Own Goal

by Tom Palmer

  Charlotte. Please will you do a survey for me at school? Ask people three questions. One, do they like football? Two, do they have satellite TV? Three, do they support Forza? I need 100 people at least. Love D xxx

  Danny knew she would do it. She was amazing. She would probably ask 200 people and collate the results for him. All in no time using Facebook and various chat rooms. And she’d do it without wanting to know why.

  This was how they were now. Danny and Charlotte. They could operate without having to ask loads of questions of each other. They’d been through a lot together.

  Danny felt safe about this. But one thing he did not feel safe about was how Theo Gibbs was going to affect their friendship. But there was no time for thinking about that. Not now.

  Danny left the City fans, who were being led to the right, and walked around the other side of the stadium to the main gates, like Sam Roberts had told him to. At the gate he showed a special pass that Roberts had left at his hotel and he was led in to be greeted by a young woman with dark hair and eyes. She reminded him of Charlotte.

  ‘Theese way, Meester Harte,’ the young woman said, leading him to a red-carpeted entrance. But that was about all she did say. And Danny wished he could speak Italian, so he would be able to say more than ‘thank you’ and ‘please’.

  There were thousands of people milling around, all wearing the Forza FC scarves and tops Danny had come to hate. But here they seemed OK. He didn’t object to people supporting Forza in the city where they played. That was like him following City. What he hated was the fact that people like Theo Gibbs and six-year-olds in Brazil were becoming Forza fans.

  Danny’s mind quickly returned to Salvatore Fo. He was aware that he was entering a stadium where the big boss was his enemy and that it was a risk that he might see him again. But, as he had texted Anton Holt and arranged to meet him, that would be his safety net.

  And he had a lot to tell Anton.

  Anton met Danny in the players’ lounge as soon as he heard Danny had arrived. Kick-off was less than half an hour away.

  The lounge was a large room with a high ceiling. In England, Danny had been in three or four players’ lounges – the place footballers came to after the game to relax and to meet the club’s sponsors. They had been nice, but they always had low ceilings with polystyrene tiles like at school. Just plain rooms with pictures screwed to the wall, named after a famous player of the past that changed every few seasons. But this was nice. There were several marble tables around the edge of the room, laid out with drinks and food. Waiters, impeccably dressed, walked round with trays to serve the guests. There were dozens of posh sofas. Chandeliers. It was a bit like the hotel back by the lake.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Danny,’ Anton said, holding a glass of water at his side. ‘I can’t really stop, but I’ll catch up with you properly after the match. I have to sort out my notes for my match report now.’

  ‘But there’s something I need to tell you,’ Danny said. ‘I’ve found some stuff out.’

  He felt slightly irritated by Anton. He’d already texted him to say that he had found out something big.

  Anton looked Danny in the eye. He sighed. ‘OK. I’m sorry. Tell me.’

  This was Anton acknowledging that, in the past, he had ignored Danny’s instinct for crime, maybe even treated him like a child.

  ‘I went to Salvatore Fo’s house,’ Danny said quietly.

  ‘You did what?’ Holt nearly choked on his drink. ‘Danny! Are you mad?’

  Danny lowered his voice more. ‘It’s OK. I was with my mum. It was on a tourist trip.’

  Holt led Danny to the corner of the room. Danny glanced over his shoulder out of a huge window. There he could see the pitch that he had seen on the TV. Under the lights, packed with tens of thousands of fans, the scene was breathtaking.

  But Danny had some talking to do. He was not here to admire the view.

  ‘Can we make this quick?’ Holt said. ‘Just give me the bones of it now. We can talk more after. OK?’

  Danny nodded. This meant he had two minutes to tell Holt about what could be one of the greatest sporting crimes in the history of the world.

  ‘Right,’ he started. ‘You know how everyone is supporting Forza in England?’

  ‘I know how you go on about it,’ Holt grinned.

  Danny ignored the jibe, saying nothing.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Holt conceded. ‘I’ve been planning to write something about it.’

  ‘Well, I think I know why it’s happening.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘When I recorded the City–Forza game at home, I paused it to watch Kofi’s own goal.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And it froze on a weird screen that said, “Support Forza FC. Your team. Your success.”’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Danny said, getting his iPhone out and showing Holt the image.

  ‘That does look weirdly familiar,’ Holt muttered, squinting.

  ‘And when I sneaked into Fo’s office …’ Danny went on.

  ‘What?’ Holt put his hand to his head and his glass down.

  ‘When I sneaked into Fo’s office … I found the image in some papers.’

  Holt nodded. He was listening now.

  ‘And when my mum and I met Fo …’

  ‘You met Fo? How? He’s impossible to meet.’ Holt looked astonished.

  ‘When we met him, he – well, how can I put it – he fancied my mum and he showed her round his art collection. Like a load of blotches of nothing, that, when you squint at them and put your head on its side, you can see Jesus. He talked a lot about it. And I asked my mum about it. And she said it was called –’

  ‘Subliminal,’ Holt interrupted.

  Danny nodded. Holt was staring out of the window. Danny knew this meant Holt was thinking. He also knew not to interrupt.

  The players’ lounge was quiet now. Most people had gone out into the executive boxes. Where Danny was meant to be sitting too. He gazed over at the City end. That was where he really wanted to be. With the real fans. So he could sing and chant and shout City on.

  Holt glanced around nervously.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ he asked, in a low voice. ‘The match is about to kick off.’

  ‘Erm … I got chased by gunmen when they found me in Fo’s office. I had to leave my phone there. So I went back in a boat at 3 a.m. and Fo was there and he was talking about something to do with City and the Cayman Islands and how he might be interested in buying the club out. Then he saw me. And I think I got chased. And I capsized my boat to escape.’

  Anton Holt now had his head in both hands.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘you’d better come and watch the match with me.’

  FIRST HALF

  Danny had watched a football match sitting in a press area before. In Russia. That day he’d had two crazed football chairmen to deal with. Today there was only one. And Fo was, thankfully, nowhere to be seen.

  Danny sat next to Holt on a cushioned blue seat, a computer screen filled with facts in front of him. Holt explained to him it was provided by UEFA: up-to-the-minute match stats that journalists were free to use in their reports.

  Both teams started cautiously, as they had in England.

  It was 1–1 after the first leg. Forza would win on the away goals rule if the match ended 0–0, so the Italian team had no need to take risks. That meant City needed to score.

  So Danny was increasingly delighted, as the match went on, to see his team attacking more and more.

  He was also happy to see his friend Kofi Danquah on the pitch. He had been worried Kofi would be dropped after his own goal in the first leg.

  Danny was not happy, however, to hear from a section of the Italian fans when Kofi was on the ball. It was a kind of hooting noise. Danny knew it was racist chanting, that they were making the monkey noises y
ou sometimes heard fans in Italy, Spain and Eastern Europe make. He was glad to see Kofi was not affected by them; in fact, Kofi was playing really well. Danny could see from the match stats on Anton’s screen that Kofi had had the most touches of the ball and that he had completed the most passes.

  After about fifteen minutes of football, Holt passed Danny a note. Show me the image on your phone again.

  Danny showed him it.

  Holt nodded and turned away.

  Just as he did, Danny saw Kofi powering down the far wing. He tricked a defender to win himself time and crossed the ball into the six-yard box. Anthony Owusu leapt up to head the ball.

  Danny was on his feet before it hit the back of the net. He knew it was a goal. No question. He shouted, unable to control himself, ‘YEEEE-AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!’

  His celebrations were so loud, several people jumped and Danny felt Holt’s hand on his arm.

  Holt grimaced. ‘Sit down.’

  Danny sat down and looked sheepishly around. Some of the Italian journalists were glaring at him.

  He put his head down and smiled, listening to the City fans celebrate.

  That had shut the racists up, anyway.

  ‘Can we talk, now we’re winning?’ Danny asked Holt.

  ‘No. Not here. I know it’s a huge story. And I believe you. But it’s not safe in this stadium. We’ll meet tonight. After the game. I’ll come to your hotel.’

  ‘OK,’ Danny said. But he felt deeply anxious. He wanted to do something about it now.

  The remainder of the first half did not go so well.

  The Forza crowd had been getting more and more unpleasant. More racism aimed at City’s black players. More whistling at their own team. It was a very different atmosphere from games in England.

  After twenty-seven minutes two Forza players went down in the City area following a corner kick. The referee pointed to the spot.

  ‘Never a penalty!’ Danny shouted, glancing up to see one of the Italian journalists gesturing to him.

  Holt kept quiet.

  Moments later, Sam Roberts stepped up and scored the penalty for Forza.

  1–1.

  The crowd went wild, bouncing up and down, twirling their scarves above their heads.

  Danny refused to look up at the Italians.

  ‘That was never a penalty,’ he said to Holt.

  ‘I know,’ Holt muttered.

  Then Danny remembered something. ‘Do people still bribe referees?’

  ‘Yes,’ Holt said. ‘But I doubt it would happen in a match this big.’

  ‘Didn’t it happen in a European final once?’ Danny was remembering the contents of Fo’s desk.

  ‘Yes. Leeds–Milan,’ Holt said. ‘Leeds were cheated out of two European trophies. The referee even admitted it.’

  Danny scowled.

  A few minutes before half-time things got even worse.

  Sam Roberts was dominating the game now, like he used to for City. As play moved into first half injury time, he hammered the ball at the goal from thirty yards. A speculative shot. It smashed off the bar and – in Danny’s judgement – bounced off the line and into the City keeper’s arms.

  No goal.

  Danny watched Roberts’ reaction. He had accepted it hadn’t gone in, and had turned to track back up field.

  But then Danny heard the roar. The roar of the Forza fans celebrating because the referee had pointed to the centre spot for a restart, meaning he’d given a goal.

  Danny stared at the pitch. Then at the giant TV screen above the stand opposite. They were showing the action replay. He watched as it screamed over the City keeper and bounced down off the bar. Then he saw it bounce on the line and come back into play.

  ‘No goal!’ Danny shouted.

  Then he looked up to see several Italian journalists waving pieces of paper at him, cheering.

  He fixed his eyes back on the screen. But the footage of the goal-that-wasn’t had been replaced now. By a giant image of Salvatore Fo, who was wearing the same smug grin he’d worn at City FC when Kofi had scored his own goal.

  Danny felt sick. It was 2–1 to Forza. 3–2 on aggregate. City were losing and going out of the Champions League.

  As the match went on, his mind went back to the corridors at school. Seeing Theo Gibbs laughing. And all the other so-called Forza fans. And for some reason, in this hideous anti-fantasy, he could see Charlotte too. Standing with Theo. Had Theo been telling the truth? Was he really going out with Charlotte? And why did that bother Danny so much?

  Then there was Fo. Danny had met a lot of dodgy people in football. But Fo was the worst. And he was getting away with murder. The murder of football.

  Danny felt a wave of anger sweeping through him like he’d never felt before.

  This was too much.

  If City lost this, he wasn’t sure if he could handle it.

  SECOND HALF

  Half-time was difficult.

  All the journalists came out of the padded blue seating area of the stadium, up a short staircase and into a large room. At one end of the room there was a bar, where journalists were stood talking and drinking espresso.

  Danny followed Holt to the bar. He got several smirks and a couple of pats on the back from Italians. They were rubbing it in: Forza were beating City. And all Danny could feel was a deep sense of injustice. There was no way Forza should be 2–1 up. Both their goals had been dodgy.

  When he was standing with Holt – and Holt’s two friends who wrote about football in other newspapers – Danny couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘There’s something dodgy about this game,’ he seethed.

  Holt grinned at his friends. ‘Danny sees conspiracy everywhere.’

  Danny felt even more angry now. What did Holt mean by that?

  ‘Was it a penalty?’ he said. ‘Did that ball cross the line for Roberts’ goal?’

  ‘That’s football, Danny,’ Holt said, shooting him a warning look.

  He thinks I’m going to talk about Fo, Danny thought. And he felt like it. He hated the way Holt was making him wait before they sorted that out.

  ‘That’s how it is in Italy,’ the younger of the two other journalists cut in. ‘You come to a country like Italy or Spain and the atmosphere forces the referee to make decisions in favour of the home team. It’s the same when there’s a game in front of a big crowd in England.’

  ‘It doesn’t make it fair,’ Danny said. ‘I think Fo –’

  ‘Do you want another drink, Danny?’ Holt grabbed Danny’s coffee and started to lead him over to the bar. Once they were away from the others, he spoke again.

  ‘Keep that under your hat, Danny!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Holt asked. ‘Because one, we need to corroborate all the facts you’ve found out – or we’ll end up in an Italian prison. And two, we’re in Fo’s stadium now and we have to be careful – God knows what could happen.’

  Danny folded his arms and frowned.

  ‘You’re behaving like a kid, Danny,’ Holt said. ‘You need to think more.’

  Danny looked at Holt again. ‘I am a kid,’ he said.

  The second half did not start well. Forza were going for the jugular.

  They attacked in wave after wave. Danny thought it was just a matter of time before they scored again – and silenced the City fans, who were still singing as loudly as the 70,000 Italians.

  But with just ten minutes to go, something changed.

  The Italian fans were becoming gradually quieter now. And the Italian journalists around Danny were looking fidgety. A sense of nervousness was passing through the stadium like a Mexican wave.

  And Danny knew why: there’d been a psychological shift.

  Instead of Forza needing one goal to put the result beyond City, City only needed one goal to draw level and win on away goals. Forza would not ha
ve time to reply in the few minutes that were left.

  And Danny couldn’t stop himself. ‘COME ON CITY! COME OOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!’

  For the second time in the match, several Italian journalists jumped. Danny noticed a few of them scowling at him, and some still grinning, as Holt dragged him into his seat.

  But Danny was glad of it. He hated their smugness.

  With three minutes to go, City attacked. Danny looked at the clock. He knew this would be their last – or second last – attack. Kofi got the ball thirty yards out. Forza were stretched, the keeper off his line.

  Kofi shot.

  The ball dipped as it headed to the goal. And Danny stood up.

  ‘Come OOOOOOOOOONNNN!’ he shouted.

  But the ball went straight into the keeper’s arms, to the sound of more racist chanting at a raised volume from the Forza fans. They knew they were minutes away from the Champions League final.

  Danny sat back down to feel a tap on his shoulder.

  ‘Go back to play in England,’ an Italian voice said behind him. ‘Leave Europe to the important teams.’

  Danny didn’t even look round.

  And it was a good thing he didn’t. Because, when the Forza keeper had thrown the ball out, Kofi had sprinted back to challenge the defender who was in possession. Just to put pressure on him, in case he made a mistake.

  And it worked!

  The defender mis-hit the ball, leaving Kofi in control with only one other defender to beat.

  The Forza fans went eerily quiet and all Danny could hear now was the City fans roaring.

  This was it: the point in the game where everything could change – or might just stay the same.

  Danny watched as Kofi used all his amazing pace to draw the defender to the right of the penalty area. Then the Ghanaian turned and suddenly was one-on-one with the keeper.

  The keeper ran ten yards off his line and stood tall to put Kofi off.

  He’s expecting a chip, Danny thought.

  Kofi made as if to chip the ball over the keeper.

  The keeper leapt up.

  And Danny watched Kofi roll the ball underneath the keeper, who was trying to turn in midair to do something about stopping it.