White Lines

by Mel Stein

  ‘Part of our life, yes, unfortunately. Our culture, no. I don’t think so. We export drugs, rather than use them at home. Why should drugs interest you? And forgive me, I am not intending to be …’ He sought for the word, although his English was virtually perfect.

  ‘Condescending?’ Patti offered.

  ‘Exactly. You have given me the word, but not the answer.’

  ‘I’m interested in everything. I’m a journalist.’

  ‘Ah yes, Mark told me last night. That can be a very dangerous occupation in this country. Everybody reads the papers, but nobody likes the people who write them. The politicians, the police, our guerrillas, yes, even our drug barons, they stand together on only one issue; that journalists are the enemy. Sometimes, they are killed. Newspaper buildings are bombed.’

  ‘And who does that?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe the drug barons, maybe the guerrillas, maybe the police and the politicians, or any combination. There are odd alliances in Colombia.’

  ‘Nobody seemed to take any notice when I came into the country. They stamped my passport and it says what I do for a living.’

  ‘You were lucky to arrive here at the time of the football. This week we have many journalists. If you are here then they assume you have something to do with the match. But let me give you a little word of advice. We have not met before tonight. Mark and I have only spent a little time together but it is enough for me to call him a friend. Patti, I like you too, even though you try very hard to behave like a man and to be like the porcupine. If you do not want me to come close, then that is fine. I won’t come close.’

  ‘The advice?’ Patti said impatiently, in a tone that Mark knew spelled trouble.

  ‘The advice. We Colombians, we like to make speeches, to take our time in coming to the point. So I will try to be English and be direct, because I think you need to be advised, to be advised to be cautious. I do not know why you have come here, but let everybody continue to believe that you are here for the football, even if you have to chat about it over dinner. If you are not here for the football then be here for Mark, for the coffee, for me if you prefer, but whatever, don’t be here to write a story about the drugs. Do not draw any attention to yourself. I will tell you what you want to know, but do not ever ask anybody else.’

  He was obviously deadly serious and even Patti, with a couple of local drinks inside her, knew better than to try and joke it off.

  ‘Do we have a deal?’ Luis asked.

  Mark had said little, and was only now wondering whether Patti had been totally honest when she had told him that she had come on an impulse.

  ‘Answer the man, Patti. Does he have a deal?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said just a little too promptly for his satisfaction, lifting her empty glass as if to drink to the bargain. ‘When have you ever known me to put my life on the line?’

  ‘I hope you don’t actually want me to answer that,’ Mark replied.

  The waiter brought over the dessert trolley and they all declined, settling instead for strong, black coffee.

  ‘I thought you wanted to sleep tonight, Patti,’ Mark said as she refilled her cup.

  ‘I’m that tired I doubt if even this amount of caffeine will keep me up.’ The bill arrived and the two men briefly tussled over it with Mark winning.

  ‘One nil to England,’ Luis said after he had thanked him, ‘I think it is the only win you will get this week.’

  They all rose to leave and parted with kisses and embraces in the foyer of the hotel. Mark realised as he and Patti rode the lift up to their room that he did not like the way the night had gone. Patti was half-Irish, was totally stubborn and most of all she was a journalist. He knew her well enough to be sure that she had not brought up the subject of drugs out of casual interest, nor did he think the potted history that Luis had supplied would satisfy her. Although Luis may have thought that she would keep to the bargain, Mark was convinced that whatever it was she was after, the pursuit had only just begun.

  CHAPTER 16

  If this was a friendly then Mark would have hated to have sat in this stadium with the visiting fans when the result really mattered. For once England’s barmy army of support was almost unnoticeable. There must have been about a thousand of them, the usual hard core who followed the team anywhere, visas and deportation permitting, a sprinkling of holiday-makers and backpackers, plus the local ex-patriates. They’d tried their usual trick of booing the opposition national anthem and had been on the receiving end of a water-cannon from the local police who had been warned what to expect. After that, they kept their xenophobia to themselves.

  The stadium must have held one hundred thousand. Mark knew from one of the roving reporters that there were some seventy thousand inside, yet it was by no means full. All the cheaper seats were filled, but the price of some of the more expensive was equal to about a week’s average salary and there were big gaps in the comfort of the stands. The game was being broadcast live on national television and doubtless the local bars were doing the business that the match promoters had lost.

  The big news as far as Mark was concerned was that Kenny Cunningham had chosen Barry Reed in his starting line-up. The lad had again seemed more than a little withdrawn when besieged by the reporters anxious for a heart-warming story to transmit home. They were ready for a new hero, eager for a young, good-looking kid they could build up before they knocked him down. Mark, inevitably, got closer to him than anybody else.

  ‘They all think I’m getting a fortune from Ball Park for giving you these one to ones,’ Barry said, the accent sounding even more Geordie in this alien climate.

  ‘Well then, as you’re not, you shouldn’t,’ Mark replied, ‘and quite frankly, although I’m delighted you’re talking to me, you shouldn’t give the rest of the media the impression you’re in Ball Park’s pocket. It’s a bit like the tabloids. If you’re exclusive with one then the others will look at ways to get you, in the knowledge that your exclusive deal will try and protect you. And that way they get a few days out of a nothing story.’

  ‘It’s all a fucking game, isn’t it?’ Barry said, with a hint of despair in his voice.

  ‘It’s all part of the game, yes. But the main game, that’s the one only you get to play,’ Mark said regretfully. Being around footballers once more, it was beginning to hurt him, the knowledge that he could have achieved all this, yet it had been cruelly taken away from him. He could understand how innocent men felt when they came out of the dark back into society. Nothing could give them back what had been taken away from them. And all the lies, the conspiracy against him, which had led to his suspension from football for all those years, they were hurting more now than they had at the time. Then he had viewed life through an alcoholic haze. But these days it was all crystal clear, so clear that it hurt and dazzled his eyes. He wanted to get across to Barry just how he was feeling, but the words would not come. Or at least not words that the boy would understand.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to be a hero, Mark. I saw what they did to Gazza.’

  ‘Different time and different man.’

  ‘The Boss asked if I wanted to be put up for the Press conference this afternoon. First cap and all that.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘I said, no.’

  ‘Mistake. Go back and tell him you’ve changed your mind. If you don’t you’ll get slaughtered, particularly when they know you’ve done an interview with us.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said in a tone that gave no optimism for his performance on the field.

  ‘Maybe not now, but you will. And your family will care as well.’

  A worried look crossed Barry’s face and Mark realised how isolated the team was out here. There was the Boss, the lads, the medical team, the kitmen and even the media. They were all part of a walled community. The outside world did not exist, or least not until Mark had reminded Barry that it was still there.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. I don’t want my mum and
dad thinking I’m too shit scared or too big for my boots. I’ll tell the gaffer I’ve changed my mind and I’ll do it.’

  And he had, and he’d been fine, even cracking the odd joke against himself, apologising for his accent whilst at the same time making it broader than usual. He was fine on the pitch as well. Whatever it was that had been biting him was forgotten as he began to reproduce all the tricks that had so excited in training. The superlatives sprang to the mouths of the commentators, although Mark was more restrained. He, more than anybody, realised not only how good Barry Reed was, but how good he could be. He didn’t need to be there hoisting him up on the pedestal and he would certainly not be there alongside whichever Brutus and Cassius put the knife into the player’s back when the first opportunity arose.

  It was totally against the run of play when Colombia took the lead.

  Their giant centre-forward, Ferrera, who had spent the first half an hour of the game alone and isolated, suddenly decided that if anything was to happen for him then he would have to make it happen on his own. He tracked back, looking for the ball and, as a reward, picked up a clearance from his keeper on the halfway line. He took the ball on his chest, brought it down in a swivel, and turned Peter Ranson, the English captain with unexpected grace. Ranson was having difficulty deciding whether he should be playing as a sweeper or a conventional centre-half and was left stranded. With the two wing backs pushed up in Cunningham’s preferred formation, Ferrera found himself with a clear path to goal. He was not the speediest player on the pitch, but his height and long legs gave him the benefit of huge strides that ate up the ground as Ranson and the other defenders struggled in his wake. They were several strides behind when he reached the edge of the area and the England keeper, Dave Collins, could do nothing but race off his line, spreading his body to maximise his chances of a save. Ferrera glanced up, saw exactly what he was doing and coolly chipped the ball over his body into the net.

  Suddenly it was carnival time. Fireworks and Klaxons erupted and blared as in the streets outside a thousand car horns signalled the arrival of the goal. Luis Cano, in the Press Box close to Mark, was on his feet screaming into the microphone along with the rest of them, as if they had just won the World Cup, not taken the lead in a meaningless friendly.

  The English contingent, both amongst the media and on the bench, remained seated and philosophical. Kenny Cunningham signalled to his captain to forget the mistake, get on with the game and rouse the rest of the team as well. He rolled up his short sleeves in a meaningful gesture and pushed the side to respond with all they had. One or two of the more senior members of the squad were clearly struggling in the heat which seemed just as overpowering at night as it had been during the day. By half-time the game was being played at a walking pace, with Colombia delighting in possession, content to let the sweating and exhausted Englishmen chase the game.

  As the whistle blew to signal the end of the first forty-five minutes, Luis, off the air for commercials, came over to Mark with a broad smile on his face.

  ‘You see, I told you this was a good team. I think we had a bet of a hundred dollars …’

  ‘In your dreams, Luis. I remember everything. I do nowadays.’

  ‘And the beautiful Miss Delaney, she is here?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘But not with your English Press.’

  ‘She’s not accredited. But I got her one of the best seats in the stand.’

  Luis waved his hand.

  ‘A woman so lovely amongst all these hot blooded Latinos. I think you will be a lucky man if she sleeps with you tonight.’

  ‘I always feel lucky when she sleeps with me. Anyway, Patti can look after herself.’

  Luis was serious again.

  ‘I’m not so sure she can, although I hope from the bottom of my heart that she has no need to. I did not like her interest last night in our drug barons. When you leave the country after the match, make sure she goes with you.’

  ‘I’ll try. It’s not easy making Patti do anything. She’s half-Irish and half-Jewish and I don’t know which half makes life the more difficult.’

  ‘Ah, but no part of her is South American, so be grateful at least for that.’

  Their conversation was brought to an end by the return of the teams to the field, the Colombians being greeted by a huge roar that suggested the English Christians were about to be fed to the lions. For once Mark did not welcome the restart of the match. He felt that Luis still had more to say, and although he did not think he would like it, he did feel he had to hear it all through.

  Kenny Cunningham had used the interval to make a couple of changes. Josh Nicholson for Collins in goal, Darren Cartwright, who was also making his debut, replacing the seemingly evergreen Peter Dennis in midfield. Dennis who had been one of the players most badly affected by the heat and humidity in the first half, now sat on the bench, accompanied by the team doctor, taking huge gulps of oxygen, his complexion an unhealthy grey.

  ‘He ought to be in the treatment room, not out there,’ Mark said to his co-commentator, the experienced Ritchie Lennard.

  ‘Do you want to be the one to try and tell Peter Dennis anything?’ was the reply.

  Barry Reed was looking as if he were the senior professional in the side, clapping the players enthusiastically to get stuck in, yelling orders to which nobody listened. Within ten minutes of the restart they were listening – and watching.

  Barry played a confident one-two with Darren Cartwright, collecting the ball back from him on the left side of the halfway line, cut inside one, then two defenders and balanced himself for a shot from the edge of the penalty area. His boot was never permitted to make contact with the ball as a Colombian defender with Desperate Dan bristle on his chin brought him crashing to the ground. The tackle was so ferocious that the entire England contingent, as one man, gasped. For a moment the whole game was frozen in a pageant of horror. Barry lay there absolutely still and silent, a bad sign in itself. Mark knew that when a player rolled around in agony he was more than likely to be up on his feet in a matter of minutes, limping away a little for effect. The England physio did not wait for a signal from the referee, and nor did Kenny Cunningham. As one they ran, stride for stride, to Barry’s side.

  ‘Are you all right, son?’ the manager asked, ignoring the official’s efforts to remove him from the field of play. The physio shoved some smelling salts under his nose and he jerked himself upright.

  ‘I’m fine. Although if I get my hands or my boots on that fucking defender that’s not how he’s going to feel.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re actually going to get the chance unless you follow him home, which is probably just as well,’ Cunningham said as he saw from the corner of his eye the referee first produce a red card and then point to the penalty spot.

  If the crowd had gone crazy when it came to the goal, then the referee’s insurers must have trebled his life premiums after his double decision. Bottles, cushions, cans and, even more threateningly, pieces of timber broken from the seats, began to rain down on the pitch. Mark did his best to maintain the commentary on the match, but one eye was in the stand where he knew Patti was seated, praying that the mini-riot would die down, that the fans would come to their senses and realise that this match had little or no significance other than what it might tell the two managers about their teams.

  A rocket lit up the night sky, followed by another. Colombians had exited the bars and the sound of their blaring car horns filled the night in an unorchestrated war dance, boding ill for any foreigner trying to make it out of the stadium.

  Mark turned again to Ritchie Lennard.

  ‘It’s not often I hope England lose, but this has to be the night.’

  ‘You’re not wrong, Mark. I tell you if I were taking the penalty out there I’d blast it over the bar and apply for the Colombian Congressional Medal of Honour.’

  ‘I’m not so sure they’ve got a Congress here,’ Mark replied, but even as he spoke, Peter Ranson w
as striding up to the spot, apparently oblivious to all the noise. With no apparent back-lift he coolly hit the ball into the top left corner of the net and turned to acknowledge the cheers of the small contingent of English fans, fenced into a pen in the corner. What might have been intended for their protection now seemed to expose them to danger as a hail of missiles was hurled in their direction. Cans filled with nails, odd bits of metal and even a half-filled picnic basket landed around their heads as they pulled back into a close-knit group, their celebrations brought to an early conclusion. The police force seemed indifferent to the attack. They had been warned about the hooligan element amongst the English fans, but had no instructions to lay down their lives for them.

  The referee did the only thing possible and pulled the players off the pitch. An announcement came over the loudspeakers, first in Spanish and then in English.

  ‘Please. We are all here to enjoy the match. It is only a friendly contest. Let us all be friends.’

  The words were greeted with an outburst of jeers, not just from the Colombians but, incredibly, also from the English fans, who were now breaking up their own section of the ground and giving as good as they had got in the exchange of missiles. However, gradually the noise and sporadic violence subsided and was replaced by a rhythmic handclapping to signal that the crowd having paid their money now wanted to get full value. If they had chosen to interrupt for a few moments, then that had been their prerogative. Nobody had died, any wounds inflicted were superficial and could be worn as a badge of honour and there seemed no reason not to play on.

  Mark shook his head in despair. The commentary had come off the air and the pundits in the studios back home were giving their deep meaningful analysis. He mouthed across to Luis, ‘A bunch of kids, that’s what they are.’

  Luis shrugged, the Latin shrug that could have a hundred different meanings, then shouted back, words that carried all too clearly across what had suddenly become a silent Press Box.