Zombie xi, p.8
Zombie XI, page 8
‘Sir, this Asian girl falls in love with this white boy only she’s not allowed to because her family want her to marry someone else. The boy has the hots for her …’
‘Pray, what are “the hots”?’
‘In love. He’s really in love with her, sir. But they’re miserable because even if the girl’s family allow them to see each other, his family don’t like Asians and his brother says they’ll kill him if he goes out with her. Things get worse and worse …’
‘No doubt. How does this happy romance end?’
‘They share a last pizza then she jumps into the canal to kill herself. He jumps in after her, though nobody knows if it was to kill himself or to rescue her. To add mystery, sir.’
‘That’s the ending?’
‘Yes, sir, they both die. Based on a true story, sir – it was in the papers.’
‘A tragic tale of woe for the song, dance and shimmering splendidness of the musical genre to drape itself upon. Children, is your world this bleak? Is there no hope?’
‘There wasn’t none in Romeo and Juliet either, sir. I think,’ Eddie replies.
‘So true, so true. Star-crossed lovers. Let us move on to our final group, Group Three. Your prompt was Razzmatazz: The Musical!. Will your story involve troubling the local undertakers too? Tribune of Group Three, what say you?’
A girl with a row of school badges on her jacket stands up.
‘Our story is Love on the Roller Rink.’
‘No deaths?’
‘None whatsoever, sir.’
‘What-so-ever?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Lord, kiss me on the lips! Carry on, child.’
‘There’s these two groups of skateboarders and they go to the skateboard park every week. The two groups meet and make friends because they find they like each other and they have a really nice time.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I smell genius in that idea. Movement. Flow. Happiness. And no corpses.’
He turns again. ‘Now, it’s time for your improvisation exercises. Get into groups of four and stretch your bodies from fingers to toes and imagine …’
There’s a wallop at the back of the hall and the fire doors clang open. In steps The Windmill, followed by seven footballers in full football kit including boots with studs in – a breach of the gym rules. They put their hands on their hips and look around like they could beat us up if they decided they wanted to.
Mr Sax spins round and holds out a big STOP hand.
‘Mr Brod-er-rick, what is the meaning of this intrusion?’
‘I come in peace,’ Mr Windmill replies, as he leads his players into the centre of the hall like the Roman invasion. ‘You will remember the agreement we made last fortnight, Mr Sax?’
‘An agreement was made? Between ourselves?’ Mr Sax makes it sound absurd, as if he is a Roman Emperor and The Windmill a lowly peasant. This throws The Windmill.
‘Well, yes, we had a conversation in the staff room. By the coffee machine.’
‘Ah, that coffee machine. The coffee it dispenses – many have experienced hallucinations after drinking it. What visions did you have?’
‘That you were going to teach our football team how to dive properly.’
‘I agreed to teach your army of urchins how to cheat effectively in the game of soccer?’
‘That was the agreement. It’s not cheating, it’s part of the game now. Theatrics. “Expressionism”, I think you called it.’
‘Perhaps the conversation occurred with the Fine Art teacher, “Expressionism” being a word more used in that school of thought than in drama?’
‘No, it was you. I recall perfectly – I made a note. And you said to come today. So here we are. We discussed it. What we want to learn is the Italian Roll, the German Dive-Bomb, and the Argentinean Plank.’
Mr Sax thinks a moment. ‘Well, all right, Mr Brod-er-rick. I have a vague recollection of some such conversation with you. But we have no need for any nationalist stereotyping. If we have to conduct this exercise, then my thespian geniuses will devise routines which will be uniquely brilliant.’
Like all of us, The Windmill hasn’t understood a word of what Mr Sax said. ‘Does that mean you’ll help, then?’ he replies.
‘In the school of theatre, it comes under “fight scenes”. Very useful skill, along with duelling. Yes. Just for you, you charmer, Mr Brod-er-rick, we shall give it a go.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sax, thank you very much. You don’t know how much the team needs you and your expertise.’
‘Hold the flattery for now, Mr Brod-er-rick. Judge me by results. Footballers – take off thy metal-clad boots!’
Mr Sax has us clear the floor, drag out the rubber mats and stand in a circle.
‘Is this really happening?’ I ask Sheba.
She laughs. ‘Diving lessons! Yeah! I love it!’
Once all the mats are in place and the groups are sorted out, Mr Sax begins the diving lesson.
‘Thespians, partner up, two or three of you to a footballer. Don’t worry, they won’t bite. We’re going to learn the art of falling and its three component parts. The Anticipation. The Act Proper. And the Aftermath. Everyone shake their hands in the air, now shake your legs, wiggle your hips, let’s get ready for a superb, sporting performance.’
We’re soon warmed up. Mr Sax begins.
‘First comes Anticipation. The merest brush. The smallest nudge. And you are horrified. Look at each other in pairs. Horrified. Jaws drop, eyes pop, tongues out, neck stiff. You are seized with the anticipation of mortal pain.’
He demonstrates and then gives us three minutes to rehearse. We all practise our shock-horror faces as Mr Sax wanders round giving us tips until he’s happy.
‘Excellent. Now the Act Proper. At the point of actual contact, you have stumbled into an electric fence and cannot get yourself off it. Let’s see that. Show those thousand volts surging through your bodies. Stagger. Bend your knees.’
Mr Sax demonstrates. ‘At the same time shake your arms like a four year old frantically trying to shake money out of his brother’s piggy bank before his brother gets back. Face, eyes, cheeks, eyebrows, should be all a-quiver. Let’s see it!’
The entire hall resounds to the shake of electrified bodies.
‘Marvellous!’ The Windmill shouts above the din, genuinely pleased with proceedings. He starts going round looking, encouraging: ‘Didn’t I say you needed more shake when you went down, Marcus? Fabulous. Horse – the cheeks, more wobble, more horror in the eyes, please. Yakub, your knees are frozen. Knees of an electrified chicken, please.’
It’s nice to see The Windmill like this. Most times we see him he’s so miserable about us losing and his enthusiasm is fake. But here, he’s more real.
Mr Sax’s voice booms out. ‘Now the Aftermath. It is not enough to fall down. You must imagine you have been hit by the high-velocity bullet of an ace sniper. Watch and learn …’
Mr Sax suddenly crumples, his hand holding his heart. He slams into the floor and his limbs go inert, star-shaped. He gets up. ‘Have you got that? Bullet. Heart. Clutch. On your face is the realization this is your final breath on earth. Then fall dead. Not a twitch. Like a fish on ice. Go to it, dear thespians: dulce et decorum est pro Ducie High mori!’
‘What’s that mean, sir?’ someone shouts out. He’s showing off his Latin and we know it.
‘Sweet and noble it is to die for your school team. It shall be stitched into all the Football Coaching badges one day, no doubt. Very well – get dying, everyone. Die gloriously and repeatedly. Happy, Mr Brod-er-rick?’
‘Yes, very happy,’ says The Windmill. He’s ecstatic. He shouts, ‘Horse, if only you could die every Saturday like that, we wouldn’t be buried at the bottom of the League!’
Mr Sax continues the lesson over the noise. ‘Extremities, please! What have I told you? I want to see poetry in the hand shapes, the legs properly articulated, hips rocked forward at the sudden shock. Come on, let’s not get lazy, let’s die great deaths!’
After twenty-five minutes of sniper-shot dying, we move on to face-palm mimes.
‘Someone pushes you in the face. Place a hand towards your face. Suddenly look as if you have run into thick plate-glass. Footballers, stand and watch the professionals who have done this already when we did mime. Let me hear those groans, class. Good flow of the hand, articulation of the elbows, and the shoulders rock nicely. Most important is the head – press sideways into the glass, lips apart, brow anguished. Now catapult yourself on to the floor. Excellent catapult, Yassy, but you forgot the face-squish first, so try again. Let’s do this right. Concentrate, darlings!’
I’m paired off with Josh. He’s a defender and rubbish because he’s not fast enough on his feet. I try to coach him but his heart’s not in it.
‘This is daft,’ he says. ‘My game’s staying on my feet, not falling over. It’s only strikers want to fall over.’
I have sympathy for him. ‘It’s only a bit of fun. Have a go,’ I tell him.
He does quite a good belly flop after my pep talk. Mr Sax notices.
‘That’s it, help each other,’ he calls out. That’s another thing I like about him, he notices when you do something extra.
‘Thespians, use your mirror technique so the footballers can see how they’re doing. Five more minutes!’
All around me people are flopping, shivering, rolling, bug-eyeing, groaning, writhing, agonizing and swanning to the floor. It’s like a zombie convention.
‘OK, let’s calm down a little bit. This requires our brains.’ Mr Sax gets us to sit down in a circle as he explains what Recovery is. His voice drops into a theatrical whisper that can still be heard as far as the fire door. ‘You hear the whistle. You’ve won your free kick. Thespians, what happens when you don’t have a line but you’re still on stage? What do you do?’
‘Stay in character!’ all us actors shout out in unison.
‘Very good. Stay. In. Character. You do not leap up at the sound of the whistle. Or give a thumbs-up sign to your teammates. Or tip a wink to one of your friends on the touchline. Or stick your tongue out at the player who tackled you. Otherwise you may get booked yourself. Is that correct, Mr …?’
‘Correct,’ The Windmill interrupts before Mr Sax can murder his name again.
‘Stay in character,’ Mr Sax stage-whispers again, ‘stay injured. Everybody up again, limp up, touch the ground like a tender toddler, hold your hip, wince a little. Hobble to the ball. Await perhaps the coach’s magic spray.’
‘Sponge actually,’ The Windmill chips in. ‘We can’t afford sprays.’
‘Fine. Give it at least ten seconds before you completely recover. Allow the cold water from that sponge to sink in, OK, let’s see that for the final five minutes. It’s free-style time. No partners, just walk around, in pain, limping. Let’s see who wins “Best Injured Player Performance Award”.’
We do limping for two minutes then we gather in a circle, and anyone who wants can perform their Aftermath routine, or any other. The footballers perform OK, but everyone agrees that the Drama Club crew nail it. We do a group hug. The footballers look sad: yet again they’ve lost. I feel sorry for them. This whole thing is a new low in the history of our school football team.
I sit down on the gym floor and pull my shoes back on. The kitchen smells aren’t coming through so strongly at the moment. There’s only a bit of stale shoe odour and a hint of rubber from the mats we’ve hauled off the floor and stacked up at the end of the session. I quite like the rubber smell. You can see the tiny specks of black on the gym floor where grains of tired old rubber have broken off.
Eddie jumps down next to me and messes my hair, which is what he does sometimes when he’s happy. ‘I came second in Electrocution!’ he boasts. He bounces up and showcases his electrocution moves. When all of Eddie wobbles and he does his eye-flips at the same time, there’s no way you can keep a straight face. Sheba slaps him on the back.
The Windmill and Mr Sax both come over to us.
‘Leonard, I have nothing but respect for the efforts of Mr Brod-er-rick in trying to knock together a decent football team.’
‘Right, sir,’ I say, standing up and trying to figure where the conversation is heading. Eddie and Sheba are on either side of me.
‘You were showing amazing promise,’ The Windmill tells me. ‘Helping with training, throw-in tactics, penalties – all three of you were coming along fantastically.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Eddie.
I get a text. I sneak a look. It’s from my mum. The usual.
Never mind darling, you’ll win next time maybe xxxxMumxxxx
I put my phone back in my pocket and smile, thinking of my mum feeling sorry for me. She doesn’t yet know I’ve switched to drama. I’ll tell her soon.
Mr Sax cuts to the quick. ‘I had no idea when I invited you to join the Drama Club that I would be ripping the promising heart out of Mr Broderick’s team.’
The Windmill shuffles and sniffs, as if Mr Sax’s words have moved him. ‘True, true,’ he says.
‘That said, you Leonard, and Sheba, and Eddie, you show incredible – in-cred-ible – talent as treaders of the boards.’
‘That mean actors, sir?’ asks Sheba.
‘Indeed it does.’
Sheba high-fives Eddie, who does a little shuffle move.
Mr Sax continues: ‘So it looks as if you three are faced with a difficult choice. Acting or football. Which is it to be?’
‘Acting, sir,’ Sheba says straight away.
‘Acting, sir,’ Eddie chimes.
‘And you, Leonard?’ asks The Windmill directly. His eyes are brimful of pleading.
‘I’m, I’m … I’ll think about it, sir.’
‘Good,’ says Mr Sax. ‘A star of the glittery stage or a master of the muddy field. Difficult choice but one only you can make. Let us know before next Saturday which you choose.’
‘I will, sir,’ I say, nodding to both teachers.
The two of them walk away. I glance at The Windmill. His hands are chopping the air in front of him as he talks to Mr Sax, the way he chops air when he talks about why our tactics didn’t work when we lose. He looks unbearably sad. Mr Sax puts his arm round him. They talk some more.
Drama Club’s over for the day and me and Sheba are walking home. My body feels loose from all the stretching exercises. Even my face feels looser. Maybe that’s why I smile more, I think: my smile muscles get stretched as part of the face exercises.
‘Who are you pulling faces at?’ asks Sheba, mirroring me.
‘He’s great, Mr Sax, isn’t he?’ I reply, setting my face straight.
‘I love him,’ says Sheba. She kicks up a pop can then volleys it away.
‘You’re ab-so-lute-ly certain you’re doing theatre over football?’ I ask her.
‘Hell, yeh. So long as I can persuade my fam.’
I stretch my arms. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘My grandma might say, Teri beti toh vaisya ban rai hai!’
‘Huh?’ I know it’s bad, but I don’t know what she said.
‘Actors in our culture, in Grandma’s time, were entertainment for men. You know – like whores. That’s why we’re not supposed to get involved in plays and acting and stuff. Gives you a bad reputation.’
It takes my head a few moments to understand this. ‘But didn’t your mum let you do the street theatre thing with me?’
‘No. That was my sister that spoke to your Carla, not my mum.’
‘Your sister approves?’
‘I blackmail her to keep her gob shut.’
It’s too complicated for me. ‘What?’
Sheba lays it out. ‘My sister has a boyfriend who she’s not meant to have. Geddit? So I tell her, unless she does my wishes, “I’ll spill the beans on your boyfriend to Mum! Tera romeo ki baat Ma se karu!’
I like the way her whole body changes when she speaks her other language.
I consider Sheba’s family manoeuvres in all their chess-like glory and tell her my conclusion. ‘You are as smart as a Rubik’s Cube, Sheebs.’
Sheba preens. ‘I’m not top at maths for nothing!’ She draws closer to me. ‘I’m dreading telling Mum though. She thinks I’m doing flower-arranging. I’ll have to make a Duke of Edinburgh Flower Certificate to show her.’
‘Like we can’t fake one from the millions of those Certificates on the internet already?’
She laughs and I can see she likes the idea. The wind whips up a bit. I go to put my arm in hers just as she goes to put her arm in mine. We tangle.
‘What are we doing?’
‘It’s cold.’
‘Yeah. We can link arms but we can’t hold hands.’
I give her a why? look.
‘Linking arms is friendship. Holding hands is boyfriend zone.’
‘I’m down with that.’
We walk along, arms linked until her turn-off point.
‘Sabbi, whatever you decide I’m cool with it.’
‘Yeh, and whatever you decide, I’m cool with it!’ she replies.
I walk away thinking Sheba’s a wicked liar and why do I already miss her when she’s only been gone two seconds? I reflect, This is how life is. Nothing good ever lasts long. That night I listen to Jamal’s podcast of the latest match the football team’s played.
Jamal’s Podcast
We are here in the Land of Giants. The other team are a metre higher than our players. We’ve let in six goals already even though our goalie has been amazing. A fierce wind is blowing. It picks the ball up and drops it at Horse’s feet. Horse knocks it forward. Marcus zings up the wing and crosses it high. The wind has suddenly changed direction. The ball’s fizzling in the air. One of their giant players heads it. Up it goes again into our goal area. Our goalie’s got it covered. But no, the wind shifts again and whips it out of our goalie’s hands. And it’s gone in! It’s 7 to the nothing. Even the wind is playing against us. There’s no justice! There’s no fairness. The referee’s whistle blows. This soaking stupid sodden game has sucked from start to finish. When even the weather is whacking you in the guts, what chance is there?
Our team retreats for the changing room. And I look up at the sky, for answers. And I am speechless. I am Jamal, on Twitter, Insta and everything else. Me, Jamal, I’m lost for words. 7 to the nothing. Another crushing defeat. We just can’t get a break. Even the wind’s against us. Podcast 873.5. Jamal. I’m speechless.
