Sudden Death

by Nick Hale

  Popov held up both palms and Jake’s dad stopped speaking. ‘Is it the money, Steven? If so, I can –’

  ‘It’s not the money,’ his dad said. ‘It’s a personal matter. You see, my son and I have only just begun living together. Perhaps Andrew didn’t tell you. Until recently Jake has lived with my ex-wife, or been at an international boarding school, but now I feel he needs a period of stability.’

  He’s using me, thought Jake. He’s scared and he’s making excuses.

  ‘And now,’ continued his dad, ‘now Andrew’s dead, well, I really think . . .’

  Popov smiled widely, but there was no joy in his eyes. ‘Of course, of course. You feel you must put your family first. But think what we could achieve together.’ He let the words hang for a moment, before lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘I have an admission to make, Steven. I was going to tell you this later, but now seems like a good time.’

  ‘Yes?’ Jake’s dad asked.

  ‘I have made a new signing. It’s not announced to the press yet, because the deal is highly sensitive. Would you like to know who it is?’

  Despite himself, Jake leant forward. The gleam in Popov’s eye promised something really special, but surely no top player would go to a new, untried team. No matter what the money was.

  His dad nodded slowly.

  ‘Well,’ said Popov, ‘you know the rest of the team already, but I thought we were still missing a little something up front. Another striker. So I bought the best . . .’ Popov paused, obviously relishing the moment. ‘Devon Taylor.’

  ‘Wha–?’ interrupted Jake. ‘How? Taylor’s on a contract with Barcelona for another three years.’ The transfer a year before had been huge news, the biggest ever signing.

  Popov waved his hand and smiled at Jake. ‘Contracts? They’re not so important. The crucial thing is to have the right team.’ Popov paused, then looked meaningfully at Jake’s dad. ‘And the right manager.’

  His dad had kept his composure through Jake’s outburst. ‘Taylor is quite a coup,’ he said. ‘He’s a brilliant young talent.’

  ‘And of course we have the new stadium, funded by my American friend Christian Truman and his company, Truman Oil. State of the art technology, a capacity of eighty thousand. Leisure facilities that rival –’

  ‘I’ve seen the plans, Mr Popov,’ said Jake’s dad. ‘It’s very impressive. But I have other concerns to factor in. Like my son.’

  ‘And I respect them, Steven,’ said Popov. ‘Your son would of course be more than welcome to join you in St Petersburg. Wouldn’t you like that, young man?’

  ‘My son has a life here,’ Jake’s dad said quickly.

  Typical, Jake thought. Don’t let me speak for myself.

  Jake noticed that the vein running down the centre of Popov’s forehead was a little pronounced; blue under the Russian’s pale skin.

  ‘I think you have been – how do you say – perturbed by your friend’s death, so I will leave you to your grief. Don’t give me your answer about the coaching position now.’ Popov took out a silver case from his jacket and opened it. He placed a card on the bookshelf beside the door. ‘This is my private number. Sleep on it.’

  Popov nodded to the bodyguard, who opened the study door with one of his massive fists. The meeting was clearly over.

  At the front door, Popov waited while his attendant opened the umbrella, then stepped underneath. The rain spattered off the top.

  ‘I look forward to speaking with you again, Steven.’

  Jake’s dad smiled. ‘I don’t think I’m going to change my mind, but thank you for coming over.’

  Jake and his dad watched as the Mercedes pulled away, then his dad closed the door.

  ‘So are you going to take the job, or not?’ Jake asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ his dad replied.

  ‘Well, when will you know?’ Jake said. He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.

  ‘Just go to bed, Jake. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Before Jake could answer, his dad was back in his study, shutting the door behind him.

  In his room, Jake lay on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Maybe I should have stayed in Paris.

  He had been nervous about coming back to London. His dad had always been a footballer rather than a dad. They’d both tacitly understood that this was the chance to build a relationship. But it was like building a house of cards. A small wobble could bring down the whole thing.

  4

  ‘I’m making some eggs,’ his dad said as Jake came into the kitchen next morning. ‘You want some?’

  As if everything’s just normal, thought Jake.

  ‘I’ll get myself some fruit,’ he replied stiffly.

  His dad was facing the stove, fiddling with a pan. He was also wearing a shirt and tie. That was pretty weird for a Saturday. After years of early rises for away games, he normally liked to take it easy at the weekends.

  Jake took a banana from the bowl and went to the French windows. The sun was glinting through a few thin shreds of cloud on to the small back garden. After last night’s rain, the trees had that fresh, just-washed look. Jake’s head, in contrast, felt overcast and his thoughts dulled. He’d hardly slept a wink.

  He finished the banana. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’ Jake asked.

  His dad stopped stirring his eggs for a second, then resumed. ‘It’s a good job, Jake,’ he began. ‘Good money, too –’

  ‘So you’re going to take it?’ Jake interrupted.

  His dad took the pan off the stove and looked at him. By the dark smudges under his eyes, Jake guessed he hadn’t had the best night’s sleep either.

  He nodded. ‘I am.’

  Jake dropped the banana skin in the rubbish bin. ‘And what do I do? Stay in London on my own?’

  His dad’s face hardened. ‘No, you’ll go to your mum’s. In Milan.’

  Just like that. No discussion, no compromise. Jake fought the urge to kick the bin across the room. He loved his mother, but when she wasn’t off photographing models, she was at home, reviewing her work. Even Jake could get bored of staring at pictures of hot girls after a couple of hours.

  ‘So you just ditch me?’ he asked his dad. ‘Sub me off like one of your players?’

  The lines on his dad’s face softened again. ‘It’s not like that, Jake, and you know it.’

  ‘If you send me away now,’ Jake said, ‘I’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ his dad said. ‘It’s you that I’m worried about –’

  But Jake didn’t give him time to finish. ‘Then prove it,’ he said. ‘Let me come to Russia.’

  His dad took a deep breath. He brought both hands, palms together, in front of his mouth, as if in prayer, and stared into the distance. Thinking hard.

  Almost there, thought Jake.

  His dad lowered his hands, looked Jake dead in the eyes. ‘OK, Jake,’ he said. ‘But only for a couple of weeks. On a trial basis.’

  Jake smiled. ‘Thanks, Dad. I won’t get in the way, I promise.’

  But his dad wasn’t returning the smile. If anything, he looked graver than ever. ‘I’ll let your mother know,’ he said with a sigh.

  Russia isn’t just about football, is it? Jake thought. He’d promised he wouldn’t get in the way, but it wasn’t a promise he intended to keep.

  Jake, do you really need three sets of shin-pads?’ his dad asked. He was sitting on the floor taping up the last of the removal boxes.

  Jake laughed. Since his dad had agreed to let him come to Russia the events at Obed and afterwards had slipped his mind from time to time. When the memories returned, they were like pressure on a forgotten bruise: painful, but temporary. His dad had been preoccupied with preparation, but they’d still found time for a couple of kick-abouts in the park.

  Like a normal father and son.

  Almost.

  ‘You know what some of these defenders are like,’ he s
aid, punching his dad playfully on the shoulder. ‘Real clumsy bruisers.’

  ‘Watch it!’ his dad replied. ‘Remember, I’m your ticket to Russia.’

  A removal man walked past, carrying a box reading POP23, the flight number of Igor Popov’s private jet. His dad had already signed autographs for all the big movers. They’d gawped like schoolboys when they’d realised whose stuff they were shifting.

  Popov had assured them that all their needs would be taken care of once they were in Russia, so Jake and his dad weren’t taking much. It was mainly clothes, football gear and documents relating to the new job. The rest, all the furniture and their other possessions, would stay. His dad always kept a base in London.

  Jake wondered if his dad had packed the gun, wrapped it inside a towel or something in the box marked ‘Personal’.

  Over the last few days, he’d found himself making excuses for that. Maybe the gun was for self-defence. Maybe it wasn’t even real – a replica, just for show. It didn’t mean anything, did it? Lots of people had guns. Perhaps he’d let the shock of Chernoff’s death get the better of him.

  A ring on the doorbell, and Jake jumped over the edge of the couch to answer it. Standing, almost filling the doorframe, was the bodyguard who’d visited before with Igor Popov.

  ‘You are ready,’ he said. Not a question, not a statement. Somewhere in between.

  ‘Just about,’ said Jake. He called to his dad, ‘Hey, Bruiser, the driver’s here!’

  The Russian grumbled something into a phone, and Jake sprinted upstairs to fetch his jacket and iPod.

  This is it! he thought. I’m going to Russia!

  It was late afternoon when Jake and his dad finally slipped into the sleek leather seat of Popov’s limo. The bodyguard-cum-chauffeur closed the door behind them. The car’s suspension dipped as the mountain of muscle parked himself in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Help yourself to refreshments,’ he said, pointing a stubby finger to the compartment between the front seats.

  The car started with a purr and eased out into the street. With the tinted windows, it was like being cocooned in a submarine. Jake popped the fridge door and took out a can of Red Bull. This is travelling in style, he thought.

  He cracked the can with a hiss. ‘You want anything, Dad?’

  His dad gave a thin smile and shook his head. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

  Jake saw the button he assumed would wind down the window and pressed it. Instead, the headrest in front gave a beep. A cover lifted up to reveal a small monitor underneath.

  ‘Cool!’ said Jake. He hit the play button and the screen blinked into life.

  It was a compilation of highlights from the previous La Liga season. It took Jake a second or two to realise the focus of the tape was none other than Devon Taylor. In one sequence he took a sixty-yard cross-field pass on his chest, then volleyed it another thirty into the top corner. The goalkeeper didn’t even move. Jake rewound the video and watched it again.

  One day, Jake promised himself.

  ‘Will I meet Devon Taylor?’ he asked.

  His dad looked away from him, out of the window. ‘I’m sure you will,’ he said.

  Jake had travelled first class in the past, but nothing compared with the treatment they received at Heathrow airport courtesy of Igor Popov. The limo was waved through an external security check, their passports given only the briefest glance. The limo pulled up beside a small hangar where a Learjet was parked. It looked like a toy – pointed like a dart, with a row of six windows perched high on the fuselage. The wings looked impossibly narrow and flimsy, their points upturned at either end. The logo on the tail fin was the ‘PI’ of Popov Industries. The crate holding their belongings was already being loaded into the small cargo hold at the rear as Jake and his dad were ushered up the front steps.

  A man wearing a peaked cap greeted them. Beside him stood a statuesque blonde woman with startling blue eyes. With her long legs and curves she wouldn’t have looked out of place on the catwalk.

  ‘I’m Max Siegel, your co-pilot for today,’ said the man. ‘And this is Helga. She’ll be able to help you with anything you require during the flight. For now, please do take a seat – we should have clearance for take-off any minute.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jake’s dad. Jake noticed Helga was smiling at his dad appreciatively. Typical, thought Jake. Another fan. The cockpit was blocked off with only a curtain, which was pulled to the side. Jake quickly surveyed the wall-mounted buttons and gauges and saw another man, presumably the captain, sitting in front of them. He was checking details on a computer display.

  They followed Helga’s swaying hips back through another curtain. Her perfume was fragrant and rich – too rich. It made Jake cough and his eyes water. Who needs that much perfume?

  The main compartment was nothing like the planes Jake had flown in before. There were no rows of cramped identical seats, no narrow aisle. Instead, there were plush sofas arranged around low tables, and huge reclining chairs. Proper light fittings with dimmer switches on the walls. At the far end was a marble bar with rows of bottles; further still, past another open curtain, was what looked like a kitchen.

  A man sat with his back to them on one of the sofas, his Timberland boots on a footrest. Jake recognised the beanie hat at once. The man turned round, giving a wide pristine smile. ‘You . . .’ Jake mumbled.

  The journalist from outside Obed. What was his name?

  ‘Hi,’ said the man, climbing out of his seat and extending his hand. ‘Daniel Powell,’ he said in a New York accent. ‘I hope you don’t mind sharing the plane with me.’

  Jake couldn’t speak. What’s he doing here?

  His dad took the outstretched hand. ‘Not at all, Daniel. Mr Popov said we might have some company. This is my son, Jake.’

  Jake managed to gather himself. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Luckily, Helga interrupted them. ‘If you could take your seats, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘We’ve been cleared for take-off.’

  Jake kept sneaking glances at Daniel Powell as the Learjet taxied on to the runway, accelerated and lifted into the sky.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ he finally whispered to his dad.

  ‘I forgot to tell you. Daniel Powell is doing a profile on the Tigers for an American sports magazine. We’ll be seeing a lot more of him over the next couple of weeks.’

  The captain informed them over the tannoy that they’d be airborne for approximately five hours. Jake’s dad was asleep by the time they reached the Flemish coast, but Jake couldn’t relax. He tried watching an action movie but the plot was dumb and he found concentrating difficult. The man who had written about Chernoff and Popov was sitting a few feet away. The man who had been outside the restaurant when Chernoff died.

  Jake switched off the movie. His dad was snoring softly.

  Time to do a little investigating. Powell knows something about Chernoff – I need to find out what.

  He stood up and walked as casually as possible past Daniel Powell. He didn’t need the loo, but it provided a convenient excuse. The journalist was tapping away on a slim Macintosh laptop, and didn’t look up. In the toilet, Jake worked out how he’d start a casual conversation with Powell.

  But on Jake’s way back it was Powell who spoke first. ‘Why don’t you take a seat, Jake?’

  Jake did, easing himself on to a sofa. Powell leant back. ‘You must be excited – this is a big move for your dad.’

  Jake shrugged. ‘Sure. Dad’s coached big teams before, though.’

  Powell nodded and gave a disarming smile. ‘They say Igor Popov is the richest owner in the game.’

  ‘Money doesn’t always buy success,’ Jake replied. ‘You can have the most expensive players in the world, but without the right coach you won’t win anything.’

  Powell nodded. ‘You seem to know your stuff.’

  Jake wasn’t falling for the compliment. He knew enough about journalists to know they couldn’t be trusted. Sharks, his dad call
ed them. One sniff of your blood and they’d happily write the story with it. But how could he move to the topic of Chernoff?

  ‘Tell me,’ continued Powell. ‘Do you know when your father first met Mr Popov?’

  The smile was still there, but something about Powell’s posture had changed. Jake didn’t like it. He was being played, when he wanted to be the player.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Jake,’ said his dad sleepily from further up the cabin. ‘Don’t be bothering Mr Powell.’

  Jake had missed his chance. With his dad awake and clearly eavesdropping, Jake couldn’t swing the conversation to Chernoff. ‘Excuse me,’ Jake said to Powell.

  ‘Of course,’ said the American. ‘Maybe we’ll catch up another time.’

  Jake left the journalist and sat down again across from his dad. His dad leant closer. ‘I don’t want you to talk to Daniel Powell,’ he murmured.

  ‘Why?’ asked Jake.

  ‘Journalists are always fishing for stories, new angles.’ His dad waved his hand as though it wasn’t important. ‘And we don’t need any bad publicity.’ With that, he laid back and closed his eyes.

  Jake studied his dad for a moment, as if he could somehow read the truth in the face that he, and the world, thought they knew so well.

  As dusk drew over the sky, the land below had turned white, and Jake guessed they were cruising over southern Finland. St Petersburg was three hours ahead of London, so they’d be landing in the middle of the night.

  Helga sashayed through with a tray holding two champagne flutes and an orange juice.

  ‘A little bubbly before we land.’ Helga nudged Jake’s dad awake and forced one into his hand. ‘And for you,’ Helga said with a wide smile at Jake as she handed him the orange juice. Jake’s eyes watered and he coughed as her over-powering perfume engulfed him.

  ‘Thanks,’ Powell said, snatching the other flute as she passed. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ He gulped it down.

  ‘Cheers, everyone!’ Helga said, raising an imaginary glass and returning to the front of the plane. Jake’s dad set the glass on the table, turned over and went back to sleep.