Own Goal

by Tom Palmer

  Danny sort of liked the man. He knew what he was doing wasn’t legal. But he seemed OK, even though he’d tried to cheat him.

  ‘Can I have a young person’s discount, please?’ Danny asked, keeping his face straight.

  The man doubled over, laughing again. Then he called to another man standing about ten metres away. ‘We’ve got a good one here. Kids’ discount he wants.’

  Danny pulled five ten-pound notes out of his pocket. He knew he was stupid spending almost half of his season ticket money for next year on one game, but this was a big day. This was his first away game on his own.

  The tout took his money and handed him a ticket.

  ‘Go round that way, son,’ he said, pointing. Then he peeled a ten-pound note off the money Danny had given him and handed it back. ‘Kids’ discount.’

  Danny stood near the gates to the away stand, still clutching his ticket. There was over an hour to kick-off and he wanted to see what was going on. He loved watching football crowds.

  Some City fans were gathering. Danny could see they all had matching T-shirts on. But not City shirts. In fact, each T-shirt had a letter on it.

  And Danny knew who these fans were. Protesters.

  City FC were involved in an ownership battle. Some very rich foreigners wanted to buy the club. A lot of the fans were unhappy, worried that City would go the way of other teams who had been bought out, then got into financial trouble.

  Danny could see the police to the right of the protesters.

  The atmosphere had changed. The excitement of the crowds coming out of the tube station and the sense of fun had passed. And Danny couldn’t work out why. But it had definitely changed.

  He stayed well back from the protesters. That was how he noticed another group of City fans. The protesters were mainly older men, about the age of Danny’s dad. But the new group were younger, mostly. They had shaven heads and big arms, like the ticket tout. Some of them, anyway. They were chanting something. But nothing Danny had heard before. And that was when he realized that they weren’t City fans at all.

  Danny glanced at the police.

  Had they seen this?

  He knew what was happening. He had read about it. Protests by normal fans were often infiltrated by troublemakers. People who just wanted a fight.

  Now Danny was convinced that something very bad was about to happen.

  TROUBLE

  Danny watched the new group of men moving slowly towards the back of the gathered protesters. He was also keeping an eye out for the police. Had they seen what was about to happen? Was Danny right that this was going to end in trouble?

  He couldn’t be sure.

  What he did know was that this was not like the normal protests he’d seen over the last few weeks.

  Since Sir Richard Gawthorpe had lost control at City FC – thanks to Danny – the club had been up for sale. Several foreign investors had tried to buy it. And some of them were the kind of people who took over a business or a sports team and sold parts of it off to make money. A group of fans wanted to stop this happening, by trying to raise the money to buy it themselves. These protesters were part of that group. Peaceful protesters trying to make their point.

  But Danny could feel deep down in his stomach that this protest was not going to be peaceful. And his dad came to mind. Go with your gut reaction, he would say. Sometimes there is no time to think.

  So Danny did what his dad would tell him to. If he could stop something bad happening, he should. He wanted to be a detective in the police force, didn’t he? And that was the point of being in the police: stopping bad things happening.

  Danny walked over to the police he had seen nearby. Just as the protesters were starting to wave their banners and chant their chant, peacefully and without violence. And just as the other men were moving ever closer to the genuine protesters.

  Danny found a policeman who was standing at the edge of the crowd.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Yes, son?’

  ‘There’s a group of men infiltrating the protesters. I know the protesters. They’re City fans. But I’ve never seen the other men.’

  The policeman smiled, but something in his eyes suggested he thought Danny was just a silly boy. He glanced over to the crowd when he heard the noise of the protest growing. That was when his face changed.

  He nodded. His voice was different now. ‘That’s because they’re a well-known hooligan gang, son. Well spotted.’

  Then the policeman was on his radio. He gabbled something into it and – almost immediately – there was the sound of engines roaring. Danny had heard this before: police vans being driven fast in low gears. A sound familiar to football fans around the world.

  They came from two directions, catching the fans by surprise. And, for a moment, everyone froze.

  Danny stood back against the wall of the stadium and watched the small side street being invaded by uniformed police.

  He also watched the new group of men. He wanted to see what they would do.

  Would they fight – or run?

  Danny’s question was answered quickly.

  The troublemakers were running, having clearly given up their plan to disrupt the protest. The protesters – the genuine City fans – were standing still, not doing anything. Not wanting to cause trouble. Danny noticed the older men he’d been following from the train among them.

  He saw several of the troublemakers escape. There were back streets and alleyways everywhere. But the police caught some of them.

  It wasn’t what Danny could see that shocked him. It was what he could hear. Banging on the side of the police van. Police horse’s hooves on the tarmac. Shouting, from both the fans and the police.

  It was chaos.

  But, because he knew he was safe standing up against the stadium, away from the trouble, Danny felt more excited than scared.

  Eventually the clamour died down. Other fans had started to arrive. More normal noises, like the boom of the announcer inside the stadium, returned.

  Now that the police had dealt with the hooligans, the officer Danny had spoken to came over. He was breathing heavily. Danny had seen him bundle at least three hooligans into a police van. He would be shattered.

  ‘Like I said, son,’ he breathed again, ‘that was well spotted. Thank you.’

  Compared to the excitement outside the stadium, the game itself was dull.

  0–0 at full time.

  The best bit had been the protesters, lining up with their T-shirts spelling out KEEP CITY IN CITY.

  Both teams had seemed nervous about committing players forward. Showing each other too much respect. Danny wondered if the managers had made an agreement that a draw would be an acceptable result.

  But that was typical Danny. Always looking for conspiracy in football. Some new match-fixing scandal.

  Danny reflected on all this later, as his train headed north. Passing the Emirates stadium again. This time Arsenal’s home ground was surrounded by people, mostly wearing red. Arsenal had a five thirty kick-off. Their chance to go top of the league.

  Danny walked through the train to try to find the men he had been sat near earlier and had seen at the football, lined up with the protesters. He wanted to hear what they had to say about the day. Not so much the game, but the trouble before it.

  And there they were, next to the buffet car. Each with a can of beer in front of them.

  First they talked about the game. Then, inevitably, the trouble.

  ‘We were lucky the coppers came in when they did. That group of thugs were about to make it kick off.’

  ‘I know. Something like that could ruin it for us.’

  ‘Dead lucky. Those police came in and helped just in time.’

  The four men raised their glasses and toasted the police.

  Danny knew what they meant about things being ruined. If there had been tro
uble, the protesters, who were always peaceful, would have been blamed. He felt good that he’d been able to help.

  ‘Anyway, let’s talk about the meeting,’ one of the men said.

  Danny sat up, but tried not to look over. What was this? What meeting?

  ‘Right. Monday night. In the Playhouse Theatre. It seats two hundred. We’ve got a couple of journalists coming – and hopefully an ex-player.’

  ‘Not Sir Richard Gawthorpe, then?’ one of the men cut in.

  The four men laughed.

  ‘Back from the dead.’

  Danny felt a chill at the mention of that name. Sir Richard Gawthorpe. The first man he had taken on in his role as football detective. Gawthorpe had been chairman of the club then. He’d kidnapped his own player – Sam Roberts – and tried to make money out of it by selling shirts with Roberts on the back.

  It was Danny who had stopped him.

  ‘He’s long dead,’ one of the men said. ‘You don’t need to worry about him.’

  Suddenly another voice broke in. A woman further along the carriage.

  ‘This meeting? Can anyone come?’

  ‘Definitely, love. Bring anyone you can.’

  ‘Is it for fans? People who want to join the protest movement?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Seven p.m. The Playhouse Theatre, in the city centre.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ the woman said.

  And so will I, Danny thought, smiling. Then wondered if his mum and dad would let him.

  They would. He knew it.

  And then he felt a shock run through him. Mum and Dad. What with all the excitement of the day, he had barely thought about them for hours. He was amazed. And actually quite pleased.

  But now, as the train headed north towards home, he began to feel bad again. And, for the first time, an unwelcome thought crept into his head.

  All of this stuff he’d been involved in, trying to solve crimes. It had caused a lot of trouble at home.

  For instance, he’d invaded a football pitch with his dad’s permission. His mum went mad with his dad for that.

  He’d also been shot at several times, been chased round Moscow by a private army, been caught and taken to a cellar to be executed but had got away. And he’d told his dad about all this, but not his mum. His mum kind of knew there were secrets he’d told Dad but not her.

  And, worst of all, he’d been arrested and Mum and Dad had come to pick him up and his mum had made his dad tell him to give up his detective work, even though he knew his dad didn’t want him to.

  He thought about all the occasions his mum and dad had wanted different things from him. It was bound to cause tension.

  Maybe, he thought, it was because of him that his parents were splitting up.

  SUNDAY

  SUNDAY LUNCH

  It was Sunday. And Sunday meant Sunday lunch.

  The meal that Mum insisted they always have together.

  Everyone had to be there.

  No one could go out.

  No excuses.

  They’d have a roast of some sort, with all the veg and some gravy. Plus a fancy pudding, like a fruit pie, usually with custard.

  Dad started the preparations at about eleven in the morning, as usual. Peeling the vegetables, putting the meat in the oven. That meant it was definitely going to happen. Even today. And, once someone had started, no one would dare to stop it.

  So Danny went into the kitchen and offered to help. Dad asked him to set the table. Nobody had quizzed him about the day before.

  This was the only time they ever set a table. In the posh dining room, used only on Sundays and at Christmas. The fancy cutlery had to be laid out, along with napkins. And the best glasses. And various other things they had always done.

  This was their family ritual. One of the things that bound them together.

  But Danny found it weird today. All the things that were so normal seemed suddenly so pointless.

  As he was setting the table, Emily came in. She shut the door behind her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  Danny shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  He watched his sister fidgeting, wanting to say something.

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Danny answered. Then he thought about her. ‘What about you?’

  Emily lowered her voice. ‘I have to tell you something.’ There was a tone in her voice that was out of place with the gloom of the house. Something like excitement.

  Danny straightened a fork on the table and turned to face his sister.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you want to tell me?’

  ‘I’m –’

  Her words were interrupted by a crash, then louder voices coming from the kitchen. Danny and Emily stared at each other as they listened.

  It was Mum first. ‘Oh no … the gravy jug …’

  Dad’s voice next. ‘I’m sorry, love. I was rinsing it and …’

  ‘I loved that jug. You’re so clumsy!’

  No reply from Dad.

  ‘I loved that jug,’ Mum repeated.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll buy a new one.’

  ‘They don’t do them any more. It was from 1992. It was a wedding present from my uncle …’

  No reply again.

  Danny wanted to go in and defend his dad. Speak on his behalf. He ran through his mind what he might say. And he realized he’d only end up defending his mum from the things his dad might say.

  It had gone quiet in the kitchen, like Mum and Dad knew Danny and Emily were listening.

  ‘They’re whispering now,’ Emily said. ‘I’ll tell you. About that thing. I –’

  But just as she was about to say whatever she was going to say for the second time, Mum came in.

  For a moment she just stood there. Then she spoke.

  ‘What can I do?’ she asked.

  At first Danny and Emily did not say anything. Danny wondered if his mum had ever asked him a question like this. Like she wanted them to tell her what to do. She was always the one doing the telling.

  But he knew that he should give her a job. She’d asked. It was something she wanted.

  ‘The napkins?’ Danny suggested.

  Mum nodded gratefully and walked across to the cupboard where they were kept.

  Danny felt his sister’s hand on his back, then saw her pass out of the room. That was something else strange. A gesture of affection like that from Emily. He wasn’t sure if that had happened before either.

  But the moment was gone. Whatever his sister was going to tell him, it had passed. It would come out sometime soon. Danny knew that well enough.

  Sunday lunch was eaten in silence. All four of them had made some attempt to ask a question that would start a conversation. But all four had failed.

  Danny wondered if he should tell them about the day before, and the trouble at the football. At least that would get his mum going.

  He decided not to.

  So, for most of the meal, he listened to the clink of knives and forks on plates, so loud in the gloomy silence it could have been a sword fight.

  Minute by minute the tension rose.

  For the first time, Sunday lunch was not about family togetherness. It was about the opposite.

  Danny could barely swallow for thinking that this could be the last time they did this.

  And then Emily broke the silence. A sudden sentence. Her big secret spilling out.

  ‘I’m moving in with Anton,’ she said.

  For Danny the next couple of seconds was like the moment at a match when the ball is struck and, although everyone knows it is going to hit the net, they do not react.

  A pause. An intake of breath.

  ‘WHAT?’ Mum was standin
g up, her napkin on the floor.

  ‘I’m moving out. I’m going to live with Anton.’

  ‘NO!’ Mum was shaking her head. She looked at Dad.

  His face did not alter.

  ‘No,’ Mum said again.

  ‘I’m going, Mum. I’ll be eighteen soon enough. I can.’

  Danny looked out of the window. So, his sister was going. Going to live with Anton. In the sky outside, there were two planes thirty thousand feet up. Crossing each other’s paths, their vapour trails making a cross in the sky. Danny watched. When he looked back into the room his sister was not there any more and his dad was clearing the table.

  Then he started to have that feeling growing inside him again. Like he had been hit by a truck.

  ‘Danny, I need to talk to your dad,’ Mum said.

  ‘OK,’ Danny replied, in as normal a voice as he could muster. ‘I need to do my homework, anyway.’

  In his room, Danny turned his laptop on. It was time to do his homework. His family could go on being his family and doing what they wanted. But he had a job to do. He felt calm.

  That’s what he told himself.

  That’s what he had to tell himself.

  He put his headphones on and started to type into Google.

  He entered ‘Fo + crime’.

  There were 7,789,023 entries.

  Fo has been accused of links to the Mafia …

  Salvatore Fo’s close friends have been found guilty of numerous crimes …

  Fo’s manipulation of the Italian media is a crime …

  Fo in bid to emulate Mussolini, the Italian dictator of the 1930s and …

  Suddenly Danny felt anger. A rage boiling inside him.

  He looked up Mussolini on Wikipedia. He was the man who ran Italy in the 1930s and ’40s. A big bald man who liked shouting a lot. Someone who wanted to control everyone and would do whatever it took to achieve that. Like Hitler in Germany.

  Danny was going to do a good job with this project. He was going to make the owner of Forza FC look like a monster.

  He was going to do it, because he felt like it. And because he hated Forza. And because he hated Theo Gibbs. And because it was better than thinking about his mum and his dad and Emily and Anton and the burning feeling that it was his fault that his parents were splitting up.