Ribblestrop (25 page)

A minute or so passed as the teams organized themselves. The high school jogged confidently into their positions; Ribblestrop Towers needed a little longer, partly because Henry was still pushing at one of the donkeys and partly because nobody could keep still. Was it nerves? The orphans were running on the spot, flapping their arms. Sam was turning in circles, clapping his hands.

The whistle blew, and Millie knocked the ball to Ruskin. Everyone was astonished at the immediate ferocity of the high school side. The players weren't fast, but they were powerful and their tactics were simple. Like dogs off leads, they bounded at their opponents: they only needed short swords and shields and they would have been gladiators, trained in the art of death. So in the first seconds of the game, Ruskin played by instinct. Seeing a giant hurtling toward him, he smashed at the ball, hard as he could. His right foot missed and he tripped, allowing his left foot by sheer good luck to trickle the ball neatly between his opponent's legs and into the path of Sam Tack. It looked like the most amazing dummy and pass, and Sam tricked the ball forward on his left, then got it on to his more confident right. Two high school giants came at him, and Sam dribbled skillfully, just the way he'd been trained years ago by a favorite uncle. He had two exquisitely good tricks, and he used them both: the hesitation with the right that dodges forward on the left, followed by the leap to the right coupled with the lightest flick with the left heel: to watch Sam play you'd have thought you were at a dance class, a celebration of the Highland Fling.

But Sam was never selfish.

He hunted for Millie and he hunted for Ruskin, hoping that both would keep up: alas, he was ahead of himself. He was coming to the penalty area and a Roman armadillo of defenders had formed between him and the goal. He spun back on himself, preparing to boot the ball backward: a sliding tackle just in front ploughed a long deep flowerbed into the pitch. He leaped the high school player responsible and dribbled the ball to the right.

“
Shoot!
” someone cried.

“Go on, Sam!” came a joyful voice: it was the headmaster.

Shooting was unthinkable because Sam was not the finisher. At his last school, his job was to get to here, just outside the box, and loop the ball in for a trio of sharpshooters. But there were no gray shirts: only the green armor of the opposition, swinging round in bomber formation. The thoughts came impossibly fast: back to Millie, move inside; hesitate and wait for Asilah on the wing; alternatively, curl the ball—risk a wasted shot—but let one and all see that Ribblestrop Towers meant business. The goalie was blind, the defenders had built a virtual wall. He blasted it. The ball whisked the goalnet clear of its hooks and settled in the nettles.

One-nil.

Sam remembered running, and then his feet were treading air. He was on someone's shoulders, arms out. Millie had simply lifted him up and he was being carried toward the Ribblestrop Towers' goalmouth, half boy, half trophy. Orphans were flocking round him, screaming. Henry was waving his arms, and Sanchez was there, hands up ready to clasp him by the cheeks and plant a kiss of religious intensity firmly on his hairless head. When he turned and the noise quieted, he was aware of eleven high school boys rolling up their sleeves. There was an eerie silence now and the ref had the ball on the center spot.

The high school looked like demolition men, itching to get a job started.

There were thirty-nine minutes left.

The high school captain kicked off—this was the tattooed boy.
There was a quick bit of rudimentary passing. Ruskin nearly intercepted, but tripped over the ball. This was fortunate, as the tactics had changed: the high school forward pounced on the spot where Ruskin would have been, and those watching had the strong sense that the smaller boy would have been mashed into the soil. As it was, the ball trickled away and a herd of high school players advanced steadily. The first hint of murder was when one of the wilder orphans rushed in to tackle. Without fear, he crashed in to sweep the ball away. The opposition leaped forward, knee dangerously high: and Sanjay was spread-eagled on the grass. He lay there, panting, unable to get his breath.

Free kick to Ribblestrop Towers. First reserve on.

Millie came forward and booted the ball high. Sam got to it, but a high school boy got there first. Punted it back, down on the wing. Three orphans chased the ball, but the green shirt cut through all of them: a fine cross, with three attackers there in the goalmouth. Sanchez jumped and caught the ball safely: he also caught a cruel headbutt, firmly in the face. He went down, the ball safe to his chest: the knees of his attacker came down hard on his shoulder, crunching him against the goalpost.

No foul given.

For Sanchez, it was a shocking moment. He said something in Spanish and smiled, wondering if his opponent would recognize the unusual combination of the words
mother
and
skunk
. He appeared not to, so Sanchez kicked the ball into play. The referee turned his back; tattoo-boy looked at Sanchez and stepped toward him. “I'm Ken,” he said, “and you're dead.” He threw a punch at Sanchez so hard it would have cracked the goalpost, and it was sheer instinct that saved the goalie. Sanchez ducked and curled all in one movement, bringing his right knee over the top. It was a move he'd learned from his senior bodyguard: a move reserved for close combat, when you'd lost your weapon. Sanchez scored a full-on strike: Ken caught the knee full in the jaw and lost two molars. The lad crawled from the pitch.

“What the hell happened?” said Millie.

Ken was spitting teeth on the touchline, gargling and weeping. Play had stopped: the ref had him staked out in the recovery position.

“Sanchez—what happened?”

“I'm not talking to you, Millie.”

“Don't be so stupid! You almost killed him, what did he do?”

“All right, he tried to kill me!” said Sanchez.

“Look at your face!”

“Get lost, Millie, I'm—”

“Come here . . .” She had a handkerchief in her hand and simply grabbed Sanchez by the hair. “He's cut you to pieces, you stupid idiot. Keep still.”

Harry Cuthbertson spoke to the headmaster and there was much gesturing. In the end, the ball was back on the center spot, and the high school started.

But something was wrong. It may have been the sense of fear in the air, but it was clear that the orphans were no longer enjoying themselves. Their usual joy in the chase was disappearing and they rushed at the ball hoping to kick it anywhere. When they did get close to the action, they were inevitably swept from their feet. Several knees were now caked in blood, and only their instinct for leaping and diving kept them from more serious injuries. Millie and Sam were everywhere and Anjoli was working hard. They yelled and encouraged, running the length of the field—defense and attack—but it was clear that things were slipping away for Ribblestrop.

Henry was the next actual casualty.

He had had only one convincing attempt at a tackle. He wasn't fast, but the high school boys were wary of his size: like Sanchez, he was a marked man. He was standing still when the incident happened. True, the ball was rolling toward him, and true he was preparing for a major kick. As he did so, two high school players rushed him together; a knee went up, concealed from the referee . . . Henry was flat on his back, gasping, and had to be helped from the pitch.

Second reserve on.

After ten minutes of the game Ribblestrop Towers had used up its full quota, replacing injured boys. The score still stood at one-nil, but it didn't look like holding. Sanchez had made three excellent saves and tried to get the ball out fast, knowing he'd be dead meat in another goalmouth skirmish.

Despite his isolation, Sam glowed. Ruskin was a fumbler and Millie was getting nervous. Anjoli too had a skittish look, and so nobody could get a maneuver together. Sam yelled for the ball, ran for the ball, jumped for the ball—he was faster than he'd ever been, and played with a fearlessness nobody had seen in him before. Alas, the high school boys had him covered. Again and again, the ball was driven back down the pitch, left wing or right, crosses to midfield, and Sanchez was called upon again to save constant shots. The lead could not be sustained; the pressure was impossible. The green shirts piled it on, abandoning defense. They hungered for the equalizer; their mouths were speckled with foam.

It was two minutes before the end of the first half. The high school had barraged the Towers' goalmouth. Sanchez could barely stand. His head was throbbing and nobody could believe he'd kept the ball out. Player after player was virtually camping in the Towers' penalty area, determined to even the score. Sanchez looked up through his own sweat and saw Sam with his arm up, jumping up and down. He wasn't marked. Sanchez was crying for halftime, but he sent the ball up hard and long, just over the center line.

Sam was on it, trapping it neatly and putting it straight back to an orphan. The high school defender didn't read the signs, didn't realize the orphan could barely kick: he ran at him. The child booted the ball as hard and as far as he could, which sent it rolling ten feet over to Millie. The sliding tackler rushed at her, and Millie, also exhausted, leaped out of the way . . . the ball bobbling feebly in Sam's direction.

He was there, he took it up. He toed it ahead and beat another defender, saving it just from the touchline. Again, that cry, “
Go on, Sam! Shoot!
”—a woman's voice, he saw the flashing teeth of
Professor Worthington, arms above her head, baying for all she was worth. She had a black-and-gold scarf, she'd knitted it for the occasion. He was down, he was up again: the penalty area was under him. The high school boys were running back, but they were also tired: could he pass to Ruskin? The boy was yelling and jumping, but even Sam knew a ball to Ruskin was a wasted ball. Why not use him as a distraction? He made to pass, the defender leaped: Sam kept possession, dummying neatly and using again the old right heel. The last player should have closed him down, should have predicted the trick, but Sam was in luck. He was round, with only the goalie to beat and the goal was wide.

Top right
, said a voice in Sam's head.
No, no, round him and go for the bottom left
.

The goalie was hovering, trying to cover all the ground: their eyes met, minds trying to read each other. Sam hated to shoot; he knew his first goal had been a fluke.
Stay in control
; he was small and quick. He slewed to the right and darted left—the goalie came out and Sam was ready for the shot, a whole flank of the goalmouth open wide, unmissable.

Everyone saw what happened. The incident had the slow motion of a car crash. Sam had skipped like a ballerina. He was easily clear, in total, beautiful control. So the goalie played the man. No doubt about it; no attempt at the ball. As he spun, he kicked out at the child, recklessly. A vicious, scissoring right came at Sam's groin, cleats up. It was later discovered that the studs were illegal, the metal pins worn through the plastic. Sam was caught as he jumped and the studs opened a gash all down the thigh. Worse than that, he was flipped like a coin and went down hard, head first, onto the mud. The ball settled in the back of the net, but Sam was unconscious.

Not a cheer. Not a clap. The ref blew for halftime, the score standing at two-nil.

The survivors gathered that evening in the dining hall. Captain Routon had cooked another handsome meal and the rum bottles were out, everyone allowed a tot to keep spirits up. But the cold wind of failure blew and stripped the building back to what it was: a semiderelict stone box, smelling of ash.

Eleven-two, the final score.

Amazingly, there were no broken bones. There were cuts, bruises, and sprains. There were black eyes. And there was Sam, deep in a coma, with a tube down his nose. He was breathing, but only just. Captain Routon had set up a primitive ventilator using a desk fan and one of Professor Worthington's electric timers, but everyone knew it was a dangerous situation. He was under blankets in the west tower, and the headmaster was with him.

The rest of the children sat at their tables like an army, routed and cheated. An army that had been trodden underfoot: rabbits in a stampede of buffalo.

“There's always the return game,” said Professor Worthington. She was on the little stage of crates, balancing as best she could. Her hair was wild; her scarf looked ridiculous. “We'll show them next time,” she whispered.

It was not the thing to say. Nobody wanted another meeting with the high school unless it was with crowbars and shotguns. The sense of fair play had been snuffed out like a night-light.

“It could have been worse,” continued the doctor. “There were
some cracking saves, weren't there, Miss Hazlitt?”

“Sanchez can hardly walk,” said Millie. “Ruskin can't talk.”

“Oh, Millie. Don't despair!”

“We need wheelchairs and morphine. Not fantasy. And by the way, our loyal deputy headmistress wasn't even watching.”

“What you need,” said Miss Hazlitt, “is a little bit of discipline.” She rarely ate with the children, but had chosen to do so tonight. Her black dress gleamed and she hunched over her food, long and thin. Her face was startlingly white. “I
was
watching, as a matter of fact. The reason you lost was because you don't work together.” She allowed herself a rare smile. “Every man for himself. I've seen it in class; I see it round the school—the dominant ego seeking gratification.”

“Where have you seen that?” said Sanchez.

Her voice took on a strange chuckle. “In your lessons,” she said. “You can't take orders. Rebellion has become—” Her cell phone shrieked and she snatched it to her ear. “As I predicted,
instinctive
. You're an interesting case study, Millie. Look at the way you dress and speak to your elders. Hello?”