by Tom Palmer
‘He’s spotted one,’ Neil said. ‘Watch him go now. Make sure you get it on film.’
Danny zoomed in as Tony kneeled to tighten his shoelaces, then stood to put both hands on one of the huge drainpipes that came down from the top of the main stand. And then he was off. Shimmying up the drainpipe.
Against the facade of the stand he looked tiny. He was up ten, fifteen metres in seconds. Danny had to arch his back as he tried to keep him in focus. Then Tony reached across and placed his foot on a ledge underneath a small square window. Danny tried to calculate where he’d be. In the toilets outside the main bar area, he thought.
Tony’s hands searched in the small gap to find the catch and lifted the window open with ease. And then – like a rabbit down a hole – he disappeared.
Danny couldn’t believe it.
‘That was amazing,’ he said.
‘He’s a genius. You should see what he can do. And he’s so small and light, he can …’
Suddenly there was a siren.
‘Down,’ said Neil.
Danny crouched behind the bins. It was a police car. Hiding, they heard its siren coming nearer, up the main road from the city centre. They waited. Expecting the worst. Wondering what Tony was doing and if he’d heard it.
Danny assumed he’d set off an alarm in the stadium. The police would be on them in seconds. He looked around for a way out.
The siren was loud now, echoing off the far end of the stadium. For a second they saw the flashing lights as the police car sped past the main gates of the stadium and carried on away from them.
‘We were lucky there,’ said Neil. ‘I thought we were toast.’
‘Me too.’
Thirty seconds later the door at the end of the stand opened. Tony beckoned them in. As agreed, Danny began filming again, making sure he got shots of them entering the stadium.
Danny pointed to the place where the bullet had hit the breezeblock on the first night.
The two men grinned.
‘I don’t think there’s anyone here,’ whispered Tony eventually. Not down here, anyway. But let’s make sure.’
Cautiously, they searched each room. Dressing rooms. Referee’s room. Laundry room. Tony opened the doors and edged round the corner. Neil followed up with his baseball bat hanging at his side, Danny filming it all.
Then they came to the electrical room.
‘This was the one,’ Danny whispered.
‘We should check it,’ Tony said.
‘The door handle’s stiff,’ Danny said. ‘Do it slowly.’
He filmed the smaller man easing the handle open. The crack it made as it opened was not loud, but to Danny it seemed like an explosion.
There was nothing in the room, apart from the lights of the fuse boxes flashing and the dials turning.
Danny pointed to the trapdoor, then filmed as Neil opened it.
‘There’s no water,’ he said, shining his torch down the hole.
‘What?’ asked Danny.
‘There’s no water. Just a right mess.’
Danny followed the two men down through the hole in the floor. The ladder was slippery with mud and moisture. Danny’s hands were wet and slimy when he finally reached the bottom.
What had once been an underground apartment – holding an international footballer – was now a disaster area. The main room and three bedrooms were complete chaos. Furniture all over the place. Stains on the walls. And Danny saw two rats scuttling along the skirting boards. The air smelt damp and dirty. Earthy. The TV was tipped over, the widescreen face up, collecting drips of water from above. The bedrooms were filthy. Sheets and pillows and carpets, brown and stinking. Danny filmed it all.
Neil checked each bedroom thoroughly. There was no sign of Sam Roberts. Danny had half expected to see his drowned body on one of the beds.
‘Let’s go up to the next floor.’
It took ten minutes to check the ground floor. The press-conference room. The hospitality suites. A long corridor of offices.
Nothing.
They moved cautiously to the next floor. Moving up the staircase, one step at a time, listening between each footstep.
As they reached the second floor, Tony put his hand out.
‘I heard something,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘Voices.’
He crept up the next staircase and put his head round the first corner, darting back immediately.
‘There’s a light. And two men, I think. I can hear their voices.’
‘No,’ said Neil.
‘No? What do you mean “no”? This could be our chance. Are you forgetting the one million quid?’
‘No,’ said Neil. ‘We just need to be careful. Whoever’s up there is armed, right?’
‘Right,’ said Danny.
‘Here’s what we do,’ Tony said. ‘I go up first. Then Neil. Then Danny. I do the looking. Neil has the baseball bat ready. Danny films it all. OK?’
‘OK.’
They came to the first corner of the stairs, up to the third and final floor. Nobody was there, but the light was brighter and the voices were clear now.
‘Someone’s on the phone,’ Tony whispered.
‘Gawthorpe?’
‘Right.’
They moved up to the next corner of the stairwell. The smaller man waved them back.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘I can hear two voices. Definitely.’
‘Roberts?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
Then there was a click.
Everything went quiet.
No voices.
‘A gun,’ Tony said.
‘That’s right,’ said a voice from beneath them.
‘Spot on,’ said a voice above them.
Danny held the camera ahead of him. Pointing up, pointing down. But his hands were shaking. He looked imploringly to Tony, then Neil. What next?
‘Come on up.’ The voice was Sir Richard’s. ‘I’ve got armed men below and above you. You’ve no way out. And I assume – I hope – you’ve got young Danny with you. If you have, we can do a deal.’
Crime and Punishment
Danny felt sick. This time there was no escape. Especially for him. Sir Richard had asked for him. By name. He looked at Neil and Tony. Both avoided looking Danny in the eye, looking at each other instead.
‘Shall we?’ Tony said.
‘We have to,’ Neil said.
‘What?’ Danny said, anxiety in his voice.
‘I want a decision on the count of ten,’ Sir Richard said. ‘One …’
Tony looked at Danny. He had sadness in his eyes. Danny started to panic. Why would these two men – strangers, criminals – do anything but save themselves at his expense? They weren’t here for him: they were here for the reward money. One million pounds.
‘Two … three …’
Then Tony crouched and began to pull up his trouser leg. Danny didn’t have a clue what was happening or what was going to happen next. He felt powerless to do anything.
‘Four … five …’ Sir Richard’s voice was getting louder, filled with menace.
Tony revealed his leg. And there, strapped underneath the small man’s sock, was a gun.
At first Danny backed away, thinking it was for him; that the two men he’d put his trust in had been in it with Sir Richard all along. How many times had he read that in a book?
‘Six … seven …’
‘Danny. Go out with your hands up,’ Tony whispered.
Danny shook his head. So this was a betrayal. They were going to sacrifice him.
‘When you see the man with the gun up there, raise your hands even higher. OK?’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t talk. Just do it. Trust me.’
Danny said nothing. What choice did he have? Trust them and probably die. Don’t trust them and definitely die.
‘Eight … nine …’
Danny nodded. He’d do it.
He wanted to say, What if
he shoots me first? But he couldn’t find the words. Tony had offered him a slight hope. A plan. That was all there was to hold on to. Some sense of structure that could get him out of a rising tide of utter panic. ‘Ten …’
Danny walked up to the next set of stairs, his hands half up. And there was Andy, hands pointed out in front of him, a gun silhouetted against the bright lights behind him. He was grinning.
‘We meet again,’ he said.
Danny raised his hands slowly towards the ceiling and stepped aside, as if leaning against the wall.
Andy started to laugh.
The explosion still came as a shock to Danny. His body cramped, knees moving towards his stomach. His ears were in agony. He fell backwards and felt himself being dragged – by Neil it turned out – back into the safe space where neither Andy nor the gunman below them could get at him.
Danny looked up. Tony was breathing heavily. But smiling. His hands were shaking violently.
‘I’ve never used that before,’ he said.
And then they heard the noise. It was half screaming, half shouting. Like an animal, Danny thought.
It was Andy.
‘I hit him,’ Tony said. ‘I shot … shot him.’
Then the wall above them exploded. A large hole appeared and covered them in plaster and fragments of brick.
Outside the stadium Anton Holt was standing at the main gate. When he heard the two gunshots he tapped 999 into his phone.
‘Police,’ he said, then paused before giving his name and location. ‘There’s been a shooting in City Stadium. I’m a journalist. There are at least four people involved. Two guns, I think. I’ve heard two shots.’
He listened to the voice coming from his phone.
‘At the main gates. I’m in a dark blue VW. T 626 EZR,’ he said.
He listened again.
‘No. The shooting is inside. Up in the main stand. It’s clear on the ground.’
‘What now?’ Neil said.
The three of them had their backs to the nearside wall, so they were out of range of any more shots.
They could hear Sir Richard talking to Andy, who was crying now.
Then a voice from below.
‘If you want to get out of there alive – all of you – then give up the gun. Throw it down.’
Tony signalled that nobody should speak. ‘It’s three against one,’ he called to Gawthorpe. ‘Your mate upstairs is injured. We come down and we’ve got two guns and a baseball bat. You might hit one of us, but the other two will have you.’
There was no reply. Except a second bang above them. And a bigger hole. A huge triangle of plaster falling on the carpet. Bare bricks exposed.
And I’m waiting for you up here.’ Sir Richard’s voice. And I don’t believe for a minute you’ve two guns. Maybe you’ve even run out of bullets?’
Tony grinned sheepishly. ‘Plenty of bullets, Sir Richard,’ he said. ‘One with your name on it too.’
There was a long pause. Nobody said anything. On either of the floors.
‘Hand over the boy and I’ll let you go,’ Sir Richard said eventually. In a low voice, as if he didn’t believe they’d do it. And how about an incentive? You think you’re going to get the one million reward? You might. But I can promise you a million. Right here and now. In cash. From my personal safe. Cash. Now.’
Tony looked at Neil. Neil looked at Tony.
Danny watched them both, a sick feeling in his stomach.
‘Let’s have it now. In cash, right?’ Neil shouted.
Danny looked at Tony, who winked at Neil and turned to put his hand on Danny’s shoulder.
It was then they heard the sirens. And not just a single police car wailing in the night. It sounded like dozens of police cars, ambulances and fire engines. All at once.
They heard a scrambling below, thought the second gunman was coming up. But nothing happened.
Tony went down the stairs, gun in front of him. Slowly.
Ten seconds later he shouted up. ‘He’s gone. Come down. Immediately. Get out of there.’
Danny and Neil almost fell down the stairs, joining Tony on the second floor.
The first thing Danny saw was the lights of dozens of emergency vehicles and vans through the plate-glass windows of the main stand. So many lights flashing the road and car park could have been floodlit.
‘I’ll cover the staircase with this gun,’ Tony said. ‘Neil. You cover the lift door with your baseball bat. Danny, you just lie low and film … if your hands aren’t shaking too much.’
‘So, we wait for the police to arrive?’ Danny said.
‘Yes. And we cover the exits in case Sir Richard is planning an escape.’
Thirty minutes later.
On the top floor, the police found Andy in the reception area outside Sir Richard’s office. He’d tied his shirt round his thigh, to reduce the blood loss. Two guns were found hidden under a cushion behind him. He was conscious.
The other gunman had been stopped by a team of six trained sharpshooters in the car park below. He’d given himself up quickly.
There was no sign of Sir Richard.
The police had searched the stadium. All they found was an open fire exit at the foot of the main stand. So the police were now searching neighbouring industrial estates.
As Danny and the two burglars talked with the police and Anton Holt – Sam Roberts emerged from a kitchen next to Sir Richard’s office, where he’d been found blindfolded. He was wrapped in a blanket, a policewoman at each arm supporting him. His hair was flat, his clothes crumpled.
Danny stood up to speak to him. Roberts was, after all, the point of all this. But a paramedic put his arm across Danny’s path.
‘I’m sorry, son. They’ll want to make sure he’s OK. You have to leave him to us for now.’
Danny understood. He just stared at his hero.
And then Roberts stared back and smiled. ‘You’re the boy I saw the other night, aren’t you?’
Danny nodded, not sure what to say.
Then Roberts was led away to an ambulance. And into the night.
Monday
Reward
After school had ended, Danny was back in the Starbucks where he’d been with his father after having his hair cut. Once he’d queued for more drinks – a cappuccino and a latte – he turned to make his way through the cluster of tables and drinkers. Then Danny sat down in the empty seat next to Charlotte.
‘So then what happened?’ she asked.
‘Then the police arrived,’ Danny said. ‘We had to stand in the centre of the concourse with our hands up. But then Anton Holt – the journalist I told you about – came and said I was the one trying to rescue Sam Roberts. So they took their guns off us.’
‘What about Neil and the other guy … Tony?’
‘Same thing. I vouched for them,’ Danny paused. ‘But the police seemed to know them anyway.’ He remembered seeing the police lead Tony and Neil aside, talking to them quietly. While Tony was talking to the police he’d turned to look at Danny and winked.
‘Will they get the reward?’
‘I don’t know. I reckon the police knew them. They must have arrested them for burglary before. I’d be surprised if they did get it.’
‘Is that why it wasn’t on the news?’ she said. ‘All it said was Tony and Neil, local painter-decorators, rescue Sam Roberts. Tony and Neil. Nothing about you.’
‘I wanted to stay out of it,’ Danny said.
‘Why?’
‘My mum and dad. I had to tell them. And they weren’t happy with my face being all over the newspapers and TV.’
Danny looked across at Charlotte. Her dark hair, a strand over her left eye. And the pink flush in her cheeks again. He couldn’t believe he was sitting opposite her. And that she wanted to sit opposite him.
‘I suppose it’s a good enough excuse,’ she said. ‘Or a good story.’
‘One of the two,’ Danny said, smiling again.
‘So what now?’ C
harlotte said.
‘I wondered …’ Danny felt doubt overcome him again.
‘You wondered what?’
‘If you’d like to go to see a film sometime.’
Charlotte paused. ‘I might do.’
Danny’s heart was pounding. He could feel a heavy pulse in his throat.
‘Tomorrow?’ he said.
‘Go on, then.’ Charlotte grinned.
When Danny got home, Dad was waiting at the door.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Town. For a coffee. Charlotte.’
‘I’ve been trying to call you.’
Danny checked his phone. He’d turned it off at the café.
‘Sorry. I was …’ He had let his dad down again.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ Dad said.
‘Yeah?’ Danny imagined going into the front room to see Tony and Neil eating biscuits with his mum.
‘It’s Sam Roberts,’ Danny’s dad whispered excitedly.
Danny suddenly felt nervous. Sam Roberts was waiting to talk to him. And he felt terrified.
This was the man he’d gone to all that trouble for, so why should he be scared? He’d been dodging burglars and gunmen all week. He’d just had coffee with the girl he liked more than any girl he’d liked before. Why would he be nervous of a footballer?
Because he wasn’t just any footballer. Because he was Sam Roberts.
Danny paused to breathe deeply, then walked into the room.
Roberts looked smart. He was wearing a light suit and a tie. His hair was combed back. He looked like he had the night he’d won both PFA Player of the Year and Young Player of the Year twelve months ago. And he did look young. Younger than he did on TV. Younger than he had in Sir Richard’s bunker.
Anton Holt was sitting on the sofa next to Roberts. And Emily was sitting at the far end of the room, her legs coiled under her on an armchair. Beaming.
Both men rose to stand.
‘Danny,’ said Anton Holt. ‘Sam wanted to come and see you.’
Danny smiled.
All week he had been trying not to act like a kid. But now he felt like one. A stuttering football fan. In awe. Dumbstruck.
‘Hello. It’s nice to meet you,’ Danny said.
‘Again,’ said Roberts.
‘Again. Yes.’