You could
almost think it was the Lenpy, if you squinted. The great, three-tiered stand certainly wasn’t full, not like in the golden olden days of eighteen months ago, and between the clumps of bouncing, screaming supporters you could just about make out the H, and a bit of the EN, and the right-hand side of the Y. And it was still all in red and white, but unless you were still nursing Sylvanae-induced ocular nerve damage you’d have to acknowledge the slight modification in shade. The seating’s good ol’ polychromatic pigmentation had shifted – apparently of its own volition, large sections of the Candelariasian public having come to the conclusion months ago that the Tristar Songstress Stadium was a self-aware life form in its own right – to a slightly brighter red for the occasion; the red of the hated rivals Albrecht Turkish, the red of the Seunem national team.
But it wasn’t the Lenpy, because the Lenpy wouldn’t never wear those colours, not
quite those shades, and never jump up and down in huggy, noisy joy because a Turkish striker had scored, much less for a foreign country. Amy wasn’t quite sure what it
was, but she was pretty sure she liked it. It was like discovering a whole new species, a creature very much like another more familiar variety, but nevertheless distinct enough to get to lend your name to it.
Lenpy Seunemii.
“I could get used to this,” the left-back grinned, as she high-kicked pointlessly a few times in the Seunem technical area. She hadn’t been asked to, but it was better that than squat and fidget on the bench, wishing beyond all reason that she could be out there herself. “Look at ‘em. They’re loving it!”
“Hm. Mm,” Thomas Merrytent and Paschal mumbled. The old manager stamped a few times, lacing and unlacing his fingers irritably.
“Seriously, gaffer, we’ve
got to come back here! I know it’s only a third full, but still… Why don’t we just base ourselves here permanently, eh? At least until the Seunemi FA had got a proper stadium of our own in order, we… ooh, nicely done, Stenners… I mean, just look at ‘em. This country’s crying out for football, I mean
this could be the catalyst we need for actually getting a team back! Get rid of this hair shirt, and blaming football nonsense, an–”
“If you do wish to defect back to the land of your birth, dear girl, you have only to say, mm. Hm. Otherwise, kindly stopper your stirring, we are in the midst of a match…”
“Yeah, ‘cause I’d really get selected for the Big Blues two-point-oh, wouldn’t I? I’m not defecting anywhere, I’m just sayi –”
“Hush!
MISTER STEN! KINDLY stay on your feet, if you would please!”
“S’alright, gaffer, it’s the logical thing to do… They’ve got nothing from set plays now their right-back’s limped off.”
“That was our third yellow card, I do think. There is still half of the hour left to play, it is dangerous… FOUR yellow card,
MISTER TUU, ENOUGH! I will wring the neck of that lilburne, I swear it true…”
“He just mistimed the tackle, gaffer,” Amy said quietly, as the manager motioned towards young Colecta Customers to start warming up, “In happens it football, y’know. I wouldn’t haul him off just yet…”
“I did not ask your advice. And I am tired of these so-called ‘honest mistakes’. He is supposed to be a professional,
most of you are. No lower-league game anywhere in the worlds would finish with eleven players a side if such tackles were simple ‘mistakes’…”
“We’re a goal to the good and cruising, boss. It won’t do any of the guys out there much good to see you stalking about angrily on the touchline…”
Mister Thomas sighed, and slumped back into his dugout. “Perhaps… Perhaps you are right. It is this place, I do think. I like this place not. I feel… uneasy.”
“Well
I think it’s great. It’s even better than the Solidarity. I guess it’s ‘cause C&M played their qualifiers here for the last couple of years.”
“In their famous bright yellow shirts…”
“Uh… Yeah, why not. It’s like we’re an adopted national team, y’know? Doesn’t hurt that we’re basically pronounced the same.
And we’ve got Candelariasian players, hello, it just makes sense for us t… Uh-oh.”
At that moment, Costin Kennedy and Snade gave the ball away cheaply, and the Cascratian’s deep-lying midfielder Rokonara Aylmer surged into the Seunem box. The rapid arrival of the reassuring presence that was Cayolle Customers, the former Sorthern international, brought his run to a crawl, but the teenager turned away from her and seemed to glance up into the Lenpy, a beatific smile suddenly on his face…
***
“…ok, I don’t see how it’s
my fault.
I didn’t know he was going to turn up.”
“He’s
your countryman.”
“So? He plays for our arch-rivals. Occasionally. When someone can be bothered to arrange a game.”
“I’m just saying, as captain, as our dear Mister Thomas’ right-hand man, you might have thought that Albrecht FC legend Jesse Nakatsuru might have planned to turn up to a rare match of any note taking place at his home stadium, and perhaps might have thought that it might be a good idea to show some initiative and ask him
not to.”
“How?
How? How was I supposed to know he was Rokonara Wozzizzface’s childhood hero, and that the realisation of his very presence would provide such inspiration that the bloody kid would go and score a bloody hat-trick?”
Tuu Dufu shrugged. “
I did. I did my research,” the Kytlerian replied, placing the emphasis on the ‘re’ in such a way that forced Amy, lounging against the wall opposite, to have to dig her heels into the skirting board lest she leap forward and bite his nose off.
“And you didn’t think to mention it?” Samson said through gritted teeth.
“Well, nobody really listens to me, do they?
You’re Tommy-boy’s anointed son and heir, of nothing in particular. I’m just Mister Sixty Minutes And Then Haul Him Off And Replace Him With A Sixteen Year Old Girl…”
“He’s got a point about that,” said Sam’s drinks cabinet, doing a passable impression of a slightly muffled George Gjorgjinski. “Dunno what the gaffer was thinking there, I really don’t.
How many times did Colecta give the ball away? Twelve? Fifteen?”
“God, you’ve had a right cob on all week, you ‘ave,” Juri Sadowsky snorted. “Just twang ‘er bra strap or summat; get it all out of yer system.”
“And get your head out there as well, young man, your mam’ll have our heads on platters if you get plastered on our watch,” Amy snapped.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever… And that’s nothing to do with it, Juz. We just needed a goal, he should’ve sent me or Freskin on, not another random Customers.”
“Bobbins, you’ve just got a mard on ‘cause you want t’see our substitute holding midfielder in the nud, an’ she ain’t having any of it.”
“
Talking of seeing other people’s bodies,” Tuu smarmed from his position on the sofa, “When’re we going to see your mystery corpse, Sammers? That’s the only reason I agreed to come back here!”
“Sam’s just a bit overtired at the moment, aren’t you?” Amy said loyally. “It’s alright for you lot, in countries that have a proper timeflow.
We’re practically playing a game every twenty-four hours, or travelling somewhere at the very least. It’s taking it out of us, isn’t it, Sam?
And I expect that’s why the gaffer didn’t send you on today, George. We’re in need of a break, are us Candelarians. Sam is, anyway.”
“You’ll get one, soon enough, he ain’t going to bother selecting him once we officially can’t qualify anymore, is he? And when’s that… next week? Or tomorrow, your time. It’s going to make my little day out at the Waterside a damp squib, let me tell you.” Tuu sniffed a hunter’s sniff. “Where is mine host, anyway? Gone to find a new corpse?”
Comfortably beyond Tuu’s hearing, Sam slid miserably down the stairwell outside his apartment, and groaned. Maybe Amy was right, really. So much travelling, so many games, so much responsibility, in such a little time. Even Edith had buggered off back to her mother’s to a bit, citing his impossibility to live with during the international ‘season’. So, maybe…
“So. This body of yours.”
“Hi, Henk,” Sam sighed. The Nethertopian took his as an invitation to plonk himself down next to him.
“Sorry I’m late, Jan wanted to go down to Gordon Bay again, and I had to go a buy a great big raincoat for his… missus, or whatever she is, ‘cause I’ve got t’tell you, you people
really aren’t quite as okay with the whole ‘non-human’ thing these days as you make out. Anyway. The corpse. Y’know. The one you ‘killed’ the other day.”
“Yeah, alright, obviously I didn’t… Maybe there wasn’t someone there at all. Maybe I dreamt it. Or he got up and walked away, I dunno…”
“
Right… So… What did he look like?”
“Kinda… Seunemi, I guess. What you’d expect. Brown hair, horsey face. Old-e world-e clothing, big boots, pirate hat. Pistol.”
“He was armed? You didn’t think to unarm him, at all?”
“I didn’t think it was worth worrying about, on account of him being very dead at the time! Also, I just… Went back to sleep. Y’know. And by the time I’d woken up…”
“Pistol, eh?”
“One of them flintlock jobs. I googled it.”
“Hmm. Look, mate… You really ought to talk to my dad, y’know? I know I haven’t been in this squad as long as the rest of you, but… There’s some weird stuff going on, I reckon.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“So… I don’t know what it is about me’n you, Henk, but our conversations just seem to fizzle out, don’t they?”
“Yeah. Comedy out-word?”
“Seattle?”
“Yeah, that’ll do.”