Penalty Shot

by Paul Bishop

  "This will teach you to keep your British nose out of Irish business," he said. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  He snickered open a large switch knife, its professionally burnished blade refusing to reflect light. He moved it toward the bulging stare of my left eye, and I screamed so hard I felt the effort in my groin.

  Liam feinted with the knife and then held it steady above the center of my retina. I watched with morbid fascination as the droplet of sweat slid off his fingers and slithered down the knife blade to hang in quivering anticipation from the point.

  "Tables turned now, eh boyo? No bloody SAS to back you up. Just us, the Sons of Erin, keeping an eye out for you."

  His laughter tore through my brain. Not my eye! Not my eye! The words chased after each other at hyper speed. My entire body felt like wet pulp, and fear had taken on a new mask. I screamed again as Liam moved the knife. Again, he pulled it back with a maniacal laugh.

  "Stop mucking about, you stupid git," said the big man on my chest. He reached out with one of his huge paws and cuffed Liam's head hard enough to knock him over.

  "Corr! Whatchya' do that for? I'm just having me bit o' fun." Liam sounded like a disgruntled child. With one hand he massaged the impact point on his ear.

  "Belt up."

  From nowhere the big man produced his own knife and flicked open the blade with a practiced snap of his thick wrist. Without pause he jabbed it down at my eye.

  Screaming again, I twisted my head to the right and felt fire burn down the left side of my face as the blade flayed my cheek open. The point of the knife stuck up from the earth below where my head had been.

  Pain abruptly coalesced the rampant fear inside me into the old friend I thought I'd left behind on the football fields. Like a striking snake, I snapped my head back and clamped my teeth into the big man's index finger, which was along the blade of the knife. I bit down until I felt bone.

  The big man's screaming echoed my own and he jumped away from me, the force of his movement stripping the skin from his finger as he pulled clear.

  "Sean!" Liam yelled in astonishment.

  I spat bloody flesh from my mouth and rolled to my feet. Sean stood in shock, watching blood pulse from his shredded digit. Shrugging clear of the jacket which pinned my arms, I slammed a fist squarely into the center of his face and rocked him back on his heels. I hit him again, this time dropping him to the grass, and turned to face the smaller Liam.

  Smaller, though, did not mean less dangerous, as attested to by the automatic pistol in the Irishman's tiny fist. Reacting immediately to the threat, I threw myself sideways and rolled back into the maze corridor. Bullets penetrated the hedge walls preceded by the high-pitched, popping sounds of their percussion.

  I kept moving.

  There were no odds in going back to play hero. My face stung like hell and the vision of the knife above my eye still blocked out all other thought.

  I realized Liam was yelling at me. "Stay away from Los Angeles, you bastard, or next time the Sons of Erin will be after more than your eye!"

  The whole situation made no sense to me. All I wanted to do was get out of the maze and back to some form of understandable reality.

  "What the bloody hell is going on, sir?" Even though my voice was harsh, I couldn't break the old habit of respect for command.

  We were back in Sir Adam's study where we'd been before the evening's fiasco had started. Slumped in a red leather wing chair, Sir Adam looked far worse for the wear. Dirt and grime liberally covered his usually immaculate countenance, and dark bags drooped from beneath his eyes. He sighed heavily and refilled his brandy glass from a decanter placed strategically on a butler table to the right of his chair.

  "I wish I knew, Ian. I truly do." He waved the bottle at me and then set it down again when I gave him a negative shake of my head. "Tell me," he continued, "why didn't you inform the police about the attack on you in the maze?"

  I shrugged. "You know very well that having been one of your SAS bullyboys in the past, I'm still bound by the Official Secrets Act. You make lots of noises indicating you've put your cloak and dagger away. Yet within hours of arriving here, I'm involved in a nightmare I thought I'd left behind years ago in Ireland. I did my duty, but I didn't understand the battle then, and I understand it even less now. "

  When I'd finally found my way back to the maze entrance, I had seen that the fire brigade had the stable fire under control, but the air had still been thick with smoke which aggravated my throat. The horses had all been saved, but I could still hear them whinnying uncertainly. Shock had made me feel light-headed, and an ambulance attendant had grabbed me by the arm and made me sit through his efficient, but painful cleansing of the deep cut sliced in my cheek by Sean's knife.

  Sir Adam's personal doctor had arrived a short time later and sutured the gash closed, after first attending to the similar wound on Paula's arm. The doctor had reasonably assumed I received my injury the same way Paula had—from the flashing hooves of a terrified horse. I had done nothing to change his thinking. Nor had I added my tuppenceworth to the inevitable police investigation. It was only later that I cornered Sir Adam and filled him in, using rather impolite terms.

  "This Liam character ...He told you to stay away from Los Angeles? You're sure?"

  "I'm half-blind, not half-deaf. And I wasn't about to go back and ask him to explain himself. Who knew you were going to ask me to go to Los Angeles?"

  Sir Adam was thoughtful. "Just about everyone in the Ravens organization, including all the players, knew we were considering you as a replacement for Maddox. However, only Nina Brisbane knew my ulterior motive for pushing your name to the forefront. There is something going on in the team which resulted in Maddox's murder, I'm sure of it. The police want to stick with the easy explanation, but I don't buy it.

  "I still can't believe you would even consider me after everything I've been through." I couldn't keep the indignation from seeping into my voice.

  "Self-pity doesn't suit you, Ian," Sir Adam said. He glared at me like a commander dealing with an out-of-line subordinate.

  "It suits me just fine. And I don't give a damn if it suits you or not!" I let a pause fall over the conversation before asking: "Who are the Sons of Erin anyway? And what do they have to do with your activities in Los Angeles?"

  "I'm not really sure. I have put my cloak and dagger, as you call it, away. But I still have my sources. ..."

  "Like consultant to MI8, the Prime Minister's special fanatics task force?"

  Sir Adam looked shocked. "How do you know about mat?"

  I laughed. "My God, sir. The government might be able to put a gag order on what the press prints in this country, but it can't stop juicy tidbits of gossip from flashing through Fleet Street like a lightning storm. Special Branch and MI5 could learn a hell of a lot from the intelligence-gathering skills of hungry journalists."

  "But you're the editor of a sports magazine."

  "That doesn't mean my ears are closed in the Fleet Street wine bars and pubs. You never know when you might pick up a lead on a great story. "

  "You never cease to amaze me." Sir Adam refilled his glass.

  "Yeah, well. What about the bastard Sons of Erin?"

  "They're a splinter faction of the Irish Republican Army, as you could probably figure out for yourself. Far more violent in their doctrine, but up till now they haven't been known to do anything more than talk a good game. We hadn't paid much attention until they were linked with recent rumors of revitalized interest in IRA funding from American shores. In the last ten years funding from America has almost disappeared. The Irish 'troubles' are being seen for what they are—no longer a religious, political, or sovereignty struggle, but terrorism for terrorism's sake. Part of the whole movement to bring anarchy to all stable governments.

  "IRA funding now comes basically from Soviet sources via Lebanon and Libya—the goal being to establish a type of British Cuba. But suddenly a new American funding source h
as reared its head."

  "What does all this have to do with the Ravens indoor soccer team and the murder of Maddox?" I asked.

  Sir Adam shrugged his shoulders. "I have no idea. I don't even know if there is any connection past what happened here tonight. And even that could be some kind of a red herring."

  Both of us were quiet for a period of time. I finished my brandy and set the glass down on a small side table.

  "Well?" Sir Adam asked eventually.

  "Well what?"

  "Will you go to Los Angeles?"

  I waited a beat. "Absolutely not."

  "But..."

  "Damn it!" I was suddenly angry all over again. "None of this changes the fact that I have only one eye...that I'll never be able to play in goal again. You want an investigator? Send one of your current whiz-kids."

  "You're the only one with the soccer skills to enter the team without drawing attention."

  "I've already drawn more attention tonight than I need for the rest of my life. I got out of the 'troubles' once with my skin intact, and I'm out of soccer for good. Get somebody else." I walked over to the study door and opened it.

  "Ian!" Sir Adam called after mc.

  I turned to face him, my hand still on the doorknob.

  "I wouldn't care if you were fully blind. Or if you had no arms or legs. This is football we're talking about, soccer if you like. Countries have stopped wars for the game. It is bigger than any one person. Bigger than any one team. I love the game. You love the game. No matter what you say, it's in your blood. You suckled it in with your mother's milk. If something threatens the game, we have to do whatever we can to save it." He paused and I just stared at him.

  "Look, Ian," he said in desperation, "the Ravens can't survive a major scandal. America is the only country in the world where the game isn't a national institution. A new team like the Ravens is facing destructive forces from every angle. Even though they've established a good enough record to reach the play-offs this season, the fan support isn't there yet.

  "Facility expenses are skyrocketing even though Nina Brisbane's father owns the complex. The players themselves are nervous about the team's future and it's affecting their play at a time when they need to be at the top of their form. If Maddox's murder is tied in to something larger which relates to the team or the league, we have to clear it up quickly and with a minimum of fuss, or the Ravens will become the next casualty of the American pro game. It could be years before Los Angeles gets another team. Soccer needs you back, Ian, and it needs you back now."

  I glanced at my watch. If I hurried, I could still catch the late train back to London. Keeping silent, I walked through the door and closed it behind me without hesitation.

  Chapter 4

  By the time I arrived at the train station, I'd changed my plans. I wasn't quite sure what to do with the car I'd "borrowed" from Sir Adam's garage, and eventually decided to park and lock it in the station's lot with the keys inside under the floor mat. Next, I woke up a sleepy minicab driver by wafting a five-pound note under his nose, and convinced him to deposit me on the doorstep of a small country hotel where an equally sleepy reservations clerk checked me in.

  The change in plans was due to several factors. If Sir Adam wanted to continue his efforts to convince me to go to California, the first place he would start looking for me would be back in London. More importantly, if Sean and his mate Liam—the Benny Hill of the IRA—decided to have a second go at me, they would also try London first. If their information sources were good enough to pinpoint me at Wren's Haven, they would have little difficulty finding my permanent place of abode. I wasn't up to dealing with either scenario, hence the small hotel.

  I asked for a room with a private bath, and to my surprise and delight it contained a huge ball-and-claw tub instead of just a shower stall. I stripped off and gave my aches a long hot soak. To complete my overhaul, I bribed the reluctant clerk to fix a brew-up and some bacon sandwiches for a midnight nosh.

  I kept my mind blank, refusing to think about anything other than creature comforts. Perhaps when the sun appeared and chased away the demons of the dark night, I would be able to place the evening's events in perspective. With a feather mattress wrapped around me like a comforting womb, sleep came with surprising ease.

  Six blissful, oblivious hours later I opened my eyes as the light of the false dawn began to tremble on the window-sill. I felt fully rested, even invigorated, and quickly swung my legs out of the bed before the feeling could fade. I doused my face with cold water and donned workout gear.

  Fifty fingertip push-ups started things off, followed by two hundred stomach crunches with legs hooked over the top of the bed. I did another fifty push-ups, the last twenty with fingers in agony, and four more sets of various abdominal crunches. I believe physical power and health emanate from the center of the body. Without the stomach and abdomen being in the best possible shape, the rest of the body will never achieve peak performance. I ran through all the crunches again, took a two-minute break, then did them a third time. Perspiration soaked my sweatshirt.

  Finally, I laced on running shoes and took off into the early morning mist. I ran for miles and miles through the countryside, blazing trails up soft-surfaced hillsides and down through meadows of wild flowers and lush, knee-high grass. I felt I could go on forever. Taking solace in the mind-numbing routine of exercise, my brain was consumed with the efforts of physical action. My aesthetic mind was a universe away—unreachable by the problems of a reality I didn't want to face. I had been offered a chance to play soccer again. Not the same variation of the game I was accustomed to, nor even the same level, but still a chance to return to "the game." My face was too wet with sweat for me to notice the tears streaming from my good eye. I fought the thoughts from my mind and ran and ran.

  The oblivion couldn't last forever. Back in London on Monday morning the demons came out to play again. I hadn't outrun them.

  "Not you too, Gerald?"

  "Yes, me too. And Da. And Zoe and the twins." Gerald loved to throw in the opinions of his wife and children if he thought it would prove a point. "It's time for you to get back to doing what you do best. No more acting like a spoiled child forced to go to piano lessons. You belong on a soccer field. And I don't give a fig if it is a different type of soccer field. It's still soccer, and there's still goalposts for you to excel between."

  I was sitting up in the bed of my London flat. Gerald had stormed in unannounced, using a key I'd once given him for emergencies. He'd awakened me so roughly, I'd thought Sean and Liam were back. It was obvious Gerald knew all about the excitement at Wren's Haven, and he was bound and determined to have his say about the affair.

  "Why didn't you come to work this morning?" he asked. "Do you think hiding here is a practical solution to your problems?" Gerald's pudgy hands were on his hips and there was battle blood in his eyes.

  "I didn't have any problems until you and Sir Adam decided to stick your fingers in," I said.

  "Of course you had problems!" Gerald's voice rose an octave in anger. "Only you refused to recognize them. People have to constantly be aware of saying the wrong things around you or they send you into a mood it takes you days to recover from. You think life has been bloody hard on you, and you wear your resentment like a suit of paper armor. "

  "You're not happy with my work at the magazine?" I felt my face flush. This tirade was not like my brother at all.

  "Don't be stupid. You wouldn't still be working for me if I didn't believe you were the best editor going."

  "Then why tip over the applecart?"

  "Because the apples are all rotten. You'll never truly be yourself again until you either face up to your limitations or overcome them. If you go to Los Angeles, you'll have the chance to do so. Then, if you want to come back, I'll welcome you with open arms and we'll set the journalism world on its ear. "

  "Gerald, I'm half-“

  "Don't say it," he shouted. "Half-blind! Half-blind! It's your exc
use for everything. And it's just not true!"

  "What do you mean?" I said in outrage.

  "You've lost an eye, but you're not half-blind. I've talked to your doctor."

  "You bastard," I said throwing the covers off and standing up.

  Gerald stepped forward and shoved me down. I bounced on the bed in shock.

  "Shut up and listen to me." His voice held an unaccustomed menace. "I've talked to your doctor. He told me some interesting facts; like losing an eye only cuts down your vision by ten to fifteen percent. He also told me you've been doing a series of eye exercises which have reduced the lack of vision in your case to about five percent. A hell of a lot different than half-bloody-blind, mate."

  I felt cold all over.

  "I've lost far more than just part of my peripheral vision," I said. Bile rose up in my throat, but I swallowed it down. "With only one eye my depth perception is almost nonexistent. I'd never be able to judge the distance or speed of an oncoming ball."

  "Why the bloody hell not? Don't think I haven't noticed the way you make those slight double-take movements with your head. I asked your doctor about them, and he said he'd taught you how to do them to triangulate distances. You know how to cope with the depth perception problem. It might not be perfect, but it isn't an acceptable excuse."

  I was silent. I was embarrassed at times by the almost birdlike head movements I had to make in order to judge distances. I thought I had done a pretty good job of hiding the affliction, but obviously not.

  Gerald misinterpreted my silence as weakening resolve and charged on with his argument. "Come on, Ian. It's not like you would be the first one-eyed goalkeeper to ever grace the field. Gordon Banks went to America and played in the outdoor leagues after he lost his eye in a traffic accident." Gerald was pulling out every dirty trick in his bag. Gordon Banks had been one of England's greatest goalkeepers and a personal hero of mine. "If he can do it..."

  "Gerald, please leave," I interrupted quietly.