rate finally found its equilibrium and he realised he was driving towards Harrowfield Middle School. On the sports field he could see a soccer match taking place. He stopped, shivering as he got out of his warm car to watch. The cold, fresh air felt good and he breathed it deep into his lungs as he stood on the touchline near the penalty box. It was a fast game between Harrowfield and Bradley School. Both teams looked exhausted, socks rolled down, 1 – 1 on the scoreboard. Someone shouted, ‘Five minutes remaining.’ Dylan felt quite excited. The sound of the referee’s whistle pierced the air. He was pointing to the penalty spot.
‘Come on, Harrowfield,’ came the shout of a supporter. There was a lot of booing from the Bradley School end, as Malcolm Meredith, Harrowfield’s PE teacher and coach, walked on the pitch to speak to his team. He looked calm and confident. He pointed to a little thin lad with a red, elfin face, who stood shaking on the periphery of the group. ‘Chris, you take it. Goalie’s left,’ he advised.
Chris opened his mouth as if to say something, showing the navy blue brace on his teeth.
‘Your best striker?’ Dylan asked Meredith, who had come to stand beside him on the touchline.
‘Spencer? Nah, he’s been off injured most of this year. Plays centre forward and never scored.’
‘Poor lad. Why’d you give him the pressure shot then?’
‘He’s a capable player. It’ll give him confidence, if he scores,’ Meredith answered as he clasped his hands together and jogged on the spot. ‘Come on, Chris,’ he cried through gloved, cupped hands.
Christopher Spencer pulled his socks up over his thin, mottled legs. The referee called him forward. There were shouts and screams from the crowd.
He put his head down and ran forward, blasting the ball to the left of the goalkeeper. The keeper dived the wrong way. The teacher was right. It was like slow motion. The ball went in.
‘Yes.’ Dylan threw up his clenched fist and cheered along with the crowd.
Chris turned and ran back towards his teammates, who mobbed him. The coach ran on to the pitch with other spectators and lifted Chris high, swinging him around and round. Dylan smiled. Great kick, well-done lad, he thought. That took ‘bottle’.
Christopher Francis Spencer, aged ten, scoring a goal, a penalty, maybe the winner, it was surreal. This was a dream come true. He couldn’t wait to tell his mum and dad. A few minutes to go and the team were on a high. Christopher couldn’t stop smiling; he didn’t ache or feel the cold anymore. He didn’t even mind the brace he’d recently had fitted and was still getting used to.
The final few kicks of the game, and it was a corner for Harrowfield, safe at Bradley’s end. The ball was crossed, a hard kick. Up went Christopher and it hit him on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground.
That hurt, he thought, turning his face from the mud as he fell. He heard a loud cheer and raised his head. The ball had gone in the back of the net. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He was dragged up from the ground by many pairs of arms. The referee blew his whistle. They were in the final. Two goals for Spencer. He was a hero. He was lifted to shoulder height and chaired around the pitch.
Dylan got into his car and drove, feeling guilty all of a sudden. He was never going to catch Daisy’s killer watching a football match now, was he?
Chapter Thirteen
This is the very best day ever, thought Christopher. He was bursting to tell his dad. How he wished he’d been there to see it. The changing rooms were noisier than he had ever heard before.
‘Great game Chris, well played,’ said Meredith, picking him up in a bear hug.
Dylan drove to Jen’s, switching his car radio on for the first time in as long as he could remember. He felt relaxed, positive.
Chris collected his kit and stood at the entrance to the ground, wishing he had some credit on his mobile so he could
‘Come on, Harrowfield,’ came the shout of a supporter. There was a lot of booing from the Bradley School end, as Malcolm Meredith, Harrowfield’s PE teacher and coach, walked on the pitch to speak to his team. He looked calm and confident. He pointed to a little thin lad with a red, elfin face, who stood shaking on the periphery of the group. ‘Chris, you take it. Goalie’s left,’ he advised.
Chris opened his mouth as if to say something, showing the navy blue brace on his teeth.
‘Your best striker?’ Dylan asked Meredith, who had come to stand beside him on the touchline.
‘Spencer? Nah, he’s been off injured most of this year. Plays centre forward and never scored.’
‘Poor lad. Why’d you give him the pressure shot then?’
‘He’s a capable player. It’ll give him confidence, if he scores,’ Meredith answered as he clasped his hands together and jogged on the spot. ‘Come on, Chris,’ he cried through gloved, cupped hands.
Christopher Spencer pulled his socks up over his thin, mottled legs. The referee called him forward. There were shouts and screams from the crowd.
He put his head down and ran forward, blasting the ball to the left of the goalkeeper. The keeper dived the wrong way. The teacher was right. It was like slow motion. The ball went in.
‘Yes.’ Dylan threw up his clenched fist and cheered along with the crowd.
Chris turned and ran back towards his teammates, who mobbed him. The coach ran on to the pitch with other spectators and lifted Chris high, swinging him around and round. Dylan smiled. Great kick, well-done lad, he thought. That took ‘bottle’.
Christopher Francis Spencer, aged ten, scoring a goal, a penalty, maybe the winner, it was surreal. This was a dream come true. He couldn’t wait to tell his mum and dad. A few minutes to go and the team were on a high. Christopher couldn’t stop smiling; he didn’t ache or feel the cold anymore. He didn’t even mind the brace he’d recently had fitted and was still getting used to.
The final few kicks of the game, and it was a corner for Harrowfield, safe at Bradley’s end. The ball was crossed, a hard kick. Up went Christopher and it hit him on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground.
That hurt, he thought, turning his face from the mud as he fell. He heard a loud cheer and raised his head. The ball had gone in the back of the net. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He was dragged up from the ground by many pairs of arms. The referee blew his whistle. They were in the final. Two goals for Spencer. He was a hero. He was lifted to shoulder height and chaired around the pitch.
Dylan got into his car and drove, feeling guilty all of a sudden. He was never going to catch Daisy’s killer watching a football match now, was he?
Chapter Thirteen
This is the very best day ever, thought Christopher. He was bursting to tell his dad. How he wished he’d been there to see it. The changing rooms were noisier than he had ever heard before.
‘Great game Chris, well played,’ said Meredith, picking him up in a bear hug.
Dylan drove to Jen’s, switching his car radio on for the first time in as long as he could remember. He felt relaxed, positive.
Chris collected his kit and stood at the entrance to the ground, wishing he had some credit on his mobile so he could
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