shoes before you get out of the funeral car.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
That day they had driven down south then switched into the black car for the ride to the cemetery, where they found there was some delay, no-one knew why. Everybody stood about, not knowing what to do. Mum went off talking to other mourners. Marcus thought he’d try out a few moves in the cemetery car park. He didn’t like funerals and practicing kept his mind off what was going on, namely a dead body being laid to rot in the ground. Marcus popped his ball out of his bag, trapped it, bounced it ten times on his head, then cushioned it onto his forehead, rolled it back between his shoulder blades, flipped it up, trapped it on one foot and held it there for ten, then flipped it up and juggled it in a sequence: left knee, left shoulder, head, right shoulder, right knee, right foot, nestle, cradle swap to left foot, then that sequence all over again. All the while eating from a bag of cheese-and-onion crisps.
Some boys from another funeral gathered round him. Their funeral had been delayed as well and there was nothing else to do. It was summer. They were wowed by his skills. When Marcus finally sat down with them on the bubbling car park tarmac, sweat poured off his brow, and his white shirt stuck to him like a wet flag of Brazil.
‘C’mon, what’s your secret?’ they asked him. ‘How did yer do that?’
Marcus shrugged and said in his best London twang. ‘Just practice, innit? 24 7 12. Practice. Practice. Practice.’
‘So that’s all it is?’ someone asked.
Marcus shrugged. ‘Yeah, like. Practice, you know, practice, practice, practice.’
Then the funeral was back on. Everyone lined up by the big hole with the mound of earth behind it. Marcus’s mum gave him a whack, for standing at the coffin with his ball in his hand. The ball dropped out of his hands. It bounced off the mound of earth and into the hole that had been dug for the coffin. Marcus tried to scramble down to get it out again, it was his favourite ball. Mum fainted. Everyone tugged Marcus back. The wailing got worse. The priest chanted above it all and the box got lowered. Now Marcus’s Uncle Simon was buried with what had been Marcus’s favourite ball underneath him. Even now, even though he had his ATC, a part of Marcus resented that. Why hadn’t they let him get it? What did his dead Uncle need his ball for? Sometimes he felt like going back down to that London graveyard and digging it out from under him.
Marcus shifted in his bed. A smile crept onto his face, as he remembered the match again. When it came to football, Marcus was good. Here, in his bed, there was no need for him to be humble about it. Now they were first in the league table, with Bowker Vale two points behind them. For the first time ever, Ducie looked set to win the league. Marcus reached out an arm and brought his ATC close so it pressed into his cheek. He fell asleep practicing Cryuff Turns in his head.
SPICY ABDUL’S CAPPUCCINO BURGER CAFE BAR
I t was Saturday. Marcus looked at his tiny ‘Single Party Cheeseburger’ and his gloopy ‘Mango Heaven Milkshake’ and sighed. Adele was late. His legs were caked with mud from football. He’d raced off without showering so he could be here on time. He followed a fly that danced around from the display board to the motionless kebab spit before it keeled over and dropped into the fat catcher below the spit.
Adele had texted him saying they had to meet up because she needed to tell him something important. He had agreed out of boredom more than anything, he’d convinced himself, though that did not explain why his heart was racing.
The owner (presumably his name was Abdul, Marcus thought, though he had blonde hair and looked more like a Dave) was standing over him with a
‘
would-you-like-to-order-anything-else-sir’ look. There were no other customers so what did it matter if he was sat here? He smiled a ‘no thanks’ to Abdul. Abdul sloped