Galactic Keegan

by Scott Innes

  ‘What kind of situation?’ he asked, suddenly concerned. ‘Is something happening with the L’zuhl? Are they planning an attack?’

  I frowned in annoyance. Here I was, telling him that the club was toast and yet all he was interested in was what the L’zuhl might or might not be doing.

  ‘You need to get your priorities straight,’ I said. ‘In fact, everyone does. They’ve never valued what we do. What we bring to Compound life.’

  ‘Um… what do we bring?’

  I was aghast.

  ‘What do…? Come on, get your head on. We bring what the beautiful game always brings: joy. Excitement. A reason to get up in the morning. Hope, Rodway. We bring hope. And I’ll tell you… the galaxy needs that right now, more than ever.’

  ‘So… what can we do? Make them change their minds somehow?’

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ I scoffed dismissively. ‘Not with Leigh calling the shots.’

  ‘So we just give up?’ Rodway asked, sounding genuinely startled. ‘That hardly sounds like you. Last year when we lost that cup game in the ninetieth minute, you had us play on for hours after the final whistle until we equalised, even though the other team had gone home.’

  ‘Another couple of hours and I really think we’d have nicked a winner,’ I said, cursing the memory. I’d written to the league to have the result officially acknowledged as a draw but I never heard back. Up to them.

  ‘I can’t believe this is really the end,’ Rodway said, wistfully looking out of the window. I had a horrid realisation that with no football club to occupy his time, Rodway would doubtless slide back into his wayward lifestyle. I couldn’t see that happen.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be,’ I said. ‘The end, I mean. Not for us. Gerry and I… we’ve had another offer.’

  ‘You have?’ Rodway replied, intrigued. ‘From another team?’

  ‘Yep. Well, no. Not exactly. But Dave Moyes is right on the brink, apparently. They lost 5–0 yesterday. The man’s dead on his feet. Once he’s gone, they’ll fall over themselves to get me and Gerry.’

  ‘So they’ll sack their manager for losing 5–0 and then hire a replacement whose team has just lost 6–0?’ he asked carefully. I bristled.

  ‘Yeah, well, that was extenuating circumstances,’ I said. ‘Our striker had let us down badly, so we were demoralised. Shame, that.’

  That shut him up.

  ‘The point is,’ I went on, after a long pause to let him stew in his own juices, ‘we can make a fresh start, a new beginning. Me, Gerry… and you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘That’s right. You’re my Les Ferdinand, and I don’t say that lightly.’

  ‘I don’t know who that is.’

  ‘I want you to come with us to… wherever the hell it is,’ I went on. ‘It’s Galactic League D, I appreciate that, but I really think we could mount a serious promotion push once I clear out all the dead wood that Moyesie has inevitably signed.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Rodway replied, sounding stunned.

  ‘Say yes, son,’ I said. ‘It’s either that or you get left here on Palangonia, the galaxy’s rancid arsehole, for the rest of your life. Stuck here with Gillian and General Leigh lording it over everyone, acting like they own the place. And football? Forget it – within a generation it’ll be forgotten in this nebula. It’s up to you.’

  ‘Yes!’ Rodway beamed. ‘Let’s do it!’

  ‘Attaboy,’ I said, shaking his hand. He could be a bit of a one sometimes but the kid had the guts of a damn lion.

  ‘I’d better get home and start packing,’ Rodway mumbled excitedly, getting up from the table.

  ‘Mind you don’t say anything to the other lads,’ I warned him. ‘The likelihood is that I won’t be able to take most of them with us.’

  As I said these words I felt sick. The last thing I wanted to do was abandon these boys, but I was powerless to help them here. By taking Moyesie’s job over on… wherever the hell it was, I could build a team around which the galaxy could unite and provide a glimmer of hope to the runts I had to leave behind on Palangonia (which would be the vast majority of the squad, in all honesty – my holding midfielder, Rooker, had arrived at our first training session carrying a tennis racket, and Caines, my left-winger, was, well, a bit of a left-winger who refused to play unless there were guarantees that all players would have an equal share of possession during a match.)

  ‘I won’t,’ Rodway said, heading for the door. ‘You, me and Gerry. The dream team. I’m sorry I let you both down this week. It won’t happen ever again.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good on you, son,’ I said. ‘Remember: you’re my Ferdinand.’

  ‘I still don’t know who that—’

  ‘Don’t spoil it,’ I muttered.

  I felt a strong pang of guilt at letting Rodway get so carried away by the idea of our moving on to a new club. It was far from in the bag – and I knew that Alan Curbishley was also making noises about being interested in Moyesie’s job if he got the chop (but then again, Al was the first on the scene at every vacancy – I remember he put his name forward for the new host of Blind Date on Channel 5 when they brought it back, despite his shameful lack of light entertainment experience. Pathetic, really.)

  And then, as though like clockwork, General Leigh rode roughshod over my plans once more. His clipped tones came blaring out of the speakers dotted throughout the Compound Square outside Mr O’s Place, which were normally only utilised to indicate an imminent Winged Terror attack or to announce the winner of the Saturday raffle (Gerry won a cracking four-slice toaster a month earlier).

  ‘This is General Lawrence Leigh, commander of the Palangonian Compound,’ he said, sounding so far up his own backside that his head was practically coming up through his throat. ‘This is an important notice for all residents. A Section Z order has been put in place on an indefinite basis. No one can leave this Compound without my personal written authorisation. As of this moment… we are in total lockdown. Thank you for your compliance.’

  Rodway, who was standing in the doorway, ready to leave as the announcement was made, turned to look at me slowly.

  ‘Gaffer?’ he asked timidly. ‘What does this mean?’

  ‘It means,’ I said, standing up with a heavy sigh, ‘that we’re not going anywhere.’

  At least, not immediately. But I knew full well what this was all about. And I knew that the only way to resolve this mess was for Kevin Keegan to get his hands dirty.

  No more Mr Nice Guy.

  LOCKED DOWN

  On Monday morning, I was a man on a mission. No more mucking about – we were beyond that point now. If General Leigh wanted to mess with me, well, that was just fine. I’d give it back in spades.

  As the first of Palangonia’s twin suns climbed beyond the rim of the Compound wall, I entered Emmeline Military Base, known colloquially as Fort Emmeline, via the visitor entrance and explained to the guard on the gate that I wanted to register a formal complaint against the General. The base was enormous, taking up almost a third of the total area of the Compound. To my left was a squadron of soldiers marching to the harsh orders of a drill sergeant, while beyond them I could see a fleet of armoured tanks, and still further away, glinting menacingly in the morning glare, an airfield with fighter jets packed in wing to wing. The guard looked up impatiently from her crossword and directed me towards a nondescript concrete building nearby.

  ‘That’s where Leigh is?’ I asked, enjoying a moment of delicious smugness as I stared at the drab little building. These were Leigh’s quarters? It was barely bigger than a large greenhouse!

  ‘What? No, of course not,’ the guard replied. ‘He’s in a meeting with the Alliance command. You’ll find a form on the table to your left. No pens, though – you’ll need to bring your own. There’s a war on.’

  Perplexed, I walked through the gate, which closed with a loud clang behind me, and marched across the muddy, puddled floor towards the small building.


  It was a waiting room. There were six or seven other people crammed inside the space, which was almost entirely bare save for the thin, uncomfortable-looking fold-out chairs which, aside from those currently occupied, were stacked untidily against the far wall. At the right-hand side of the room, beside a sleepy-looking guard who was on the verge of nodding off on his feet, was a table upon which stood a black box with the word ‘Applications’ plastered across the front of it. I grabbed the top piece of paper from the pile by the door, unfolded one of the chairs and sat down, staring irritably at the form before me.

  ‘What the heck is this…?’ I mumbled.

  FORM 227/B99 – REQUEST TO LEAVE PALANGONIA DURING COMPOUND LOCKDOWN. HIGHEST APPROVAL REQUIRED.

  ‘Highest approval’. General Leigh, in other words. He’d said as much in his la-di-da announcement the day before. I felt suddenly deflated. I’d come to Fort Emmeline ready for a ruck, a chance to tell Leigh that no one messes with Kevin Keegan’s football club and gets away with it, but instead I’d been bundled into a room to fill in a form begging for Leigh’s blessing to be allowed to go. I knew full well that no matter what I wrote on the form – urgent hospital treatment, work commitments, a friend’s christening, reuniting with Sylvain Distin for a reprisal of our Lighthouse Family tribute act from 2005 – nothing would see Leigh acquiesce and approve my request. He wanted to see me gone from Palangonia forever, sure, but knowing that this was now something that I wanted too meant he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to grant it. He’d happily see himself suffer if it meant I’d suffer even more.

  ‘I cannot get my head around this bloody thing,’ came a voice from opposite where I was sitting. I looked up to see a woman wrapped in a wool coat and scarf, her hair a messy tangle of grey-black curls. She was squinting down through a pair of thick spectacles at her own form perched on her lap and was chewing the end of her pen vigorously.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I nodded wearily. She glanced up at me.

  ‘Oh – I know you, don’t I?’ the woman said, smiling. ‘I’m sure I do.’

  Oh, here we go. Earth may have been a distant memory but being a famous face still carried some cachet, it was true.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said coyly.

  ‘Didn’t you have a meltdown on TV or something?’ she asked. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude, but that was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ I said bluntly and returned to my form. ‘You must be thinking of someone else. Eamonn Holmes probably. Sounds like the kind of thing he’d do.’

  ‘I’m sure it was you,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You said you’d hate it if something happened. “I will hate it if they lose – hate it!” It was definitely something like that…’

  ‘It was “I will love it if we beat them”,’ I said in a slightly scolding voice. ‘And I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Must be getting my wires crossed then,’ she said. ‘I hope I didn’t offend you or anything.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘No harm done.’

  ‘I’m Caroline, by the way,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I work in the Compound library.’

  ‘Kevin Keegan,’ I said. ‘I run the football club. Or, at least, I did.’

  ‘Keegan…’ she said, chewing over the word much as she had the end of her pen. ‘Are you absolutely sure you’re not the—’

  ‘Nope,’ I said. ‘You’re definitely thinking of someone else.’

  There was a moment of awkward silence as we both stared blankly at our forms. The fact I was even filling one out was humiliating enough – Leigh wasn’t going to approve it, so what was the use? Why give him the satisfaction?

  ‘Sod this,’ I said, standing up and screwing the paper into a ball.

  ‘What, you’re not going to apply?’ asked Caroline, shocked.

  ‘Leigh’ll never give me permission,’ I explained grumpily. ‘All he’s concerned about is “his military” and the L’zuhl – that’s how he likes to tart it up, anyway. But the reality is that his real aim in life is to kill Palangonia FC. And with this stupid spy malarkey, he’s finally managed it.’

  ‘Spy malarkey?’ Caroline said, sitting up straight. ‘Is that what this lockdown is about?’

  Bugger.

  ‘What?’ I asked absently, trying to think of a way to cover myself. I didn’t want to be arrested for revealing military secrets – the Compound Council would have me executed, or worse.

  ‘You said the General was worried about a spy. Is there one in the Compound? Is that why we’re not allowed to leave?’

  ‘I didn’t say “spy malarkey”. I said…’ – my mind raced – ‘David Starkey. You know, the grumpy historian off the telly. Apparently he’s flying in for a special visit and Leigh wants to make sure security is cranked up.’

  ‘That sounds like a lie,’ said Caroline dubiously.

  ‘Yeah, it does a bit,’ I admitted, sitting back down. Caroline sighed.

  ‘I really need to get out of this Compound,’ she said miserably. ‘It’s life and death for me.’

  ‘Same here,’ I agreed. ‘What’s your situation, if I’m okay to ask?’

  ‘My sister,’ Caroline replied heavily. ‘She was evacuated to a different planet – Drebloot in the Phoenix Treble delta. She’s come down with approxial mylosia. A bad case, apparently.’

  Oof. That was a nasty one. Approxial mylosia was better known by its colloquial name, ‘infinite malaise’. It afflicted approximately 15% of those who had made the journey from Earth into the various reaches of deep space and among its many gruesome symptoms it resulted in severe lethargy, depression, anxiety, multiple organ failure and exploding limbs – and not always in that order. There was no known cure. Around a third of those who got this dreaded and mysterious ailment made a full recovery within a few months or so, but for the others…. well, let’s just say the outlook is pretty bleak. (They die, basically.)

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘I lost a lot of good friends to the infinite malaise.’

  ‘You did?’ Caroline asked sadly. ‘How awful.’

  ‘Yeah… well, no. But I hear it’s absolutely horrible.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ muttered Caroline, ‘I don’t like to think about that. I just want to see her. And if it really is the end, I want to be with her when it happens.’

  ‘Entirely understandable,’ I said. ‘Though sadly I wouldn’t hold out much hope for gaining Leigh’s sympathy.’

  ‘What’s your reason for wanting to get away then?’ Caroline asked. ‘You said yours was life or death too.’

  ‘Aye, exactly,’ I said. ‘The life and death of the beautiful game.’

  ‘I’m sorry, the…?’

  ‘Well, you know General Leigh hates my football team here on Palangonia,’ I said.

  ‘You mentioned it, yes,’ Caroline said with a barely perceptible eye roll. I let it pass.

  ‘Now that he’s strangled the team to death, me and Gerry – he’s my assistant – have had to look at other options. Apparently Dave Moyes is on the brink over in… wherever he is, so we wanted to jet out there to throw our hats into the ring for the gig. And now, thanks to bloody Leigh, we’re stuck here. He’s petty and vindictive, he really is.’

  ‘So that’s… life and death,’ Caroline said in a flat voice.

  ‘Exactly,’ I nodded vehemently. ‘If you can see where I’m coming from, why can’t Leigh? And Gillian, for that matter.’

  ‘Gillian Routledge, you mean?’ Caroline asked. ‘From the Compound Council?’

  ‘You’ve met her then,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, she’s wonderful – she had the casting vote on extra funding for the library to fill out our reference collection and she really got behind us. She’s been a real champion of the library project.’

  ‘Oh, of all the nerve!’ I snapped. ‘This is the final straw in the coffin, this really is – she’s systematically undermining me and the club at every turn while at the same time fritte
ring money away on – no offence, Caroline – a load of dusty old books that no bugger will ever read!’

  ‘Actually, the Compound library has seen significant footfall,’ Caroline said. ‘I think a lot of people see it as one of the few tangible links to our past on Earth.’

  ‘Football is our most tangible link to our past,’ I countered passionately. ‘It was mankind’s greatest achievement – I’ve always said that.’

  ‘Well, let’s not get carried away,’ Caroline said. ‘I think there were plenty of other things humanity achieved prior to the invasion that were of greater significance than a silly sports game.’

  ‘Name one!’ I cried.

  ‘God, where to start – landing a man on the moon—’

  ‘A doddle,’ I said. ‘We played a friendly on a moon six months ago.’

  ‘—the power of flight—’

  ‘Which ultimately led to players diving all over the place; it poisoned the game. Next.’

  ‘—eradicating disease—’

  ‘Bit of deep heat, you’re right as rain.’

  ‘—organ transplants—’

  ‘Sell an Andy Cole, get yourself an Al Shearer.’

  ‘—the list is endless really.’

  ‘I think all you’ve done here is prove my point,’ I said. I hadn’t felt this fired up since I overheard Mark Viduka saying that Genesis were ‘a bit bland, if I’m honest’. (I transfer-listed him on the spot.)

  I stood up.

  ‘It was nice to meet you, Caroline,’ I said, ‘and I hope you get out to see your daughter.’

  ‘My sister,’ she said.

  ‘Her too.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Caroline asked. ‘Find another job outside of football? We might have a vacancy ourselves in a month or two, once the new funding from the Council comes through.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ I said defiantly. ‘It’s football or nothing for me. If General Leigh thinks he can palm me off with a poxy form like I’m some riff-raff – not you, I mean – then he’s got another thing coming. Oi, you!’

  I marched up to the dozy-looking guard. He blinked at me.