False Nine

by Philip Kerr

  ‘Jérôme, do I look like a dick? All footballers are fucking liars. Lying is just part of the game now, like ice packs or isotonic energy drinks, or a chunk of Vick’s VapoRub on your shirt front. I honestly think that if a team suddenly started to tell the truth, everyone would think they were on drugs. So, what is it that you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he protested. ‘I’ve told you the whole story. And that’s the truth.’

  But I was swiftly wrong-footed by what happened next.

  Jérôme Dumas began to cry.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Grace. ‘I think he’s had enough.’

  ‘Now you really sound like his brief.’

  Grace stood up. ‘I think it best that we finish this discussion for now. We can meet again later. This evening. When Jérôme is feeling like himself again.’

  ‘Suppose he goes walkies again? Then what? I’ll have summoned the Barcelona jet here for no reason.’

  ‘So wait a little,’ said Grace. ‘A few hours’ delay until you’re satisfied everything is as it should be won’t matter very much now, will it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  She sat down next to the weeping footballer and put her arm around his heaving shoulders.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, are you, Jay?’ she said. ‘Not now that we’ve found you.’

  He wiped his face and shook his head. ‘No, I’ll be here.’

  ‘We’re going to walk back to the hotel,’ she told him. ‘We’ll come back at around seven when perhaps we can go somewhere for dinner. That is, if we can think of anywhere they serve something that’s actually edible.’

  23

  Our two-roomed suite at the Auberge de la Vieille Tour was, we were told, the largest that the hotel had to offer, although that didn’t make it seem any more comfortable. The dressing room at Stoke City was probably better appointed.

  There was a long, split-level terrace with a table and couple of sunloungers, a nice view of an amethyst-green lawn and beyond this the sea, and in the blue sky a wide variety of bird life. Mostly these were mockingbirds whose sharp mockery possibly related to our choice of hotel. It certainly felt that way. There was no carpet, only a marble floor, and the suite was furnished with but the one armchair, a cheap-looking sofa that you might have found in any cut-price bedsit, and a TV with all the main French and Italian channels, which at least meant I wasn’t going to be deprived of football. The minibar was about as well-stocked as a student’s refrigerator and the Wi-Fi signal was weaker than a signal from the Mars Rover. One night in Guadeloupe’s best hotel looked like it was going to be quite enough. I couldn’t wait to get back to Jumby Bay and then London.

  After the emotional energy of the conversation with Jérôme Dumas I was feeling a little tired and the bed looked comfortable enough so I had a quick shower in the tiny bathroom and climbed under the crisp white sheets. I fell to reflecting on the events of the afternoon. If there’s one thing I hate in football it’s a snivelling crybaby. Some of these pampered kids don’t know how well off they are and quite a few of them need a fucking good slap. João Zarco hit a few City players in his time and probably the only reason I haven’t decked one myself is because I haven’t been in the job for long enough. Believe me, it happens a lot more than you think. In evidence I give you Brian Clough and Roy Keane. Unthinkable, isn’t it? That’s probably one reason why Keano is such a hard bastard today. I got decked myself when I was playing at Southampton, and rightly so.

  But Dumas was different. He seemed genuinely depressed and there’s no telling where something like that can end up, especially when the happy pills have run out. Hanging yourself on Wembley Way like my old mate Matt Drennan, or trying to head-butt a lorry on the A64 like poor Clarke Carlisle. In spite of what he’d said I reflected that there was still some careful handling to be done if I was going to get Jérôme Dumas on a plane to Barcelona.

  Soon after I closed my eyes I found Grace lying naked next to me and smelling lightly of perfume and body lotion. I lay silently for a minute or two, enjoying the relaxing sound of the ocean through the open window. I love the sound of the sea. Maybe it’s because I’m a Pisces, but I think it has more to do with the fact that having been born in Edinburgh – which has in Leith a proper sea-port – the sea and the sound of seagulls wheeling over Edinburgh Castle were probably the first ambient noise of which I was ever aware. That and the sound of a few Hearts supporters carousing home along the Gorgie Road after a successful local derby. Relaxation was slow in coming, however; I was feeling a little guilty about the way I’d spoken to the woman now occupying the same bed as me.

  ‘I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Debatable.’

  ‘Jérôme’s father. John Richardson. What are his chances?’

  ‘John will certainly plead self-defence. There’s plenty of evidence that DJ Jewel Movement gave almost as good as he got. The trouble is that Jewel Movement was popular in Antigua. Finding an impartial jury might be difficult. Lots of people knew him and liked him. So, a jury might easily convict just because of that. Of course, John does have a very good lawyer.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t disagree with that.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  I turned around and put my arms around her. She laid one long leg across my hip, gathered me closer and licked my chest as if it was the choicest morsel.

  ‘It’s my considered opinion that she’s a very fine lawyer indeed.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘All the same, I just want to say that I didn’t mean to insult you back there at your cousin’s friend’s house. And I hope you weren’t offended.’

  ‘No offence taken. I think I’m a lot thicker-skinned than you imagine.’

  ‘So we’re all right, then,’ I said.

  ‘Better than all right. Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’m certainly not about to contradict you while we’re in bed.’

  ‘We could do with more people like you in England,’ I said, teasing her a little now; I was going to make her wait for it after the way she had kept the truth from me. ’People there are increasingly quick to take offence about almost anything. In evidence I give you the Twitter storm caused by something I tweeted a few days ago. For which I shall probably get fined by the FA and for which I shall have to apologise. Otherwise they could take away my coaching licence.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  I sighed. ‘It was a stupid joke. A throwaway remark.’

  ‘That’s why it’s called Twitter, isn’t it? Because it’s not supposed to mean anything important.’

  ‘And yet it does. A Brazilian player called Rafinha came off during a football match in Barcelona and I suggested, humorously, or so I thought, that maybe he had his period.’

  ‘I get it. Like the cranberry juice scene in The Departed. Ray Winstone and Leonardo DiCaprio.’

  ‘S’right. Anyway, the Twitter sisters thought it was in poor taste and sexist and reported me to the FA who are now investigating the matter. It used to be that it was all right to be a sexist in football. Now everyone is obliged to sound as reconstructed as Ed fucking Miliband. What makes it doubly irritating is that my father had told me to stay off Twitter. And until then, I had.’

  ‘I like you being a sexist. Especially right now. I wouldn’t have you any other way.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear you want to have me, anyway.’

  ‘But seriously, Scott, why don’t you tell everyone on Twitter to fuck off and then close the account?’

  ‘Is that your advice as a lawyer?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘I never thought of that.’

  ‘Your father’s right. You should listen to him. Twitter is just a hostage to fortune. You stay on it long enough you’re bound to slip up. So. Take the FA’s fine, say sorry, and then say bollocks to Twitter.’

  ‘You know, I think I will.’

  ‘And being described as a liar is nothing new to me, Scott. I hear much worse than that i
n court. No, what I’d find more offensive is if you decided that just because I was a little economical with the truth, you didn’t want to fuck me again.’

  ‘Oh, there’s very little chance of you saying anything that would achieve a result like that. In fact, I think it makes for a more interesting situation in bed, don’t you? If I were to take charge of you, now.’

  ‘What I think you’re saying is that you’d like to show me who’s the boss here.’

  ‘It certainly beats getting screwed by my lawyer if I fuck you, don’t you think?’

  24

  From the hotel we walked back to the villa in the dark, along a main road that was busy with cars and mosquito-like scooters. There was an evening market in the car park at Le Gosier and we paused for a while to inspect the local fish, exotic fruits and vegetables, jars of honey, fresh-baked bread, jars of spices, sweets and candy, meats – raw and cured – and bottles of rum. There were even a couple of hamburger vans serving food that actually smelt appetising. It was all very colourful and just a little bit puzzling.

  ‘Maybe we should just have dinner here,’ I said. ‘We certainly couldn’t do any worse.’

  Grace pulled a face.

  ‘No, really,’ I insisted. ‘Some of the best meals I’ve ever had have been snatched at vans parked in front of English football stadiums.’

  Ignoring the vans we walked on. The locals seemed friendly enough but we might easily have been somewhere in West Africa and it was hard to believe that we were in a part of the EU, although the prices were almost as high as if we’d been at a tourist market in provincial France. I wondered how the people of Guadeloupe – who looked as if they didn’t have much money – could afford anything at all. But we bought some things and walked on, hand in hand.

  ‘You know I’m going to need your help, Grace,’ I said. ‘The kid seems like a nervous wreck. There’s no telling what he’ll do. And if, when we go back to the house, Jérôme says he’s changed his mind about returning to Barcelona with me, I’m going to need you to help me persuade him that his father has a reasonable chance of acquittal.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So, are you with me?’

  ‘Let me tell you something about my cousin, Scott. I know you think he’s a bit of a wastrel. But I owe him everything.’

  ‘Is that a no?’

  ‘No. Not exactly. But you have to understand how much I owe him. It wasn’t just my university education he paid for. It was my apartment, too. And my offices. And my car. He also paid for his father’s apartment, in Antigua. And his car, too. And Jérôme will certainly be paying for John’s legal defence. That man we met this morning – the one on the sunlounger? He’s the former football coach at the local lycée here in Pointe-à-Pitre. Gerville-Réache. To which Jérôme also regularly gives money. The woman in the hairdresser’s? Jérôme sent her money when he found out that the earthquake had closed her business. He’s the most generous man I know. Without him a lot of people on this stupid island would have nothing.’

  ‘I appreciate that. And believe me, I think it’s good that he looks after his friends and family. But surely you can see that he needs to earn money. Without a big salary from PSG and FCB all that could come to an end. If the goose stops laying the golden eggs it’s not just bad for Jérôme Dumas, it’s bad for everyone.’

  ‘I understand that. But you see Jérôme and John, they weren’t always close. And now they are. Very close. Especially since Jay’s mother died. Since that happened they’re even closer. So it’s natural that he should be worried sick about all this.’

  ‘I’m a football man, Grace. I’m not a sports psychologist. My job is to represent the club and to make sure he understands the club’s position.’

  ‘Just as long as you understand mine.’

  ‘Oh, I do. But look, all he has to do is come back with me, have his medical and then explain why he went AWOL. He could even ask for some compassionate leave and return to Antigua for a while. If I endorse that request they’re bound to say yes. Because they’ll owe me big time for finding the kid.’

  ‘You really think they’d allow it?’

  ‘Why not? They’ve been very understanding of Messi while his whole life is being turned upside down by those bastards in the Spanish tax authorities. So I’m pretty sure they can extend a little of the same understanding to Jérôme Dumas and his father.’

  ‘All right. I’ll back you all the way. One thing’s for sure; he can’t stay here in Guadeloupe. Spending all day hunched on the PlayStation isn’t good for anyone. Least of all someone who’s depressed. He needs to be doing what he’s good at again, and that’s playing football.’

  We reached the house which was almost as private from the street as it had been on the beach – just another door in a wall that led into a lushly planted garden. This time Charlotte, the housekeeper, admitted us, and in person. She was a large, smiling woman in her forties who said almost nothing, but it was clear that dinner had been prepared at home; something delicious was well under way in the kitchen. Grace and I looked at each other and breathed a sigh of relief. We were both famished.

  ‘Mr Dumas will be with you shortly,’ she said, showing us into the drawing room. She pointed at a bottle of expensive rosé chilling in a wine cooler next to some glasses. ‘Help yourself to some wine.’

  I poured two glasses, sipped the excellent wine and then we went to inspect the beechwood bookshelves.

  ‘Who did he say owns this house?’ said Grace.

  ‘A French footballer. Gui-Jean-Baptiste Target.’

  ‘He seems to like reading about the game as much as he likes playing it,’ she said. ‘Nearly all of these books are about football.’

  ‘That would certainly explain the PlayStation 4.’

  ‘Oh my God. This one is by you. Foul Play.’ She took it back to the sofa and opened it. ‘Did you write this or did someone else do it for you?’

  ‘No, I wrote that myself. Which probably explains why it didn’t seem to sell very well. I should have got myself a ghost. Like Roddy Doyle or Phil Kerr. Kerr’s more expensive, I hear. But then he doesn’t look for a credit. The rumour is he’s done quite a few famous footballers. Probably because as ghosts go he’s more transparent than most.’

  ‘Mr Target bought it. And from the condition of the book I’d say he read it too. There are passages here that have been heavily underlined.’

  ‘Really? Such as?’

  ‘“Football has become the new Esperanto. A modern lingua franca in the true meaning of that phrase: it is a bridge language, a trade language which facilitates cultural exchange throughout the world. A friend who was in a remote part of Vietnam told me that in the two weeks he was there he got by with just two words: David Beckham. Everyone has heard of Becks. And everyone likes him. Just to mention his name is to create some kind of bond. So let’s forget Prince Andrew. It’s Goldenballs who should be given a job as Britain’s special representative for trade and investment; not to mention a knighthood and anything else that will show our appreciation for a man who is one of our best exports. Frankly, the royal family needs the lambent glow of Beckham receiving a knighthood more than the man needs this gewgaw himself. And isn’t it time Beckham was asked to join the FA’s board of directors? With all due respect to Heather Rabbatts – a non-executive director of the FA board – it’s not racial diversity that the existing board lacks, it’s bloody footballers. If I can borrow a phrase of the England rugby captain, Will Carling, speaking of the RFU commission, the FA are just fifty-seven old farts. If the England team is ever going to matter again we’re going to need footballers to make decisions about the English game. Because the national team is becoming increasingly irrelevant. If, with apologies to E.M. Forster, any football fan had to choose right now between not watching his country and not watching his club, it is more or less certain that he would have the good sense not to watch his country.”‘

  I winced. ‘I’d forgotten that. Oh shit. I don’t think that’s go
ing to help me when I face an FA disciplinary panel for bringing the game into disrepute with my tweet about Rafinha’s period. Do you?’

  ‘Probably not. Could be you’re going to need a lawyer there to do the talking for you.’

  ‘It sounds like it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Unless you can persuade David Beckham to represent you.’

  Grace turned several dozen pages, read some more and laughed.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘This isn’t much better. “The game is truly egalitarian in that it has something that appeals to everyone. It is the last bastion of tribalism in an otherwise civilised world. As such it is a refuge from all politically correct thinking. Those who preach politeness, orthodoxy, toleration and the socially homogeneous can be safely ignored; witness the hostile reaction of Tottenham fans to the FA’s cloth-eared proposal to make using the phrase ‘Yid Army’ subject to legal sanction. Men and women feel safe within the world of football. It is an enclave from the self-righteous values of the BBC, the Guardian, the Labour Party, the fifty-seven farts and all the cares of the world and you try to breach its walls at your peril. Going to football is like saying ‘fuck off’ to all of the above. When you go to football you don’t need to give a shit about your country’s economic travails, bird flu, AIDS, gender equality, the war in Iraq, Afghanistan, the Troubles, Africa’s starving, Islamic terrorism, Islam, 9/11, the Palestinians – in fact you don’t need to think or care about anything very much except the game itself. Not only that but a football stadium is perhaps the last place in the world where a grown man or woman can behave exactly like a child without anyone really noticing or caring very much. It’s like fishing in the way it clears the mind of everything except catching a fish, with this important difference in these socially fractured times that we live in: when you go to football you are part of a family. A family that doesn’t ask questions about who or what you are because it’s the colour you wear that counts; it’s the scarf that matters, not what you say, or think, or do, and to hell with everything else.”’