Dead Ball

by Tom Palmer

  He was about fifty years old. But he could have passed for forty. He was tall and fit. His skin was bronzed. His hair black. And his clothes – a suit and a pink tie – were so smart Danny assumed they must have been made to fit him. He wondered if he was one of those rich people he’d heard about who only ever wore clothes once before replacing them.

  Danny observed as the men in suits began to applaud. The applause spread – and continued for a minute. Danny felt obliged to join in, as did Holt. It was like some cheesy game show. The suits warming the audience up.

  ‘We come together two days before my beloved Russia are playing your England football team for a place in the World Cup finals,’ Tupolev said, once the applause had died down. ‘It will be a fair game, of course.’

  Danny frowned. That was a strange thing to say. Why would he say that? Weren’t all games fair?

  Tupolev continued. ‘I wish to welcome your England team players, the Football Association and the ladies and gentlemen of the English mass media. You are all welcome to enjoy the delights we have on offer here.’

  Danny was already becoming bored by the speech. Why didn’t he just get to the point? Blah, blah, blah…

  As the man went on – speaking, but saying nothing that meant anything – Danny wondered if the game would be fair. What had Tupolev meant? Why would you say that? No one ever said that. It was just a given. And his mind started running away with itself, like it always did.

  Maybe this reception was a ruse, Danny thought. To get all the England players together and drug or poison them. So Russia could win. Danny watched England players tucking into plates laden with the food that had been offered to them. Danny had heard that the England team took their own food when they were playing away. Even their own cooks.

  And then Danny noticed Matt McGee.

  McGee stood out because he was the only person not looking at Tupolev making his boring speech. Apart from Danny. In fact, McGee was watching the door at the side of the hall. Danny moved back a few paces so he could see more. And he was shocked to see McGee suddenly leaving.

  Moments later, McGee was followed by the two men in suits who had started the applause earlier.

  Danny made to go after them. Instinctively. Just to see what was happening. Why was it that England goalkeepers were always so interesting?

  But suddenly he felt Holt pull him back.

  ‘Stick close to me,’ the reporter whispered.

  Danny had forgotten Holt was even there. ‘I’m just going –’ he began.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘For a look round.’

  ‘Danny. Please, please stay close to me. This is a nice party. All very friendly. But don’t go snooping around. I know you. There’s nothing to see here. Nothing. You’ve seen his henchmen? The guys in suits? Please don’t cross them.’

  ‘I need to go to the loo,’ Danny said.

  ‘The loo’s that way.’ Holt pointed up the wide staircase that – like in the hotel foyer – swept up a wall on one side of the room.

  ‘Can I go, then?’ Danny asked in a truculent voice.

  Holt eyed him, then nodded.

  Danny climbed the stairs, skirted a corridor and headed left into the toilets. Amazing toilets. Polished wooden fittings. Huge mirrors. Soap and cream dispensers. A pile of flannels that Danny assumed were to dry your hands on.

  But surrounded by all this luxury, Danny couldn’t get Holt out of his mind. He was sounding more and more like his mum. Don’t do that! Do this! Don’t go here! Danny had thought it would be fun with Holt because he was younger than his parents. Closer to his own age, in fact. But he was still a bossy adult.

  Danny didn’t really need the toilet, but Holt might be looking out for him if he went back to the main hall. Then he noticed the windows that ran along the top of the cubicles. Making sure that there was no one else around, Danny went into a cubicle, stood on the toilet seat and looked out of the window. He saw a large courtyard and a pitch-black sky filled with stars. And there, in the courtyard, he saw Matt McGee.

  McGee was leaning against a doorway. Danny saw him exhale upwards, his breath like smoke coming out of his lungs on the cold night. But it couldn’t be smoke: no footballer would be stupid enough to smoke.

  Then McGee looked at his watch. As he did, the two men in suits that Danny had seen in the main hall stood either side of him. Danny could tell who was talking from the vapour trails their breath left. The smaller of the men in black did most of the talking, with McGee sometimes chipping in. Danny tried to catch the expression on McGee’s face, to see what was going on. But all he could see was McGee nodding.

  Eventually the conversation between the men in black and Matt McGee came to an end, and then – it seemed to Danny – the three men just stood in silence for at least ten seconds.

  Then the smaller man stuck out his hand. For a moment McGee did not extend his: but then he did, shaking hands.

  England’s keeper shaking hands with one of Tupolev’s private army: what was going on?

  Now Danny had serious doubts about McGee. Although he’d met him and thought him nice, although he’d heard Alex Finn vouch for him, there was no plausible explanation for his talking to men from Dmitri Tupolev’s private army.

  Danny needed to get to Holt. Holt knew things. So did Danny. They had to share their ideas. And fast.

  GOING SOLO

  ‘Anton. Come on.’

  Danny grabbed Holt’s arm and tried to pull him across the hall.

  The speech was over. Tupolev had disappeared. Holt stopped and stared at Danny crossly. ‘What is it?’

  Most of the guests were chatting and eating. Four musicians were playing gentle music.

  ‘McGee,’ Danny whispered. ‘He’s talking to these men outside. The ones in suits. I’m not sure what’s going on.’

  Holt put his hand up. He looked like a teacher trying to silence a room.

  Danny tried not to feel angry.

  ‘Danny. Stop this.’ Holt was talking in a low voice. ‘You’re running around looking for trouble. There’s no story here. Just leave it.’

  Danny looked straight into Holt’s eyes. And, just as he thought he would, Holt looked away. Now Danny wanted to challenge the journalist. Say he knew there was something going on and that he wasn’t sure whose side Holt was on. But he didn’t know how to put it. How do you say something like that?

  ‘Danny,’ Holt said firmly, ‘your mum and dad put you in my care. Like it or not, you’re fourteen, and legally a child, and I’m the adult who’s been put in charge of you. I have to look out for you. If I let you go after a pair of armed men… well, it’s ridiculous.’

  Danny nodded. He knew this was all true. ‘B-but –’ he stammered.

  ‘No buts, Danny.’

  ‘Let’s just go and look. See what’s going on. The men he was talking to are the ones from the black people-carriers. You know: the ones with guns.’

  ‘I’ll look,’ Holt said. ‘Will that satisfy you?’

  Danny shook his head.

  ‘It’s either me or neither of us,’ Holt said.

  Danny frowned, then nodded. ‘And what do I do?’ he asked.

  ‘Get another Coke. Look at the statues.’

  ‘Great,’ Danny said. ‘Statues.’

  ‘So, I’m going?’ Holt asked, ignoring his remark.

  Danny nodded. ‘But you have to tell me everything.’ ‘Sure,’ Holt said. And he was off. Moving quickly to the same door McGee had left a few minutes before – and had yet to emerge from.

  And Danny wondered why Holt was so quick across the room if he was convinced nothing was going on.

  *

  Above the hall there was a balcony where you could stand and watch everyone eating and drinking and talking. In the past it had been where the Russian secret police, the KGB, had watched people they thought were spying on Russia. But today an Englishman was standing there, watching. The Englishman Holt had seen in the hotel that belonged to Dmitri Tupolev.

&n
bsp; Sir Richard Gawthorpe. Also known as Kenneth Francis.

  Sir Richard’s face looked alert, a blush across his cheeks. He knew he could not attend the party. But Tupolev had given him a room on the balcony, so he could watch from above, so he could see the England players, the FA officials, some of whom he knew well. And he had been enjoying watching them – reliving old times – until he had spotted a smaller figure.

  A boy.

  He had to look three times to be sure he had seen who he thought he’d seen.

  If anyone had been looking at him, they would have seen that Sir Richard’s face looked shocked at first. But then they’d have seen it break into a smile. A maniacal beaming smile.

  He had seen the boy who had forced him to give up his old identity. The boy who had taken on Sir Richard Gawthorpe and won.

  Now he had a chance: for revenge.

  *

  Danny kept his eyes on the door until he spotted Holt coming back into the hall. He tried to read his face as Holt approached, but Holt was neither smiling nor frowning.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘They’re just talking, Danny. One of them speaks English.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yeah. I listened. They’re talking. About football, would you believe it?’

  Danny wanted to argue with Holt. But there was no point. This was going nowhere. Holt knew things but wouldn’t tell Danny. Now what Danny had to do was get away from Holt. Do some finding out for himself.

  And Holt gave him the opportunity within seconds.

  ‘I have to set up some interviews for tomorrow’s edition,’ Holt said. ‘Can you stay here? And not move?’

  ‘Sure,’ Danny said, trying not to sound too keen.

  ‘I’ll not be long. I just have to arrange times. That’s all. Don’t wander off.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Danny. ‘I’ll have some food.’

  When Holt had gone, Danny checked around the room to make sure no one was watching. Then he slipped out of the door he’d seen McGee and Holt go through.

  THE CHASE

  Outside it was dark. Now that the sun had gone down it felt even colder. Very cold. He could feel the air stinging his face.

  Danny stood in the doorway to the courtyard where he’d seen McGee and the men in suits. There was no sign of them now. And yet none of them had come back into the reception.

  The courtyard was empty.

  Danny looked around, trying to take everything in. And he listened. He was as likely to hear people as see them.

  It was quite a courtyard. Huge wooden doors on each of the four walled sides. Like the doors of a castle or a palace, studded with black metal. A slate roof. Cobbles on the ground. Through one of the doors – half open – Danny saw a row of cars. He went to have a closer look, to find it was a vast garage. He recognized a Ferrari. A Rolls-Royce. A Porsche. And another extreme sports car he remembered seeing on Top Gear. The man who owned this place certainly was loaded.

  The garage smelled of oil and petrol fumes. But it was clean. Each car looking like it was polished daily.

  As Danny entered the garage, he heard voices. Coming from the back.

  Danny breathed in and took slow, quiet steps.

  They were definitely English voices. One was a northern English voice. McGee. Unmistakably McGee. The other voice was Russian, but talking good English.

  Danny ducked down and moved slowly to the first car. The Ferrari. He peeped over the top of it. He felt terrified. The sense that he could be caught. But he needed to know what was going on. He used that need to overcome his fear.

  There were four men.

  The two men in suits stood at a distance now from the pair who were talking. McGee and – Danny couldn’t quite believe it – Dmitri Tupolev. The man who’d made the speech.

  What was Matt McGee doing talking to the Russian billionaire? And hidden away from all the other guests.

  This was definitely not right.

  Maybe Tupolev was tapping McGee up. That was what they called it. Trying to get him to sign for the Russian champions. To leave England.

  Danny acted quickly. He didn’t need to weigh this one up. He got out his mobile phone, activated the video and held it just over the roof of the Ferrari. He squatted so as not to be seen and watched the scene through the mirror of the car, hoping he was pointing his camera at the people – and not just the roof.

  The annoying thing was, he couldn’t hear what they were saying. All he could see was McGee nodding, then holding his hands up. The Russian made no gestures. He was just staring at McGee as he spoke.

  Danny hoped his phone would pick up what was being said.

  Then, suddenly, without any warning, the four men were walking towards Danny.

  Danny had seen or heard no cues that this was about to happen. One minute they were talking, the next coming between the cars towards him.

  Danny tucked his phone away and tried to roll under the Ferrari. But, of course, there was no room under the low-slung car. He felt panic rising in him and tried to calm himself down, tried to breathe deep and long. But it’s hard to keep a grip on your mind when you feel your life could be in danger.

  He edged round the Ferrari and hid under the Rolls-Royce, just as eight feet came marching past him.

  Danny held his breath. He didn’t dare breathe out or in. All the things Holt had said to him about Tupolev and how Danny should be really careful flooded his mind. Maybe he really was in danger. Why did he always get himself into situations like this?

  Then the feet stopped. Right next to Danny. If he had wanted to, Danny could have reached out and touched the shoes that were closest to him. The strangest pair of shoes he’d ever seen. It was like they had scales. Danny wondered what they were made of. Snake skin? Or crocodile?

  Danny took out his phone and began to film again, his hands trembling with fear.

  The scaly shoes were facing the straightforward black shiny leather of McGee’s own.

  This time Danny heard the voices loud and clear.

  ‘A penalty in the first half. A misjudged cross in the second. Yes?’

  That was the Russian accent. Tupolev. No question.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Yes?’ said Tupolev, louder, his voice making Danny shudder.

  Danny saw the black shoes cross each other, like the other man was adjusting his footing.

  ‘I heard what you said,’ a voice replied. McGee’s.

  Danny exhaled. He couldn’t help himself.

  There was a long silence during which none of the feet moved.

  ‘OK,’ Tupolev said.

  The black shoes uncrossed themselves. Then all eight feet moved noisily back into the courtyard.

  Danny lay under the Rolls-Royce for a minute. He’d give the men time to leave before he emerged.

  And anyway, he had a lot to think about.

  What had he just overheard? A Russian billionaire asking an England goalkeeper to let in two goals?

  What was going on?

  He had to tell Holt. Everything.

  But first he wanted to send the film he’d just made to Charlotte. Just in case he lost his phone. Or had it taken off him. This would satisfy her, surely. There was no way she could say this was boring.

  He quickly texted Charlotte.

  Look after this. Show no one. D x

  Then he slid from under the Rolls-Royce, brushed himself down and began to head back across the courtyard to the buzz of voices coming from the reception.

  ‘Èj!’ Danny heard a shout.

  It seemed to have come from above. Danny didn’t have a clue what had been said. But he knew he had to get away.

  Instead of going back into the main hall, where he could easily bump into Tupolev or some of his men in suits, Danny darted towards a gateway at the far end of the courtyard. Out into the open.

  Behind him he heard pounding footsteps. Just one pair of feet, he reckoned.

  He took a quick look.

  One man. In black.
Gaining on Danny.

  Danny sprinted round the side of what looked, in the dark, like a horse-drawn carriage. There was a pile of earth on the floor. Danny hurdled it, and realized it wasn’t earth, but a massive heap of horse manure. It stank. Danny ran on, looking for an escape route.

  He heard the man come after him. Too close. Ten metres behind him. Danny gagged. He was terrified. If this man got him, here on the edge of a forest, in the middle of the Russian countryside, he could do anything to Danny and no one would know.

  Danny kicked on. And, as he did, he heard a scuffing and a short cry. The footsteps had stopped. Danny looked back. The man had fallen over. In the manure. He was covered in it.

  Danny had gained a few seconds. But he had to use them wisely.

  Where now? Back round the front of the house? Into the trees fifty metres away? Behind one of the parked-up coaches?

  Danny chose the trees. He sprinted across the grass and darted behind the first tree he saw.

  Fortunately there was no moonlight, so when the man had regained his footing, he could only look about himself, before running round the front of the house.

  Danny stood still as he tried to regulate his breathing. In, out. In, out. Slowly. He felt sick. Being chased was terrifying. It threw his body into a panic. But now he had to calm down. Work things out. Quickly.

  So what should he think now? He’d heard Matt McGee talking to the Russians about the match. McGee had appeared to agree to throwing the game. Although he’d not said he would exactly, it was the easiest conclusion to come to.

  Danny’s mind was in a whirl. Any detective would be thinking of McGee as the main suspect now. The man who was at the centre of some crime or scam. But Danny didn’t want to believe it.

  Then he realized: he didn’t have to believe it. He just had to have it as a possibility. It didn’t have to be true until it actually happened.

  And that’s what Danny resolved. He’d try and do something to make it not happen, try and stop people from fixing the game.

  Danny decided to wait for ten minutes before he did anything. He’d just stand there. Then he’d go back to the party.

  Five minutes later his phone buzzed. It was on silent. He always kept it on silent. Just in case. He looked at the screen. A text from Charlotte. His heart started pounding again. He opened her message. She’d have seen his films from the garage.