Final Whistle

by J Jackson Bentley

  Hugh had been a friend to me for a long time and yet last night he had acted totally out of character, like some madman. So dramatic was the transformation that I hadn’t even realised that my deranged attacker was the same man who had made inch perfect passes to me for as long as I could remember. Because he looked so disgusted with himself and because I wasn’t as badly hurt as him I felt a sudden surge of sympathy. I was prepared to be forgiving, magnanimous even.

  “Hugh, whatever it was that made you do this I want to put it behind us. Okay?” He turned to look at me.

  “Alex please don’t be reasonable about this. Shout at me, hit me, tell me you’ll see me rot in jail. But don’t be kind to me, I couldn’t stand it.”

  “Hugh, in all of the fights we’ve had over the years, drunk and sober, you never called me a bastard. At least not until last night. I want to know what’s going on.” Hugh leaned over and picked up the Evening Post from the day before. I read the back page. The headline was;

  “McIVOR SENT TO COVENTRY.”

  The quote that had so incensed Hugh was ringed in red. I had read it but still couldn’t believe it.

  “After complaints about his recent poor performances from Captain Alex Carter, United have decided to accept an offer from Coventry City for the former Scotland winger. Alex Carter said on the phone to the Post this afternoon that McIvor had let the team down once too often but he hoped that a move to a new club would be for the best.”

  I spoke my thoughts out loud but not necessarily for the benefit of Hugh.

  “I didn’t even know the deal was going ahead. No-one called me. I’ve spoken to no-one.” I was stunned. “Hugh, you have to believe me. I didn’t say these things.”

  “I know that now, Alex. It’s a pity that I didn’t think it through yesterday before I tossed my career down the toilet.” He shuffled about on the bed until he was in a comfortable sitting position. “By seven o’ clock last night I was so wasted I didn’t know what I was doing.... How can I ever look Tanya in the face again after what I’ve done?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll explain everything. Kids have short memories.”

  “I know that this might sound hollow right now Alex, but I hope that at some stage you will believe me when I say that I really am sorry.” There was pleading in his eyes as he spoke.

  “And not just because I’m in a mess. Hell, Alex. What am I going to do?”

  “Your going to go to Coventry and you’re going to help them win some long sought after silverware.”

  “Be serious, Alex. Who is going to want me when this gets into the papers?”

  “It won’t be in the papers, Hugh.”

  “But when I go to court.”

  “You’re not going to court. Someone is playing God with our lives, Hugh, and I don’t like it. We can only prevent them from succeeding if we stick together and act sensibly.”

  “But the police?”

  “I think I can convince the police to keep it out of court. I have an idea on that front.”

  “What can I do to help, Alex?” He looked into my eyes as if they held the answer.

  “Hugh, just get on with your career and for God’s sake kick the booze into touch. You’re a world class winger sober but you’re really crap when you’ve been on the drink.”

  There was more venom in my voice than I’d intended, but it wasn’t directed at Hugh, it was meant for the scum that manipulated real people’s lives for the sake of a good headline. Twice I’d been misquoted in the Press and twice I’d ended up in danger as a result. Sooner or later someone was going to pay, and pay dearly.

  ************

  On the subject of dropping the charges the police weren’t too hard to convince and when I said that I would be very reluctant to give evidence they agreed to caution Hugh. The Inspector suggested that Hugh enrol on a programme to help with his drink problem. Hugh readily agreed and a place was found for him on a rehabilitation course at a West Midlands Clinic. I was sorry that our paths had crossed in such a violent way but we parted as friends.

  After a discussion with Simon, the United lawyer, that afternoon I asked the chairman to use his connections to keep the story out of the Press. He agreed to do what he could and the club leaned on the Evening Post. At fist they squealed about Press freedom, but when it was suggested that in future their seat at Press conferences might remain vacant, they quickly saw the wisdom in projecting a positive image of the club. The reporter who had misquoted me apologised but insisted that he was given the quote by someone who sounded just like me. He claimed that he had rung my number and had left a message on the answering machine. Naturally, when a caller responded claiming to be me he had no reason to doubt them. Of course I didn’t believe a word of it but for the time being I would have to let it go and so I accepted my second apology of the day.

  ************

  I sat at my computer holding Roy’s USB Thumbdrive. I plugged it in and stared at the screen, the computer wanted instructions. Did I want to open the file ‘HITLIST.DBS’ or not? I wasn’t sure. It was like Pandora’s box, once it was opened there was no going back. If I pressed the open button I guessed that I would find myself staring in disbelief, disappointment and anger at names of people I had until now respected and admired. Once the knowledge was acquired there was no way to unacquire it. I felt that somehow I would be tainted by knowing. None of us are perfect and so I try not to judge too harshly, but how would I respond the next time I met a player or official from the list? I’m a good footballer but a poor actor and I wouldn’t be able to hide my feelings. In the long run I’ll be more wary, less trusting and, as a result I would lose friends I had known since I first kicked a ball for money. I wanted to pass the data on to the police and let them take the responsibility. Why shouldn’t I be like everyone else and read about the graft and corruption in the newspapers. I decided that I didn’t want to open up this particular can of worms but I felt that I had to, if only to reveal the identity of Roy’s employers and his probable murderer’s.

  I clicked on the open file button and waited as the drive chuntered and whirred into action. In place of the neat list that I had expected was page after page of text and numbers in seemingly random order. Occasionally a whole word or name would appear but generally the page was filled with gibberish. I tried to open up the ‘SYNDICATE.DBS’ file, the result was the same. Somehow the file, or the disk that held it, had been corrupted. I switched off the computer and threw the USB drive into my bedside table drawer.

  ************

  Stella drove the hire car to Heathrow airport and never stopped talking the whole way. Her pink BMW Convertible was stowed safely in my garage for her return in the winter. Sounding more like the mother-in-law that she really was, with every passing minute, she dispensed advice wacky and wise, flippant and serious. She thrilled at the thought of our joining her during the close season in Florida and gave Tanya distinct and specific instructions on how to get to her villa.

  “I’ve got a broken leg, you know. I don’t have Alzheimer’s disease,” I said feigning hurt.

  “Yes Alex, but we all know about footballers and intellect. Don’t we?” I think she winked at Tanya who was sitting beside her but it was difficult to be sure from the back seat. I just sighed and sat quietly. I had forgotten how isolated one feels in the back seat of a car when the two in the front are talking and one can only catch the odd word.

  It was still early when the flight was called. Stella hugged us both and kissing me on the cheek she warned me to be careful. She smiled and turned away quickly so that we wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. In a waft of Chanel No. 5 she was gone.

  Tanya and I took a taxi to Isleworth and an appointment at Sky Sports. The modern industrialised building was built with plenty of brick and glass with the auxiliary steel and timber fashioned in bright colours. The taxi dropped us at the gatehouse which nestled in front of the News building and the Sports building. As we waited well known faces checked in and out
.

  “Alex, Tanya. Great to see you.” Tony McDonald gripped my hand firmly.

  ************

  Apart from the football memorabilia on the wall this office could have been anywhere. It could have been an accountancy practice or a manufacturing company. Nothing in the open plan area screamed out TV. Tanya had gone into the city to see the sights with Tony’s wife, Lisa McDonald, and I sat in a small perimeter office overlooking another Sky building. Monday was a busy day, there would be live Premiereship action on Sky Sports 1 tonight. Tony was finishing a staff meeting in the main office area when the door to his room opened and I was joined by a sporty looking Danny Miller. I smiled at the man whose goals had sunk United more than once. Only a few years ago we shared the same pitch, him for Villa and me for United, him for Scotland and me for England. Danny shook my hand and gripped my forearm in a brotherly way. We strikers stick together.

  “Did you get my card?” he asked. I remembered being touched by his get well card, along with many others.

  “Yes. Thanks Dan. How’s life on the airwaves?”

  “Busy from now until the end of the season. Has Tony asked you yet?”

  “Asked me what?”

  “Oh, its not my place to say. I’m just the hired help.” I was about to quiz him further when he spoke again. “I’ll see you in a few minutes. I’ve got some editing to do for tonight’s programme.”

  Danny shared the studio presentation on the Monday Night Match, whereas he shared the commentary on other match days. He had adjusted well. It was unusual to find a professional sportsman who was equally good in front of a camera.

  Tony McDonald was a blunt Scotsman and so he got right to the point.

  “Alex, as football producer I have a mountain of tasks to complete every day. To be fair I have come to rely more and more on Danny and the rest of the team. The thing is, Danny needs a few weeks off.” He paused to see if I was keeping up. I was.

  “Danny is taking a holiday in the run up to the title? I don’t believe it.”

  “Look. Danny has said that I can tell you, in confidence mind, why we need you. Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course, I said, thinking of Roy and the disk.

  “Danny wants rid of his glasses and contact lenses and so he is having some laser surgery for his eyes. He doesn’t wear his contacts in the studio because the hot lights dry them out and they irritate him. Unfortunately for us they need to do one eye at a time with at least a month between. There’ll be bandages, soreness and watering for a few days after each treatment. We have agreed that we need a sub on.”

  “Why doesn’t he wait for the close season?”

  “Haven’t you noticed how short the close season is these days? It’s just not enough. To be honest I’d rather have him back and rested for next season. So, will you fill in for the last seven weeks?”

  “But Tony, I’m no TV presenter, you must realise that.”

  “Rubbish. You were on the FA Media course in 2007 and you presented Granada Goals on TV for eighteen months. You did a good job.”

  “Come on Tony. That programme was recorded and went out at eleven thirty on a Wednesday night. I considered myself lucky if the viewing statistics got into three figures.”

  “Stop messing me around. Are you telling me the Scots can do it but the Sassenachs can’t?”

  “I won’t be won over by cheap arguments like that.” Tony smiled. “OK. I’ll talk it over with Tanya and if she doesn’t mind..”

  “She doesn’t. I asked her before I waved her off to town. She said she would love you to do it. Oh, and she asked a question you haven’t considered. How much?”

  I had been ambushed by professionals and so I conceded gracefully and agreed a reasonable fee.

  ************

  The rest of the day was a blur. I was shown schedules, plans, matchday timings and an array of electronic gadgetry. Whilst much of the work was prepared by technicians Danny had gradually taken over much of the match day video analysis. He also had two cameras placed in the football ground so that he could overview the gameplay from a wide angle, rather than watching the editor’s output. By the end of the day I had a new respect for the former striker.

  After sitting through the rehearsal with Danny and Mike Richards, the professional presenter, we drifted into the canteen. Tanya was waiting and duly elicited a hug from both Danny and Mike.

  “Tony has told me the news, Dad,” she exploded. “You’re going to be famous.” The others laughed and I frowned because I thought I already was.

  ************

  After the programme and a late drink (or two) with Danny and Tony at the ‘Farriers Arms’ I retired to my hotel room. I slept badly in the overheated room, tossing and turning in the strange bed. As a result I was stiff and tired when I passed through the hallowed portals of ‘Grays Inn’ on the way to a conference with my newly appointed counsel, Christopher Byron QC.

  The first thing that struck me was the contrast with High Holborn and Grays Inn Road. They were noisy, smelly and busy. Almost as soon as one walked through the security gate one travelled back in time to a cloistered and quiet world. There were gardens and greenery, old stone buildings and park benches. It was like some university campus in Oxford or Cambridge. Occasionally a stern looking figure would stride briskly past wearing a dark waistcoated suit and a collarless shirt. I absorbed the atmosphere as I searched out the Chambers of Damien Westerbrook OBE, QC. at 14 Queen’s Bench Court.

  The building was identical to its neighbours and at the top of half a dozen stone steps the old wooden door was ornamented with worn but shiny brass plates and door furniture. A board at the door announced the tenants and the head of chambers. My barrister was listed close to the top and so I supposed him to be quite senior.

  Inside, the spartan stone theme was continued with worn stone steps leading up to a reception office. Yesterday I had thought that all offices looked the same. Now I was being proven wrong. Admittedly this building was also 80’s style but in this case it was the 1880’s. A young man with a smart suit recognised me.

  “Mr Carter. I am Brian. Clerk to Mr Byron. Would you follow me, please? You are expected.”

  I nodded and followed Brian up the narrow stone staircase to a heavy oak door. Brian knocked and without waiting for an answer (he would never have heard it through this door anyway) he ushered me in.

  Simon Moreton, the club solicitor, was sitting erect next to a vacant chair facing a reclining and relaxed man of about fifty. The barrister stood up and offered his hand whilst introducing himself. His grip was firm and his eyes were bright and alert. His hair was greying and longer than one might expect these days. It was almost shoulder length in a style reminiscent of the seventies.

  After he explained about his love of football, Chelsea, and his role in the legal process he announced casually,

  “I hope that you’re not expecting to win this case.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I looked at Simon Moreton and began to wonder who we had instructed to run this case. Simon grinned and I took it to mean that this was counsel’s idea of a joke.

  “I was rather hoping to win,” I retorted.

  “Ah. Hope. They tell me it still springs eternal in the young. But hope and expectation are a world apart are they not? I believe that we have the kernel of a sound case but it needs work.” Christopher Byron QC steepled his hands and rested his chin on the outstretched fingers and looked out through the window. His brow furrowed as he continued. “You see Mr Carter sympathy, moral outrage and deserving plaintiffs make good press but bad case reports. We need evidence. Sufficient good evidence to show that, on the balance of probabilities, Mr Dean Butler intended to cause you injury, or, that he was reckless and had a complete disregard as to whether he injured you or not.” My barrister turned and looked me in the eye. “Do you think we can provide that standard of evidence Mr Carter?”

  “I’m sure we can.” I replied.

  “Good. Then let’s begin.
” He paused. “But let me make myself understood. Cases of this nature are very contentious. They become personal and even vindictive. You will find that lies and twisted half truths are paraded as fact. You will be doubted and your integrity may be called into question. Finally, you will begin to believe that even your own legal team doubt you. That won’t be the case but you may feel that way because of the robust way we prepare you for trial. Do you think you can live with all of the stress and pressure that you will encounter?”

  I gave the question some serious consideration and responded by letting him know how I felt.

  “Mr Byron, I don’t wish to sound rude in any way but I think I understand what pressure is. Pressure is being one- nil down in the last few minutes of an FA Cup tie, knowing that if you lose, your season is over and it’s not even Christmas. Pressure is kicking a second hand ball through the mud on a cold Tuesday night playing away at Darlington, wondering if you’ll ever make it to the top and more importantly whether your bankrupt club will be able to pay your wages at the end of the week. I think I know about stress, too. As a professional footballer I have to go out and win when all the odds are against me, yet the result is vital. Then again, I have to go out and perform when it doesn’t matter a toss, because we’re playing a mediocre team for a mediocre place in the middle of a table that saves its plaudits for the top five. Nevertheless, we go out and play as well as we can because there are forty thousand seats filled with people who make sacrifices to support us. They cheer us when we’re good and they jeer at us when we’re bad, but that doesn’t matter because regardless, we’ll try like hell not to disappoint them.”