The Dare Game Read online

  words to that effect. Almost as bad as his mum.

  He wiped his face very quickly so that I couldn't see the tears. Though I'd already seen them, of course. But I cleared off and ate most of my tube of Smarties to calm myself because I can't stick it if people start yelling and screaming – unless it's me. Then I made for the house and you'll never guess what!

  There was the football, in the garden, landed smack in a soggy carton of sweet and sour sauce. Now that had to be magic! I mean, fancy that football landing in my garden!

  So I decided to be a good little fairy myself. I picked the football up gingerly and wiped all the orange goo off on the grass and

  bounced it all the way back to

  Football's house.

  I banged at his door.

  No answer.

  I banged again.

  Nothing. I stared at the peeling paint, wondering if I'd got the wrong house. No, I was pretty sure. I backed down the garden path and peered up at the window.

  'Oi – you! Football guy!' I bellowed. 'Want 95

  your ball back?' I bounced it hard to show I wasn't kidding.

  It worked! The window went up

  and Football's head poked out.

  'What are you doing with my ball?'

  he bellowed, as if I'd been the one to kick it over the rooftops.

  'OK, pal, if you're not even

  grateful...' I said, and I turned my back and went bouncy-bouncy-bouncy to his gate.

  'Wait!' he yelled.

  I knew he would. He came charging out in two ticks in his vest and tracksuit bottoms and bare feet. Those little pink wiggly toes made him look much less fierce.

  'Give us it then,' he said.

  'Play a game of footie with me?'

  'I told you before, I don't play with girls.'

  'Then I'll take this ball and find some guy who will play with me,' I said.

  He tried to tackle me then, but I was too quick for him.

  'You little . . . ' More amazing words.

  'You haven't half got a mouth on you. You obviously take after your mum.'

  That really got him going. Blank blank blankety blank, you blanking blanker.

  96

  'Hasn't anyone ever washed your mouth out with soap?' I said.

  'Ha ha,' he said, not laughing. He was eyeing the ball, but I kept it out of his reach.

  'They used 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 97

  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.'

  98

  '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 99

  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 100

  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 101

  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

  J guys came sloping past

  and Football act