LITMIR.BIZ

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Zidane.’

      He took a seat, nodding coolly at Mason and his friends before he did so. Mason nodded back and the others followed his lead, though they were suspicious of his connection to Ali and his friends.

      ‘Why’s he sitting with that lot?’ said Mutib disapprovingly, loud enough for them to hear.

      ‘Amir. Sounds Islamish. Must be a Muslim thing,’ suggested Conor.

      ‘Uh? I’m Muslim,’ protested Mutib, watching Abdullah as he flicked through his lesson notes from the previous week. ‘But you wouldn’t catch me sitting with Geek of the Week.’ Mason and Conor chuckled. This time Ali pretended that he hadn’t heard.

      Geography was the last lesson of the day, and the boys were relieved when it was over.

      ‘I hope Mr Rose is going to be back next lesson,” moaned Junayd. ‘I don’t like substitute teachers.’

      ‘What was your last school like?’ Ali asked Amir.

      ‘School’s school,’ replied Amir dismissively.

      ‘I’m guessing you were in the school football team though, right?’ asked Junayd.

      ‘Course, man!’ said Amir, suddenly animated. ‘We had a great team. Won the district cup for the last two years.’

      ‘D’you play striker?’ asked Ali.

      ‘Nah, midfield. Could’ve played striker but we had two guys up front from Premier League academies, so the teacher picked them. I was better than them though. They were just lucky to get spotted. Besides,’ added Amir, ‘I like midfield – like to get some tough tackles in.’

      ‘Oh, right,’ said Junayd, contemplating who would have to make way for him. ‘Midfield?’ he repeated, with a sudden dryness in his throat. ‘I didn’t know you played… there.’

      ‘I can play anywhere. I could even play in goal. Probably better than that goalie on the Blue team yesterday.’

      ‘Better than Hasan?’ snorted Abdullah. ‘Unlikely!’

      ‘What would you know?’ demanded Amir, his eyes narrowing. ‘Being “King of the Clipboard” doesn’t mean anything. You ever kicked a football in your life?’

      ‘Yes,’ answered Abdullah truthfully. ‘My first…’

      ‘He’s not dissing you,’ Ali intervened, anticipating that Abdullah might be about to share some statistics on his personal footballing history. ‘It’s just that Hasan has been a brilliant goalie for us. He’s a hard act to follow, you know.’

      ‘Hmmph,’ scoffed Amir doubtfully. ‘Anyway, this is boring. I’m going. Laters.’

      ‘See you late…’ Ali began.

      ‘Oh, wait!’ cried Junayd suddenly. ‘I completely forgot!’

      ‘What?’ asked Ali.

      ‘Whitehaven! Football match! This Sunday! There’s a match! Practice for the Hilsham tournament. This Sunday! We’re playing! In a match! On Sunday!’

      ‘I think we may infer,’ said Abdullah calmly, ‘that there is a match on Sunday, against Whitehaven, by way of preparation for the Hilsham tournament.’

      Amir looked contemplative for a moment. ‘Hmm. Interesting. I wonder where the coach is going to play me. I guess we’ll find out on Sunday.’

      He walked away, leaving the boys alone with their thoughts.

       4

       The Prince Steals the Show

      Ibrahim was dreaming of Hilsham again.

      With the tournament almost upon them once more, the previous year’s action sometimes transformed into the upcoming event. Right now, Ali had the ball close to the touchline. An opposition defender had moved within range of Shabab’s tricky winger, and Ali was daring him to attempt a tackle. He executed two step overs, at which point the defender lunged in and Ali took the opportunity to skip inside him and race towards the penalty area. Suddenly Ibrahim saw three luminous lines on the pitch, joining to form a triangle. The short line showed where Ali had gone past his opponent; the longest marked a direct line between the winger and Ibrahim.

      ‘Pass! Pass the ball, Ali!’ yelled Ibrahim, suddenly anxious at seeing the triangle. ‘I’m open! Pass it along the… hippodrome… no, the wotsisname… hippopota… the long side of the triangle!’

      Ali lifted his head up and looked straight at Ibrahim. But Ali didn’t look like Ali any more. He was wearing someone else’s face.

      ‘I said pass the ball, Amir!’ screamed Ibrahim. ‘Pass it! I’m open!’

      Amir smirked, and, to Ibrahim’s delight, slid a low cross perfectly along the neon line. Ibrahim steadied himself and took aim. Suddenly, it was as if Ibrahim had known all along that this was the tournament final, and his heart began to pinball around his chest as he realised he was about to score the winning goal.

      Just as the ball was about to reach him, a boot arrived out of nowhere and drove the ball hard into the net. Bewildered, Ibrahim looked up from his feet to see a boy dressed not in Shabab al-Nasr green, but in an immaculate Chelsea shirt and sports trousers, racing away to celebrate his goal. Reaching the Shabab fans, he turned round and pointed toward the name on the back of his shirt. How had he got there?

      ‘A-mir! A-mir! A-mir!’ chanted the crowd.

      ‘A-MIR!’ shouted Ibrahim, suddenly bolt upright in bed.

      ‘Yes, beta? What is it? What’s the matter?’ came his mother’s voice from the doorway.

      ‘Ammi?’

      ‘Yes? You were crying for me to come here. That’s what you said, isn’t it?’

      ‘Was I? Did I? Oh, er, sorry, Ammi. Just a bad dream. I’m OK.’

      ‘OK, beta,’ yawned his mother.

      ‘Just a bad dream,’ repeated Ibrahim to himself, as she closed the door and left him in the darkness.

      When Ibrahim next awoke it was to stop the incessant beeping of his father’s alarm clock. Having found his way to bed very late the night before, he had set it so that he could rise early for breakfast, followed by a leisurely walk to the mosque, arriving well before madrasah began.

      ‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Mr Bateman, who was applying a new coat of paint to the garden gate and almost dropped his brush when he saw Ibrahim approach. ‘Whatever’s the matter? Don’t tell me the clocks have gone forward!’

      ‘No,’ smiled Ibrahim.

      ‘Well now,’ said Mr Bateman, ‘Let’s hear the latest on this football team. Think we’ve got a chance of winning the trophy again this year?’

      ‘Inshallah, but it will be tough,’ nodded Ibrahim. ‘Sedgecombe Shuttles have won the league again this season. They’ll be out for revenge too, as we beat them last year.’

      ‘Same team as last time, is it?’ probed Mr Bateman.

      ‘Er, yeah, I suppose so,’ replied Ibrahim, hoping to avoid the subject of Amir.

      ‘Ah, but what about your new signing?’ asked Mr Bateman slyly. He intended to test his theory that some of the boys would see Amir as a threat.

      ‘Who? Oh, you mean Amir?’

      ‘Yes, Amir! “The Prince”, so my online translator tells me! I understand his performances on the pitch are rather regal too… think he could be crowned the tournament’s star player?’

      Ibrahim felt annoyed. He had geared himself up to prove a point today about his own ability, and hearing all about Amir from someone who had never seen him play was particularly frustrating.

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