False Nine

by Philip Kerr

  Grace put the book aside for a moment.

  ‘How much did you say they can fine you?’ she asked.

  ‘That bad, huh?’

  ‘No, really how much?’

  ‘I’m not sure if there’s an upper limit, actually. I think the highest fine ever imposed was on Ashley Cole for calling the FA a bunch of twats on Twitter. True of course. But that cost him ninety thousand quid. No, wait. It was John Terry. Yes, of course. How could I forget? In 2012 he got fined £220,000 for calling Anton Ferdinand a fucking black cunt.’

  ‘Two hundred and twenty thousand – pounds?’

  I nodded. ‘Frankly, I’ve been called a lot worse. And I’ve racially abused more than a few myself. It’s swings and roundabouts, really. I think it’s a complete nonsense that there’s language you’re forbidden to use on the pitch when half of the players in the Premier League can’t even speak fucking English. Who says what – it’s all bullshit. How is it even possible to police something like that when, for example, the Spanish word for the colour black is “negro”?’

  ‘It would take me almost five years to earn that kind of money.’

  ‘That’s ten days’ pay for John Terry. It’s lucky he didn’t bite Anton, as well.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How have you got away with this until now?’

  ‘I told you nobody read that book. It was remaindered almost immediately. Most of the copies are in my attic, I think. Nobody reads fucking books in England. Not any more. But put something on Twitter and this is something very different. They treat a tweet like it’s a letter from Emile fucking Zola.’

  ‘They will read your book now, don’t you think? The FA, I mean.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m going to need a brief to represent me, aren’t I? So. The job’s yours if you want it.’

  ‘Really? You’d fly me over for the hearing? To London?’

  ‘Why not? Just as long as I get to fuck you again, Grace. I ought to get something out of this hearing, don’t you think? Besides, it will look good me having a black brief.’ I grinned. ‘I always did like black lingerie.’

  ‘Scott, my dear, I think I’d better start thinking of your defence right now. Tonight. You’re going to need every word of mitigation I can find in the thesaurus.’

  25

  When Jérôme came downstairs he was wearing a pair of G-Star RAW jeans that looked expensively ragged and a message T-shirt which read SCORES UNDER PRESSURE. I’d once seen Mesut Ozil wearing one at the Chiltern Firehouse and thought he was taking the piss; scoring under pressure wasn’t something he’d done a great deal of at Arsenal. Jérôme was also sporting his Cartier panther earrings and a gold Tourbillon watch that had more bling than the Kimberley diamond mines. We gave each other a homie handshake and then he helped himself to a glass of wine.

  ‘This is a nice wine,’ I said, politely. ‘Domaines Ott. I must remember that one.’

  ‘It’s Gui who knows about wine,’ said Jérôme, ‘He’s got a wine cellar downstairs that looks fabulous. Me, I just order from the expensive end of the wine list and then hope for the best.’

  ‘Living in Paris, that could be costly.’

  ‘It is. Maybe wine will be cheaper in Barcelona.’

  ‘They make some pretty good wines in Spain. Perhaps as good as anything made in France.’

  ‘What’s the book?’ he asked Grace who was still reading.

  ‘I found it on Gui’s shelves. It’s by Scott.’ She held it up to show him the cover which featured a moody picture of me. What else do you put on the cover of an autobiography? I remembered when the book first came out how unnerving it was to see my own face staring back at me off the shelves of my local Waterstones. Like seeing a poster of some wanted criminal.

  ‘By Scott. Hmm. Gui likes to read.’

  ‘From the number of underlinings it seems to be a favourite of his.’

  ‘Then you must sign it for him,’ said Jérôme. ‘A lot of the others are signed. Fergie’s book. Roy Keane’s. Mourinho’s. He loves having them signed. Here, let me find you a pen.’

  Jérôme pulled open a drawer and produced a Mont Blanc fountain pen which he handed to me.

  I tried to write my name, but without success.

  ‘It seems to have run out of ink,’ I said, handing it back.

  ‘I think there’s some more in the desk,’ he said, sitting down at a modern-looking table near the window. He pulled at the barrel of the pen and then frowned. It was clear he didn’t know how it worked.

  ‘It’s a piston-filler,’ I said. ‘I’ve got one at home. You unscrew the end, stick it in the ink, then screw the end back up, which sucks up the ink.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Jérôme looking at his hand. ‘It seems there was maybe some in it after all.’

  He wiped his hand on the back of his jeans.

  ‘I’ve lost a lot of white blouses like that,’ said Grace. ‘Here, give it to me.’ She took the pen, filled it with ink, wiped it carefully on a tissue from her handbag – but not without getting some ink on her own fingers – and then handed it to me.

  ‘There you go.’

  I opened the book’s title page and wrote my name and an anodyne little message for Gui about how lovely his house was and wishing him good luck with his career. Books are hard enough to write but the dedications are even harder. Especially in football. The number of times I’d written It’s a funny old game, or This is a book with two halves. Somehow good luck never seems quite enough. I handed the book to Jérôme who turned the pages as if the book had been an artefact from a time capsule. Maybe all books are. I mean, who the fuck reads any more?

  ‘Perhaps I can read this on the plane to Barcelona,’ he said. ‘But why’s it called Foul Play?’

  ‘You remember I said I’d been in jail, for something I didn’t do?’

  He nodded.

  ‘The full story of what happened is in here. How I got fitted up by the British cops for something I didn’t do. There’s that and the fact that I had a reputation on the park as a bit of a hard man. Until Richard Dunne I think I held the Premier League record for the most red cards. No, that’s not quite true. I think he holds the record jointly now with Patrick Vieira and Duncan Ferguson. Honestly, though, I was never a dirty player. Just fully committed, as they say. I never set out to injure anyone. But I do think football’s a man’s game that’s in danger of becoming just a little tame.’

  ‘Oh? How?’ He laid the book on the table and picked up his glass.

  ‘I watched Messi up close twinkling his toes at Camp Nou the other week and I was thinking in the old days, someone – Norman Hunter, Tommy Smith – would have taken his legs off at the knees. I’m not saying that’s a good thing, mind. Just that maybe the balance has gone too far the opposite way. Actually, I think that this is why a lot of European players struggle in the Premier League. Because the game is much more physical in England than it is in Spain. With one exception. Cristiano Ronaldo. I think he’s probably the most physical player I’ve ever seen. I met him once and it was like shaking hands with fucking Xerxes. The king in that movie 300 about the three hundred Spartans? The one who Leonidas tells to go and fuck himself.’

  Jérôme nodded. ‘Good movie.’

  I shrugged. ’Had its moments.’

  ‘You know, I’ve been thinking of writing a book myself,’ admitted Jérôme. ‘Oh, I don’t mean another boring autobiography about how I first got picked for Monaco and what it was like to pair up with Zlatan. No, I mean a proper book. Like the one your Russell Brand wrote?’

  ‘Oh, you mean a booky-wook.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s like a book but it’s written by Russell Brand. Which makes it a little bit different, I suppose.’

  Jérôme nodded. ‘Have you read his latest book?’ he asked. ‘It’s called Revolution.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Not yet. But I’m going to when I can get hold of a copy in French. I’m really looking forward to it.
In fact, if you see one at the airport in Pointe-à-Pitre maybe you could buy it for me. So I can look at it on the plane.’

  ‘Sure.’ I noticed he said ‘look’ not ‘read’; there’s a crucial difference that’s little appreciated by a lot of people who still buy books.

  ‘I’ve even got myself a title,’ he proclaimed.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m going to call my book The Electric Tumbrel. Like the cart that they used to transport people to the guillotine during the French Revolution. Only this one’s electric? Because we’re in a hurry to get rid of some of these people, right? The bankers and the politicians. Plus it’s modern and better for the environment, too.’

  I smiled, thinly. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to endure much of this boring lefty-crap on the private jet. If there’s one thing I hate in the world it’s a lefty with a mouth on him. Or her. Especially when they’re sporting a pair of diamond earrings and a massive gold watch.

  ‘I mean, where does it say that footballers can’t be politically engaged?’ he said. ‘And it’s not like Spain doesn’t have severe economic problems. Did you know that youth unemployment in the country is fifty-five per cent?’

  ‘Yes, I did. And it’s a tragedy.’

  ‘That’s second only to Greece. The fact is we need to politicise this generation if anything is ever going to change. We have to see past the politics if we’re going to establish a new way of governing ourselves. We need to overthrow the governments the way they did in Iceland. By mass civil disobedience. It’s the only thing that works. Because I really believe that inequality is man-made and what we can make we can also unmake. The politicians we have now are part of the problem not the solution. So, into the electric tumbrel with them, that’s what I say.’

  ‘Sure, sure, but if you don’t mind me saying so, what matters more right now is that you put this recent difficulty behind you. If you take my advice you should resume your career as quickly as possible and let your football do the talking for you. For a while, at any rate. There will be time enough for you to publish a book.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’

  ‘I know I’m right. You can say what you like when you start putting the ball in the back of the net.’

  ‘You live in London, right? Like Brand?’

  ‘I’m not sure he doesn’t live in Hollywood now,’ I said. ‘Or Utopia, for that matter.’

  Or perhaps cloud-cuckoo-land.

  ‘But yes, I live in London. In Chelsea.’

  ‘Chelsea. One day, I’d like to play for Chelsea perhaps. I think José Mourinho is probably the greatest manager in modern football.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that at Camp Nou, if I were you. Although I happen to agree. I think in terms of matches and trophies won he’s the most successful manager of the twenty-first century. Not to mention the most glamorous. Until José came along all managers in the English game were angry-looking Scotsmen in ill-fitting tracksuits, but he was the first one to look like he could walk from the technical area straight onto the pages of GQ. Like me, he’s the son of a professional football player so I’ve always felt that we have something in common. But there’s not a lot of love for José in Barcelona. Not since he was the manager at Real Madrid. Certainly not since he poked poor Tito Vilanova in the eye. Anyway, José said sorry. Which is probably just as well in the circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances do you mean?’

  ‘Because Tito Vilanova died.’

  ‘What, from a poke in the eye?’

  ‘Not from the poke in the eye. But from cancer. That’s why I say it was just as well that José apologised. Tito was just forty-five. They’re still grieving about that at Camp Nou.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me. Hey, it sounds like there’s a lot to learn about playing in Barcelona.’

  ‘That’s probably true of anywhere. But it’s especially true of Barcelona. I think you’ll like it a lot there. Catalans – they’re a little less reserved than Parisians. They’re certainly more passionate about their football. Obsesivo. About everything, I think. Politics, especially. You’ll make a lot of friends there if you say you’re in favour of a referendum on Catalonian independence. But that’s all you should say about this. They’ll ask you but don’t ever let on which side you’d vote for. Best to keep your powder dry on that one.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘You’ll read a lot of crap in the newspapers – or online – about how the club is unhappy and going through a difficult phase. Actually, I don’t think that’s true. Yes, they lost a couple of key players in January; and there’s a transfer ban until 2016 that’s to do with some kids having the wrong documents. Which is bullshit. And who knows if Messi gets on with Luis Enrique or not? But they’re only a point behind Real and getting better all the time. Financially, the club is better off than it’s ever been. Annual revenues are more than five hundred million euros. Only Real does better with just over six hundred. There’s no tyrant king who needs keeping sweet. They’re even opening an office in New York to sell the club abroad. About the one thing I’d do is try to bring Johan Cruyff back into the Barca fold. At the moment he’s having a protracted sulk at his home in Sarrià-Sant Gervasi. Like Achilles I think he’s the key to future victory.’ This time I didn’t wait for him to look blank. ‘A Greek hero. Troy. Brad Pitt.’

  ‘Oh, right. Of course. Great movie. Things never clicked for me at Parc des Princes in Paris the way things worked in Monaco. Believe me, it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I just hope it can work out for me at Camp Nou.’

  ‘Of course it can. You’re still young. Listen, Gerard Piqué was just twenty-one when he left Man U to play for Barca. Now there’s a player who hardly ever made the team back in Manchester. But within months of starting work under Guardiola he was one of the best defenders in the world. Guardiola would probably tell you that Piqué was his best signing. In the World Cup squad at twenty-three. Married to Shakira. He even has his own video game. Man U let him go for just eight million euros; they’d have to pay six or seven times that now. Maybe more. That kind of success can be yours, too, Jérôme. I’m convinced of it. In a year’s time, with any luck, PSG will feel the same way about you that Man U do now about Piqué.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I know so. I can smell it. The sweet smell of success for you.’

  ‘I’d like my own PlayStation game,’ said Jérôme. ‘There’s millions to be made in the games industry.’

  I nodded. It was increasingly clear that Jérôme Dumas was a man of contradictions. It was equally clear it was going to be a long flight back to Spain.

  ‘Me, I can smell dinner,’ said Grace, changing the subject. ‘And I’m starving. I feel like I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’

  Jérôme grinned. ‘After what you said I thought I’d ask Charlotte to make something for us. She’s a very good cook. Doesn’t touch alcohol but loves food. We’ve got foie gras, lobster and everything. She was trained in Paris so she knows just how fastidious French people like Gui and me are about food.’

  ‘Which makes me wonder why so many of them bother to come to Guadeloupe at all,’ I said. ‘You’d think that this was a place to be avoided.’

  Jérôme led us into the dining room.

  ‘It’s cheap to get here,’ he said. ‘That’s why. The French government subsidises the air fares and the cruise prices to make sure the tourism industry here is thriving. It costs a lot more to travel from London to Antigua. That way they think they can keep the locals happy. More or less. And it satisfies those French who want some winter sun but are too cheap to go to St Barts.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come here in the first place?’

  He grinned. ‘You’re staying at Jumby Bay and you need to ask? Guadeloupe has got nothing like that. Besides, my dad lives on Antigua. There’s all that and there’s Sky Sports. Jumby Bay has got Sky. And that means football on the telly. Whenever you want it
. Almost.’

  I had to admit he had a point there.

  Charlotte served a superb dinner which put us all in a very good mood. And afterwards Jérôme made us some excellent coffee and then helped us to some of Gui’s vintage Armagnac. He was a good host like that but probably a bad house-guest for the same reason.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘are you ready to travel back to Barcelona with me and face the music?’

  ‘I’m still a bit worried about my dad. But yes, I am.’

  ‘That’s good. I’ll try to send a text to them tonight and have a private jet sent here within twenty-four hours to fly us back to Spain.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Jérôme. ‘Sending a text, I mean.’

  ‘You’re right. Perhaps I’d better call them from the hotel. Look, I have to go back to Antigua to collect the rest of my stuff from Jumby Bay. I’ll do that first thing in the morning and then be back here to fly to Spain with you, tomorrow night. I’ll tell them, in confidence, about your father and arrange for you to have some compassionate leave as soon as possible. You can take your medical, do the press conference and be back here to visit your dad in a week or two.’

  ‘In the meantime, don’t worry,’ said Grace. ‘I’m quite hopeful that as soon as Antigua’s director of public prosecutions has had a chance to review the police evidence they’ll see this was a clear case of self-defence, and agree with my submission that this doesn’t warrant a murder charge. Once that has happened I’m very confident that we can get your dad bail.’

  ‘Thank you. Both of you.’ He shook his head.

  ‘What?’ asked Grace.

  ‘I feel such a fool, really,’ he admitted. ‘To have overreacted in the way I did. It’s just that I’ve grown very close to my father.’

  ‘Forget about it,’ I said. ‘A lot of people would probably have done the same as you. I’m very close to my own father, myself. If he’d been facing a murder charge I’m not sure I could have left him to sweat it out on his own.’