Own Goal

by Tom Palmer

  ‘Look at the view,’ Danny suggested, clearing his mind of the sadness that was starting to overcome his good mood.

  His mum followed him on to the balcony. She gasped. ‘Oh, this is beautiful. So beautiful. Thank you for bringing me. I feel so privileged to be here. Thank you, Danny.’

  Normally, whenever Danny travelled to watch football – or solve football crimes – he went alone or with his dad. Coming with his mum felt weird. Mainly because it was the first time they’d been away together alone. But also because of something else. Something strange and uncomfortable that Danny couldn’t even put into words.

  Basically, Danny didn’t like sharing a room with his mum.

  Not in a hotel.

  He knew they shared a bathroom at home. But this was different.

  And he wasn’t quite sure why.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ Mum said.

  They were sitting on their hotel balcony together. A tray of drinks, sandwiches and cakes had been delivered by room service, accompanied by a welcome message from Sam Roberts.

  ‘Are there any older players you think might take a shine to me like Sam Roberts has to you?’ Mum went on.

  Danny shrugged. He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t like to hear his mum say things about other men. Even if she was joking. He didn’t like her talking about girls with him either. If she ever asked about his friendship with Charlotte, he always felt embarrassed and tried to change the subject.

  There was an uneasy silence between them until Mum broke it by asking, ‘Do you want to talk about me and your dad?’

  ‘Not really,’ Danny replied, trying to smile at her.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mum went on.

  ‘Maybe later?’ Danny said.

  ‘OK,’ Mum conceded, her voice changing, sounding brighter. ‘Then shall we plan what to do for the rest of today?’

  Danny sat up in his chair and nodded. He was happy not to have to talk about his parents. He was worried things he could say might make matters worse. He’d already caused his mum and dad a lot of problems.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Danny asked. They had all afternoon and evening, and most of the next day too. The match was not until the following evening.

  Mum gazed out across the water. ‘I want to go there,’ she said.

  The lake was bigger than any Danny had seen before. Their hotel was situated at the centre of the east shore and the lake stretched for almost twenty miles both north and south. There were probably seas that were smaller. The hills on the other side of the water were covered in deep, lush forest with villages dotted along the waterline and higher up. And behind them were snow-capped mountains: the Alps.

  The sun was shining off the lake, creating a million ripples of light. Danny watched steamers and yachts skimming across the water like insects.

  Danny’s mum was pointing across all of this to the other side of the bay. At an outcrop of rock covered in trees, with three or four buildings spread out along the edge of the water. These were not just any buildings. They looked like palaces, their stone the colour of honey baking in the sun. Mum indicated the one on the far right.

  ‘To that house?’ Danny asked.

  ‘It’s a villa,’ Mum said.

  Aston Villa came into Danny’s head, but he didn’t bring it up. He knew his mum was as interested in football as he was in bathroom hand wash.

  ‘A very rich person’s house,’ she continued. ‘But normally the owner only comes in the summer, so tourists can have a look round the rest of the time. And I’ve been watching …’ Danny’s mum’s voice was sounding excited now. ‘The boat bus has been going from here to there. Tourists getting on and off.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’ Danny got to his feet.

  ‘Just let me sort myself out in the bathroom,’ Mum said.

  So Danny sat back down.

  THE VILLA

  The small ferry arrived at the hotel jetty almost immediately, meaning Danny and his mum did not have to stand in the stifling heat for too long.

  Once a wooden gangway had been slipped into place, a man in uniform took Mum’s hand to help her aboard, smiling at her like he fancied her. Danny was already getting tired of Italian men flirting with his mum. He’d heard this would happen and it had. At the airport. At the station. In the hotel. He had only ever seen his mum as his mum, not as an attractive woman. And it was weird that, because his dad was not there, this was happening.

  Soon they were off, the small boat skimming the surface of the lake. Danny gazed at the enormous houses and gardens that bordered it.

  The boat stopped first at a small village, then headed towards the villa Mum wanted to visit.

  A large house with two small outbuildings hidden by trees, it was completely isolated from all the other houses around. Danny looked at it as they approached, trying to work out how you would reach it by road. The hill was so steep behind it – a sheer rock face – that he thought that cars probably couldn’t. Maybe it was only accessible by water?

  It was an amazing place. More amazing than the other buildings Danny had been looking at.

  And he started to feel quite glad they’d come.

  There was something about this place. Something that excited him.

  One hour later, he was bored out of his mind.

  The house looked pretty good, as old houses went. The gardens were nice with their sculptures and tall thin trees. The views of the mountains were spectacular. But inside it was just like a museum. A load of paintings and statues. And Danny had never really liked museums.

  Mum, however, was enjoying herself. She was talking to one of the guides about the paintings. In Italian.

  And, to make things worse, every minute or so she would stop and tell Danny what she had found out. Danny could feel his legs getting heavier and heavier as they walked round.

  One picture had been painted by someone who had been taught to paint by Michelangelo, she told him. And another had been on display in a famous New York art gallery.

  Danny nodded and smiled.

  After one long Italian conversation in a room full of paintings made up of small blotches of colour that Danny thought were rubbish, Mum attempted to explain them to him.

  ‘They’re by a Brazilian artist called Tomassina Tremezzo,’ Mum said. ‘Can you see what they’re about?’

  ‘Nothing?’ Danny suggested.

  Mum smiled. ‘Look again,’ she said.

  Much as he loved his mum, Danny did not want an art history lesson. Especially not about these pictures.

  ‘They’re blotches,’ Danny confirmed. ‘I could do them with a pack of kids’ paints from Tesco in an afternoon.’

  Mum smiled. ‘Can’t you see? Half close your eyes, so it goes blurred.’

  Danny squinted at one of the pictures. ‘Still nothing.’

  ‘See?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re just not trying,’ Mum said.

  ‘Blotches,’ Danny replied.

  ‘If you look carefully, Danny,’ Mum was using her teacher-like voice now, ‘you can see it’s a picture of Jesus.’

  ‘Jesus?’ Danny said. Too loudly.

  Several people in the quiet gallery looked round.

  Mum nodded enthusiastically, not noticing. ‘It’s called subliminal art. The owner has bought dozens of these. Apparently he is a big fan of Tremezzo. Do you want to know what subliminal art is, Danny?’

  ‘Not really,’ Danny answered.

  ‘Well, it’s your loss,’ Mum replied.

  ‘Is there a café?’ Danny asked. ‘Or a gift shop?’

  In the gift shop, as his mum was looking through some posters by the artist she liked, Danny watched a six-year-old girl with blonde ringlets who was looking at a book. She was leafing through it gently, being really careful with it. But then the woman behind the till rushed up to her and snatched it off h
er, saying, ‘No, no, no!’ and shaking her head.

  The little girl looked upset. And Danny felt like telling her she’d done nothing wrong, that the woman in the shop was mean. She probably thought children shouldn’t be allowed books. It made Danny want to leave even more quickly.

  Then Mum was next to him, a framed picture in her hands. A copy of one by the blotch artist.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  Danny looked at the picture and its blotches.

  ‘Mmmmm,’ he said. ‘How much is it?’

  ‘You sound just like your dad,’ Mum said. ‘But I don’t care. I like it, so I’m buying it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Danny. ‘Then can we go and get a drink and some cake?’

  The café overlooked the lake, just like their hotel room. It was surrounded by trees bearing oranges, and huge vases spilling flowers on to the terraces.

  There was a breeze coming off the lake that made the heat outside bearable.

  Mum was wearing a huge grin, holding her framed picture in front of her at different angles.

  ‘Apparently,’ she said, ‘this house is the only place you can get copies of these pictures. I am so glad you brought me here.’

  ‘And so am I …’ The voice came from the next table. A deep Italian voice.

  Danny turned to look.

  A man was sitting with the sun behind him, so it was hard to see him clearly. But Danny could tell that he was smartly dressed, was about sixty or seventy years old and had brown hair.

  ‘Do you like the picture?’ the man asked Mum, in a strong Italian accent, leaning towards them.

  ‘I do. I really do,’ Mum gushed.

  ‘May I join you?’ the man asked. ‘I know a little about her pictures.’

  Mum nodded, catching Danny’s eye. ‘Yes. I’d love to know more about her work. I’m Samantha, by the way.’

  Danny frowned. Here was another Italian man flirting with his mum. Now he was going to have to watch it up close and for a while. He sighed and gazed across the water, noticing that, up the lake, clouds were descending, a haze filling the valley. And that the breeze felt suddenly cooler.

  The man shook Mum’s hand, then turned to Danny.

  Danny took his hand to shake it and looked up at the man. The sun had gone behind a cloud so now he could see him clearly.

  He had to stop himself from snatching his hand away. Because the man on the other side of the table was none other than Salvatore Fo.

  FRIEND OR FO?

  Danny said very little for the first few minutes of the conversation that followed.

  He was so shocked to be sitting opposite the man who was the focus of his school project, the man he had seen at City FC less than a week ago. A man he had started to hate.

  He longed to get his iPhone out to take a picture for his project. But he couldn’t. His hands were shaking too much.

  Fo and his mum were now talking in Italian. Danny could tell Fo thought his mum’s grasp of the language was poor. But he had to hand it to the Italian. He was being really nice about how she spoke. And he was helping her, teaching her the correct pronunciation. Also he had not boasted about who he was.

  Maybe he was OK.

  After a few minutes, Fo’s mobile phone rang. He excused himself and went to stand by some stone banisters at the edge of the lake. He leaned on a statue of a naked woman, occasionally gesticulating with his hands as he talked. Then he walked towards one of the smaller buildings that were higher up the hill, that looked like it was made up of three arches.

  Mum gazed at him, then looked back at Danny and smiled.

  ‘Nice man,’ she commented. ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’

  ‘You know who he is?’ Danny interrupted, seething with irritation.

  ‘No. He’s just a nice man.’ Mum beamed again.

  Danny glanced round to check who was nearby.

  ‘Mum,’ Danny whispered. ‘He’s Salvatore Fo. He owns Forza FC. He owns several TV channels. He is one of the richest men in the world.’

  Mum sat back in her chair, her eyes on Danny. ‘Nooooo,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mum asked. ‘Trust you to know all about him. I hope you’re not going to start telling me he’s an arch-criminal who wants to take over the world?’

  Danny was about to reply to his mum’s remark when he noticed a shadow over the table.

  Fo was back.

  ‘I apologize to you,’ the Italian said in English. ‘I had to go over to my offices to consider something.’ He pointed over to the three-arched building. ‘Please, Samantha. I have no appointments now. May I show you round my art collection? I would like to tell you more about my pictures. And understand more about you.’

  ‘Your pictures?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Fo bowed his head. ‘I should introduce myself. I am Salvatore Fo. I am the owner of this house and of the art collection here.’

  The next half hour was excruciating for Danny.

  First, he had to look at the ugly pictures – again – and hear even more about them. Most of what the Italian said about them made no sense to Danny at all.

  ‘For me,’ he said at one point, ‘they epitomize the twenty-first century. They show one thing, but in fact, deep down, they are doing something else. What might seem to a child to be just blotches are, to a sophisticated eye, an image of Christ.’

  Danny thought he saw Fo look at him as he made the last remark.

  Then he had to put up with Fo making jokes that were not funny – but his mum laughing anyway. And then the Italian kept touching his mum’s elbow as he led her around the gallery. Danny watched him angrily and thought about his dad and how he missed him. Who did this Italian think he was?

  Danny was rapidly losing the will to stand up.

  Then, suddenly, in the middle of the tour, Fo turned to Danny. ‘So, Danny, do you like calcio?’

  Danny was about to answer that he did, but Fo broke in.

  ‘This is our word, in Italy, for football,’ he explained.

  ‘I know,’ Danny said.

  ‘Danny loves football,’ Mum interrupted. ‘We’re here to see his team play, in fact.’

  ‘Ah. You are a Forza fan.’ Fo moved across to Danny as if he was about to hug him.

  Danny stepped back. ‘No. I’m a City FC fan. I’m English. Why would I support an Italian team?’

  Fo stopped and smiled. ‘Maybe you like Forza a little? They are the biggest team in the world. Everybody should like Forza!’

  Danny shook his head.

  Fo smiled the same insincere smile he had been using on Danny for the last hour. ‘One day I think … how do you say? … I hope you will change your mind.’

  Danny smiled the same smile back.

  ‘Never,’ he said.

  The art tour went on for another ten minutes before Danny managed to get away. He told his mum he was going to look round the gardens. He wanted some fresh air, he said.

  She said he could go back to the hotel if he liked: she would see him there.

  She barely noticed him leave.

  Outside it was cooler now.

  Danny sat around the back of the house, on a grass bank where the paths did not reach, meaning there were no other tourists around. Just him, the lake and the mountains. Behind him there was the building with three arches, and through one arch Danny could see a large white fan whirring through an open door. It was the place Fo had gone earlier. His offices, Danny remembered he had said.

  He stared back across the lake, towards Switzerland. It looked very different up there now. He could no longer see the snow-capped mountains. Nor any blue sky. A dark dense cloud was rolling down, almost reaching the lake. And, in the distance, Danny heard rumbling. At home he would have thought it was a lorry going over potholes in the road. But there was no road here and he wondered if the sound
was thunder.

  Danny needed moments like this. Moments to sit and be quiet. If he did not find the time to think he could lose so many of the ideas he’d been having. First coming over to Italy. Then meeting Fo. And his mum flirting with the Italian. It was all too much. Now was his chance to sort it all out in his head.

  But first he took his iPhone out. He wanted to text his dad.

  We’re by the Lake. We’ve met Fo. He’s an idiot.

  I miss you. D x

  Then he sat back to think. He watched the clouds at the water’s edge on the far side of the lake. The way the water was changing, turning black, choppy now.

  That was when the thought came into his mind.

  Danny glanced at the open door behind him.

  What if he could illustrate his school project about Fo with pictures from the very man’s offices? Pictures no one else had. That would be amazing. It would be like a piece of photojournalism that their media studies teacher was always going on about.

  Danny got to his feet and glanced around him.

  No one around.

  No sounds coming from the offices. They appeared to be empty.

  He could be in and out within a minute. So long as he was quick, nobody would see him.

  This could be amazing.

  THE IMAGE

  Danny walked across the lawn looking as casual as he could. He was just a tourist, a boy walking in an Italian garden.

  His heart was already beating faster than it was meant to. But not so fast that he was feeling bad. He knew it was beating like this because his body had injected a massive dose of adrenalin into his blood. He had learned to cope with this. In fact, he loved the feeling. It was called being alive. And it beat looking round art galleries.

  Once he had made it past the three arches, Danny found himself next to the door of the offices.

  He glanced in. They were empty.

  There was no time to lose.