by Dan Freedman
“But you two are all right for money and everything, yeah?” Jamie asked, looking at the tattered state of Robbie’s clothes.
“Kind of. He’s not on much at Seaport, but he says that he’s got it in his contract that if he scores twenty goals this season, then he gets a bonus. That’s why it’s good you’ve started setting up loads of goals!”
Jamie thought about his recent games for Seaport and smiled. Since he’d come back, he’d been playing right wing and he’d done brilliantly.
Porlock had made Jamie and Dillon both stay back together after training to practise. They had both complained bitterly at the prospect of having to spend more time together, but Porlock had insisted.
“I don’t care if you don’t like each other, couldn’t give two hoots,” he’d said. “But I want you to know each other’s games inside out.”
So every day, the two old enemies stayed behind for an hour’s extra training. They didn’t say a single word to each other. Jamie simply whipped in cross after cross with his ever-improving right foot, while Dillon banged them home from all angles.
It had paid off handsomely too. He and Dillon had scored ten goals between them in the last three games. Seaport had raced up the division and Jamie’s form had almost returned to its top level.
“So he’s on goal bonuses, is he?” said Jamie, suddenly thinking back to how keen Dillon had been to take the free-kick that had led to Jamie being sent off for pushing the ref.
It had also given Jamie an idea of how he might be able to do his new mate Robbie a little favour.
“So what’s he like then?” asked Stuart Cribbins, Seaport’s left-winger. He was one of the best characters in the squad. And certainly the funniest dancer!
The whole of the Seaport Town squad was in the clubhouse watching Hawkstone v Aldwich City, which was live on the TV. It was a big game. Hawkstone had to win it to go second.
Premier League Table
It had been Porlock’s idea to get all the players and staff together to celebrate Seaport’s recent good form. They could even make the play-offs now.
“What’s who like, Stu?” asked Jamie, vacantly. He didn’t like talking much when Hawkstone were playing. He wanted to watch and remember everything that was going on in the game and he couldn’t do that while he was talking.
“Bertorelli,” said Cribbins. “What’s he like in the dressing room then? Is he as cool as he looks? Has he got women coming out of his ears? Come on, spill the beans!”
Jamie turned to Cribbins. A couple of weeks ago, he might have stood up and punched him. Might have told him never to mention Bertorelli’s name again.
But now, right at this moment, Jamie didn’t feel angry. In fact, with the way things had been going on the pitch for Seaport and with his form returning so rapidly, Jamie actually felt happier than he had done for a really long time.
“Shall I tell you a secret about Bertorelli?” asked Jamie, pretending to whisper but actually speaking loud enough for the whole of the Seaport squad to hear him.
“Yeah,” said Cribbins, his eyes widening like a child about to receive his birthday present. “Yeah, go on, tell us an’ all!”
“OK,” said Jamie, looking around. “But it’s a secret, remember?”
“Yeah, I know,” said Cribbins. “Go on, tell us.”
“OK,” said Jamie. “Well . . . Mattheus Bertorelli is not as cool as he seems. On his bum, right . . . he’s got a whole load of spots!”
“What?” laughed Cribbins. There were grins from the growing group of players now surrounding Jamie to catch the gossip.
“Yeah – it’s true,” said Jamie. “I’m not talking normal spots here, either. I’m talking big, red boils, full of pus! They’re so big that they sometimes pop in the shower and squirt everywhere. I’m not joking! Once he said that some had got infected and it was too painful for him to train! He missed training because of boils on his bum! Have you ever heard of that?!”
By now everyone in the room, including Jamie, was bent double, laughing. A couple of the players found it so funny they almost started crying!
Yes, it was all a complete and utter lie, but Jamie didn’t care – he was too busy cracking up.
And he realized something else too: he was beginning to feel right at home at Seaport Town.
Jamie was up off his seat before the Hawkstone goal had even gone in.
He knew what was going to happen before anyone else because it was a set-piece they had practised every day in training: Glenn Richardson drifted a corner to the near post, where it was flicked on by Bertorelli. Meanwhile, Rigobert West, a.k.a. The Beast, would make a run to meet the ball at the far post.
The plan had just worked to perfection. It was a winner in the eighty-sixth minute. Hawkstone were going back to second in the Premier League and Jamie Johnson was going a little bit mental. . .
“Oh baby!” he roared, leaping up off his chair as though he’d just been fired from an ejector seat.
Then Jamie tore off his top and revealed that he was wearing his own Hawkstone United shirt underneath. He pulled it over his forehead and started sprinting around the room like an absolute madman. He couldn’t see a thing because the shirt was over his eyes. He could have easily run head first into a brick wall!
While the rest of the Seaport players just sat, watched, and mostly laughed at Jamie’s rather unusual performance, Jamie concluded his blind sprint with a full-length dive across the carpet of the Seaport Town clubhouse.
“You don’t stop The Beast!” he yelled. “I’m tellin’ you, you DO NOT stop The Beast!! We are Hawkstone! Say we are Hawkstone!”
“It was a good night,” said Raymond Porlock as he and Jamie finished clearing up the clubhouse. “The closer we are off the pitch, the better we are on it.”
Jamie had stayed behind to help with the cleaning since he’d been the one who had created most of the mess during his celebrations for the Hawkstone goal. He’d knocked a whole bowl of crisps off the table and now they’d been trampled into the carpet.
Besides, he was sort of getting to enjoy spending time with Raymond Porlock now. He’d realized that often there was actually a whole load of sense behind some of the mad comments his manager made.
“And it’s good to see you happy,” said Porlock, tying up one of the black bin liners, which was full to the top of empty plastic bottles. “You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Mr Porlock,” Jamie replied. “Well, I guess if Hawkstone win, I’m happy. Simple as. Always been the same.”
Jamie realized now that this would never change. No matter where he was in his life, who he was playing for or how old he got, he would always remain the same thing that he had been since the day Mike had introduced him to football – a Hawkstone United fan.
“You’re a good man, James,” Porlock smiled. “And you will play for Hawkstone again. I have no doubts about that.”
“I hope so,” said Jamie. He liked being referred to as a man. “I really hope so.”
“And when you do go back there,” Porlock enquired, in slightly softer tones, “what about you and Bertorelli? Would you be prepared to play alongside him?”
Jamie sat down. He’d never actually thought that far ahead.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t think I can answer that question.”
“That bad, eh?” said Porlock, drawing a chair up alongside Jamie’s. “What he did was really that bad?”
Jamie nodded. Then he sighed.
“Even if I did tell you, you probably wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me,” said Raymond Porlock.
Jamie told Raymond Porlock everything. How he’d heard Bertorelli arranging to fix a match. How they’d got into a fight at the training ground. And how Harry Armstrong had told him that, if he ever breathed a word of it to anyone, he’d never play for Hawkstone again.
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And now the two of them were sitting next to each other, with only the truth in between them.
“That’s a lot to carry around on your shoulders, James,” said Porlock, sympathy in his voice.
“So you believe me?” said Jamie.
“Of course I believe you. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” said Jamie. “What can I do? Harry Armstrong says I’ll never play for Hawkstone again.”
Raymond Porlock shook his head.
“Seems to me, James, that you don’t really have too much of a choice. You have to do something.”
“Me? Why?”
“Think about it. This little problem can go one of two ways: either the guy and whoever he’s working with pull it off – in which case Hawkstone lose a massive game, probably the league title too, and he leaves the club and gets away with it . . . or . . . he gets found out after it’s too late.
“Then the whole of football comes under suspicion – I’m talking about every single game that gets played, people are going to wonder whether it’s been fixed – and Hawkstone United will for ever be known as the club that threw a game. Either of those outcomes sound any good to you?”
“But what about what Harry said?” asked Jamie. “Who knows? Maybe he’s even in on it too.”
Porlock flicked his hand out as if swatting an imaginary fly.
“Harry Armstrong did what any manager would have done. He tried to protect his dressing room. Tried to protect the team unit. Look at it from his point of view: far easier to send you out on loan and keep the team together than believe his star player – and new signing, don’t forget that – is planning to fix a game.”
Raymond Porlock took in a deep breath of air. His eyes were darting everywhere, searching for ideas. Searching for answers.
“But believe me,” he said. “I go back a long way with Harry. He’s as honest as the day is long and he loves football as much as anyone. If he knew the truth, he’d want you to do something. Not for your sake. Not even for Hawkstone’s sake. But for football’s sake.”
“But what?” asked Jamie. “What do I do? Who do I go to? The police?”
Porlock shook his head.
“No time for that. It’ll take too long. You need to speak to someone who can act quickly. Before it’s too late.”
“Like who?” said Jamie. “That’s what I’m saying – if I knew someone like that, then I would have gone to them in the first place, wouldn’t I?”
“Think, James,” insisted Porlock. “There must be someone. I can’t do it. I’m in football. Too close to it all. It needs to be someone on the outside. And above all, it needs to be someone who you can trust.”
Jamie thought for a second.
“Well,” he said, finally . . . hesitantly. “There is one person. . .”
Jamie made the call. Then he hung up. Then he made the call again. This time he let it ring. . .
He knew this was a risk. A massive risk. But he couldn’t think of any other way.
“Hi, JJ,” said the voice at the other end.
“Hi, Jack,” said Jamie. “I’m calling because I need your help. . .”
There was a long, painful silence.
Jamie had just told Jack everything. Jack had hardly said a word during the entire phone call. She’d just let Jamie talk. And as he’d told his story, Jamie had become increasingly aware of how far-fetched it all sounded. Match-fixing, throwing a game to make millions. . . Jamie knew that if the roles had been reversed, if this had been Jack telling him the exact same story, he’d have struggled to believe her.
He even started to doubt himself. Had he really remembered it all exactly as it had happened? Or had he imagined some of it? Part of it? All of it? Was he really a hundred per cent sure that Mattheus Bertorelli, one of the biggest stars in football, was a cheat?
“You’re an idiot, Jamie,” said Jack, sharply.
“See, I knew it!” shouted Jamie. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me! You think I’m just making this up cos I’m jealous of him, don’t you? Well I’m not! He’s a cheat! He’s a fake, and by the time you see, it’ll be too late. He’ll have ruined everyth—”
“Jamie! Calm down!” Jack responded, a cool confidence in her voice. “You’re an idiot for not telling me sooner. . . Of course I believe you.”
“Oh,” said Jamie. “Right. . . OK, then. So, what are we going to do?”
Another silence. Jamie could almost hear Jack’s mind working. Quickly. Intelligently.
“Leave it with me,” she said. “I need to do some digging. Find out more. I’ll get back to you.”
“OK. But be quick. The match could be anytime.”
“I will, don’t worry. See you later, Jamie.”
“Jack, wait . . . do you reckon you can stop this thing happening?”
“You know me, Jamie, once I put my mind to something—”
“Yeah, I know,” smiled Jamie. “You don’t let go until you win. But be careful, Jack. These guys could be dangerous.”
“I can look after myself,” said Jack. “And anyway, that’s the exciting part! Listen, don’t worry, I’m on it. Probably best that we don’t speak about it for a while, though. We should keep you out of this.”
“Cool,” said Jamie. “Thanks, Jack.”
“No probs – I’ll get to the bottom of it. . . And Jamie?”
“Yeah?”
“You did the right thing calling me.”
Jamie smiled as he put down the phone.
If there was one person in this world who he trusted, it was Jacqueline Alexandra Marshall.
Jamie skipped down the line. He galloped past the last defender like a racehorse jumping the final hurdle in a big race. Now he was level with the edge of the box. . .
He didn’t even have to look up. Both he and Dillon knew the plan that Porlock had given them. If Jamie crossed as soon as he got level with the penalty area, his centre would be along the ground to the near post – Dillon’s job was to get across the front defender and sweep in a shot. But if Jamie went all the way to the byline, he would always curl the ball high and in the air to the far post, where Dillon would be waiting to meet it with a bullet header.
That’s how they had scored so many goals. They stuck to the plan. To other teams it looked as if Jamie and Dillon had some kind of telepathic understanding. They didn’t. They just knew what was going to happen before their opponents did.
Jamie used the instep of his right boot to sweep the ball smoothly into the near post, where Dillon raced on to it and, first time, buried it high into the roof of the net.
He and Jamie came together by the Bester City goal and conducted their now-familiar celebration. No smiles, no hugs and absolutely no handshakes – there would never be a handshake. Just a solemn-looking high five.
They may not have been close friends or even on speaking terms, but in this league, with Seaport now winning practically every game they played, the pair of them were virtually unstoppable.
Jamie could see that the Bester players’ heads had dropped. He knew that now was the time to attack. One more goal and the game would be over. Bester didn’t have the mental strength to come back from two goals down.
Jamie called for the ball as soon as Seaport won it back and, as he took possession, he injected a serious amount of pace into his running. He put his foot on the gas and accelerated forward. Hitting top speed, he flew down the pitch, eating up the ground with each stride.
As he came face to face with the last defender, Jamie wiggled his hips in different directions. He lurched to the left and then feigned to the right before finally bursting on the inside to head directly towards goal.
The keeper came rushing out, but Jamie was in complete control. He saw everything in slow motion. The goalkeeper’s face was anguished as he dived towards
the ball at Jamie’s feet . . . but Jamie was too quick, shifting the ball out of the way . . . and now, with the keeper committed to dive, his body clattered into Jamie’s, knocking him down like the last remaining skittle.
Clear penalty. No doubt about it.
Jamie immediately bounced back up to his feet and picked up the ball.
He was just about to put the ball on the spot and take the penalty when he remembered something that Robbie had told him. And the idea that it had given him. . .
Jamie picked the ball up and walked over to Dillon.
“Here,” he said, pushing the ball firmly into Dillon’s chest. “You take the penalty.”
“What are you talking about?” said Dillon. “You won it.”
“Yeah,” smiled Jamie, “but you need it more than I do.”
It felt good to do something decent. For someone else. He just hoped that Robbie would appreciate this.
“What do you mean ‘I need it’?” answered Dillon. “I’ve already scored.”
“I mean for the goal bonus. . . For you and Robbie. . . I know your mum’s lef—”
But Dillon had pushed the ball back into Jamie’s face before he’d finished talking.
“Get lost, you mug!” fumed Dillon. “Like we need your charity! And if you ever talk about my mum again, I’ll knock you spark out, you little worm!”
“Ouuuuch!” yelped Jamie. “You definitely found the pressure point there, Steve! I’m in agony here!”
Jamie was getting a massage on his thigh in the small physio’s room at the Seaport training ground. Training had just finished.
“Put on Sports News, will you, Steve, give me something else to think about while you’re brutalizing – sorry, fixing – my leg!”
For some reason they weren’t showing footy action on the TV. Instead, there were some rather unsteady pictures of a man being bundled into a car. A police car.
It was only then that Jamie registered the scrolling headline across the bottom of the screen: