But even as he began to calm himself, a flash of yellow on his dashboard took him away from his thoughts and within minutes he had pulled into a garage to refuel.
Having put his customary £20 worth of unleaded in and cursed the Tories for stealing so much in tax, Rob walked into the booth to pay, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the front page of The Sun which showed an old picture of him under the banner headline The fan who can. And intends to!
He pulled a copy from the rack and began reading what amounted to a transcript of his interview with Sarah Willams. Yet again he sent a curse in her direction as he slotted his credit card into the machine and tapped in his PIN number.
‘Hey, that's you! On the front.’
Rob looked up to find the man behind the counter staring at him. He smiled thinly and reached for his card.
‘It bloody is. It’s you!’
Rob forced another smile as he placed his card in his wallet. He was becoming increasingly aware that other people were now looking at him and so turned and headed for the exit.
‘Go on, fuck off!’
Rob span round and stared at the cashier who was now glaring angrily at him.
‘You what?’
‘You heard me you fucking scummer. Go on, piss off back where you came from!’
Although shaken and not a little annoyed by his encounter at the petrol station, Rob continued his journey in thoughtful mode. Within 24 hours he’d not only made Sky Sports News but the front page of The Sun. That was impressive stuff by anyone’s standards. He reached forward and turned the radio on. Might as well go for the hat-trick.
After enduring a few minutes of adverts for betting shops and windscreen repair companies, Rob was almost relieved to hear the dulcet tones of the presenters break forth and let loose the inevitable torrent of opinion which had been building up on the subject of City during the break.
‘Now obviously we don’t know the full story yet,’ the host began. ‘So we have no real idea of what this guy has planned but if you were put in that position, what would you do? John from Bradford.’
‘I was told by someone at the club,’ an angry voice burst forth. ‘That the plan is to sell George Park and ground share with the scum down the road.’
Rob scoffed at the idea. As if he’d be party to anything which encouraged scummers to enter his beloved Vicarage Lane.
‘You a City fan John?’
‘Too right. And we don’t want that wan-’
‘Thanks John,’ interrupted the host. ‘Simon from Barnsley. You’re a United fan and you know this Rob Cooper guy is that right?’
‘Yeah I do,’ laughed Simon. ‘Buy his fanzine all the time. The guy’s a legend and I tell you what, everyone at United is gonna be right behind him.’
By the time he was approaching George Park, Rob had heard enough. As he’d hoped and in all honesty expected, the bulk of the calls he’d heard had been anti-City and even the presenters had intimated that if they were placed in his position, they would do pretty much the same as he intended to do. The important thing however, was that all of the United fans who had called in had been supportive. Knowing the lads were with him had given him a real boost and as the stadium came into view his mood was considerably lighter than it had been when he’d left the new house. It lasted but a few seconds more. For the chaos which greeted Rob as he turned into the road leading up to the ground stopped him firmly short.
An array of large white vans, some with satellite dishes mounted on their roofs, littered the kerbs on both side of the road, while what looked like an angry mob made up of supporters, camera crews and what he assumed were journalists milled around outside the open gates which were being guarded by two policemen.
‘Shit,’ he thought. ‘How the fuck am I going to get through that lot?’
Even as he watched, an Audi sports car drove past and headed towards the crowd. Relieved to note that not only did the throng part to facilitate its progress but the policemen waved it straight through, Rob sat and waited. The very second another can went past he pulled out behind it and followed closely in its wake.
The idea would have worked perfectly had the car in front driven into the ground, but instead it followed the road round to the left - a move which left Rob both exposed and suddenly under the intense scrutiny of everyone waiting outside.
Within seconds, Rob had been recognised and engulfed. Desperately trying to ignore the incessant banging on his windows, unintelligible shouting and the glare of what seemed like a million camera lights, he continued to ease his old Mondeo toward the gates and the sanctuary of the car park.
However just as he was about to make his way through, one of the policemen held up his hand to stop him and asked him to lower the window. Rob stared at him incredulously.
‘Are you fucking mad?’ he mouthed, pointing desperately at the crowd behind him who seemed hell-bent on dragging his car back into their midst.
The policeman stared blankly at him and so Rob reluctantly lowered the window with the result that the muffled abuse now took on a clarity which he really could have done without.
‘What is it?’ Rob asked nervously over the combined baying of the furious crowd and seemingly half of Fleet Street.
‘Do you have a pass sir? If not, I can’t let you in,’ he said in a flat, monotone voice.
‘Are you taking the piss?’ asked a shocked Rob.
‘No need for that tone sir. Now, if you don’t have a pass, you’ll have to park elsewhere.’
Rob took a deep breath and struggled to retain his temper before a sudden realisation hit.
‘You’re a City fan aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘I’m a policeman sir. My loyalty is to Her Majesty the Queen and the taxpayer. Now if you wouldn’t mind reversing out-’
‘I can’t bloody reverse out! It’s mental behind me!’
Rob took a deep breath to compose himself.
‘Look officer, I promise that I’m the new chairman of this club. Ask any of this lot. That’s my parking space over there!’ he said desperately, noting even as he raised his finger that the slot was filled by a gleaming black Bentley.
‘There appears to be a car there already sir,’ said the policeman smugly. ‘Perhaps it’s the real chairman’s? Now if you wouldn’t mind-’
Before an increasingly frustrated Rob could respond, an egg came flying through the air and with an almighty bang, spread half of its contents across Rob’s roof and the other half down the uniform of the Policeman. Unlike many of the people standing nearby who either burst out laughing or started to cheer, Rob managed to maintain his composure, albeit with some difficulty.
Unfazed, the policeman stood up and glared into the distance. Someone was in trouble.
‘Maybe you should go in after all sir,’ he said in his monotone voice and without taking his eyes off of the youth he had set his sights on. ‘Before this gets out of hand.’
‘Thank you officer,’ said Rob sarcastically. ‘Have a fabulous day won’t you.’
He pulled forward and after glaring at the car in his space, drove to an empty slot and climbed out - at which point the intensity of the questioning from the various journalists rose markedly, as did the level of abuse which rained down from the supporters gathered at the fence.
‘Scum, scum, scum!’ they chanted.
Inbred twats Rob thought to himself as he locked his car and headed for the entrance. Even as he did so, he caught sight of a volley of eggs flying in his direction and having quickly realised that they were all going to land some distance from him, he stopped to watch them explode on the tarmac.
Secure in the knowledge that he was safe behind the steel fence, Rob decided that it was time for a bit of payback and so stopped, stood and shook his head at the mess, the exaggerated gesture merely increasing the volume of vitriol aimed at him. And then, with a final wave and a barely disguised middle finger salute, he headed through the double doors into the club foyer.
Although re
lieved to be in what felt like relative tranquility after the cacophony outside, Rob was irritated by the fact that there were yet more journalists waiting for him inside. However, he simply ignored their questions and walked across to the counter where an anxious-looking receptionist was sitting waiting. With a sly wink he placed his briefcase on the counter before turning around and holding up his hand for silence. Only once the furore had subsided did he relax.
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Now whose is that fucking car in my space?’
Rob stood glaring at the assembled journalists, all of whom seemed totally flummoxed. This wasn’t that they had expected at all.
But Rob wanted an answer and when none was forthcoming he was about to let forth with a rant when he felt a tap on the arm. He looked down to see a slim female hand holding a slip of paper upon which was written: It’s your car. It came back from the garage this morning.
After staring at the note for a second, Rob turned to look at the receptionist, who smiled nervously.
‘My car?’ he mouthed. ‘A Bentley?’
She nodded in return and he raised his eyebrows and let forth a silent, excited whistle.
‘And where’s the old bloke from the car park?’ he whispered.
‘Erm, Alf quit,’ she whispered in return. ‘He heard you were going to fire him but he said he wouldn’t work for a sc- I mean, a United fan anyway. So he left.’ ‘Oh, right, well good riddance. But- sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Amyleigh,’ she said.
‘Well Amyleigh,’ he continued in hushed tones. ‘Could you see about getting someone else out there? The place is full of scu… I mean yobs.’
‘Rob!’ came an almost desperate cry from behind him. ‘Can we have some idea of what’s going on?’
He turned and smiled.
‘I promise that I will talk to you all in good time. But for now I have a ton of work to do, so if you excuse me I have to go to my office.’
The uproar resumed immediately and at full volume, but he again ignored their questioning and simply turned back to Amyleigh.
‘Do I actually have an office?’
Chapter Nineteen
Rob sat at the large desk which dominated the chairman’s office. His office.
The first thing he had done when Amyleigh had shown him into the room was to ask for some cardboard boxes, into which he placed anything relating to either the club or the team, before dumping the lot in the adjoining office. As far as he knew or cared, they were still there.
He had then begun to make lists of all the things he had to do and then added thoughts about who, where or what would be able to provide that help. All of this had been done in complete silence, primarily because he didn’t want or need any of the distractions which he guessed were still waiting in reception and in the roads outside.
Rob had been at this for almost three hours when a knock at the door broke into his chain of thought and he looked up as a smartly dressed woman entered. Short, round and brunette and pretty in a Coleen Nolan mumsy kind of way, she looked about forty-five and carried a mug of coffee in one hand and a selection of files in the other.
‘Good morning,’ she said, a little too smarmily for Rob’s liking.
‘I did ask not to be disturbed,’ he said, slightly annoyed.
‘I’m Joanne. Your secretary,’ the woman replied as she cast her eyes around the office, taking in the detail of every single item that had been removed. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. My car wouldn’t start this morning.’
Rob stopped what he was doing and looked at the woman standing in front of him. He’d never had a secretary before and suddenly felt extremely nervous. Not least because he realised that he had no idea how he should talk to her - was it as an equal, or should he adopt an Upstairs, Downstairs approach from the outset to let her know who was boss? Then again, judging by the expression on her face which seemed to veer between contempt and hostility, that decision had already been taken. Most definitely not in his favour
‘Oh,’ he replied sheepishly. ‘I didn’t know I had a secretary.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s a day of surprises for us all.’
‘Is that coffee for me?’
‘No,’ she replied. But after a second she smiled and held it out for him. ‘But you can have it if you like.’
Rob reached out to take it but then, at the last moment he noticed that the mug bore the club crest. He stopped, smiled and pulled his hand away.
‘That’s OK. That’s yours,’ he said. ‘I’ll get myself one in a bit.’
Joanne smiled at him. A victory smile.
‘As you wish. So, what should I call you? Mr. Cooper? Mr. Chairman? Sir?’
‘Rob would be fine,’ he said taking note of the smarmy tone in her voice. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard Joanne, but let’s get this straight from the outset shall we? From now on, just assume that I’m not a fan and I’m only here because I have to be, OK? Do that and we’ll get along fine.’
Joanne took a deep breath which she exhaled slowly but loudly. Rob took that to be a sign that the lines had been drawn, the divisions marked.
‘The press are still downstairs,’ she said abruptly. ‘They’re asking for a statement.’
‘I bet they are,’ said Rob. ‘But they’ll have to wait.’
‘You’re the boss,’ she said before looking down at the pile of notes on the desk. ‘Might I ask what all this is?’
‘This,’ smiled Rob, ‘is my master plan.’
‘Well you best add this lot to it,’ she said, dropping the files she’d been holding into the middle of it all. ‘The green one is emails and faxes from various journalists and agents. The stuff in the pink file is from the FA, who want to speak to you or your representatives urgently, and the green one is applications for the vacant manager’s job. Although I thought we had a manager.’
Rob frowned, lifted the green folder from the desk and began flicking through the contents.
‘Bloody hell! I haven’t even advertised it yet.’
‘So we haven’t got a manager then?’
‘No,’ replied Rob without even looking up from the folder. ‘I fired him yesterday.’
‘For what?’ she said.
‘Revenge. Let’s just say I bear a grudge.’ A smile suddenly spread across his face and he pulled a sheet of paper from the file, which he handed to Joanne.
‘Could you call him and tell him to get here as fast as he can?’
‘And what should I do about the press?’ she asked as she scrutinised the sheet of paper. She looked up. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘Deadly,’ said Rob. ‘Tell the press I won’t be saying anything until tomorrow - and could you get me a list of staff please? It’s time to get things moving.’
Joanne lowered her eyebrows into glare mode and turned to leave.
‘Oh and Jo? Can I call you Jo?’
She nodded in acknowledgment.
‘Thank you.’
Only once she was in the corridor was Joanne able to partially relax and let the tear that had been battling to come out roll gently down her cheek. She felt let down, betrayed and angry.
Aside from being a long-term employee she had been a City fan all her life and to face the prospect of not only being party to, but actually directly involved in this ridiculous drama was almost certainly going to be too much to bear. Yet had anyone asked her for her thoughts or opinions? Of course not. They’d just assumed she’d be OK. Yet again the doormat, the story of her life.
She gave herself a mental shake and drew herself up to her full five foot five. Well not this time. This time things were going to be different - and if this dickhead thought he was going to walk all over her, he had another thing coming.
Jane woke with a start and glanced at the television to see the cheery hosts of ITV’s This Morning handing its viewers over to the news.
‘Christ almighty,’ she thought. ‘It’s 11 o’clock.’
She sank back into th
e soft warmth of the sofa and smiled to herself as it enveloped her. She had a million things to do but couldn’t remember when she had last felt so relaxed or at peace.
But hearing Rob’s name dragged her gaze to the screen and she grabbed the remote to turn the sound up just in time to see her husband walking into the ground as the voiceover made mention of eggs, moaning players and angry fans.
Jane smiled to herself. Rob might well be going through all kinds of emotions at the moment but she felt no real sympathy. She knew her husband better than anyone, and while he might moan and stress about his plight, deep down he was loving it. It was exactly the kind of attention he’d secretly always craved.
Phil and Holly had just returned to the screen when a loud electronic buzzing shattered Jane’s tranquility. She sat for a second hoping it would go away, but when it sounded for a second time she reluctantly dragged herself to her feet and wandered out into the hall, where the red light on the intercom was blinking merrily away and the small monitor showed the black and white image of a middle aged blonde woman. Even on a poorly pixilated monitor, Jane could see that her visitor was well dressed, overdressed even.
‘May I help you?’
‘Hello. I’m Vicky Collins,’ replied the intercom. ‘I’m your neighbour. Just wanted to introduce myself.’
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ replied Jane nervously, ‘but how do I know that?’
The intercom laughed. A deep electronic belly laugh.
‘You don’t,’ it roared happily. ‘But there’s only me and Lilly, here so what have you got to lose?’
‘Lilly?’
The woman held up a small white dog and, holding its paw in her hand, gave Jane a little wave. She couldn’t help but smile.
‘I’m sorry er, Vicky but I’m not dressed yet,’ she said. ‘Could you possibly come back later?’
Almost instantly the woman vanished from the screen returning a few seconds later with a beaming smile on her face. A smile which actually increased in width when she held up a huge bunch of flowers and a bottle of champagne.
Wings of a Sparrow Page 9
