Forty-Two
THEN
The young man is sick of trying. Today was the third job interview he’s had and it’s obvious that the suited bloke, who spent most of his time staring at notes, was never going to employ him.
Back home, his mother’s getting ready to meet her new fella. She’s all giddy like some teenager and he feels a mixture of happiness and nausea. She’s not like his mum at all. His sister obviously thinks the same. She pulls a face.
Ever since the night he was beaten up by the trio of bad-assed drug dealers, he’s been forced to keep on the straight and narrow – no more selling drugs to the kids at school and, consequently, no more income. Johnny Hounslow is still in a secure centre near Stoke, and he thinks he should visit him but can’t be bothered. What’s he going to say to him? Johnny will get out soon and that’ll be that. He’ll probably end up working at his dad’s factory. Lucky sod.
Of course, the cops wanted to know what happened that night six months previous. A drunk, who’d been asleep in the alley, saw what happened and called for help. He didn’t know why the three huge guys were kicking a kid to death, but terrified they’d do the same to him, he hid behind the bins until they left. It was thanks to the old drunk that he was still alive. The trio had caused some serious damage to his kidneys and face, and if he’d been left for too long in the alleyway, he’d have probably choked on his own blood, or his kidneys would have packed in and he’d be on regular dialysis now. His sister was really upset. She blamed herself and said it was all her fault it had happened, but of course, it wasn’t.
At the moment, he couldn’t care less. Life sucks big time. He’s spent the entire summer looking for work, along with every other sixteen-year-old now out of education. So far, no one has been impressed by his qualifications or his attitude – he’s had a few interviews and got nowhere. It’s bloody disheartening. Why don’t they want him? He is bright and wants to work. What more do they want?
He’ll have to try harder if he really wants employment, and at the moment, his dole money isn’t enough for fags and booze and having a good time. He’s going to end up like his old man – a loser – if he doesn’t get a grip.
His mother’s flouncing about in yet another revealing top. This one’s black with sparkling sequins on it. She looks like a deflated disco ball. ‘What’cha think of this one?’ she asks.
His sister stops working the gum in her mouth, puts down her magazine and looks her mother up and down. ‘That’s the one. Wear that. You look great.’
His mother’s face breaks into a rare smile. ‘Thanks, sweet cheeks.’
His sister goes back to her magazine. As soon as his mother leaves the room he speaks. ‘Really? You like that one?’
‘Nah, but she’s happy and she’ll stop parading about in every single outfit she owns. She’s doing my head in.’
He laughs and turns up the television. The football is on. As he watches the teams walk out onto the pitch, he wishes once again he’d made it as a footballer. There’d be no stopping him if he had that sort of money.
His sister’s chewing again, her jaw moving silently.
‘How come you’ve got a magazine? You nick it?’ he asks.
She puts down the magazine and gives him a patronising look. ‘I got it from a friend who’d finished with it. No point you looking at it cos you can’t read anyway.’
He scowls. ‘Shut your face.’
‘Gosh, I’m so scared,’ she replies in a bored tone.
He throws a cushion at her and she dodges it, laughing at him. ‘Here, there’s an article in it about this gorgeous guy who became an escort and earned loads of money taking old, rich women out. Why don’t you have a go at that?’
‘Why don’t you shut up?’
‘Nah. Forget that idea. No one would want to go out with you. You don’t know anything unless it’s about football. You don’t even have a girlfriend cos all you talk about is footie. Blah-blah-blah football.’
He ignores her. He knows lots of things. He just happens to like football a lot.
Eventually she gives up taunting him. He sits back in the chair and watches the teams battle it out on the field. His mind is only half-focused on the match. His sister has given him an idea. He can make money if he doesn’t concentrate on the usual, conventional channels. It’s a case of thinking outside the box.
He scrubs up well. The suit makes him appear older – about eighteen or nineteen. The old biddy in the charity shop let him have it for five quid. Not bad. It must have cost its original owner a packet. Mum gave him some money towards it. He told her he needed a suit for a job interview and that he wasn’t getting any work cos he didn’t look smart enough.
His sister cut his hair. She’d done a decent job too. ‘You look like Jason Orange from Take That,’ she said, returning her scissors to her bag. ‘You should make effort more often. You actually look okay.’
‘Take That? You listen to some right crap.’ He’d thumped her cheerfully on the arm and, whistling, had washed his hair and styled it with some of her hair gel.
He looks at his reflection one last time. He does look a bit like Jason. Pity he doesn’t have Jason’s singing voice. He tries out a few notes but there’s no doubt he can’t sing. Still, he has brains. He doesn’t need a recording contract with a band.
The bookmakers is busy, filled with men watching sleek horses thunder across large television screens, betting slips in hands, the air filled with hope. He stands against a counter, head over a betting slip but actually observing the comings and goings. He’s going to get rich on the Premier League. Winning isn’t down to luck. It’s about odds and probability. All he has to do is work out if the odds are in his favour and that’s down to maths – his favourite subject.
The football season will start in a couple of weeks with Manchester United playing Aston Villa, and he’s going to use every hour he has until then to ensure he bets wisely on the matches. He might not be able to play football but he can still strike it rich from the game.