What a shitty morning. Al can’t wait to get away from everyone.
‘I’ve got to go early,’ he says as he grabs one of Sister Stevens’ leftover cookies. He’s even got an excuse ready – some History homework he needs to discuss with Matty – but no one cares enough to ask.
He hurries out to the shed. It’s chilly and still a bit dim but the geese are already mucking about, chasing each other, squawking like loonies, and he can see it’s going to be a nice day cos the sky is clear and glassy. He stuffs an old football into his rucksack, sticks his headphones in his ears and grabs his bike.
He’s dog-tired, but his feet find the rhythm of the music as he cycles along the quarry-tile pavements and once his lungs get going the cold air inflates and wakes him.
He had a totally crap night. He was woken by Jacob’s crying in the early hours and had to jam his pillow over his head to block it out. He couldn’t get back to sleep properly for ages and then, when he was finally dozing off, it was time to get up.
Jacob blessed the food at breakfast time. ‘And please bless us all to stay at home today,’ he said. ‘Bless us not to have to go to school –’
Dad interrupted and finished the prayer, which got Jacob crying again.
‘Ask and it shall be given to you,’ he whimpered, pointing at the painting on the kitchen wall. ‘With God all things are possible.’
Dad snatched Mum’s crappy bird picture off its nail and put it face down on the worktop. ‘Prayer isn’t like a Christmas list,’ he said. ‘You can’t just ask for any old thing and expect to get it.’
This made Jacob cry even more, and when it began to look like Zippy might join in, Al decided it was time to leave.
He pedals through the gate to the footie pitch, past the No Cycling sign and down the tree-lined path. When he reaches the grass he brakes hard, skids, jumps off his bike and leans it against one of the nearly bald trees. He shucks off his rucksack and hangs it from the handlebars. Then he retrieves the football and stuffs his school blazer in its place.
He jogs onto the field, carrying the ball under one arm. The grass is wet and there are heaps of leaves at the edges of the pitch. His shoes are immediately soaked and he wishes he had his boots. He drops the ball and dribbles it down the field towards the goal near the little park. When he reaches the edge of the box he glances up and smacks the ball into the top right corner of the goal. That’s better. He jumps up and down on the spot for a moment and his shoulders start to loosen. He undoes his top button and lowers his tie, wishing someone was there to fetch the ball for him as he jogs to the goal: Issy – the thought smacks into the net of his imagination before he can save it. He pauses to sniff; wipes his nose on the back of his hand and rubs his eyes while he’s at it – it’s bloody freezing, no wonder they’re watering.
He pulls his iPod out of his trouser pocket and turns the volume up until the music fills his whole head – I need a dollar, dollar, a dollar that’s what I need – not a single rude word in this whole song and appropriate words, too. He grins and dribbles back to the edge of the box where he repositions the ball. He kicks again, aiming for the top left corner. The ball hits the post and he hurries to retrieve it.
He only sees the lads when he turns round. They’re jogging towards him, they must’ve come from the ginnel between the houses that back onto the field and they’re smirking, already closer to him than he is to his bike.
There’s no one about but someone is bound to come before long. People walk their dogs on the field. Give it ten minutes and there’ll be shitting dogs everywhere. Al picks up the ball and squeezes it to his chest.
‘All right, fucking wanker?’ the spotty lad calls. ‘Where’s your little friend?’
Al flicks the headphones out of his ears and tucks them into his pocket. He wishes he hadn’t been quite so cocky as he cycled away the other day. He wonders if he should run round the back of the goal and at least get the net between them. But there are two of them. They’d just split up and catch him in the middle or chase him round and round like something out of a cartoon.
‘All on your own today?’
When the spotty lad gets close he shoves Al in the chest, the way footballers shove each other when they’re warming up for a fight over a foul or a dodgy penalty decision. Al rocks like one of those wobbly kids’ toys, but he doesn’t fall.
The lad laughs and shoves again. This time Al staggers and regains his balance. He only falls after the third shove, when he drops the ball and stumbles to one side, saving himself with a well-placed hand.
The shorter lad nicks the ball. ‘Get up and fight, you faggot.’
He doesn’t know how to fight. Not properly. He’s done the shoving thing before, in the playground, but teachers have always stepped in and saved him from having to follow through. The spotty lad lifts his fists and goes all springy at the knees and his mate drops the ball, making fists too.
It’s not like a proper fight on the telly. Al tries to throw punches, but his arms aren’t fast enough. He moves more like a windmill than a boxer, and while he’s flailing, their knuckles sneak past his defences and clout his head and his cheek. Fists don’t bounce, they smack, and Al is surprised at how little spring there is in the space between his bones and his skin. He keeps thrashing, makes contact with something – it feels like an ear – and is rewarded with a thump in the mouth. He gasps as his top teeth puncture his lip. He wishes he was brave, but he’s scared and hurting.
‘Hey, stop it.’
The voice belongs to an adult and it’s coming from somewhere behind him. The relief sends Al all bendy, his arms droop and he has to sit down. As soon as his bum hits the grass, one of the lads kicks him. The bruise leaks down his thigh and he rolls onto his side.
‘Leave the boy alone.’
Two more kicks. One near his kidney, the other somewhere else, he isn’t sure where cos the pain in his back is roaring.
‘Stop it,’ the same voice calls, closer now.
The lads jog away, towards his bike. He watches as they grab his rucksack from the handlebars and empty everything out onto the grass. He breathes carefully, trying to keep rhythm with the pulse in his back as the spotty lad picks his blazer off the ground, frisks it and empties the pockets.
When the pain slips past its peak, he starts to feel other things all at once, in a big rush – the wet grass soaking into the bum of his trousers, the pain of the second kick – to his calf, it turns out – and the lump inside his lip that’s beating like a small heart. He touches his mouth with the tips of his fingers and they come away bloodied. The spotty lad waves something he has pulled out of the blazer pocket. He and his mate tussle over what they’ve found, jostling and shoving each other – Al can’t think what could possibly be of any interest to either of them.
‘Leave his stuff alone,’ a different voice calls.
‘Mind your own fucking beeswax, grandad.’
Al finally looks over his shoulder. Three old men are shuffling towards him – one of them has a dog, a daft dog in a little red coat. He turns back, rests his head on his knees and watches the lads wrestle.
‘I’ve got my phone,’ one of the old men calls. ‘It’s got a camera. I can take a photograph of you.’
The lads go all out in a final scrap. They tear at something and shout at each other before they run away.
‘Are you all right?’
Gloved hands reach out and tug at Al’s elbows and shoulders.
‘Come on, lad. That’s it. There you go. Let’s get you on your way to school.’
He struggles to his feet. His knees are slack and his trousers are stuck to his bum. There’s no way he’s going to school with a wet bum and wobbly legs.
The men surround him. They tap his back and shoulders and shepherd him towards his bike, muttering to him and each other.
‘Poor lad.’
‘I’ve been on the end of some hidings in my time.’
‘Me too.’
‘You’re not hurt badly, are you?’
Al shakes his head and runs his tongue over the burst in his lip.
‘If we’d been able to move a bit faster …’
‘I’ve not been able to move quickly since the nineties.’
‘The eighteen nineties?’
‘Very funny.’
Three men. Three dead old men with skin like battered leather. Purple noses and massive ears; flat caps, anoraks, mad eyebrows like dog’s whiskers – they’re ancient and there’s three of them. Al’s breath catches in his throat and he is assailed by a spluttery sort of laugh – he’s been rescued by the three fucking Nephites, it’s a bloody miracle! The three Nephites, last seen changing a tyre on the M58, are here in the park, demonstrating that the Lord is looking out for him. There’s clearly no other explanation – ha ha! Wait till he tells Brother Rimmer.
His rucksack is on the ground next to his bike and his best football cards lie beside it – Luis Suárez shiny, and Steven Gerrard Man of the Match – torn to bits. His house key rests in the grass beside a couple of empty sweet wrappers, his football sits next to the trunk of a tree and alongside a small drift of leaves he can see one half of his emergency fiver. That’s the icing on the crap cake. Not the pain in his back or his bleeding lip, not his earlier thought about needing someone to fetch the ball and the subsequent, inevitable ache of missing Issy, but the money and the way it’s not even been stolen, just ripped – ruined.
He cries. He tries to do it quietly, tries so hard it sounds like he’s panting, and the little dog in the red coat thinks it’s a game and dances about, licking his shoes.
A gloved hand rubs a wave of static along his head. ‘Come on. There’s a good lad. There’s nothing wrong that can’t be mended.’
The man crouches slowly, creaks, like he needs a squirt of oil in his hinges, and picks up the torn note. Al stares at it. He’s in a horrible amount of debt, all kinds of it; the kind Dad goes on about, the kind that has to be settled with payments of goodness and devotion, and the other kind, the real kind – all the money he’s borrowed or stolen or whatever it is he’s done.
‘Here’s the other half.’ Another gloved hand waves money at him.
Al pulls his school tie out from under his jumper and uses it to wipe the tears sliding off his jaw.
‘… to the bank, all right, lad? Are you even listening?’
He shakes his head and wipes his nose on his sleeve.
‘You just take it to the bank. The money.’
‘But, but – it’s ripped.’
‘Yes. Are you listening, lad? They’ll give you a new one.’
‘A n-new what?’
‘A new fiver.’
‘They’ll give me, they’ll – really? You’re n-not joking?’ He makes a noise that’s a cross between a laugh and a sob, it sounds a bit like a bark, and the little dog joins in and Al notices that there are other people about now, a lone dog walker and a woman jogging through the ginnel. He lifts the bottom of his jumper and buries his face in it.
‘Come on.’
The old man tugs at the jumper and Al emerges, still breathing the rhythm of his tears.
‘I’m not joking, lad. Take the pieces to the bank and they’ll give you a new one.’
‘Is it – is it a special fiver?’
‘Do you think he’s all there?’ The old man looks to his friends, points at his head and taps his temple a couple of times.
‘What if, what if it got dead wet? And what if – what if there was a sort of hole burned into it?’
‘It’s not wet or burned, it’s just ripped. Have a proper look. Did those lads knock you in the head?’
‘Would the bank replace it – would they?’
‘Well, yes. I expect they would.’
‘That’s incredible!’ He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He feels all balloony, as if he might float above the park on a cloud of relief and join the geese in their mad, follow-the-leader games. If he has tipped Mum over the edge, he can winch her back with a trip to the bank.
The old men return his smile, pleased that he’s pleased. The little dog catches the excitement and jumps up to rest its wet paws on Al’s school trousers.
‘Down!’ One of the men puts his hand in his pocket and the dog removes its paws from Al’s leg and sits dead still. When the man pulls his hand out of his pocket, fingers pressed together, he isn’t holding anything, but the dog waits, certain there’s a reward in the offing.
Another of the men chuckles and says, ‘That’s dogs for you, lad. Just like gamblers. They try harder if they don’t get rewarded the first time. Go on, lad, you have a go.’
Al waits until the dog is back on all four paws, then he stuffs his hand in his pocket and pulls it out slowly, fingers pressed together. The dog sits and looks up, eyes wide, its little face fixed, pleading, hopeful.
‘See? They’re funny, aren’t they, dogs?’ The man stoops to ruffle the animal’s head with his gloved hand and when he straightens he does the same to Al. ‘All better now?’
Al nods.
‘You’d best be going then, lad.’
Al stuffs his things into the rucksack and slides his arms through the straps. He climbs onto the bike, clasps the handlebars and flicks the pedal into readiness. The old men lift their hands in a sort of saluting wave. He waves back then he pushes down on the pedal and cycles along the tree-lined path towards the gate. Just before he reaches the gate, he glances over his shoulder and shouts, ‘Bye.’ The three Nephites are still waving.