Foul Play: Dead Ball Page 13

  This was it.

  Several Russian attackers broke after a poor pass across England’s midfield. It was four against two. But with a couple of high-speed passes, three against one. And – seconds later – McGee was facing two Russian strikers. With no defensive cover.

  Danny stared at the scene. The game seemed to be going in slow motion. Too much time to think. To worry.

  The striker with the ball drew McGee off his line, then side-footed it to the second striker, who then hit it hard and low, towards the bottom corner of the net.

  Except it didn’t reach the goal.

  Somehow McGee pushed the ball to his side. It hit the post and spun slowly towards the line, McGee stranded on the floor. Then the first striker came in to pass the ball into the empty net.

  But, when he looked up, the net wasn’t empty any more. McGee had somehow lunged to his feet and blocked the Russian’s shot. To loud cheers from the England fans, McGee stood and hurled the ball out to the halfway line.

  Danny stood and shouted. He caught Holt’s eye. They both beamed at each other. McGee was straight: there was no question. He was not going to throw the game. Holt put his thumbs up. Danny nodded back at him. He was feeling good now.

  But he was shocked to hear an even louder cheer suddenly coming from the stands. The stands on the far left.

  He looked at the pitch.

  The England players were wheeling away from the Russian goal. The Russian keeper was on his back on his goal line. The ball behind him, caught in the net.

  England had equalized.

  Somehow.

  Danny had missed it, too busy grinning at Holt.

  Almost immediately Danny’s mobile rang. Dad.

  ‘How did it go in?’ Dad said. ‘The commentary was drowned out by the crowd.’

  Danny wondered what he should say.

  ‘I missed it.’

  Honesty. Always honesty.

  ‘You missed it,’ Dad repeated. ‘You go one and a half thousand miles to see a game – and you miss the goal. Danny!’

  Danny listened to his dad laughing.

  After that the game was very different. England were on top. Russia deflated.

  Danny couldn’t stop jumping up and down. He felt like he was on the pitch. This had to be the best match he’d been to.

  He looked up to see if he could catch Tupolev’s eye. But Tupolev was not looking back at Danny. He was glaring at the pitch, his eyes as black as coal. His forehead furrowed.

  Danny couldn’t help but speculate about what Tupolev was thinking. Was he thinking of McGee? Of killing him? Or was he thinking about Sir Richard? What would this do to their relationship? If Holt was right about their plans to buy City.

  As the match went on Danny couldn’t help but keep glancing at him. He was such a magnetic figure. At one point Danny saw him pull out his phone and shout down it, snapping it shut afterwards.

  Eventually the ninety minutes were up. Only injury time.

  The tension in the ground was hard to bear. The noise of the crowd less intense. Sudden pauses before a group of fans would try to start a chant going.

  The Russian fans were booing. They could see their dream of going to the World Cup disappearing.

  The England fans, on the other hand, were jubilant. A draw was enough. If the score stayed this way it meant England would very possibly be going to the finals. At Russia’s expense.

  Then Danny noticed something: a group of four men coming around the edge of the pitch. Dressed in black, head to foot. He couldn’t make out any of them, to see if he recognized their faces. But he was worried. Very worried. His whole trip had been dogged by these sinister men. Tupolev’s men, there was no question.

  The fourth official put his board up: three minutes of injury time.

  The Russians took heart from this, upping their game. They were playing the long ball now. No neat passing through midfield any more. Now it was: get the ball, hoof it into the penalty area, head it down to a striker.

  But the England centre backs would just head it away. There was no joy for Russia. The ball just wouldn’t come down for one of their players to control it.

  Until the last minute. The last attack.

  Another Russian missile came flying into the box from the halfway line. The giant striker leapt and headed it back across the penalty area. Right to a small Russian who’d only just come on to the pitch.

  He pulled his leg back and volleyed the ball towards the bottom right corner of the net.

  McGee was wrong-footed when the ball hit an English defender, ricocheting instead to the bottom left corner of the net. He could only watch and shift his feet as it rolled towards the line.

  And then he dived.

  Dived the length of the goal.

  It was impossible that a man could change the direction of his body like that; but McGee was doing it.

  His large hand closed over the ball as two Russian players lunged at it, kicking McGee hard in the back.

  But McGee had his body curled up, the ball close to his chest.

  As he stood to release the ball, the whole stadium applauded his save – including the Russians.

  Danny noticed the four men in black had stopped at the back of McGee’s goal. He saw McGee glance back at them, just as the referee put the whistle to his lips and blew.

  That was it.

  Full time.

  A massive cheer. From the England fans.

  Then Danny noticed that McGee was trying to signal to the bench. But the England players mobbed him. He’d saved the game. England were one step closer to going to the World Cup finals.

  And then, to everyone’s shock, the floodlights – and every light in the stadium – went out.

  Nobody could see a thing.

  THE ABDUCTION

  Danny knew immediately that something was very wrong.

  The game over.

  The lights out.

  The men in black.

  He called out to Holt. But Holt must have gone back inside to file his match report. So Danny acted. He couldn’t stop himself. McGee had got him out of trouble; now he wanted to reciprocate.

  He ran to the foot of the stand. There was just enough light to see the steps and the pitch. But not across it.

  He vaulted the advertisement hoardings – and was on the pitch. He could see the players just standing there. Unsure if the game had ended or not.

  But not McGee. McGee had disappeared.

  Danny ran to the goal mouth. He could make out no lights except from under the stands. Emergency lighting. And there – silhouettes against the only light in the stadium – he saw a scrum of people, close together, struggling towards the exit.

  He set off after them. They had McGee. Danny knew it.

  He ran at medium speed. He didn’t want to be exhausted when he reached them. And he knew they were moving slowly. Slower than him.

  Danny heard the English fans chanting as he dived under the stadium into the plastic tunnel where the players had emerged for each half of the match.

  Now that he knew McGee was straight, he wanted to do everything he could to rescue him. He had doubted him, thought he was going to throw the game. And he felt guilty.

  He heard voices. McGee calling.

  ‘Help! Someone! They’re going to –’

  Then McGee’s voice was muffled.

  Under the stands, a strip of emergency lights ran along the ceiling. Danny spotted McGee being led away; but now he looked as if he was happy to be going.

  A gun, Danny thought. They must have a gun on him.

  What on earth could he do? Where would they take McGee? What would they do with him?

  There were other people under the stand. Dozens of Russia fans, some with children, leaving in disgust immediately after the final whistle and the darkness. Even though it was dangerously dark to leave.

  Danny followed McGee and his abductors. But not too close. He wanted surprise on his side. That was his one advantage.

 
Then he had an idea. From a book again. One he’d read to his dad. Cause a distraction. Shout something to change everybody’s behaviour. Create a stampede. Or at least a blockage.

  He shouted, ‘Avtograf!’ Then again: ‘Avtograf!’

  Several people – especially those with children – looked at him.

  Danny waved his arm. And jogged towards McGee and his abductors, holding out his notebook and a pencil.

  ‘Avtograf!’ he shouted again.

  And it worked. Several children were following him. He felt like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

  ‘Avtograf!’ he shouted once more.

  McGee and the four men in black were suddenly surrounded by fans, mostly children, holding scraps of paper and pens out to McGee. Even though this man had probably stopped their team from qualifying for the World Cup, they wanted to meet him. He was an English Premier League player: one of the elite of footballers.

  Danny watched as McGee began signing autographs, while trying to push away from his captors.

  All the men in black could do was try to keep as close to him as possible. There was no way out for them.

  Danny smiled. Now he needed to catch McGee’s eye.

  He’d stopped his abduction.

  Now he needed to abduct McGee from his abductors.

  WE MEET AGAIN

  Danny hadn’t looked behind him since the autograph scrum had started. He’d not seen the man standing there. The man thinking about what he should do next.

  ‘Danny,’ the man said in a soft voice. So soft – and English – that Danny assumed it was Holt.

  Danny turned round, about to ask what they could do.

  To be faced by Sir Richard Gawthorpe.

  His nemesis looked calm. Not angry. Or frustrated. Or scared, even.

  ‘We meet again,’ Sir Richard said.

  Danny jumped. Literally. Like a shot of electricity had gone through him. He had to pull himself together. Not lose control. Not let Sir Richard see how scared he was.

  ‘It’s over,’ Danny said.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got –’ Danny went for his pocket.

  ‘Danny,’ Sir Richard smiled, glancing at the wall beside to him. ‘It’s not over. Even if you get out of here alive, no one will believe whatever story you have cobbled together. This is Russia. Things work differently here, Danny.’

  Danny was about to speak when he saw Sir Richard’s face light up. And then suddenly the man was shouting. At the top of his voice. ‘FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!’

  Danny was so surprised he stumbled.

  Sir Richard pushed in a fire alarm on the wall next to him. The noise was dramatic. First the ringing. Then the sound of hundreds of feet running and hundreds of voices crying out.

  The mood changed immediately. Parents picked up sons and daughters from the scrum and ran. Fire doors burst open.

  Danny turned to see McGee being grabbed again and dragged away, through a fire door to a waiting black people-carrier.

  Then he felt his legs go from under him. And a punch to his back. And Sir Richard was standing over him.

  ‘If I had time… I’d kill you,’ Sir Richard said. ‘If I meet you again I will kill you.’

  Then Sir Richard was off, heading for the black vehicle.

  Danny staggered to his feet. This was his last chance.

  As he ran, he saw that the road was open for the people-carrier – fenced off from the fans. It would be out of there in seconds.

  So he ran faster. Ran like he’d never run before. He had to try and save Matt McGee. If he could just make it to the car.

  In seconds he was almost level with Sir Richard.

  Sir Richard dived into the car, to avoid what he thought would be Danny attacking him.

  But Danny had other thoughts. He was going for the front of the car.

  He heard the engine rev as the car door slammed shut behind Sir Richard. And Danny waited in front of it, holding his mobile phone out in front of him.

  Danny stood there, convinced he was about to disappear under a large heavy vehicle – and to die in a very painful way.

  The car lunged at him. Then braked. Like an animal snapping, then retracting. But not biting.

  Now Danny could only hear the engine idling and his own heart hammering. Then a door opening.

  Sir Richard came from the back of the car.

  ‘What?’

  Danny could feel his hand shaking violently, still holding the phone. He could barely control his emotions. He’d switched his phone to video and began to record.

  ‘WHAT?’ Sir Richard shouted.

  ‘I sent a film. From the reception,’ Danny said. ‘Tupolev talking to Matt McGee about their deal. I sent it to England.’

  Danny saw Sir Richard’s eyes narrow.

  ‘And I have a film of you on the steps when McGee attacked Skatie. With Tupolev’s men behind you.’ Danny watched for another physical reaction. But there was nothing. ‘And I’m filming you now. But this is the only clear film of you I have. The one on the steps: you can’t really see it’s you. But this. This does show it’s you. I can give you this. Now.’

  Danny saw Sir Richard’s shoulders drop.

  ‘Let McGee go,’ Danny said, his voice trembling. ‘And you can have it.’

  Sir Richard looked confused. Like he was doing something he didn’t want to do.

  ‘Let him go and I’ll move out of the way,’ Danny said. ‘No dead boy. No abducted footballer. No film of you. Just a film of Tupolev.’

  Sir Richard shook his head, looking at the ground.

  Then, behind them, the lights came on. A massive flood of light. So bright everyone was blinded briefly.

  They heard the noise of tens of thousands of fans leaving their seats in the stadium. Headed their way. About to block the roads and the paths for hours.

  Sir Richard gestured to the car, pointing at McGee, then outside.

  At first the men in the car refused to act. Then Sir Richard pulled his own phone out of his pocket. He pointed at it. Mouthed ‘Dmitri’ at the driver.

  The rest happened quickly.

  McGee emerged from the car and ran back into the stadium.

  Danny threw his phone to Sir Richard.

  Sir Richard got in the car. But before he did, he turned to Danny. ‘You’re lucky I have more important concerns right now. I meant what I said in there,’ he said. ‘If I see you again, I will kill you.’

  Danny shrugged. He wanted to say something witty, but decided to leave Sir Richard with a silence. Sometimes silence said more than words.

  ‘And when I do,’ Sir Richard went on, ‘I’ll be back in charge of City. That’s a promise.’

  Danny shook his head and smiled. ‘Never,’ he said.

  And with that the black people-carrier was gone.

  THURSDAY

  PRESENTS

  Moscow Domodedovo Airport felt good. Once Danny was airside and mingling with hundreds of other England fans.

  It was safe to be in numbers. He hoped.

  Danny wanted to go home. Home to his dad’s cooking, his mum’s rushing off to work, his sister’s jibes.

  He enjoyed travelling, but he’d had enough for a while.

  Once they had got through security, Holt had gone to sit down with a plate of chips and his laptop. He had some changes to make to his article, he said.

  So Danny decided to go and spend his roubles. He still had most of the £100 he’d got from the Post Office.

  He bought his mum a mug with Vladimir Putin, the former – or present, he wasn’t sure – leader of Russia on it. His mum liked mugs. When you poured hot water into it Putin’s stern expression broke out into a chilling smile. He thought his mum would like that.

  For his dad he bought a thriller: Gorky Park. Based in Moscow. They’d watched the film together on TV; now they could read the book. That was a Moscow adventure story Danny could tell his dad about.

  He bought Paul a Russian football T-shirt. Paul liked foreign team top
s. And now England had put one over on Russia he’d be able to wear it without feeling like a traitor.

  But what should he buy for Charlotte?

  Something you’d buy for a friend? Another T-shirt? Or something else?

  Danny watched other men in the duty-free shop. What were they buying? They’d be getting presents for their wives and girlfriends. He could see what they chose. Not that Charlotte was his girlfriend. But she was his friend. And a girl. Danny felt confused.

  Perfume. Chocolates. A bag. A scarf. An ornament. That’s what men were buying. There was so much choice. But Danny didn’t have a clue what was the right thing for him to get.

  He wished his sister was here. She would tell him what was nice. She was good – if not at some things – at least at buying presents.

  Danny plumped for a gold chain in the end. Just a small chain. Like the one she’d had until a few months ago, but it had broken. A fine chain, not a heavy one.

  He felt shy buying it. What was he doing? And the woman at the counter reeked so much of perfume,

  Danny felt slightly faint.

  Danny had around £20 left for himself.

  What could he get?

  A book? A Russia T-shirt? A small model of St Basil’s Cathedral? Yes. He’d like that. It was a building – and a night – he’d never forget.

  And then he saw a set of Russian dolls. Six over-painted wooden dolls that fitted inside each other. That’s what Emily had asked him for, the day he felt like killing her.

  Danny grinned. He didn’t really need anything. He had memories.

  So he bought the Russian dolls for his sister.

  In a suite of the Cosmonaut Hotel, not so far from the airport, another drama was unfolding.

  Dmitri Tupolev was sitting in a chair examining Sir Richard Gawthorpe. The Englishman was sitting on the floor, his hands tied behind his back.

  No one else was in the room.

  ‘You have gone against me,’ the Russian said.

  ‘No. I saved you,’ Sir Richard replied in a calm voice. He was not going to be cowed by the man who had become his adversary.

  The Russian shrugged. ‘You no longer exist, Sir Richard.’

  Now it was the Englishman’s turn to shrug.