Close Range

by Nick Hale

  As the city passed by, Jake was lost in his thoughts. He’d dreamed about playing with Fortune and the team: being called on in extra time and scoring the winning goal in the World Cup Final. Playing as a professional footballer was all Jake had ever wanted, and so far his parents had stood in the way. Sure, they let him play in school teams, and the occasional Sunday League match, but when it came to the big time they’d always put their parental feet down.

  ‘It’s too soon,’ his mother would say. ‘Concentrate on your school work.’

  ‘Too soon?’ Jake would reply. It’d be too late! Many players were signed by the time they reached their sixteenth birthday.

  ‘It’s not a long-term prospect,’ was his dad’s mantra.

  Well, it had worked out all right for him!

  Jake had always thought he knew the real reason they were so against it. Truth was, football had got in the way of his parents’ marriage. The hours spent training, or away with the team, had gradually eaten into their time as a couple, driving them apart. With his dad changing teams, from Spurs to Liverpool, Jake’s mum was forced to move with him, abandoning the life she’d built up. She needed to be near London for modelling assignments, so when his dad went up north it had been a real strain. Eventually the relationship had collapsed.

  Well, that’s what he’d believed until a fortnight ago. But perhaps the real reason was Steve Bastin’s other activities. He’d have had to lie, and perhaps those lies had caught him out …

  ‘You sure you aren’t just trying to get me out of the way so you can bug some rooms?’ said Jake, testing his dad’s newfound sense of humour.

  ‘I can tell Mark you’re not interested, if you like?’

  Jake guessed that was the signal to drop it.

  The stadium rose up before them. The San Siro! Five columns ran along each side like giant springs, and the red girders that supported the stands jutted from the top. It looked more like a factory or power station than a football ground. The car park was mostly empty this time of day, but a few stewards in their fluorescent jackets milled around.

  ‘I’m serious now,’ his dad said. ‘Let me take care of my own business. You concentrate on your football. Mark and I go way back, to when I was coaching the under-21s. Don’t let me down.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Jake promised.

  As his dad reversed into a spot in the private car park on the south side of the ground, Jake noticed a black smudge on the front of his shirt.

  ‘You gotta make yourself presentable, Dad,’ he said, leaning forwards to brush it off.

  His dad looked down. ‘Oh, that. I must have forgotten to take it off in the hurry to save my firstborn from incarceration in a foreign prison – know what I mean?’

  ‘What is it?’ Jake asked, climbing out of the car.

  ‘A transportable transmission device,’ said his dad. Jake frowned. ‘A roving microphone to you and me.’

  They took a staff entrance into the ground, his dad flashing a security pass at the guard.

  Inside, the ground looked pretty old-fashioned compared to somewhere like Wembley, or the Emirates. The carpets were worn down in the middle. Light fittings on ceiling tracks picked out grubby marks on the walls. As they signed in at reception, a runner with earphones and some kind of electronic clipboard came dashing up to his dad.

  ‘Mr Bastin, you’re needed in Comm Box Two right away.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jake’s dad.

  They took a back route, through service corridors with linoleum floors, lined with insulated wiring. Then through a set of double doors marked ‘AV Department'. There were lots of doors off one side of the central waiting area, with temporary signs pinned outside each. One read SKY SPORTS. Jake followed his dad through.

  The room was bright, up-lit around the outside. One wall was all glass, looking out to the stadium, three tiers of stands rising steeply from the pitch, the giant digital clock. The stadium was filling up, and already the shouting had started. At least thirty players were scattered over the pitch, pinging balls between themselves.

  In the room, a large mounted camera was facing towards an illuminated desk, and three steel chairs. Sitting on one was a man dressed in a slim-fit grey suit, with a runner checking the microphone on his shirt. His face was familiar but it took Jake a couple of seconds to realise who it was. His dad was taking his jacket from a hanger in an anteroom.

  ‘Dad,’ Jake whispered. ‘Is that Frederico Alessi?’

  His father straightened his tie in the mirror.

  ‘Sure is,’ said his dad. ‘He’ll be commentating along with me.’

  Alessi was an Italian striker of the late seventies – way before Jake’s time, but still a legend.

  ‘Can you introduce me?’

  His dad checked his cufflinks and then looked at his watch. ‘Maybe later. I have to start soon.’

  The make-up woman put her head round the door.

  ‘Mr Bastin, I need you now, please.’

  Jake followed his dad back into the other room. It was filling up now, with two people in shorts and T-shirts fussing over the camera. On the pitch below the players were finishing their warm-up. A guy Jake guessed was in charge was sipping from a polystyrene cup, and speaking into a mobile phone in Italian, while a runner brought a jug of iced water and laid it on the table.

  Jake’s dad took a seat, and the make-up lady brushed his cheeks with some kind of powder.

  ‘You’ve forgotten the lipstick,’ Jake joked.

  His dad tried not to laugh.

  Another suited presenter came in, nodding greetings to everyone, and took a seat beside Alessi. The director stepped up to him and whispered something in his ear. The presenter frowned and leant across to Alessi and his dad. He spoke in English.

  ‘It’s not good, Mr Bastin. We’re a runner down. Some sort of stomach bug.’ He massaged his fingers over his temples. ‘That means we can’t get the team news from the coaches. We’re screwed.’

  Jake’s dad looked at him. ‘What if we send my boy?’

  The presenter scoffed. ‘We need a professional.’

  ‘He knows the game as well as anyone,’ said his dad. ‘That OK with you, Jake?’

  Jake grinned. ‘Definitely.’

  The director, who looked flustered, nodded. ‘Paulo, link him up.’

  A guy with a satchel came forwards and attached a microphone to Jake’s neck and clipped on an earpiece. They went through a quick soundcheck, with all three presenters speaking through the intercom to Jake.

  ‘You need to go down elevator four,’ said the director in broken English, pinning a Sky Sports press badge on Jake’s shirt. ‘Go to the dressing rooms with Roberto.’ He tapped the guy with the heavy-looking camera perched on his shoulder. ‘There should be team people around. They’ll be able to help you.’

  They were hardly the most detailed instructions, but Jake didn’t care. He was going right into the belly of the stadium, where all the players would be nervously waiting. Roberto was quick for a guy carrying a cumbersome piece of equipment, and they weaved past all the assorted personnel from the other stations, took the elevator and were soon by the dressing rooms.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ said his dad.

  ‘Got you,’ Jake replied.

  ‘Good. See if you can find Ebner. He’s the man you need to speak to.’

  If it was busy upstairs, down here it was organised chaos. There were physios, coaching staff, subs, security, players, match officials, all jostling around. Jake recognised dozens of faces, but hardly had time to put names to them. They pushed through to a holding area, where Jake spotted the England assistant coach, Karl Ebner, talking to a bunch of journalists. Jake joined the pack.

  ‘We heard Smith was injured,’ said one. ‘Can you tell us about that?’

  Ebner nodded. ‘That’s right. His ankle was still swollen from training, but he’s had it on ice and he’ll be on the bench.’

  Jake relayed the information to the commentary box, and Alessi asked
him about formation.

  ‘Mr Ebner,’ Jake shouted above the others. ‘Will you be going with a lone striker, or two up front?’

  Ebner did a double take, presumably not used to seeing someone so young doing Jake’s job. ‘We’ll see how it pans out,’ he said. ‘We’ll probably keep things fairly tight for the first half, with Fortune dropping into a holding role, and the wingers tucking in.’

  ‘But you’ve got Sanderson on the bench,’ said Jake. ‘Wouldn’t he be better sweeping up? He played in that position for two seasons at Aston Villa. That would free up Fortune to move forwards. He’s England’s top goal-scorer, after all.’

  Ebner looked gobsmacked. ‘Yes, well … as I say, we’ll see how things pan out.’

  He excused himself soon after.

  ‘Good work, Jake,’ Alessi said.

  Jake joined Roberto beside the dressing rooms to catch some footage of the players lining up. Jake noticed they were all wearing black armbands. On both teams. Had someone died? Was it an anniversary?

  ‘What are they commemorating?’ he asked the cameraman.

  Roberto shrugged.

  ‘You did well, Jake,’ came his dad’s voice over the earpiece. ‘Why don’t you find somewhere to enjoy the game? There’s a pressbox down there somewhere.’

  Jake watched the players stream out on to the pitch, with Fortune at the front.

  One day, he thought, that’ll be me.

  He soon found out what the black armbands signified. As he was settling into a seat in the press area, watching the big screen, he heard the tannoy announcer: ‘There will be a minute’s silence to remember a gifted player who died recently – Devon Taylor.’

  The players on the screen bowed their heads in remembrance and the press room was quiet too. Jake squirmed a little in his chair. Those paying respects knew nothing about the real Devon Taylor, the one who had tried to kill him in St Petersburg on behalf of his father, the one who’d been willing to let innocent people be blown to bits for a few million dollars.

  As the whistle blew, Jake’s negative thoughts drifted away and he became rapt with the game. Germany scored early when Jason Price, the England defender, sent a sloppy backpass to the keeper, but Fortune took England to one-all just before half-time. The second half was slow at first, with both teams playing cagily, but Smith came on to big cheers in the sixtieth minute. His ankle seemed absolutely fine, and after five minutes he picked up a raking cross-field ball from Price, and drilled it into the bottom corner off the post. The defender had made up for his earlier blunder, and when the final whistle went, it was 2–1 to England.

  Jake was still buzzing the next day as he and his mum drove to the stadium.

  ‘And after the game, Dad introduced me to all the players,’ Jake said.

  ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of you mixing with all those older guys. I know what footballers are like.’ His mum was all nerves again. She was going to check everything was prepared for the catwalk show that would take place at half–time during the big game between England and Italy at the close of the tournament.

  ‘Mum!’ Jake protested. ‘Don’t be so old-fashioned. They’re not all like George Best these days. You can meet them after practice, if you want.’

  He checked the clock on the dashboard: ten-thirty. Training was due to start at eleven. If it wasn’t his mum driving, he might be worried about being late.

  ‘I’ve had about as much football as I can take, thanks,’ she said. ‘Watching your dad get muddy for ten years was enough.’ She turned into the stadium approach road. ‘Anyway, I’ll have plenty to concentrate on sorting out –’

  Something hit the windscreen. His mum screamed and screeched the brakes, and Jake’s stomach lurched. He saw pieces of shell and egg yolk drip down the glass.

  ‘Oh my God!’ his mum gasped.

  Another egg splattered on the bonnet, and he heard shouts. At his door, he saw an angry face and a hand slammed on the window.

  ‘What’s the hell’s going on?’ he asked.

  His mum flicked on the central locking. ‘Granble warned me about this,’ she said.

  A crowd of people gathered around the car, wearing matching T-shirts with the slogan: No to blood diamonds! One carried a placard saying: Granble hates South Africa.

  A woman stepped right in front of the car and pointed at them. She shouted something that Jake didn’t understand and those around her took up the chant.

  Jake was torn. He half wanted to get out of the car and fight them off, but they looked ready to turn nasty. Jake’s mum beeped her horn in frustration, but a woman stepped forwards and kicked the car.

  ‘Damn!’ his mum exclaimed. ‘Haven’t they got anything better to do?’

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ Jake said, looking at all the furious faces.

  ‘I know, Jake, but –’

  There was a massive crash in the back of the car, and Jake instinctively bent over as splinters of glass showered over them. He twisted round to see that a jagged wooden block had been driven through the rear window, splintering glass on the seats.

  ‘Mum! Are you OK?’

  She was pale with shock, with glass in her hair, but she nodded.

  ‘I think so.’

  Uniformed guards and suited men stepped forwards and began pulling the protestors away. As soon as the path was clear, a guard waved them on. When they’d safely pulled up in a space, Jake noticed his mum was trembling.

  ‘You’re not OK,’ he said.

  She turned off the engine. ‘I’m fine, Jake.’

  ‘What was all that about? What’s Granble done to wind people up so much?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said his mum. ‘When you’re as successful as Granble, you make enemies.’

  ‘But how did they know who you were?’ he asked.

  His mum sighed. ‘Mr Granble said they were organised. Not just your standard demonstrators. These guys link up via chat rooms on the web. They’ve done some pretty bad things to protest back in South Africa. Criminal damage, arson. A model even got her face slashed, Mr Granble told me.’

  Jake swallowed and looked at the broken window. A few hundred euros would sort it.

  It could have been a lot worse.

  Jake remembered what Abri had said back in the church, about Granble abusing his power.

  ‘Mum, is there something dodgy about these diamonds? Y’know, like blood stones … conflict diamonds … you’re sure Granble’s mining these himself and not buying them off some warlord?’

  ‘Everyone says he’s legitimate,’ his mum said. ‘All his stones are certified.’

  ‘Yeah, but documents can be forged. I saw this programme …’

  ‘Listen, Jake,’ said his mum. ‘I’m not going to be lectured. This is my job. A well-paid job, I should add. I can’t afford to let the opportunity pass. It could be an access pass to much bigger things. Let’s say no more about it, yes?’

  Jake would normally have argued back. If Granble really was as bad as Abri said, if his diamonds had anything to do with financing wars, then promoting his business was wrong. There was no two ways about it. But his mum looked really upset, so he just nodded.

  As they climbed out of the car, the small pocket of protestors was still chanting as they were corralled by security. His mum gathered her things from the boot, looking nervously over towards them.

  Now I know what Dad meant by ‘look after her’.

  While his mum went off to find the models, Jake took his football kit and dashed down to the dressing rooms. He pushed open the door and twenty faces turned to look at him. The entire England squad.

  ‘Hey, it’s Little Bastin,’ said Mark Fortune, stepping up to shake his hand. ‘We weren’t sure you’d make it.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me join in,’ he said.

  ‘You kidding?’ said Fortune. ‘When someone like Steve Bastin asks, you don’t say no. Go and get your kit on, and let’s head out.’

  Jake scrambled into his shorts and shirt
, and laced up his boots nice and tight, then ran out on to the pitch. Ebner was standing in a tracksuit on the sidelines, holding a ball, which he threw in Jake’s path.

  ‘Just a light session today,’ he said. ‘Big game tomorrow for the boys.’

  Cones were lined up widthways across the turf, and the players were dribbling a ball between them to warm up. Jake’s ball skills were always pretty spot on, but he took a bit more care than usual.

  No way I’m going to make an idiot of myself by being too clever.

  When he’d done a few slaloms, Ebner called them all over for relay shuttles between the halfway line and the D. Jake was surprised how quick some of the team were in the flesh. Especially Ed Francis, the striker. He might not have the best control in top-flight football, but he was like a whippet between the lines. Still, at least Jake was quicker than the defenders. He just about kept pace with Mark Fortune, but by the twentieth shuttle he was panting.

  ‘You’re doing really well,’ said the midfielder, tossing Jake a water bottle. ‘Ebner’s a bit of a fitness Nazi, but it’s good for the team.’

  After that, the assistant coach announced they’d move on to ball drills.

  At last, Jake thought. Some real football.

  Across the pitch, a platform was being wheeled out on to the sidelines. It looked like the sort of thing they used for trophy presentations. When Jake spotted his mum pointing, he realised what it actually was: a catwalk. The Granble logo was daubed on one side.

  ‘My wife won’t stop dropping hints,’ said Dave Adams, the England left back. ‘She says these Granble stones are supposed to be amazing.’

  ‘I’m gonna get some cufflinks cut with them,’ said Robbie Odeji, the winger.

  One of the players whistled when a gaggle of models came out. They were struggling with heels in the grass.

  ‘Eyes on the ball, fellas,’ said Ebner. ‘There’ll be time for fun when you retire.’

  They played three-on-three, trying to keep the ball from the opposition. It was fast stuff, and Jake got caught on the ball a couple of times by Francis. Mark Fortune showed him a neat trick to draw the ball away and give himself some time, though, and next time Ed came up on him, Jake was able to dummy it away. Francis slid over on to his backside.