“Hello,” the weak voice came from across the room, “did you remember that I was still here?” Jim Duncan asked.
“Dad. Really. I’m just being hospitable.”
“Don’t you believe a word of it, young feller,” her father said, grinning. “I’ve never seen her so smitten with a stranger before.” A cushion flew across the room to silence the old man and his daughter grimaced.
“What brings you out to see Dad, then?” my new friend asked as she pulled her legs up and tucked them under her. I seriously considered lying and spinning some tale about a TV programme on the history of United, but I couldn’t deceive these people. They were too open and honest.
“I hope that I’m not being too unkind but I wanted to ask you,” I looked at Jim, “a few questions about your time with United and everything that was happening in the game back then.”
“Unkind nothing,” he responded. “It’s twenty years since anyone wanted my views on anything to do with football. I’ll be glad to help, except...” His words tailed off.
“Dad has a problem,” Sara interjected. “you see, he had a stroke a few years ago and he doesn’t always remember things. Some days he is just fine, like today. But other days he doesn’t even remember his own name.”
“There you go, Alex. You came on a good day. You’d better ask your questions before I wander off into gaga land.” He winked, making light of his condition.
“Sara. Jim. I want to be honest with you. I’m looking for information on the people who were involved in the match fixing allegations in the seventies. If these questions offend you in any way, I’m sorry. That isn’t my intention,” I looked at them both in turn. “but I want you to know that I have a good reason for asking such sensitive questions.” There was a short silence.
“Alex. I don’t mean to be rude. But I’d like you to go now.” Sara was serious. I looked at Jim and he shrugged his shoulders. “Dad suffered a lot when I was little and I don’t think it would do him any good to have it all opened up again.”
“Sara. I don’t mind. Honestly,” Jim said to placate his daughter. I stood up.
“No. Sara is quite right. It wouldn’t be fair. I hadn’t realised your situation, it was thoughtless of me. I was just thinking of myself.” I spoke softly.
I shook hands with Jim Duncan and asked if I could call by sometime and update him on how United were doing these days. He said he would ask Sara to arrange something. Sara walked me to the door.
“Sorry,” she said, meaning it.
“That’s all right. I understand. I’d better be off, then.” She smiled as I walked down the path.
“Now you won’t be losing our phone number, will you?” she shouted as I reached the gate. It hadn’t been a wasted journey after all.
************
The journey down the track towards the road was a slow one. Anything over fifteen miles per hour would have wrecked the car’s suspension. About three hundred yards along the track I noticed that a four wheel drive vehicle was driving so close behind me that it filled my rear windscreen. The driver flashed his lights, urging me on. I refused to go faster and instead made room for him to pass. The big blue offroader moved alongside me. As I looked up I saw the face of Tony Blair looking down at me. I did a double take, but I was right. The passenger was wearing a mask of the former Prime Minister. At first it seemed humorous, but then it became sinister. The four wheel drive vehicle pulled across in front of me. I had to brake and steer onto the verge. Luckily there was a gateway ahead and I pulled into it. As I came to a stop my car door was flung open and Mr Blair pulled me roughly from the car. This was no road rage attack.
A second man came into view. It was Mick Jagger, and he was carrying a cosh. As his arm swung I moved my head and the blow glanced off my temple. As I lost consciousness I fuzzily wondered, why would Tony Blair and Mick Jagger want to hurt me?
I was lying in the mud when I came around. Mick Jagger was wearing grey slacks and a windcheater jacket. He was holding my arms down. I became aware of a cold draught washing over my bad leg. When I looked down I saw that my trouser leg was ripped open to the thigh and the strapping had been removed. An indescribable horror engulfed me and I knew what was about to happen. My repairing leg was about to be mutilated. I tried to struggle free but Margaret Thatcher, wearing a dark blue business suit, was tying my leg to a fallen tree trunk. I tried to sit up but a clenched fist smashed into my face and blood filled my mouth where my teeth had torn the inside of my cheeks. I sank down and a well placed kick hit my ribs with sickening force. I felt sick. Winded, hurting and struggling for breath, it was about to get worse, much worse. My leg objected as it was forcefully bent over the log at right angles and I cried out in agony. For my troubles I had a dirty cloth forced into my mouth. I started to choke before I was able to manoeuvre the cloth away from my throat with my tongue and begin breathing through my nose.
Secured and helpless I watched in stark terror as the man in the Tony Blair mask turned around to face me. He had a large roughly hewn stone in his hands. It was all of two feet across. He spoke in a snarl.
“You were told to mind your own business but you wouldn’t listen. So, consider yourself warned off. Permanently!” The man holding me chuckled as his friend struggled to lift the heavy stone above his head. For the first time in my adult life I cried as I realised the hopelessness of my situation. The pain I would suffer as the stone tore tissue and crushed bone. The loss of my leg, because it was almost certain to be severed. No more football, or even walking. They might as well just kill me. But they wouldn’t. They wanted me to suffer.
I opened my eyes. They were blurry from the tears. The stone was suspended above his head, six feet from my knee. Under the mask my attacker was getting off on my terror. He was sick. A psychopath. There was a slight movement of his arm as he took aim. I closed my eyes and prayed for unconsciousness.
There followed an enormous bang. I felt nothing but I heard myself scream. Then I remembered that I was gagged. The scream belonged to someone else. I opened my eyes. Tony Blair had lost his mask and his face was contorted in agony as he doubled over. My arms were released as Mick Jagger jumped to help his psychopathic friend.
“Come on, Norman,” he croaked, nerves drying his throat. “We’ve got to get out of here.... someone is shooting at us.” I sat up and grabbed his sleeve but he pulled free and together they struggled to their car. The car doors slammed and the four wheel drive vehicle skewed down the lane in a squeal of tyres and burning rubber.
************
“Are you alright, Alex?” The question came from Sara Duncan.
“I am now,” I said, trying to sit up.
“Stay where you are until I can see the extent of your injuries.” She examined my leg before unbuttoning my shirt. Even her expert but gentle touch hurt my ribs.
“I think you may have a cracked rib or two. Lie still.” A look of concern crossed her lovely features as she looked at my mouth and cheek. “There may be a depressed cheekbone here as well.”
“Are you a doctor?” I asked.
“Sort of. You had best be quiet,” she replied.
“What exactly do you mean, sort of? Are you a nurse?”
“No. Just be quiet, there’s some tissue damage in your mouth. I’m going to get my bag.”
“Well ,what are you then?” I persisted.
“I’m a vet, all right. Satisfied? Now shut up will you?” There was distress in her voice.
“You’re upset,” I noted, and before I could continue she bent down and pressed her lips on mine. I yelped. It hurt.
“Now will you shut up?” she cried.
I was made to lie still until all of the running repairs were done. The strapping on my left leg had been restored and my knee was immobile again. It was one of the few parts of me that didn’t hurt. I felt strangely euphoric as I was being bandaged up and I wasn’t sure whether it was the narrow escape from mutilation or the presence of Sara that was responsible. When
she had dabbed my bloody lips and placed wadding in my mouth she lifted a two way radio out of her bag.
“Jimmy, pick up. Jimmy, pick up. This is Sara.” There was a crackling and static before a thin reedy voice came from the radio.
“Come on Sara. This is Jimmy. What’s the problem? We are busy.”
“Jimmy, I need you. I’m by the lane in Brood pasture. Someone‘s hurt. Hurry. Over.”
“We’re on our way. Out.”
“Sara, what made you follow those two down the lane? And why bring the gun? I presume you don’t normally carry it around in the car?” She looked at me and her expression softened.
“I knew that you were in trouble,” she whispered.
“How?”
“As you drove away, a car engine started up a little further up the lane. I was curious because the lane only leads to our top field and there was no good reason for anyone to be up there. Occasionally we get hikers or ramblers using the right of way, but that is quite rare. So, I hung around and pottered about in the garden until the car moved. When it drew level with the garden gate I looked up and the men inside shielded their faces. Naturally, my suspicions were aroused. The car moved slowly down the lane and I decided to make a note of the registration from the rear number plate, but I couldn’t. It was smeared with mud, and deliberately so. At that point I felt a shudder go down my spine. Dad refers to it as ‘someone walking over your grave.’ I ran into the house and grabbed the car keys. With the Land Rover keys in my hand I walked towards the front door and my eyes fell on the shotgun cupboard. For some inexplicable reason I had a strong feeling that I was about to walk into a dangerous situation. I unlocked the cupboard and picked up the shotgun and some cartridges. A little way down the lane I saw the two cars. They were abandoned and unattended. I knew then that something was wrong and that it wasn’t looking good for you.”
“So, you waded in, knowing that you might be in danger, just to help me?” I interjected. She blushed.
“I heard voices coming from behind the derelict barn and decided to investigate. I saw a man lift up a big rock and threaten you. Then I realised that it was more than a threat. I almost panicked as I tried to cram a cartridge into each barrel of the shotgun. All fingers and thumbs, the work of a few seconds took a lifetime, or so it seemed. Eventually, I had the gun loaded and I snapped it shut. The rock was over the tall man’s head. I just fired over his head. Though I may have been a little too enthusiastic because he shrieked and dropped the rock. She sat quietly.
“Thanks,” I said, gently squeezing her delicate hand.
Within minutes a tractor came over the fields and two men climbed down. They came across and looked down at me. The younger one said, with some surprise,
“That’s Alex Carter.”
“I used to be,” I joked. “But today I’m not so sure.”
Between them they helped me back to my car. Every time I winced Sara would shout.
“Be careful, you’re hurting him, you clumsy oaf.”
In reply Jimmy would retort,
“Oh, be quiet, sis. He’s a professional footballer. They’re used to it.”
Jimmy sat in the driver’s seat and reversed my Mercedes back to the house faster than I had driven away.
************
“You can put him on my bed, “Sara said tartly as if I wasn’t there.
“What a lot of fuss over nothing. I get worse than this at the point to point and you won’t even make me a cup of tea,” her brother responded with some justification.
I sat quietly on the bed and allowed my nurse, vet, whatever, to tend my wounds. She looked up and caught me smiling, more than once. She continued in silence until she was satisfied that I was comfortable and then she spoke seriously.
“You could have been killed.”
“I don’t think that was the idea, Sara,” I proffered. “But thanks for caring one way or the other.” I took her hand in mine and examined it absent-mindedly as I spoke.
“Where did you shoot that man? He could be seriously hurt.”
“I didn’t shoot him. I shot over his head. A warning, if you like.”
“But I saw his face. He was in considerable pain.”
“I know,” she grinned, and small white teeth flashed at me. “He dropped the rock on his foot. He’ll be limping for a while. Did those men have anything to do with your visit here?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I replied. Sara pulled up a chair.
“I suppose you had better tell me all about it, then,” she said.
The next half hour was spent telling my new friend the whole story. I covered Roy’s death, my injury, the threats and the match rigging. She deserved the whole truth. She had saved my life. Well, any life that would have been worth living.
“Is there a girlfriend or someone I should ring for you?” she asked pointedly.
“No. As I said, I’m a veritable monk, living with my daughter who is still on holiday in the States.”
“Good. Well, let’s have some tea and we’d better let you speak to Dad. Oh, by the way, I found this on the ground by my bag. Is it yours?” She held out her hand, and resting in the centre of her palm was a small gold coloured object. I picked it up, looked at it and couldn’t believe my luck.
CHAPTER 14
I held the shiny object that Sara had found in my fingers and examined it with some interest. On closer inspection I found that it was part of a broken cufflink. Inset into the gold coloured base metal was a plastic disc. The disc was white in colour and it had a blue logo emblazoned across it. The royal blue logo was created by the intertwining of two stylised S’s. The logo was familiar to me and, I would guess, to a growing number of sports fans. The two letters were an acronym for the company name, formerly called Sports Security Services Limited. The burgeoning conglomerate was now known as SportSec PLC. In less than five years SportSec had grown from a run of the mill security firm to an international public limited company. Founded by Graham Snead, the ex British Lions Rugby captain, the company specialised in the provision of security for sports stadia. Over the years Graham Snead had used his renowned charismatic charm to woo his many sporting contacts and secure many lucrative contracts for his growing business. By the middle of the decade, sports from racing to rugby, from soccer to snooker were covered by SportSec, who maintained a near monopoly in sporting security.
SportSec had made little impact in the lucrative soccer market until some of the less popular football grounds could no longer rely upon full police attendance because they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, pay the Police Authority bills. Now SportSec staff could be found everywhere. They provided stewards, turnstile operators and security guards, not just for match days but year long, week in week out. At United we were employing them to guard the stadium during the construction of the new stand and the general renovation works. Suddenly I was roused from my thoughts.
“What is this mysterious little disc then?” Sara asked. “And why is it so intriguing?” I explained that it was part of a cuff-link and then speculated on the connection with SportSec. She was clearly puzzled.
“Are you suggesting that someone in a multinational company gave orders for a couple of thugs to work you over? Perhaps even to disable you?”
“I know. It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” I replied. “But I can’t think of any other explanation at the moment. Nothing else seems to make sense.”
We sat and looked at the broken piece of jewellery for some time before Sara spoke again.
You can stay in my room tonight.” I raised my eyebrows suggestively. “On your own,” she said pointedly, “and you can speak to Dad in the morning. I’m curious as to how this beating might relate to a bribery scandal in the seventies.”
“It may not,” I said unconvincingly.
“Perhaps not, but someone is clearly afraid that you will find out something that they would rather keep hidden. Why warn you off so violently otherwise?”
I couldn’t give an answer.
> ************
I was perfectly able to make the short journey down the stairs and into the dining room but my protective hostess insisted that I stay in bed while she brought my dinner up to me. The Spaghetti Carbonara was tasty and filling. I hadn’t realised how hungry I had been until the savoury cooking smells wafted up the stairs and reached my nostrils. When I finished eating, Sara sat cross legged on the end of the bed and sipped the last of the red wine from her glass. It was a long time since I had felt so comfortable in a woman’s company. With her relaxed smile and friendly girlish manner Sara made it easy for me to talk openly and, with the influence of a little wine, I probably opened up too much. That night I disclosed thoughts and worries that I had kept securely locked away for some time.
We spoke for hours, keeping the door open for the sake of propriety. She was interested in my career and why I had chosen football over university. As we chatted Sara laughed with me at the stories of my schoolboy antics in wooing Vicki, and she squeezed my hand companionably as I described the cancer that had eaten away at my beautiful wife.
When I fell silent Sara regaled me with stories from her schooldays and made my sides ache with laughter as she described her antics at an all woman college in Guildford. She talked excitedly about her ambitions and what she wanted from life, now that she was twenty four years old and a qualified veterinary surgeon. I assured Sara that her natural beauty and warmth would make her a success with animals and owners alike, and she blushed.
As she spoke I was overcome by a warm comfortable feeling that permeated my whole body. I had an overwhelming urge to touch her, to feel the soft warmth of her skin. I imagined what it would be like to kiss the tender lips that accentuated her wide sensual mouth. She sensed my interest and stroked my cheek with the back of her hand.
Final Whistle Page 16