Final Whistle

by J Jackson Bentley

I typed in the command as I had been instructed. A new screen appeared that listed previously deleted files. Four lines down in black writing, which denotes a recent deletion, was a file shown as,

  C:DatabdataSYNDICATE.DBS.

  I shouted out loud when I saw the appendage to it which read,

  condition: excellent; 24,172 KB

  I clicked on the filename, highlighting it, and then confirmed that I wanted to restore the file. The computer hard drive whirred as the file was recovered. I repeated the process for HITLIST but this was in poor condition and I doubted its integrity. I was a nervous wreck as I opened up the database and asked for the Syndcate.dbs file again. This time the computer co-operated and a listing appeared on the screen under the headings:

  NAME OF RECIPIENT CLUB AMOUNT PAID GAME/ OPPOSITION RESULT

  Below the headings were around one hundred transactions all neatly recorded and documented. Four pages of A4 paper later the printer fell silent. I read the list and sadness engulfed me when I saw the third last name on the list. It was Aaron Morgensen.

  ************

  I had been in the house for over an hour and every additional minute spent in the house increased the risk of discovery. I needed to be on my way. As I had suspected, the second file had been partially overwritten and contained little readable information. Nevertheless, I renamed the two restored files and hid them on the hard disk under meaningless windows system file names where they would not be found, being careful to put the paper print-out in my briefcase. I shut down the computer after eliminating all signs of my having used it.

  The next ten minutes were spent collecting silverware and other valuables in a black dustbin liner. It had to look like a burglar had been in. It wasn’t until later that I suddenly realised that I really was a burglar. As I left the house I walked to the bottom of the garden and forced the bin liner onto the sharp wooden stakes supporting the fence. The bag tore and the contents spilled out onto the garden. I hoped that it would look as if the intruder had been disturbed and had panicked whilst escaping, leaving his loot behind in the process.

  I walked back up the deserted street and back to the car. I was pleased at my night’s work but I was also disturbed at the names that appeared on the lists now in my possession. I switched on the radio. Live commentary was being broadcast from St James’s Park in Newcastle. I learned that Chris Smith’s young protege was on the field and playing a stormer. Ironically he was keeping his team in the game. At least it appeared that way to the pundits.

  Suddenly a bright light was shining directly into my face. I lifted my hand up to shield my eyes. The torch was lowered and a policeman beckoned me to lower the window. I pressed the button and the window hummed as it slid into the door panel.

  “Got eczema, have we sir?” His tone was sarcastic.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question,” I replied, genuinely puzzled.

  “Well, why else would you be wearing cotton gloves on a nice warm night like tonight?”

  He didn’t need to say gotcha, I could read it on his face.

  ************

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, STUPID.” I shouted out loud to myself. I was locked in a police cell on the outskirts of the city. My tie, belt and all personal possessions had been crumpled into a big plastic bag and kept by the desk sergeant. the remains of a greasy canteen supper lay on the floor with a mug of untouched cold tea. The cell was windowless, airless and overheated. The stink of old urine was not masked by the strong smell of disinfectant.

  How could I have been so stupid? Forgetting to take off the cotton gloves was bad enough, but then to flaunt them in front of the policeman. I have never been so humiliated. As soon as they opened my briefcase they grinned so widely I thought for a moment that the tops of their heads might come off.

  “Have you ever done this before then, sir?” The supercilious one asked. His friend had to turn away to conceal the fact that he was laughing. It was to no avail. I could see his shoulders convulsing even in the darkness.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  I at least had the presence of mind to refuse to answer questions until I could speak to Mark Lister- Ward, the Assistant Chief Constable in charge of “Ballgame”. At first they had refused to contact him. They thought it was a wind up, but eventually, realising who I was, they were curious.

  I could tell, even from a distance, that Lister- Ward had gone ballistic when he heard the news. So now I was sitting in a grey cell on a hard mattress at ten thirty on a Monday night as he was being driven up the M1 in his police Jaguar.

  ************

  Of course I had heard all of the words before, on the terraces as a boy and latterly on the pitch. But never had I encountered such a barrage of abuse in one long chapter of swearing, blasphemy, sexual innuendo and pure vulgarity. This man could write scripts for Channel Four. For a full five minutes we were treated to a tirade of Anglo Saxon expletives used in ways I had never considered. Eloquently delivered in his public school accent like some perverted Shakespearean soliloquy, I guessed that he had rehearsed it in the car.

  The gist of it was we were all fools, me for burgling obviously. The policemen, rather unfairly I thought, for arresting me. And his driver for taking a corner too sharply and spilling his chief’s coffee.

  Everyone in the room was sworn to silence and I was given my possessions back. Lister-Ward was calmer but just as angry.

  “You realise that if Smith makes a complaint, which by the way seems inevitable as his house has been burgled, we have to offer you up. Smith will guess what you were up to and run for cover. His buddies will crawl back into the woodwork and we’ll never smoke them out again. The whole damned operation is in tatters.”

  “Not necessarily.” A lone voice spoke from the far side of the room. It was the local Detective Sergeant. Everyone looked in his direction.

  “Look. Smith will be staying the night up at Newcastle. So, we have,” he looked at his watch to confirm it was now nearly one am, “five hours of darkness to redeem the situation.”

  “And what exactly do you suggest, Collins?” the assistant chief spat out.

  “Well, nothing has actually been stolen or damaged. We could just put everything back in order.”

  “And the alarm, Collins, what about the alarm?”

  “There are false alarms every day on that estate aren’t there, lads?” The two patrolmen were eager to nod their assent and mutter anxious agreement. Lister-Ward furrowed his brow in thought.

  “None of this must ever leave this room, understood?” Everyone agreed and a plan of action was put into place.

  ************

  By four in the morning I had reassembled the burglar alarm panel and was waiting for Detective Collins to fix the final bead in place on the replacement door pane. He was suspiciously adept at this kind of thing, having ‘borrowed’ a spare pane from an incomplete house. He cleared up and polished everything that had been touched. The silverware was back in place and we were ready.

  I switched on the mains and the alarm shrieked into life as we exited, closing the door behind us. It was too dangerous to run and so we hid behind the garden shed as lights came on all around. Within minutes my two patrolmen were on the scene searching with their torches and reassuring neighbours that it was a false alarm. A disgruntled man in an ill fitting dressing gown came over and, after a short discussion, let himself into the house. Apparently the key had a tag attached with the alarm code written on it and a few seconds later the alarm was silenced. The helpful neighbour reset the alarm and wandered home, leaving no sign of anything amiss.

  “You jammy sod,” Collins muttered. “On the pitch and off it.” He was a City supporter.

  When the street was quiet and dark again, Collins and myself sneaked into the back of the patrol car parked on the drive. After one more quick recce the two uniforms got back into the car and drove away from the house. Sitting up straight in the car, Collins smiled smugly and, mimicking the cri
sp tones of Lister- Ward, remarked,

  “That went rather well, I thought.” It broke the tension.

  “I don’t suppose any of you would like a signed photo,” I said, and the car erupted with laughter.

  “No!” The driver retorted. “But if you wouldn’t mind signing your fingerprint card I’d appreciate it.” We were still laughing when we got back to the station.

  ************

  The local policemen were happy with “Operation Ballgame” picking up their overtime tab, and they departed in good spirits. Lister- Ward chewed me out again about almost ruining two years’ police work and made me promise to attend a review meeting in London ‘soon’ and set off back to London with the computer print-outs in his black briefcase.

  I suppose I should have been worn out but I wasn’t. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep and so I drove out to the reservoir where Vicki and I used to picnic in the summer. It was chilly and beginning to get light but I hardly felt the cold. I leaned against a rock chatted out loud to Vicki, I told her all about my foolish attempt at burglary. She would understand, I thought, and then I told her about Sara. As I spoke I felt racked with guilt. Words like betrayal and womaniser teased my conscience. But then after a few moments I felt an inner calm and peace, as memories of Vicki’s last night came to my remembrance.

  “Alex. I’ll always be with you. This isn’t the end for us. Take care of Tanya....and find someone who’ll take care of you both.” Her voice was hoarse with the effect of the drugs.

  “I couldn’t, Vicki,” I said through my tears. “There can never be anyone else.”

  “Alex. Please don’t die with me, I couldn’t bear it. Promise me you will at least try.” Vicki squeezed my hand but she was weak and there was no real pressure. I Lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it gently.

  “I’ll try,” I said, never believing that I could. Vicki smiled a shadow of a smile and closed her eyes in sleep. She didn’t wake up.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was five in the morning when the alarm sounded. I rolled over and wearily flipped the switch that stopped the maddening beeping. I lay back in the bed and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I was tired. I had only managed six hours sleep and was still trying to catch up the lost sleep from the night of the burglary. The birds outside my bedroom window were chirping in chorus and the sun was already shining. Despite all the signs of it being daytime my body refused to respond. A long shower failed to wake me up fully and I shaved and dressed robotically.

  After two cups of black coffee I climbed into the car and set off in the direction of the airport. Luckily, Tanya had managed to switch flights and she was now landing at Manchester Airport. I was grateful. I couldn’t have faced the drive to Gatwick in my drowsy condition. The road was quiet but not entirely empty. There were still a few heavy goods vehicles around, and the odd car. I was at the deserted airport shortly before six.

  Sitting on an uncomfortable tall stool I sipped freshly squeezed orange juice as I waited for the flight to be called. I didn’t have long to wait. Tanya came bounding out of the fast track arrivals channel loaded down with bags and cases. I slipped under the tape barrier to give her a hand.

  “Dad,” she cried out, as if she hadn’t seen me for months. In fact, it had only been two weeks. She dropped her luggage and leapt at me throwing her arms around my neck. Whilst the concourse wasn’t busy there were enough people around to witness this show of affection and to cause me to blush. Tanya kissed me and I lifted her off her feet before setting her down.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “And I love you too, Tanya. Now let’s get home and you can tell me all about your holiday and your ‘Tete a tete’s with American boys."

  “Dad, really.” Tanya scowled at me but the scowl didn’t conceal her reaction. It was her turn to blush.

  ************

  I didn’t have to wait until we got home to hear the story of her holiday and her new friend Brent. The journey home was filled with excited storytelling, fired at me at a thousand words a minute, or so it seemed. By the time we pulled into the drive I felt as though I had been machine gunned.

  When we had finished breakfast it was still only eight o'clock and so I suggested that Tanya should take a nap, but she wouldn’t hear of it. So, before most people were out of bed, on this fine Saturday morning, we sat huddled together on the sofa watching holiday videos. Less than thirty minutes into the videos of alligators snapping, manatee swimming whilst feeding on lettuce, and Disney characters generally larking about, my daughter was snoring soundly. I moved her hair away from her sun-tanned face and moved her into a more comfortable position so that she didn’t wake up with a crick in her neck. For the next hour I sat cuddling a sleeping girl who would soon be a woman. One day she would leave home and I wasn’t sure how I would cope without her around to give my life that bit of normality. My uncomplicated home life was a million miles away from the heady world of football. Tanya was my anchor to sanity and my link to Vicki.

  By midday Tanya had agreed to catch up on some sleep and she was back in her own bed. I made my daily trek to the Infirmary and sat at Aaron’s bedside for an hour. He hadn’t woken up since the operation and hopes that he would make a full recovery were fading with each passing day. When we were alone I told him that Tanya was back. I discussed my amateurish attempts at burglary and how I believed that Chris Smith was involved in the match-rigging syndicate. I even suggested that Smith had probably ordered Aaron’s assault. I explained that I was going to have to tell the police the whole story.

  “Sorry, Aaron. But I have no choice,” I whispered. He never heard a word but I felt better for telling him.

  I drove home sad and worn out. To buck myself up I thought of Sara. She had been in Guildford all week sitting exams and I hadn’t spoken to her. There would be a lot to tell her about when we eventually met, not least the results of my first foray into the world of housebreaking.

  As I walked into the house I could hear Tanya chatting away on the phone.

  “You haven’t been? Oh, you must go, its wonderful, there’s so much to do.” I assumed she was talking to a friend. “Dad’s just come in. Shall I put him on? OK, then. Persuade him to take us out to lunch tomorrow if you can and I’ll work on him this end.” Tanya held out the handset.

  “Who is it?” I mouthed silently.

  “Sara,” she replied, grinning.

  Sara couldn’t talk for long as she was on her mobile phone and the battery was low. She told me that her exams had gone well and then she complimented me on having such a friendly and confident daughter. I asked Sara if we could meet soon and she agreed to my suggestion of Sunday lunch in the country. Sara told me that she would be at the house by ten thirty the next morning.

  “Alex,” the line went quiet and I thought the battery had died.

  “Sara, are you there?” I asked.

  “Yes. I just wanted to say- well, what I mean is- oh, damn. Alex, I missed you. I really did.”

  “Same here,” I responded, not wanting to give anything away within Tanya’s earshot.

  ************

  The Tatton Tailor had once been a traditional country pub but since it had been taken over by Angelo it had become the culinary centre of the county. Situated in the middle of rolling green pastureland, it had charm and character. We arrived just after midday. Sheep grazed in the shadow of tall oak trees and friendly horses came to the fence to be stroked and fed.

  To my relief and delight Sara and Tanya greeted one another like old friends when they met, and as soon as Sara was out of earshot Tanya whispered,

  “She’s gorgeous, Dad. Where did you find her?” Sara returned before I could answer and we spent an enjoyable hour driving through the glorious English countryside. Not that they saw much of it. They spent the entire journey talking about animals, horses mainly, and passing photographs of Florida back and forth. Every now and again the giggling would die down and Sara would rest her hand on mine and squeeze gently, a ges
ture that didn’t go unnoticed by my eagle eyed daughter.

  Lunch was a magnificent Beef Wellington and the afternoon was spent walking and sitting in the summer sun. I did more sitting than walking as my leg still ached if I walked too far. The two girls went off on their own and I lay on the lush green hillside and soaked up the sun. I felt a little guilty about not visiting Aaron but I knew he would have understood.

  I heard Sara and Tanya long before I could see them, their happy voices carried on the warm thermals that washed up the hillside and over my relaxed body. I kept my eyes closed as the bright sunshine was too much even for my Ray Ban sunglasses. I felt two bodies sit down next to me, one on either side of me, and smiled contentedly to myself. In a moment I was shaken out of my smug contentment as I was attacked from both sides. I was being tickled mercilessly and they didn’t stop until I was weak with laughter. As we sat there together, I hoped that this feeling would last forever. I knew of course, that it wouldn’t. What I couldn’t know then was how quickly things would change.

  ************

  I thanked the Headmaster for allowing Tanya to miss two weeks of the school term in addition to the half term holidays. He reminded me that he had four other professional footballers as parents of pupils and he understood that we couldn’t fit our holidays in with school breaks. To return the favour I agreed to present the sporting awards on the school’s annual prize-giving evening.