January Window

by Philip Kerr

  Sonja wears a lot of nice Max Mara suits, good shoes and stockings. It’s her Dr Melfi look, which I find almost as sexy as her arse in an orange tracksuit. Unlike a lot of the girls she treats, Sonja has a great-looking arse – she works out a lot – and if I mention her arse so fondly it’s because the part of me that’s still a player seems to find it easier talking about how attractive and sexy my girlfriend is than saying how much I love her, which I do. Like a lot of men in football I find it hard to discuss my feelings; being a shrink she’s aware of that and makes allowances. At least I think she does. She knew I was already upset about what had happened to Didier Cassell and then to Drenno, which was why I didn’t talk about it; and until the day of the Newcastle match I really thought that the worst had already happened. But in truth it hadn’t, not by a long chalk.

  I expect Ukrainians like Viktor Sokolnikov have all sort of poetic proverbs and sayings for it, but where I come from we just say this: that troubles come in a packet of three.

  14

  Zarco and I always picked the team in his office at Hangman’s Wood before boarding the coach to Silvertown Dock. Organising a squad of overpaid, often intellectually challenged young men can be like herding cats and it’s always better if everyone arrives at the stadium as a team to avoid any confusion.

  There’s a lot of bullshit talked about choosing the tactics before you choose the team but here’s a truth: unless you want to rest someone for a more important fixture you always pick the very best players available to you. It’s really that simple. Anything else is just Fantasy fucking Football. The press loves to speculate that one player has been picked at the expense of another – to cause trouble, if they can – but if someone has been left on the bench there’s usually a damn good reason, and more often than not it’s simply to do with fitness and attitude. Attitude is even more important than fitness because even when a player is fully fit, he’ll sometimes get it into his head that he’s not playing well. And if there’s one thing that a manager or a coach is paid to do, it’s to try and fix whatever is going wrong in a player’s mind. To that extent it’s useful living with a psychiatrist, as she gives me some good tips on motivation.

  Of course, now and then you get a player who pulls a sickie and claims that he’s not fully fit, although this isn’t nearly as common these days. Thankfully physios are better able than ever to find out if a player is bullshitting you about a niggling muscle or hamstring, and to treat it, too: electrotherapy, ultrasound, lasers, magnetotherapy, diathermy and traction therapy can fix a lot of problems in a short period of time. If all else fails you can always inject some cortisone into a joint that’s giving pain, and few players are even remotely keen on that solution; the truth is it hurts to have a needle pushed four or five millimetres into a leg. It hurts like buggery.

  After we’d picked the team, Zarco left early in his own car to attend Viktor’s lunch, grumbling about how he had better things to do on the day of a match than meet with a lot of Greenwich planning officers and town councillors. Apart from that he was in a very good mood and loudly confident that we were going to stuff it to the Toon.

  I waited for the team to show up at the training ground and boarded the coach with them. There are always one or two who manage to be late and in those cases I have to order them to pay a fine. But today was different; two players were late for the team coach but these were my two Africans – Kwame Botchwey and John Ayensu were both from Ghana – and I had a very good reason for wanting them on my side so for once, fines were not imposed.

  We arrived at Silvertown Dock at about the same time as the Newcastle team and let them go in first in order to avoid confusing the sports reporters, who were waiting in the players’ tunnel to watch the yobs walk into the dressing room. In their woolly hats and big Dr Dre headphones, and dragging carry-on luggage containing all their personal items, our yobs looked much like the Toon yobs. Besides, I had an extra reason to want to keep the two teams apart for as long as possible.

  Fit or not, everyone in the team is obliged to turn up for the team coach on a match day; that’s how it works. Even the players who are injured or on the transfer list like Ayrton Taylor are required to put in an appearance, although generally speaking they can remain in their normal clothes. In Taylor’s case this seemed to involve looking like a tramp, which, after the match, was going to cost him a fine: at Silvertown Dock it’s jackets and ties for players who aren’t playing through injury or for disciplinary reasons.

  I shook hands with the Newcastle management and coaching team: Alan Pardew, John Carver, Steve Stone and Peter Beardsley. I have a lot of time for Beardsley. People talk about Lionel Messi but, in his prime for the Toons, Beardsley was very like Messi. Like him, Beards could beat three men, get tripped, stay on his feet and score a beauty with either foot. Christ, he even looked like Messi. Some of these arrogant young bastards today should be honoured just to be on the same coach as Peter Beardsley.

  Team sheets were exchanged and I gave theirs and ours to a club spokesman to read them out to the waiting reporters. As usual it was all filmed for London City TV and must have made some very boring television; then again, some fans will watch anything to do with football.

  Feeling the butterflies now – I always get them before a match, even more now that I’m no longer playing – I went along to our dressing room and waited for Zarco to show up and do his pre-match talk. He was pretty good at this kind of thing. There was no one better at understanding and motivating men; he inspires loyalty and players just want to do well for him. If he hadn’t been a football manager he’d have made a very good general, I think. But not a politician: he was much too direct and straight-talking to be a politician, although in my humble opinion what this country needs most is someone to tell us that we’re all a bunch of lazy cunts.

  The game was supposed to kick off at 4 p.m. but it was now nearly three and Zarco still wasn’t here, so I picked up the dressing-room landline and I was about to call the dining room when Phil Hobday put his head around the door; he might have been club chairman but he wasn’t above running the odd errand for Viktor Sokolnikov. Phil was smooth and talked the same language as Viktor; he was fond of comparing football clubs to big companies like Rolls-Royce, or Jaguar, or Barclays Bank. For Phil, London City was a company just like Thames Water. I’d learned a lot from Phil Hobday.

  ‘Do you know where João is, Scott?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact I was just calling the dining room to tell him to get his arse down here.’

  Hobday shook his head. ‘He was there until about an hour ago, when he took a call and left. When he didn’t return we thought he must have come down here. Viktor’s pretty angry that he just buggered off like that without saying goodbye to any of his guests. Even he’s gone to look for him.’

  ‘Well, Zarco’s not in here as you can see. Although I rather wish he was.’ I shrugged. ‘I take it you’ve called his mobile.’

  ‘Tried. Several times. But it’s pointless. The signal here on a match day is awful, as I’m sure you know.’

  I nodded. ‘Sixty thousand people trying to get reception. You might just as well get a word from God.’

  ‘Is it possible he went to say hello to the Newcastle manager?’

  ‘That’s highly unlikely. There’s not much love lost between those two. Besides, it’s not considered appropriate to go into the other side’s dressing room before a match in case you hear anything you shouldn’t.’

  ‘Talking of which – look, you don’t think…’

  Hobday beckoned me outside the dressing room for a moment.

  ‘You don’t think he’s with – with her?’

  ‘Who would that be, Phil?’

  ‘Come on, Scott. Stop trying to cover for him. You know exactly who I’m talking about: our lady of the needles – Claire Barry. I know she must be in the ground because I just saw her old man in one of the hospitality bars upstairs.’

  ‘Honestly? I’m sure he’s not with her. Loo
k, nothing is more important to João Zarco before a match than the match itself. You know that. Not Greenwich Borough Council, not her, not a quick shag in a broom cupboard. If he’s not with you then this is where he would be.’ I frowned. ‘You are telling me everything, aren’t you, Phil?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s not had another row with Viktor and walked out? You know what he’s like. Sometimes he can be quite petulant.’

  Phil shook his head. ‘No. Absolutely not. They were the best of friends, upstairs. Really.’

  I shook my head. ‘Look, perhaps he got caught short, or something. Maybe he’s in the bog. I’m sure he’ll turn up. This is an important match. I’d look for him, only I’ve got to take charge of the warm-up. I’ll call Maurice and see if he can find him. If anyone can, he can.’

  ‘All right. Thanks, Scott.’

  Phil went back to join Viktor’s important guests, who were probably tucking into their lunch. Hobday didn’t drink, himself, which was a pity as Viktor always served the best wines in the executive dining room. I could have used a large glass of Puligny-Montrachet myself.

  I called Maurice on the landline and explained the situation.

  ‘I’ll get straight on it,’ he said.

  ‘And make sure you check the bogs, in case he’s had an accident.’

  I think that was the first time it crossed my mind that something might have happened to Zarco. He was a strong, fit man but you read all kinds of things about managers having heart attacks – almost half the football managers in the English league have had significant heart problems: Gérard Houllier, Glenn Roeder, Dario Gradi, Alex Ferguson, Joe Kinnear, Barry Fry, Graham Souness. As high-pressure jobs go, football management is one of the worst. When you’re a player you can run that feeling off as soon as you go on the pitch; but a manager has to sit there and take it. Just look at Arsène Wenger’s face during a game at the Emirates and tell me that he’s a man who’s relaxed about watching his team; and Arsenal are doing well right now.

  I took the lads outside for the warm-up and tried to concentrate on the game in hand; the music on the loudspeakers in the ground hardly helped: it was Puff Daddy’s ‘I’ll be Missing You’. By now I was certain that something must have happened to the Portuguese. Hadn’t I seen him rubbing his arm and his chest that same morning as if he was in pain? I also spent some time checking out the opposition, who were warming up in the other half. Aaron Abimbole was playing and always reminded me of Patrick Vieira, the way he dominated the midfield: tall, with quick feet, good technique, aggressive and very brave, he was everything you want in a player. Well, almost. He had two faults: he was a greedy cunt and he was fucking lazy; sometimes he just wasn’t in the mood, and that was why City had let him go. But that afternoon he already looked like he was itching to score against his old club, which left me starting to get a pain myself. This was some extra pressure I didn’t need.

  After we’d warmed up I brought the lads back into the dressing room hoping to find Zarco there, but in the doorway I met Maurice, who was shaking his head.

  ‘Can’t find the cunt,’ he murmured.

  ‘Keep looking.’

  Maurice nodded. ‘Tell you what, though. There are some right bastards out there if he has gone missing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Unfriendly faces. That is, unfriendly to Zarco. Sean Barry for one.’

  ‘He’s a City supporter. Why the fuck would he be unfriendly?’

  ‘Because he knows that Zarco’s been banging his missus. That’s why.’

  ‘Shit. Look, Maurice, I don’t have time for this. Call him at home. Call him at the fucking Ivy if you have to, just find him.’

  I turned to face the dressing room.

  ‘Right,’ I said, ‘listen up. The boss is feeling a bit Uncle Dick so I’m going to do the talking today. That means I talk, and you listen. Got that?’ I repeated this in Spanish and then spoke in English again, doing the same all the way through my team talk:

  ‘All right, here’s the deal. Normally I’d be telling you that the number one threat out there this afternoon is going to be Aaron Abimbole, and to mark him like you were tied to him with a piece of red rope. But instead we’re going to fuck with his mind and here’s how. We’re going to neutralise him. And this goes especially for you, Kwame, and for you, John.’

  They both nodded keenly.

  ‘The last time we played those Geordie boys I noticed you two were very friendly with Aaron, even though he wasn’t playing. That was fine. I get that. You’re friends. But this is a big game and this time it’s going to be different. The fact is that man still feels just a little bit guilty about the way he left this club for more money. I want to exploit that feeling. So, when we’re in the players’ tunnel waiting to go out onto the park I want you to blank him, like he was Idi Amin and Charles Taylor and Laurent Kabila and Jerry fucking Rawlings all rolled up into the one shithead. Kwame and John will tell the rest of you ignorant bastards who those guys are later. Don’t get me wrong. Aaron is a nice fellow. I never met a nicer one. But being in England has not been easy for him. He’s never settled and it’s my impression that he misses home a lot. Seeing you two African lads here today is a little touch of home that he appreciates. Only you’re going to disappoint him, okay? After the game you can be as friendly as you like with him. But when you see him outside in the tunnel I want you to treat him like herpes. This goes for all of you. You don’t shake his hand. You don’t smile at him. It won’t matter quite so much when he gets the cold shoulder from the white guys. But from Kwame and John it will fucking hurt. This is his old club, see? He thinks he can come back here with no hard feelings. Well, we have to make him think again about that. And just to rub it in I want you to treat the rest of those Toons like they were your best friends when you’re in the tunnel. All of them. It’s just Aaron I want singled out for special treatment. When he goes out on that park I want to see his bottom lip quivering like someone just stole his fucking train set.’

  Kwame and John thought that this was a great idea – they were laughing and grinning at each other.

  ‘That big stupid bastard is going to be so pissed off after the game when we tell him,’ they said.

  ‘Yeah, don’t tell him it was my idea. I’ve got enough on my plate this afternoon without having to worry about him sticking one on me.’

  ‘What about the official team handshake?’ asked Kwame. ‘Do we blank him then, too?’

  ‘Absolutely, yes,’ I said. ‘Like he was fucking invisible.’

  Minutes later, in the tunnel, I watched carefully as our players lined up quietly, ready to walk onto the pitch. Aaron Abimbole swaggered out of the Toon dressing room, no doubt feeling quite at home, grinning his big grin and glad-handing one or two officials; and he looked genuinely taken aback when he offered a brother’s handshake to Kwame Botchwey and the Ghanaian turned the other way. I could almost hear him swallow his disappointment as John Ayensu did the same. But he kept grinning for a few moments longer as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

  ‘S’a matter with you guys? What’s wiv the dis?’ asked the Nigerian. ‘Something wrong wid you?’

  Ayensu ignored him and bent around Abimbole to shake the Newcastle goalkeeper’s hand.

  Since his arrival in London Abimbole had managed to learn some Brixton black man argot; he was a quick learner.

  ‘What’s cracking, bruv? Break it down for me, man. How come you trying to flex on me?’

  By now Abimbole didn’t know where to put himself and looked about as isolated and lonely a figure as if he was already on another transfer list: even his own Newcastle team mates seemed to sense that something was wrong and started to blank him, too, which was strange. The two Ghanaians had played their parts to perfection, so much so that I thought Aaron Abimbole was going to cry; and he was the last man to leave the tunnel.

  But for a while it was a tactic that looked as if it had gone badly wrong. With just
ten minutes of the game gone, Aaron Abimbole scored with a skilful chip when he saw our bright new goalkeeper off his line. It was a sucker goal and left me feeling a fool for having spent nine million quid on someone who looked like he was still keeping goal at Tynecastle, where skills like Abimbole’s were in much shorter supply. So much for the Scotsman’s idea of keeping a clean sheet for the rest of the season. Fuck off.

  Now Abimbole was pumped up like a car tyre with a score to settle against his old club and threatened again just three minutes later. This time our new signing made a great save that spared everyone’s blushes and it’s fair to say that while anyone could have saved the Nigerian’s first shot, no one but Traynor could have saved his second; suddenly the nine mill looked like a much better spend.

  And then – ‘innocent face’ – it all went spectacularly wrong for Aaron Abimbole. For several minutes he was everywhere – you couldn’t have asked for a better work rate – and yet to my mind he needed to calm down: it was almost like he needed to prove himself, not just to the Newcastle fans but also to the City fans, too, who booed every time he went near the ball. I could see Alan Pardew felt the same. On the edge of his technical area he was shouting at Abimbole to stay in position and to pace himself. But the Nigerian wasn’t listening to anything except the blood roaring in his curiously shaped ears.

  A couple of minutes later, having read Dominguin’s pass to Xavier Pepe on the edge of the box as if it had been sent by Western Union, Abimbole launched himself from behind at the little Spaniard with both feet, all his not inconsiderable weight, and more studs showing than an England ruck; he virtually chopped the other man’s legs in half. I’ve seen riders come off superbikes at Monza who were moving slower than Abimbole was when he intercepted Pepe. It wasn’t so much a sliding tackle as an assault with intent to commit actual bodily harm and the referee didn’t hesitate, showing him a straight red card that brought the whole of Silvertown Dock to its feet, cheering wildly for although we were a goal down, you could see the effect on the Newcastle players at the Nigerian’s dismissal. I might have felt sorry for the boy if I hadn’t been so concerned about Xavier Pepe, who had yet to move after the tackle.