A car pulled in. He watched it glide across the forecourt, wondering why he had noticed it and realised too late who it belonged to as it stopped by a pump and the squat, ­enormous-­arsed figure of Budgie McAllister emerged. Budgie saw Danny straight away. He slid his hands into the pockets of his dishevelled tracksuit, a tracksuit that looked at least one size too big, and stared straight at Danny. He was wearing ­thick-­framed glasses, his features scrunched up in what appeared to be an expression of anguish but which was due to the fact that the man was viciously ­short-­sighted, or ­long-­sighted, Danny could never remember.

He came over.

‘There’s Danny Faulkner, there’s my number ten,’ he said, no hint of a smile, no removing his hands from his pockets to offer Danny a handshake.

‘Budgie. How are you?’

‘You never answered my texts.’

‘Sorry about that.’

‘Training’s Sunday. Come along. We’ve until the end of the month to register players for the new season.’

Danny grinned. The last of the ice pop was gone. He was sucking on the ­dye-­stained stick.

‘You don’t stop, do you, Budgie.’

‘Stop what?’ he asked, with evident sincerity.

Budgie worked as a civil engineer, though it was hard to think of him existing in any capacity other than that of football coach. Danny remembers Budgie on the touchline of all those underage games; at times an engine of unending physical agitation, down on his haunches and bouncing on the soles of his feet, or pacing back and forth; at other times standing ­stock-­still and staring at the action in a state of narcotic absorption, completely impassive but even then no more than the bounce of a ball away from his next eruption of scorn or bewilderment or furious joy. Budgie was charmless, obtuse, obstinate and unworldly. He lived inside the permanent childhood of football. Danny could not help but like the man.

Budgie just stood there, waiting.

‘I’ve just, you know, I’ve been busy,’ Danny said. ‘I’m working ­full-­time in the oul fella’s dealership ­and—’

‘All the lads have lives same as you, Danny. Playing for Town’s not going to interfere with your job.’

‘I know, but I’m still just getting into a routine and sorting out what I’ll have time for . . .’

‘You’re a footballer. Come play football. Come be my ten.’

Danny dropped the pop stick on the ground between his legs and stamped on it, like it was a cigarette. He pushed his hands through his hair. ‘Jesus, Budgie, if I say I’ll come Sunday, will you leave me alone?’