The Legacy of Josh Dixon

Rubbing my eyes, I thought it was morning. I looked at the clock and it read 16:44. My hands were warm, and I wondered why. They were covered in blood.

‘The ****?’ I thought to myself. I looked around the floor I was mysteriously perched on and it was soaked. Glass lay around me, dark brown glass. Only then I realised – remembered – what had happened.

From the position I was in, I searched around, looking for my mother. I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t hear her. I got up and made my way upstairs, dragging myself up by the banister. I felt as if I’d been in the ring with Wladimir Klitschko; my face really sore. I climbed the final steps and checked every room in order: bathroom, her room, my room, spare room. Nothing. No clues, either, which means she’s done a runner. So maybe I should do the same, to look for her.
 
I caught sight of myself in the mirror of the bureau on my way to the front door. Cuts scatter across my forehead, and dried blood cover my face. I looked a total mess. Before leaving, I washed off the evidence of an attack and patted myself dry with tissue.

I exited through the front door and immediately took off left, heading towards the shops – I thought if she’d hit me with a bottle of alcohol, and that alcohol was no longer in the bottle, she might replace it – but, feeling investigative, I looked through every window possible. Nope, not in the launderette. Not in the chip shop either. I mean, why would she be?

I reached the local newsagent and walked in. It was quite a small shop which had a sort of newspaper counter in the middle. I looked down one side, then down the next, but couldn’t see her. I could feel blood trickling down my head from my fresh cuts, so stepped outside. I left looking right, but that was way I came from, so I turned around to continue walking in the original direction. On turning around, me and another person collided. Naturally, I faced him and apologised, and instantly turned around again.

“Hey!” There was a shout from someone on the street. “Hey! Josh?”

Acknowledging the fact somebody might be calling me, I swung my head around to find someone waving madly towards me. It was the bloke I’d crashed into only seconds earlier.

He approached me and offered me his hand. “Mark Robson. I was watching you the other day at Underhill. You were really impressive; I was blown away, in fact. You’re like a young Cristiano Ronaldo.”

Wow. That’s not something I’ve heard before. I don’t have a clue who he is, and I don’t want to feel rude by asking who he is, so I let the conversation flow.

“Urm,” I stuttered. “Thanks, I guess.” I couldn’t say much. He must be quite important if he was watching on Saturday.

“Listen, I’m on my way to a meeting with the Chairman. I’d like you to come with me.”

So now I have a difficult decision to make: follow this stranger to an important meeting, or stay on track to finding my mother.

So I did what everyone else would do in this situation.

I followed the stranger.
 
Mike said:
Confused? Lol more updates tomorrow.
Click to expand...
I just couldn't see how Josh could go from lying on the floor covered in blood after his mum twatted him to being the worlds best footballer :p haha
 
Carbz said:
I just couldn't see how Josh could go from lying on the floor covered in blood after his mum twatted him to being the worlds best footballer :p haha
Click to expand...

It'll all be clear soon, very soon ;)
 
Awesome story, amazing writing, real quality stuff here Mike mate, keep it up pal! Love it!
 
I didn’t say a single word during our ten-minute stroll to a little cafe. We sat down and he offered me a drink. Without hesitation, but as polite as I could be, I refused. I still do not know who this person is but I can’t get around to asking him.

We spoke a little, mainly about the trial day. I tried to look for any hints at his status, but there were no name tags, no lanyard, there wasn’t even a pen in his pocket.

After some time, we were accompanied by a similarly-dressed man. He sat down and shook both of our hands. It was only when he set down his files and books that I realised what I was here for.

Mark took a deep breath and said, “This is who I was talking to you about on Saturday.”

“Ah,” he clicked. “Joshua Dixon, eh?” He sat back and folded his arms. “Heard a lot about your skill. Big shame that you didn’t get signed by anyone, you’re a cracking player.” I looked down at his documents that he lay on the table and on the front I could make out the name Anthony K-something – I’m not a very good upside-down reader.

“Well, I’ve got a proposition for you. How would you like to play for us? We’re very interested, and if nobody else is looking at you then we are.”

I was stunned. I received a letter only early this afternoon, now I’m being offered a place at a club face to face. And I didn’t even know what this club was!

“I’d love to! That would be amazing-“ I was cut-off.

“Then say no more. Come back here tomorrow at, say, eleven, and we’ll sort everything out.” He smiled. Mark smiled. I smiled, worryingly.
 
A great read and I can see how this is going more now but I don't see what is harsh about not seeing were a story is going as a good book has lots of unexpected twists and turns.
 
Impressive so far, great detailed writing. Keep up the great work Mike! ;)
 
I left the cafe and instantly stopped outside, leaving the door to close slowly behind me. I couldn’t quite get my head around the situation: who are they? What are they doing? Which club to they represent? Even worse, I’ve forgotten both of their names already, so I can’t sneakily research them on the internet.

I returned home cautiously. I quietly opened the front door and popped my head around. Sweeping from side to side like a security camera, I looked for any sharp movements. Happy that nothing, or nobody, was going to jump out at me, I shut the door and made my way into the porch, then up the stairs. I heard a noise from behind, so instantly turned around. There, at the base of the stairs, stood my ghostly-looking mother. I didn’t know what to say, or do.

Before I could do anything, though, she opened her mouth. “I’m sorry, Josh. I bet you hate me.”

“I can’t hate you, you’re my mum. But you’ve really hurt me in so many ways today.” I felt like crying and running into her arms.

“Can you forgive me, son?” Whenever she’s upset, she always calls me son, to remind herself that she’s lucky to still have a child.

“Of course.” I gave in and forgave her. “I bumped into somebody just now. He was a manager of a football club, I think. I met his boss, too. I’m meeting both of them tomorrow morning”

She seemed excited. “Really? Excellent! What team?”

“That’s the thing: I don’t know. He introduced himself and the Chairman to me but I didn’t want to be rude and asked them who they are. I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out.” One thing I was really good at being growing up was not rude. But this time, maybe I should have broken that barrier and actually asked them.
 
I woke up shortly after falling asleep. I couldn’t doze off last night; I’m super excited about this morning. It’s just gone nine o’clock so I better get a wiggle on.

After rolling out of bed and getting dressed, I walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. I opened the fridge to get some milk, but instantly shut the door again. Just briefly, whilst opening the door, I noticed a newly-written note on the front.

fridgeq.png

​

At least she’s told me where she’s gone this time. I took the note off and went back into the fridge. The milk was nowhere to be seen. In fact, there was next to nothing in there. Perhaps that’s why she’s gone shopping; she never goes this early. I resorted to spreadable cheese on toast.

I set off to get there five minutes early. I hate being late: it shows a lack of time keeping and also a lack of respect. I passed the same shops and same houses, but the roads were empty. No cars on the left, no cars on the right. For a busy road, it’s very strange.

I reached my destination and took a seat in the corner. I ordered a coffee and a cake and prepared myself for possibly the day of my life.
 
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