Read Online When Mr. Dog Bites by Brian Conaghan - Free Book Online Page B

club-foot guys fell over in the box, and the ref, Mr. Comeford, pointed to the spot. It was so obvious to everyone that the guy just lost his balance and keeled over; Comeford blew out of pity more than anything. Shocking decision.
    “If you don’t save this, I’m going to boot your Paki balls up your arse,” Doughnut screamed at Amir.
    “Eh?” Amir asked.
    “You’d better save this or else,” Doughnut shouted. Amir looked at me all confused face. “You couldn’t catch syphilis in a Paki brothel.”
    “Wha-wha-what?” Amir asked again. I wanted to say “What?” too, because I had no idea what syphilis was—or what a Paki brothel was.
    “Are you deaf, Pak-man?”
    “No, I’m n-n-not deaf.” Amir didn’t really get these types of questions. His answer threw Doughnut’s brain cells into a tizzy. Doughnut got confused quickly when his mind was thrown into a tizzy, meaning his anger grew to mercury level. You should see Doughnut in class when teachers ask him mad hard questions—he’s like an exploding space hopper.
    “Just fucking save it or you’ll be shitting your balls along with your curry tonight.” I could tell that Amir didn’t have a clue what all this meant, as he was still coming to terms with everyone (including me) shouting and screaming at him for being the crappiest goalie the world of soccer had ever seen.
    “Okay, I’ll try,” he said, as if Doughnut had made a proper soccer request.
    This huge Shawhead player with a mega limp ran up (or limped up) and blootered the ball toward Amir’s goal. The ball blasted off the underside of the bar, scudded Amir on the back of the head, and bobbled into the net. Amir hadn’t the foggiest what had happened. Comeford blew for a goal. The Shawhead players celebrated. And Doughnut headed straight for Amir.
    “You’re one proper Paki fanny.” Doughnut was seething mad, with steamy ears and nostrils.
    Amir half ran away.
    “Come here,” Doughnut said, walking after him, ready to do a hate crime.
    “No,” Amir said.
    “Don’t make me chase you, Pak-man.”
    “I didn’t d-d-do anything,” Amir said.
    “Exactly, you dick. Come here.”
    Doughnut was within an arm’s reach of Amir, while I was within an arm’s reach of Doughnut.
    “Leave me alone.”
    “Yeah, leave him alone. He hasn’t done anything wrong,” I said. Bad move. Major bad move.
    “You stay out of this, Tic Tac, or I’ll knock you into the middle of next week.”
    I hated that name. Amir shook and growled, which made me shake and growl too. It was like we had that weird twin thing going on between us. Twin dogs. Twin dingo dogs. Doughnut grabbed Amir by the neck, shoving him to the ground. Then, I swear to the baby Jesus, he was setting himself up to take a penalty kick into Amir’s napper.
    “WANKER FUCKER!”
    “Arrrrrrrhhhhhhh,” screamed Amir. The sound was like a newborn baby wailing, and it made everyone turn toward the incident.
    “BASTARD FUCKER.” The next thing I knew I was on Doughnut’s back, arms curled around his neck, tugging him to the grass. “FAT CUNT NUTTER.” I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying or shouting at all. What I heard was a ssszzzhhhooooooooooo sound ringing in my head, like a washing machine spinning dead fast trying to get the thick dirt out of the muckiest clothes from the muckiest town in the muckiest country in the world.
    Ssszzzhhhooooooooooo.
    Ssszzzhhhooooooooooo.
    Ssszzzhhhooooooooooo.
    Then the spin cycle slowed right down to a
    stut
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    Mint . . .
    “MINT!”
    “MINT!”
    “MINT.” Mr. Comeford ripped my soccer jersey as he pulled me off Doughnut. It was A-okay, though, because it was the school’s soccer shirt. “STAND OVER THERE, MINT, AND DON’T BLOODY MOVE,” he snarled at me, pointing to the goal Shawhead had just scored into. “THOMPSON, YOU GET YOUR BLOODY CARCASS UP OFF THE