‘Minimum!’
‘I think we have to surprise them,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘They know what we’re about, now. They’ll be talking about you, Eric, I’m sure of it. So I want to sh-shift the main play onto the left – it’ll be just enough to confuse them. I want Carla supported, all right? I want to get her up f-front – left wing – c-crossing it in. Richard – Rikki. I want you even further forward.’
The two heads nodded.
‘Get it to Carla, Eric. Can you do that?’
‘Sure,’ said Eric.
‘I’m expecting magic. From all of you.’
Magic was exactly what he got.
The Blagdon Road Juniors team fell straight into Mr Barlow’s trap. They had repositioned themselves to close down Eric, and it was a long time before they realized he was no longer the principal danger. Carla was now the mainspring, and everyone was pushing the ball in her direction. She was a forceful girl and had mastered some very delicate footwork. Soon, she was putting the ball in from all angles, seeking out Richard and Rikki. There were two Blagdon players who were particularly tall, and they dealt with some of her crosses. But Rikki and Richard could jump higher than they’d ever jumped before, and seemed to possess a far better sense of timing.
Fifteen minutes before full time, Richard found himself at the near post as the ball sailed in, long and hard. He leaped like a salmon, and Rikki nodded it straight through the goalie’s hands. Five minutes later Carla found him again, and he got impossibly high to head it down to Mark. Mark chested it onto his right foot, and managed not to panic. He cracked it into the back of the net, and stood goggle-eyed with amazement. Then, in a final movement that looked more like dance than football, goalie Jeff found Salome, who booted a massive pass up to the strikers. Rikki received it on his temple, flipping way across the pitch to Eric. Eric was through like a whippet, and his final shot tore the goal net from its hooks. The quarter-final score was an unbeatable, unmistakable and totally uncompromising . . . four–nil.
They would play the cup-holders in the semi-final: the dreaded St Michael’s Preparatory School, who trained in all weathers, every day. It was a boys-only team who’d toured Brazil the previous summer, and been coached by professionals.
When Richard and Rikki trotted off the pitch, they saw their father. He was standing, huddled up in a big coat, gazing at them.
‘Dad!’ said Richard shyly. ‘I didn’t know you were watching.’
It had been a sensitive family issue, because Richard’s grandad had never missed a game – even when his health was failing.
His father said, ‘I didn’t want to put you off. I just sneaked in and stood at the back.’
‘What about work?’
‘Told them I had more important things to do. Sorry . . .’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Sorry, I’m . . . ooh. Something in my eye, son. You played so well. Rikki, that was—’ He hugged his son to him, and kissed the tops of both heads. ‘You’re beautiful. You know that? He’d be proud.’
‘Who would?’ said Rikki.
‘You know who. He’d have been dancing.’