to do it in the Children’s Home. This careworker shoved a great cake of her Body Shop Dewberry soap right in my gob when I was just the weeniest bit lippy. It was
disgusting
. Still, I bit it into pieces so she couldn’t use it any more. And then I was sick and she got scared in case I reported her for abuse. The sick was all foamy. It looked pretty impressive.’
Football was looking at me like he was a little impressed himself. ‘You’ve been in care?’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Still am. Technically. Though any minute now I’m getting back with my mum. She’s the most amazing actress and she’s incredibly beautiful and she thinks I’ll make it in the movies too and—’
And Football tackled me and got the ball back, laughing.
‘You rotten . . .’ My own language sparkled and hissed too.
I thought he’d go back indoors with his blooming ball and slam the door on me, but he hung around on his doorstep, heading the ball at the front wall, backwards and forwards.
‘So, what’s it like then?’ he said, a little breathlessly because he was really whacking that ball. It made my eyes smart to watch him.
‘What’s what like? Hey, give me a go at heading it, eh?’
‘You’ve got to be joking!’
‘You’re so mean! I got you your rotten ball back.’
‘I don’t think it’s mine anyway.’ Football caught it and swivelled it around. ‘I had my name inked on it, plus a dire warning of what I’d do if anyone got their dirty mitts on it.’
‘So it’s really not yours?’
‘Never mind. It’s actually in better nick. I’d really hammered my last one.’
‘Then it’s just as much mine as yours – so give it here!’
‘OK, OK, I’ll play five minutes’ footie with you –
after
you tell me what it’s like to be in care.’
‘What do you want to know for?’
‘Because my mum keeps threatening stuff, see – and then I’ve got this social worker—’
‘So have I. Elaine the Pain!’ I pulled a face.
‘What did you get up to then, a little kid like you?’
‘I’ve been up to
all
sorts,’ I boasted.
‘But you haven’t really been in trouble with the old Bill. I have. Lots,’ said Football, swaggering.
‘Yeah well.
I’ve
been too clever to get caught,’ I said.
‘So what
is
it like? Do they really beat you with wet towels so you don’t get bruises? And do the older ones bash the little ones up and stick their heads down the toilets? And do the boys have to wear short trousers even in winter so they’re a laughing stock? My mum says—’
Aha! I decided to wind him up just a tiny bit. ‘That’s right! Only it’s far worse,’ I said. ‘The food’s awful, all these meat loaves made of cow’s nostrils and uddery bits, so you get mad cow disease as
well
as being sick. And
if
you’re sick at a meal they pile it up on a plate and make you eat it.’
Football was staring at me, eyes popping, mouth open, like he was about to be sick himself. I could have nicked his ball –
my
ball – there and then, but this seemed like more fun. I went on elaborating and he carried on drinking it all in and it wasn’t until I invented this torture chamber where they keep you handcuffed in the dark and let live rats run all over you and burrow down beneath your underwear that he suddenly twigged.
‘You’re having me on!’ he said. He stared at me, his face scrunching up. I decided I might have to back off sharpish. But then this weird spluttery noise started up. Old Football was laughing!
‘You’re a weird little kid! OK, OK, I’ll play footie with you. But just for five minutes, right?’
He went into his house to put on a T-shirt. He left the door ajar so I followed him in. It wasn ’t much cop at all. The carpet was all fraying at the edges and covered in bits. I could see why his mum had nagged on about the vacuuming. It looked like the whole house needed spring-cleaning. There were scuffs and marks all over the walls – obviously traces of Football’s
disgusting
. Still, I bit it into pieces so she couldn’t use it any more. And then I was sick and she got scared in case I reported her for abuse. The sick was all foamy. It looked pretty impressive.’
Football was looking at me like he was a little impressed himself. ‘You’ve been in care?’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Still am. Technically. Though any minute now I’m getting back with my mum. She’s the most amazing actress and she’s incredibly beautiful and she thinks I’ll make it in the movies too and—’
And Football tackled me and got the ball back, laughing.
‘You rotten . . .’ My own language sparkled and hissed too.
I thought he’d go back indoors with his blooming ball and slam the door on me, but he hung around on his doorstep, heading the ball at the front wall, backwards and forwards.
‘So, what’s it like then?’ he said, a little breathlessly because he was really whacking that ball. It made my eyes smart to watch him.
‘What’s what like? Hey, give me a go at heading it, eh?’
‘You’ve got to be joking!’
‘You’re so mean! I got you your rotten ball back.’
‘I don’t think it’s mine anyway.’ Football caught it and swivelled it around. ‘I had my name inked on it, plus a dire warning of what I’d do if anyone got their dirty mitts on it.’
‘So it’s really not yours?’
‘Never mind. It’s actually in better nick. I’d really hammered my last one.’
‘Then it’s just as much mine as yours – so give it here!’
‘OK, OK, I’ll play five minutes’ footie with you –
after
you tell me what it’s like to be in care.’
‘What do you want to know for?’
‘Because my mum keeps threatening stuff, see – and then I’ve got this social worker—’
‘So have I. Elaine the Pain!’ I pulled a face.
‘What did you get up to then, a little kid like you?’
‘I’ve been up to
all
sorts,’ I boasted.
‘But you haven’t really been in trouble with the old Bill. I have. Lots,’ said Football, swaggering.
‘Yeah well.
I’ve
been too clever to get caught,’ I said.
‘So what
is
it like? Do they really beat you with wet towels so you don’t get bruises? And do the older ones bash the little ones up and stick their heads down the toilets? And do the boys have to wear short trousers even in winter so they’re a laughing stock? My mum says—’
Aha! I decided to wind him up just a tiny bit. ‘That’s right! Only it’s far worse,’ I said. ‘The food’s awful, all these meat loaves made of cow’s nostrils and uddery bits, so you get mad cow disease as
well
as being sick. And
if
you’re sick at a meal they pile it up on a plate and make you eat it.’
Football was staring at me, eyes popping, mouth open, like he was about to be sick himself. I could have nicked his ball –
my
ball – there and then, but this seemed like more fun. I went on elaborating and he carried on drinking it all in and it wasn’t until I invented this torture chamber where they keep you handcuffed in the dark and let live rats run all over you and burrow down beneath your underwear that he suddenly twigged.
‘You’re having me on!’ he said. He stared at me, his face scrunching up. I decided I might have to back off sharpish. But then this weird spluttery noise started up. Old Football was laughing!
‘You’re a weird little kid! OK, OK, I’ll play footie with you. But just for five minutes, right?’
He went into his house to put on a T-shirt. He left the door ajar so I followed him in. It wasn ’t much cop at all. The carpet was all fraying at the edges and covered in bits. I could see why his mum had nagged on about the vacuuming. It looked like the whole house needed spring-cleaning. There were scuffs and marks all over the walls – obviously traces of Football’s
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