Own Goal

by Tom Palmer

  He hit the door going out to the corridor and headed back the way he’d come.

  He knew, deep down, that his chances of getting out of the stadium without being seen were low, his chances of escaping from Fo almost impossible.

  So what now?

  Give up?

  Never.

  He needed to find a way out of this. And the best way to do that was to think about the books he’d read.

  When had he read about this kind of scenario in one of his dad’s crime thrillers? Several times. And what had they done?

  He tried to think. He could only remember chases and fights. But he didn’t fancy that.

  And then it came. Like it always did.

  One hero in a crime story – he couldn’t remember which one – had been unable to get away from his enemy. So instead of running away he’d got close.

  So Danny ran.

  Hard.

  Up the corridor. Past the group of people speaking English, all of whom had stopped in shock at the noise and chaos Danny had created. Towards the double doors marked PRESS CONFERENCE ROOM, where he could hear a murmur of voices and camera clicks.

  And, without a thought, he burst through the doors.

  Then he stopped.

  Because Danny found himself facing the world’s TV, newspaper and radio media. Cameras trained on him. Microphones aimed at him. One hundred faces looking up at him, pausing to take a breath to hear what this boy who had just crashed a major sporting press conference had to say.

  His first thought was, I’m safe.

  His second thought was, What the hell am I going to say to them?

  LIVE FROM FORZA FC

  Danny swallowed hard. He knew he had to speak now – or he’d be dragged away like some football hooligan from a fight.

  He was standing on a stage.

  To his left was a long table where Salvatore Fo was sitting in front of a large bunch of microphones. Next to Fo were Umberto Calvino, the Forza FC manager, and Sam Roberts. And, on the table, a small marble model of the Forza stadium.

  The rest of the room, offstage, was filled with over a hundred seats, all packed with journalists. At the back were dozens of lights and cameras, all clicking. Danny saw everyone swivel towards him. The bright lights were beguiling.

  Given the unique opportunity to tell the world about one of the darkest crimes in the history of football, Danny froze.

  His mind went blank.

  His mouth went dry.

  He just stood there.

  And, to make it worse, a murmuring was growing in the room. Short snorts of laughter. All aimed at Danny.

  And then he heard a voice. A familiar voice.

  ‘Anton Holt. Evening Post, England. Is there anything you would like to tell us?’

  Danny took a breath. The room had gone quiet again.

  ‘I … er … I … have some information,’ Danny stuttered, grateful that his friend had rescued him.

  Another silence followed. A silence Danny knew that he had to fill. He steeled himself. No messing about. Just straight to it.

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘Salvatore Fo is using subliminal images on TV screens across the world that brainwash people into supporting Forza FC.’

  There. He’d said it.

  Suddenly the room exploded with laughter. Everyone was looking at the table, at Fo.

  Danny looked at him too. He was writing something on a large sheet of paper, a broad grin on his face. Once he had finished, he held it up:

  THIS ENGLISH CHILD IS CRAZY.

  But then another voice interrupted the mockery. An Italian voice.

  ‘Mona Levi, investigative journalist, Italian Press Agency.’

  Danny looked at the woman. She was standing. She had short dark hair and was wearing a silver scarf around her neck. And when she started to speak, the room went deadly quiet.

  ‘Can you tell us what evidence you have for this acc– suggestion?’

  Danny looked at her. She was smiling. And he could tell she was a good person. That she wanted to help him.

  ‘I saw a freeze frame saying “Support Forza FC. Your team. Your success” on my TV at home. During the first leg. Then I …’ Danny wondered if he should admit this. And he remembered his dad’s mantra: always the truth. ‘Then, when I was looking around Mr Fo’s office, I took a photo of a document of the image in his desk.’

  There was a gasp and laughter from around the room. And Danny glanced at Fo, who was now glaring at him, and taking notes.

  ‘And he speaks a lot about subliminal art. And he has a huge collection of subliminal art, especially Tomassina Tremezzo. And …’ Danny knew he was running out of steam. He wanted to be honest. He wanted to get across how angry he was that everyone was supporting some massive football team and not their local ones. ‘And in my city suddenly everyone is supporting Forza FC. Even my sister. And there is no explanation for it other than this.’ Danny could feel his anger close to the surface now. He felt better. ‘Why would they support Forza FC? Not because they are in the Champions League any more!’

  The room exploded with laughter again. From both English and Italian journalists.

  Danny glanced at Fo, who had his arms folded.

  ‘Yes, I like Tremezzo’s work. No, I am not using subliminal messages. I think this boy, who I met with his mother yesterday, is a little cross with me. His mother, I think, found me attractive. And this boy is angry that his parents are to divorce.’

  Danny felt his insides crumple, like he had been kicked in the groin.

  The room had gone quiet again as journalists wrote notes in their pads. Notes about Danny’s mum and dad.

  This man was a horrible man.

  This man thought he could get to Danny.

  And he had.

  So now Danny wanted to deal with him more than anything. He had taken on worse people than this. People who used football and its fans to make money and get their own bullying way.

  Not this time.

  Not here.

  Not today.

  ‘You just had me locked in a room with a gunman,’ Danny spat. ‘He was under orders to kill me.’

  Fo shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Prove it, boy,’ Fo said.

  Danny was about to ask the hundred or so people to follow him to the room where the gunman had held him, when Fo spoke again.

  ‘And, please, show us the image you have.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Danny said. ‘One of your men has taken my phone.’

  He was starting to realize he sounded more and more like a crazy little English boy. Every time Fo asked for evidence, he had none.

  Then another voice. Forza’s coach, Umberto Calvino. ‘Can we get this press conference over with?’ he asked. ‘I have a lot to do.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fo said, agreeing. ‘Take the boy outside. And, Mr Calvino, because my team Forza have lost today, you will be taken outside also. You’re fired.’

  There was a huge gasp. Fo had just sacked Forza’s manager in front of the world’s media. It was controversial. It was shocking. And now nobody had any thoughts about the English boy with the vague accusations.

  Danny stared at the ceiling.

  The room was filled with voices so loud the walls seemed to be vibrating. Even if Danny spoke now, no one would hear him.

  He could see Anton Holt and Mona Levi trying to speak above the noise. But it was useless.

  Suddenly Danny’s arms were taken – gently – by two uniformed women.

  They moved him off the stage, past the marble model of the Forza stadium. And no one was trying to stop them.

  It was over.

  FOOTBALL SUPERHERO

  Just as Danny thought he’d blown it – that his chance to reveal the deepest and darkest of football crimes had gone – another voice
came from the table at the front of the press conference.

  ‘Wait.’

  Danny looked round. The sound and fury of the room had stopped abruptly.

  Sam Roberts was standing, both hands raised. He spoke clearly and slowly, in English. ‘I have something to say.’

  Danny felt the grip of the two security guards loosen, although they still held him.

  It amazed him that a footballer could stop a room like that, even change the behaviour of security guards. But he was glad it had happened. It reminded him of Billy Giles back at the City meeting last week.

  ‘I believe what Danny says,’ Roberts declared. ‘He is always right about things like this.’

  Now the room was filled with noise again. Questions were being fired at Roberts.

  ‘What do you know about the boy?’

  ‘Have you any evidence against Mr Fo?’

  ‘What other things are you talking about?’

  Question after question after question.

  Still Roberts stood with his arms raised. Next to him Fo sat like an animal calculating its next move, his eyes flitting from Danny to Roberts to the crowds of journalists.

  When the room was quiet again, Roberts spoke.

  ‘As you know, a year ago I was kidnapped. My kidnapper was Sir Richard Gawthorpe. At the time, two local men in England were reported to be the ones who rescued me. But that wasn’t true.’

  Danny watched the room taking notes, holding microphones in Roberts’ direction. The player had never spoken about his ordeal, even when he was offered a million pounds to sell his story, so this was a major coup for the media.

  ‘The reason I was rescued and the reason that Sir Richard was exposed as my kidnapper was because of this boy.’

  Again, a barrage of questions.

  ‘How could a child rescue you?’

  ‘Are you just making this up to rescue him?’

  ‘What has this got to do with Mr Fo?’

  Again, Roberts held his hands up until there was silence.

  ‘Danny Harte must be listened to. I know for a fact that, as well as saving me, he has helped other England and City FC players with various problems. It is not for me to say what they are, but Danny is a sort of football superhero. When he turns up you know there’s something that needs sorting out. And I do not want to see him taken into the custody of anyone until this is sorted out.’

  ‘What cases?’

  ‘What other players?’

  Roberts paused before answering. He looked at Danny, as if he was asking for permission to speak.

  Danny nodded and felt the arms of his captors release him. Both women smiled and brushed down his clothes where they had been holding him, as if in apology.

  ‘Three England players,’ Roberts declared, ‘who were being blackmailed and intimidated by a Russian billionaire. A young African footballer whose agent was cheating him. Several City FC players who were being burgled.’

  Danny watched Roberts closely, wondering how he knew all this. He glanced back at Anton Holt who smiled sheepishly as he made his way through the crowded room towards Danny.

  ‘Mr Fo was handed an iPhone by a waiter a few minutes ago,’ Holt said, interrupting. ‘One that had a City FC sticker on the back. I expect that’s your phone, Danny?’

  Danny nodded. The waiter must have sneaked on to the stage when Danny was being moved off it. ‘It has the image on it,’ he said.

  As he spoke, another commotion started. A chair had been kicked back against the wall and Salvatore Fo was on his feet. He turned quickly and made for a door at the side of the room, the iPhone in his hand.

  ‘Stop him!’ shouted Mona Levi, the journalist. ‘He mustn’t get away.’

  And Danny found that he was holding the marble model of the football stadium in his hand. Instinct had taken over as he lifted it and, doing his best to be accurate, hurled it over Sam Roberts and his confused club coach.

  The room watched as one as the model arced over the stage towards Fo. And cheered as it hit him on the back just as he reached the door.

  The Italian stumbled, then collapsed. And the two security guards moved towards him, to help him to his feet.

  PART THREE: ENGLAND

  THURSDAY

  FAME

  Danny had two things to worry about when he arrived back in England.

  The first was his mum. She had started talking at him the moment they were sat down, in standard class, on the flight home.

  When they’d got on to the plane, the captain had come out and offered to upgrade them to first-class seats. Because Danny was a hero. But Mum said no: she didn’t want her son being rewarded for putting his life at risk.

  As they sat down and fastened their safety belts, Mum whispered, ‘This is the last time, Danny.’

  Danny did not answer.

  He knew she was angry. And, even though he had stopped a major crime being committed and saved City FC from who knew what, she was still his mum.

  ‘I said so before,’ she persisted. ‘I will not have you putting your life in danger like this.’

  Danny had told her about the chase, being caught and the gunman in the stadium. He felt he owed her the absolute truth after the events of the night before, which she had first been aware of in the hotel bar, when she saw his face on the TV screen.

  ‘Look at me, Danny.’

  Danny looked at his mum. He knew she was going to make him promise. Promise to give up his football detecting. He wasn’t stupid.

  The only thing was, he felt stupid. Because he had no idea what he should say to answer her.

  So on she went.

  ‘I know your dad lets you get involved in these kinds of things, but I will not,’ she said. ‘I think he is wrong. I think he is being a bad parent letting you put your life at risk. And, frankly, that difference of opinion between him and me is one of the reasons we are splitting up.’ She looked sad, her eyes reddening.

  Danny looked down at his hands. He knew that already. He felt tears forming in his eyes. They were going back to that. Back to arguments. Back to a cold atmosphere in the family home. Back to him and his mum and his dad at war.

  Danny looked up at his mum. ‘What if I stop? If I promise to stop everything?’

  Danny’s mum looked at him strangely. She had heard his voice wobbling. She put her hand on his, speaking in a soft voice now, the kind of voice she used to use with him when he was younger, before all this.

  ‘It won’t make a difference, Danny,’ she said. ‘Your dad and I … we … we’ve grown apart.’

  ‘You just said it was my fault,’ Danny said. ‘So if I stop –’

  ‘No,’ Mum interrupted. ‘That was wrong of me. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.’ Now her voice was wobbling.

  Danny felt that heavy sensation in his stomach again. Something he couldn’t put into words. A bad feeling. As bad as anything he had ever felt before. Or worse.

  And that was when the engines fired and the plane raced down the runway.

  On the flight, Danny read the day’s English newspapers.

  He was on the cover of most of them. BOY BRINGS DOWN OLD FO. Stuff like that.

  According to the newspapers, the Italian female journalist who had been in the press conference had added dozens of other crimes to Fo’s charge sheet. They predicted he would live the rest of his life in prison.

  There was good news on the back pages too.

  City FC were through to the Champions League final. He knew that. He had been there. But he still read the match report three times.

  And, as a result of the confusion around City’s ownership and the main interested party pulling out, the fans were going to be offered the chance to own the club, according to the club’s administrators.

  Danny grinned. This could not get much better.

  The second thing Danny had to worry abo
ut was the number of TV cameras and microphones pointing at him in the airport when he arrived back in England.

  As they came into Arrivals, he noticed people pointing and taking his photo.

  Then all hell was let loose. Camera flashes. Shouts.

  ‘Danny! Tell us how you took on Fo. Were you scared?’

  ‘Danny! You’ve saved City FC. Do you want to be the new chairman?’

  ‘Can you tell us about all the football crimes you’ve solved?’

  ‘Have you been offered a book deal?’

  ‘Can we have a photo of you wearing this?’ another asked, throwing a City FC scarf at him.

  The questions just confused Danny. He had often wondered what it would be like to be famous. So far, it didn’t feel that good. Especially following the conversation with his mum. All he wanted to do was get away.

  They tried to get out of the arrivals area, but were mobbed by journalists and people taking photos. It was hopeless. Soon they were backed up against a wall, next to a door.

  ‘Do you see what I mean?’ Mum asked. ‘This is not good.’

  ‘No,’ Danny said, as he saw a group of security people move towards them.

  ‘I want a promise from you. Now,’ Mum said quietly.

  Danny looked at her. She was not being angry or bossy. She seemed more scared than anything. And Danny felt a powerful wave of guilt. For what he’d put his mum through.

  ‘You will be killed,’ she went on. ‘You’re not James Bond. You’re not Superman. You’re not one of the heroes of one of your dad’s crime thrillers. You’re a fifteen-year-old boy who is lucky to be alive …’

  Danny swallowed. ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘… and if you want to join the police when you are eighteen, then I will back you all the way. I’d be proud of you.’ Mum’s voice broke again. ‘I am proud of you … but …’

  ‘OK,’ Danny said again. ‘I’ll stop.’

  And he meant it.