White Lines

by Mel Stein

  Mo had tried to be pleasant throughout the meal, but he wasn’t getting any encouragement. Nabil answered him in monosyllable, Susie was clearly irritated not only by the fact that Jason was interrupting her meal, but by the very presence of her sullen stepson.

  It was Nabil who triggered things off, although it was Mo who pushed him.

  ‘Nabil, must you answer everything I say with a grunt?’

  His son pushed his plate aside violently, causing a glass of wine to spill before it rolled to the edge of the table and then fell to the floor. The stem of the delicate crystal snapped off cleanly and Mo got to his feet before his son bothered to move. He picked up the broken glass, oblivious to the sharp edge which drew blood from the palm of his hand.

  ‘You have no respect for property,’ he shouted, ‘these glasses cost over a hundred pounds each.’

  Nabil shrugged.

  ‘What’s a hundred pounds to you unless it’s for something I want? I must be the only man of my age who still has to beg pocket money from his father. And if I have no respect for property that’s only because you have no respect for me.’ He rose to leave the room, but his father was already by his side pushing him back into his chair with a surprising show of strength.

  ‘You leave when I say you leave. It’s bad enough I have to offer you a job because I know nobody else would want to employ you. But you can’t stop at letting me down at work, no, you have to insult me in my own home.’

  Nabil squirmed in his seat. He had listened to this sort of abuse from his father since he was a child, and knew that he would gradually wind down when he had run out of steam.

  ‘I thought you would learn something from being around a man like Mark Rossetti, but perhaps you are beyond education, perhaps all the money I’ve spent on you, all the time I’ve invested has been a waste,’ Mohammed continued. The baby started to cry, aroused by the sound of his father’s voice and Susie took him out of his chair and on to her lap to comfort him. Nabil’s face grew even sulkier as he saw the look of affection his own father gave to his half-brother.

  ‘The one thing you didn’t invest in me was love,’ Nabil said, the last word coming out slowly as if he had only just thought of the concept. ‘And as for Rossetti, what sort of man is it who would agree to spy for you? Maybe Carr was a better judge of character than you gave him credit for. Maybe Rossetti’s gone over to the right side, the winning team. Maybe he won’t be coming back.’

  Dominique had sat quietly, almost indifferently, as if she was a guest at a stranger’s table, but now she could stand it no longer.

  ‘You wonder why I go away, why I prefer to doss down on the floor in a squat? Listen to yourselves. Nabil may not be the brightest person on earth, but when did you ever give him any encouragement? We’re your children too you know, not just little Jason and his golden fleece.’

  Nabil looked at his sister in surprise. It had been a long time since they had stood up to their father together. His first thought was to wonder if she had some hidden agenda, and his next was one of relief that she had taken him out of the spotlight. The baby’s cries were reaching hysteria pitch and Susie was rocking him back and forth with such intensity that he vomited over her dress.

  ‘Look what you’ve done now. I don’t believe the pair of you. I’ve never come across such ungrateful children in my life. Your father’s given you a roof over your heads, he feeds you, he clothes you and all he gets in return is abuse. And look what you’ve done to Jason. He’s done nothing to deserve it.’

  Later, Dominique had no idea why she said what she did, but by then the damage was done.

  ‘You really are a sanctimonious cow, Susie. You weren’t exactly grateful to your first husband and I bet he put more than a roof over your head. With your whining he probably had to put a bucket over your head before he could bear to fuck you …’

  If she had anything more to say it was cut short as Mo’s hand whipped across her face knocking her sideways with the force of the blow.

  ‘That’s right, Daddy. If you’ve no reply then hit me. That’s how it’s always been. I’ve never been allowed to have thoughts of my own.’

  She remained on the floor, but the others in the room were on their feet, moving around like actors looking for their positions on the stage. Nabil pushed himself between his sister and his father, Susie rose with her baby son in her arms, her pretty face twisted into an expression of pure hatred aimed at her stepdaughter.

  ‘So, little Dominique, since you’ve touched on the subject, let’s continue. Let’s talk about fucking. Let’s talk about young girls who fuck and don’t have the sense to take the proper precautions, because they’re like animals on heat.’

  ‘No,’ Dominique protested in horror, seeing exactly where the woman was heading. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it …’

  ‘Sorry? Yes I do believe you are,’ Susie said. The baby had stopped crying and was virtually asleep in her arms. For a moment Dominique thought that the crisis was over, that her apology had been enough, but she had miscalculated the effect of her words on the woman her father had married.

  ‘But too little, too late,’ Susie continued. ‘When I married your father I didn’t realise the baggage he brought with him. I’m pleased we’re all together for a change, nice and cosy, because it gives me the chance to tell you a few home truths. You, Nabil, have a chip on your shoulder the size of Everest. You’re not stupid, so get yourself a life. Where are all your friends of your own age? You mope about the house as if not only your father, but the world owes you a living.’

  Nabil said nothing, but the expression on his face revealed everything. Until now he had tolerated his stepmother as one might tolerate a painting on the wall that one really did not like. Now he hated her. Susie had not finished. She kissed the baby who was burrowing into her shoulder, oblivious to the tension surrounding him and his parents. There was a split-second when Dominique thought she would say nothing more, but the woman was beyond rationality. She had endured the Halid family in silence as long as she could bear. Now was the time to speak and if the speech hurt, then so much the better.

  ‘And dear little Dominique …’

  ‘I’m going to my room,’ the girl said.

  ‘That’s up to you. You know exactly what I’m going to say, so it doesn’t matter a jot if you don’t hear it this time around.’

  Dominique slumped into a chair once again and put her hands over her ears, her eyes wide, looking for all the world like a mad woman from a Munch painting.

  Mohammed looked from his wife to his daughter, his own anger overridden by the unexpected tirade from his wife. He couldn’t even remember what had triggered off a scene of such proportions.

  ‘What’s going on here? Is there something I don’t know?’ He turned to Dominique, believing her distress flowed from the blow he had dealt her. ‘I’m sorry, Dom, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should not have raised my hand to you.’

  ‘Raise your hand?’ his wife echoed. ‘Mo, there are times when you’re positively old-fashioned. That was what endeared you to me in the first place. Nathan was so very twenty-first century. Well, put this to the test of your old-fashioned values. If your daughter doesn’t have an abortion, then you’re going to be a grandfather.’

  It took Mohammed a moment to realise exactly what his wife meant. His eyes went to his daughter’s stomach, took in the slight swelling that he had been too busy to notice, then went to her face where the blazing colour, the downcast eyes confirmed the truth of what he had just been told.

  ‘Who’s the father?’ was all he said, the question asked in the voice of a torturer, a voice that Dominique did not recognise. She thought she had known her father well, that she had seen him in every mood, but this was something new. She shook her head dumbly, and pulled back into the chair, anticipating another blow, but it didn’t come. Mohammed was beyond rage. He was into a mode that could only be described as revenge.

  ‘Do you not know? Are you that much of a slut?�
�� he asked, then answered his own question. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think you know, but you’re not saying.’ He put his hand on her shoulder, not in a gesture of support, but as if to force the truth from her mouth as his grip tightened.

  ‘Go to your room,’ he said, finally, his voice without expression. It was a Victorian direction to a girl who was old enough to leave the house forever, yet she rose calmly and obeyed the instruction. She did not look back as she took the stairs two at a time, remembering how naively she had rushed the tell her stepmother the news of her pregnancy, how much better she had felt once the secret was out, how supportive the woman had appeared. She wanted to turn back the clock, to wipe the tape clean of the words she had said to wound Susie, but there was no winding back the clock. Time only went forward, just like an unwanted pregnancy. But then she had still not decided in her mind if it were unwanted or not. She did not feel in the mood to decide anything. The only thing she knew for certain was that she could now never tell Mohammed who the father of the child was, because from the tone of his voice she truly believed there was every chance he would kill him.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Press were there in droves outside Lancaster Gate, the headquarters of the Football Association, as Barry Reed arrived with Mark and his lawyers.

  ‘When you get out of the car, you walk in the door, holding your head up high. Don’t look cocky, but don’t look sullen either. If you make a run for it, then it looks as if you’ve got something to be ashamed of,’ Mark directed Barry.

  The player nodded, but Mark felt as if the message was going into one ear and out the other and, indeed, as the car door opened and the horde of cameramen pressed ever nearer to get a better picture, Barry threw his arms out wide to push them aside and raced into the building. Mark put his hand on Stanley Golding’s arm.

  ‘Let George go in and get himself set up. I think you should say something to these vultures, so they can’t write anything they want.’

  The solicitor shrugged. He had enough high-profile clients to feel comfortable about dealing with the media. He paused, and turned to face the crowd, his back to the door, his hand raised for silence as the questions came at him in a babble of sound.

  ‘I have a brief statement to make and then I hope that you can disperse and let us get on with the job in hand. Barry Reed will be pleading not guilty to the serious charges against him. He did not take any stimulants before the match against Columbia, nor has he ever taken drugs in his life. He was proud to wear an England shirt for the first time and hopes he will have the opportunity to wear one many times in the future.’

  As the solicitor made to go through the front entrance he heard one cynical journalist, with a hand-rolled cigarette in the corner of his mouth, say loudly, ‘The only way Reed’ll wear an England shirt again is if he pulls it on before he goes to bed.’

  The members of the Disciplinary Committee were already seated at a long table when Mark and Stanley arrived. George Ramsden had positioned himself and Barry at the smaller table opposite them. The barrister looked uncomfortable in his dark suit, without his wig, as if he needed the atmosphere of a real courtroom to perform at his best. Mark had only seen him seated behind his desk in his chambers, and had not realised what a huge man he was. He must have been well over six feet tall, with a bull neck supporting a massive head, which was topped with a shock of white hair, through which he ran his fingers every few minutes either to smooth it down or ruffle it up. He wore a pair of spectacles that could have been borrowed from John Lennon and which fitted uncomfortably and incongruously on the tip of his nose. Barry Reed was not diminutive by any means, he had the build of a professional athlete, but he looked like the child he really was as he stood beside his counsel. He’d been told to look smart and, following instructions, he’d worn his best suit, but with its narrow lapel and stylishly high-cut two-buttoned front he looked a little as if he was dressed for a fancy-dress party.

  The chairman of the hearing was Norman Hawksmoor, a director of Heddingford, who was himself a well-respected local solicitor in the north-west. The other two members of the tribunal also had professional backgrounds, Peter Lowrey, from Whitehaven was a retired accountant, whilst Gerald Cowans was a City appointment to the board of the recently floated Breedford United. The FA had taken no chances over this hearing of any accusation that Barry Reed might not have been given a fair hearing. There had been absolutely no hesitation in agreeing to Barry having his own independent legal representation even though in most instances that right was denied, leaving the player to rely on the PFA to argue his case, or if he was lucky, a director of his own club, provided he was a lawyer.

  Hawksmoor quickly explained the procedure. The Association would state its case, call its witnesses and give the player’s representative his opportunity to ask any questions. They would then, in turn, have the right to call their witnesses, sum up and then be subject to the decision of the tribunal which might be given there and then or after due deliberation.

  ‘How can there be any witnesses?’ Barry asked. ‘Nobody can say anything about what I didn’t do.’

  Golding put his fingers to his lips to quieten the player, then whispered, ‘Just sit tight, Barry and wait. Have a bit of faith in Ramsden, he knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Is that why he suggested I plead fucking guilty?’ Barry muttered, but said nothing more and confined himself to doodling a series of gallows on the notepad in front of him.

  The first witness called was the England team doctor, Roger Graves, who read through the analysis of the post-match tests, described the amphetamines, traces of which had been found in Barry’s urine, and claimed he had no reason to distrust the report of the FIFA official or the South American doctor. Ramsden rose to his feet and loomed over Graves.

  ‘Did you have any cause to treat Reed on the trip?’

  ‘Yes, he had a slight ankle injury.’

  ‘What did you prescribe?’

  ‘I told him to see the physiotherapist and gave him some anti-inflammatory tablets.’

  ‘What might those have been?’

  ‘Voltarol.’

  ‘I see,’ Ramsden said, in a tone that suggested Graves had just provided him with the perfect defence to the accusations.

  ‘Now, these Voltarol. Do they have any side effects?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes? Why not share them with us, Dr Graves.’

  Hawksmoor, who had neither said nor asked anything since the start of the hearing, interrupted.

  ‘Mr Ramsden, can I point out that we like to keep these hearings as informal as possible? You’re not in the High Court cross-examining some hostile witness. Dr Graves is here to help us get at the truth.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, milord,’ Ramsden replied and, not knowing whether he was being sarcastic or forgetful of his surroundings, Hawksmoor allowed the comment to pass.

  ‘Dr Graves, tell us about the side effects of Voltarol.’ Ramsden continued, his voice booming around the room, the volume unadjusted from his more usual court room habitat.

  ‘They can cause severe stomach cramps or, if you’re an asthmatic, can trigger off an asthma attack.’

  ‘Is Barry Reed an asthmatic?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ The words were out before Graves could realise their significance.

  ‘You don’t know? And you were happy to give a player a drug, not knowing its potential effects?’

  ‘I assumed that if he were an asthmatic that it would be on his medical records and we’d be carrying spare Ventolin with us, or the like.’

  ‘You assumed?’ Ramsden obviously liked to toss back the words to the witness. ‘Assumptions can be dangerous, Doctor. Now you’ve told us about the urine tests. Perhaps, you’d like to tell us about the blood tests.’

  ‘There weren’t any.’

  ‘Really? Was it an assumption too that they would also show that Reed had taken stimulants?’

  He sat down, without waiting for an answer.

&
nbsp; ‘What was all that about?’ Mark asked Golding.

  ‘He’s just trying to shake the substance of the expert evidence.’

  ‘And did he?’

  Golding pursed his lips and shrugged, leaving Mark with the feeling that Barry’s team were only going through the motions. If that were indeed the case then this was a very expensive charade and he was paying for it.

  There was a pause before the next witness appeared. Hawksmoor looked down at his notes and then called out a name that astonished Mark.

  ‘Kenny Cunningham.’

  ‘What the hell?’ Mark said before Barry cut him short.

  ‘No wonder the bastard wouldn’t give evidence for us, he knew that he was going to be on the other side. Let’s pack it all in and I’ll cop a plea. If the bloody England manager reckons I’m guilty, what chance have I got?’

  Mark was about to say that he’d had little or no chance from the start, but felt that was not exactly helpful.

  Cunningham’s evidence was brief but damning. He explained that he’d found Barry depressed and subdued for most of the trip and only on a high after the game. Yes, he’d been surprised by how well he’d played. Yes, it was one of the most impressive debuts he’d ever seen. No, he’d not been surprised at the positive drug test. Disappointed yes, but with hindsight it explained a lot of things that had concerned him about the player during the time he’d been with the squad.