Dare Game Read online

  ‘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 football.

  He was in his living room, shoving his feet into his trainers. ‘Here, you. I didn’t ask you in.’

  ‘I know. But I’m dead nosy. Seeing as I haven’t got a real home.’

  Football’s certainly wasn’t my idea of home sweet home. Yesterday’s takeaways were congealing on trays by the sofa. The ashtray was so full it was spilling over and the whole room smelt stale. It was empty too. Well, there was a sofa and chairs and the telly, but that was about it. Cam’s got all her cushions and patchwork and plants and pictures all over the walls and books in piles and little ornaments and vases of dried flowers and windchimes and notebooks and painted boxes and this daft old donkey she had when she was little. She said I could have Daisy if I wanted. I said I wasn’t a silly little kid who played with toy animals. Cam said good, because she was a silly little woman who still liked cuddling up with Daisy when she was feeling dead depressed and she didn’t really want to give her away.

  I’ve tried hanging onto the old donkey once or twice, when Cam’s not around. Daisy’s got this old soft woolly smell, and the insides of her big ears are all velvety.

  You can’t cuddle up with anything at all in Football’s house. Maybe Football doesn’t mind. He’s certainly not a cuddly kind of guy.

  We played football out in the street. It was great for a bit.

  But then these other guys came sloping past and Football acted like I was this little bee buzzing in his ear. He swotted me away and started playing football with these other guys.

  ‘Hey, what about me?’ I demanded indignantly.

  ‘You push off now,’ Football hissed out the side of his mouth, like he couldn’t even bear to be seen talking to me.

  ‘OK, OK. But you give me back my ball. I found it. And you said it wasn’t yours.’

  I got into a bit of an argument about it. Football and his new mates won.

  I decided I didn’t want to play footie with him if he were the last guy in the world. In fact, I’d gone off the game altogether so there was no point taking my ball with me. So I didn’t insist.

  I sloped off to the old house to see Alexander. I needed to see if he’d followed my advice and learned to stick up for himself.

  Tracy and Alexander’s Home

  I LET MYSELF in the back window and noted straight away that someone had been making serious improvements in the kitchen. There was a big bottle of mineral water standing on the draining board, with a label saying THIS IS THE TAP. So I drank a little ‘tap’ water because Football (and the ensuing dispute) had been thirsty work. I slurped a little down my T-shirt but there was a clean towel hanging on a hook so I could mop myself up. A cardboard box was stacked in a corner with another label: THIS IS THE FRIDGE. I inspected the ‘fridge’ contents with interest. I discovered two rounds of tuna sandwiches, a packet of cheese and onion crisps, a Kit-Kat and an apple. Plus a giant pack of Smarties!!! I helped myself to a handful or two because I’d already burnt up a lot of energy that morning. I was all set to share my own refreshments – only I’d somehow or other eaten them up. Still, I was sure Alexander would be happy to share his refreshments with me.

  ‘Alexander?’ I called. It came out indistinctly, because my mouth was full. I tried again, louder. ‘Alexander?’

  I heard a little mousy squeak from the living room. Alexander was sitting cross-legged on a little rug in front of another cardboard box. There was a drawing of smiley Blue Peter presenters on the front and another label: THIS IS THE TELEVISION.

  ‘It seems to be on permanent freeze-frame,’ I said wittily.

  Alexander seemed unusually immobile too, hunched up with his chin on his chest.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked, sitting down beside him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. Then, ‘Well, no, not really.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘What’s up, then?’

  Alexander sighed heavily. ‘Everything,’ he said sadly, and went back to watching the frozen TV programme.

  ‘How did you get on at school?’ I asked.

  He didn’t react, though his eyes flicked backwards and forwards as if the presenters were really doing something on the screen.

  ‘You know, with the big bully boys in the showers?’

  Alexander sighed again and slumped even further into his shoulders. ‘The entire school calls me Gherkin now.’

  I couldn’t help spluttering. Alexander looked at me as if I’d kicked him.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry! It just . . . sounded funny.’

  ‘Everyone thinks it’s very funny. Except me.’

  ‘Oh dear. Well. Never mind.’

  ‘I do mind. Dreadfully.’

  ‘Still.’ I struggled hard to say something optimistic. ‘At least you won the dare. I dared you to do it, didn’t I? And you did. So you get to win that dare.’

  ‘Big deal,’ said Alexander.

  I thought hard. ‘OK. You get to dare me now.’

  ‘I don’t really want to, thank you.’

  I couldn’t believe his attitude. Didn’t he realize the potential of my offer??? ‘Go on, Alexander,’ I said impatiently, standing over him.

  Alexander wriggled ba