by Philip Kerr
Bekim’s body jerked momentarily but otherwise he remained motionless.
‘Shock one delivered,’ said the machine voice. ‘It is safe to touch the patient. Begin CPR, now.’
The Greek translated for some of the others attending Bekim and then, together with Gareth, he started chest compressions, while Gareth gave Bekim mouth-to-mouth, thirty and two, like you’re supposed to. The men were drenched in sweat not just from the heat in the stadium, but from the sheer effort of what they were now doing: trying to bring a man back from the dead. And this in full view of more than thirty thousand spectators.
‘Continue for one minute thirty seconds,’ said the machine.
‘Christ,’ said Simon who was now standing alongside me in the centre of the pitch. ‘Has he had a heart attack, or what?’
‘Worse than that, I think,’ I said. ‘It seems like his heart has stopped beating altogether. They’re trying to get it going again now.’
‘It can’t be,’ said Simon. ‘Not him. Not Bekim. The lad’s only twenty-nine and as fit as a flea.’
‘Right now it doesn’t look as though he’s going to make thirty,’ I said.
‘Stop CPR. Stop now. Do not touch the patient. Analysing heart rhythm. Do not touch the patient. Shock advised. Stand clear.’
‘Stékeste,’ said the Greek medico.
‘Press flashing shock button.’
Once again Bekim’s body jerked spasmodically and then remained motionless. Some others came onto the pitch with a scoop stretcher to pick the man up just as soon as he could be safely moved. It was already beginning to look pointless.
‘He needs to be in hospital,’ said Simon. ‘Someone needs to call a fucking ambulance.’
‘They’re doing the right thing,’ I told him. ‘If they stop with the defibrillator then there’ll be no point in taking him to the hospital.’
‘No point anyway if the fucking doctors are on strike,’ said Simon.
By now the news that Bekim was in serious trouble had reached the small contingent of English supporters who were somewhere in the stadium and they began to sing his name.
‘BEKIM DEVELI! BEKIM DEVELI!’
‘BEKIM DEVELI! BEKIM DEVELI!’
To my amazement the Greeks joined in and for almost a minute the whole crowd was as one in its attempt to let the stricken Russian know that they were rooting for his recovery.
‘BEKIM DEVELI! BEKIM DEVELI!’
I swallowed hard, and in spite of the heat shivered a little with emotion, trying to keep it together, but inside I was in complete turmoil. What about his baby son? I kept asking myself. What if he doesn’t make it? Who’s going to look after Peter? What will happen to Alex? Football, bloody hell!
Bloody hell, indeed.
17
As six pairs of hands lifted Bekim onto the stretcher and hurried him off the pitch, I followed Gareth to the mouth of the players’ tunnel. The air was as warm as an open oven but I felt cold and empty inside. The audience started to applaud the man now fighting for his life.
‘Is he alive?’ I asked him.
‘Only just, boss. His heart’s all over the place. Maybe they can do something for him at the hospital. His best chance now is a massive shot of adrenalin. Or if they open him up and massage his heart. But we’ve done all we can for him here, I think.’
‘But what happened? What caused this?’
‘I’m not a doctor, boss. But there’s something called SADS – Sudden Arrhythmia Death Syndrome, or what the newspapers call Sudden Adult Death Syndrome – but that’s just what doctors call it when they have no fucking idea why people keel over and die. Except that they do. All the time.’
‘Not when they’re twenty-nine,’ I said. But Gareth didn’t hear me; the stretcher had halted briefly so that he could help to give Bekim CPR again.
‘Go with them,’ I told Simon. ‘Go with them to the hospital. And stay in touch.’
‘Yes, boss.’
I turned to find Gary standing behind me. He looked pale and drawn.
‘Drink something,’ I said, almost automatically. ‘You look like you’re dehydrated.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. But it’s not looking good right now.’
‘We can’t play on tonight,’ he said. ‘Not in these circumstances, boss. The lads need to know Bekim’s all right.’
‘I think you’re right.’
‘Christ, it makes you think what’s important, eh?’
I walked towards the touchline where Merlini, a UEFA official and several guys from Olympiacos were in conference. Merlini had both hands clasped as if he’d been praying too; he was biting his thumbnail anxiously as he tried to decide what to do. The Olympiacos manager, Hristos Trikoupis, put a hand on my shoulder.
‘How is your man?’
I shook my head. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘They’re taking him to the Metropolitan,’ he said. ‘It’s a two-minute walk from here. It’s a very good hospital. A private hospital. Not a public one. Try not to worry too much. It’s where all our own players go. I promise you, they’ll give your guy the best treatment available.’
I nodded dumbly, a little surprised at this turnaround in his attitude to me; before the match he had said some very unpleasant things about me in the Greek newspapers; he’d even brought up my time in prison and had joked that that was where I belonged, given my record as ‘a very dirty player’. Mind games, perhaps. All the same, that had hurt. You don’t expect that kind of behaviour from someone you used to play alongside. It had been all I could do to shake hands with Hristos Trikoupis before the match without trying to break his arm.
‘Look,’ I said eventually, ‘I don’t think my boys can play on. Not tonight.’
‘I agree,’ said Trikoupis.
Merlini, the referee, pointed to the tunnel. ‘Please, let’s go inside and have a talk there,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel comfortable deciding what to do in front of the television cameras or all these people.’
He blew his whistle and waved at the players on the pitch to come off.
I grabbed my jacket and then we went into the officials’ room; Merlini, the UEFA official, Hristos Trikoupis, the two team captains and me.
We sat down and for almost a minute nobody said a thing; then Trikoupis offered around some cigarettes and everybody took one, me included. There’s nothing like a cigarette to help draw yourself together; it’s as if, when you inhale smoke into your lungs, you’re pulling something back into yourself that had been in danger of escaping.
Gary smoked like a hard-bitten soldier in a trench on the Somme. ‘I used to think these would kill me,’ he said. ‘But after what’s happened here tonight, I’m not so sure.’
Trikoupis handed me a glass of what I thought was water and it was only after I’d downed it that I realised it was actually ouzo.
‘No,’ I said, firmly. ‘We can’t play tonight.’
‘I agree,’ he said.
‘So do I,’ said Merlini. He seemed relieved that the decision had been made for him. ‘The question is, when is the match to be finished?’
The UEFA official, a Belgian called Bruno Verhofstadt, who looked like Don Draper wearing Van Gogh’s beard, nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘That’s agreed. I’m sure we all hope and pray that Mr Develi will make a full and speedy recovery. Obviously I’m not a doctor but I trust Mr Manson and Mr Ferguson will forgive me if I state a very cruel and unpalatable truth: that it seems to me whatever happens now there can be no question of Bekim Develi playing for London City in the very near future. Not after a heart attack.’
I nodded. ‘That’s fair, I think, Mr Verhofstadt.’
‘Thank you, sir. I hope you will also forgive me if I suggest that we use this opportunity to try to find the best way forward from where we are now. By which I mean the situation as it exists, from UEFA’s point of view.’
‘Which is?’ I asked.
‘I’ll understand co
mpletely if you don’t feel you want to talk about this now, Mr Manson. I wouldn’t like you to feel that I’m putting you under pressure to make a decision about what to do next.’
‘No, no. Let’s talk about it. I agree, I think we have to do that now. Makes sense. While we’re all here.’
‘Very well. So then, given we are agreed that Mr Develi is unlikely to play any further role in this cup tie...’ Verhofstadt glanced at me as if awaiting confirmation.
I nodded.
‘Then according to UEFA a match which has begun must be completed as soon as possible. UEFA rules also forbid domestic games taking place in Europe on the same night as the Champions League or Europa League games. Tomorrow night is also a Champions League night. There are no domestic games anywhere else. From a scheduling standpoint it would seem to make sense that we complete this match at the earliest available opportunity that is convenient to both teams.’
‘You mean tomorrow,’ I said.
‘I do mean tomorrow, Mr Manson.’ He sighed. ‘Come what may.’
I knew exactly what Verhofstadt meant by that. He meant that we would have to play the game even if Bekim Develi died; but I hardly wanted to admit out loud that this was a possibility, even though I knew in my heart of hearts that this felt like something much more than just possible.
‘Come what may. That also makes sense. It’s not like we had many travelling fans here tonight. I think most of our supporters were already here on holiday.’ I nodded. ‘I mean, we’re all here in Greece. If we don’t play tomorrow then it’s hard to imagine when we are going to be able to play this cup tie. We’ve got Chelsea on Saturday, and then we’re supposed to have the home match of this cup tie, next week.’ I glanced at Gary Ferguson. ‘It’s either that or we withdraw from the competition. What do you think, Gary?’
‘We can’t withdraw,’ he said firmly. ‘No, boss. If we have to play we have to play. I don’t know of any circumstances under which Bekim would want us to withdraw from the Champions League – not on his account, anyway. Especially not now we’re a goal up.’ He took a superhuman drag on the cigarette and then used it to reinforce the point he was now making. ‘Look, I don’t know how to say this, boss, except to mention an old movie I once saw, with Charlton Heston. Bekim Develi is your El Cid kind of guy. I mean, dead or alive, he’d want us to be there tomorrow. To play, you know?’ He shrugged. ‘Just for the record, I’d feel the same way. My club, do or die, okay?’
Verhofstadt looked at Trikoupis.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I agree. We can play tomorrow, as well.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you all for being so accommodating in an extremely difficult and tragic situation.’
I shook hands with Hristos Trikoupis and then with Mr Verhofstadt.
‘Then that’s settled,’ he said. ‘This match will be postponed until tomorrow.’
As Gary and I left the officials’ room, Trikoupis drew me aside.
‘I didn’t want to say this in front of the UEFA guy,’ he said, suddenly much less amicable. ‘After all, you’re a big boy now, Scott. But do you really know what the fuck you’re doing? I don’t think so. You think it was tough out there tonight? That was nothing compared to how it will be tomorrow. Don’t think that we’re going to go easy on you just because you have a player who had a heart attack. A player, I might add, who was not much loved after what he said about this country at the press conference the other night.’
‘Like I said earlier, I don’t think we have any other choice but to play.’
‘If you like. But you can depend on this. Tomorrow night, we’re going to fuck you in the ass. We’re going to comprehensively destroy you all. And then we’re going to tie your bodies to our chariots and drag you around the walls of this stadium in triumph. And however bad you feel now you will certainly feel worse tomorrow. My advice to you is this. Go home now. While you still can.’
I was still feeling too numb about what had happened to Bekim otherwise I might have told Hristos Trikoupis to go and fuck himself, especially after what he’d said about me in the newspapers. But things were quite bad enough without me starting a fight with another manager under the eyes of the local police. So I turned away without another word and went back to the dressing room where I told the players of what had been decided.
Not long after that Simon Page returned with the news that several of us had expected and all of us were dreading: Bekim Develi was dead.
It took me several moments before I could respond. When I finally did, I said:
‘We’ll leave it to the people in the media to idealise the man and enlarge him in death beyond what he was in life. That’s what they like to do but it’s not what Bekim would have wanted. I know that because last night, after that disastrous press conference, I asked him why he’d said what he said. And he replied: “The truth is the truth. I say it when I see it and that’s just the way I am.” Those of us who loved Bekim Develi, for who he really was, we’ll just leave it at this: we will remember him as a man who always tried, as a man who never gave up, as a man who defended fair play for all, but above all we will remember him as a truly great sportsman. When one of your team mates dies like this, I don’t know – this is about as bad as it gets. But tomorrow we’ll have the opportunity then as a team to show him how much we valued the time we had with him.’
I stood up. ‘Come on, lads. Have a shower and let’s get on that coach.’
18
Of course I’d never wanted Bekim Develi at the club. It had been Viktor’s idea to buy him from Dynamo St Petersburg. But Bekim had quickly impressed us all with his discipline and absolute commitment to the football club, not to mention his enormous technical ability. More importantly, he’d been lucky for us, which is to say he’d scored goals, more than a dozen goals in less than four months, important goals that had enabled us to finish fourth in the table behind Chelsea, Man City and Arsenal; if I had to single out one player who had helped us to qualify for Europe it would have been Bekim Develi. Yes, there had been times when I could have wished for him to be less outspoken but that was the red devil for you: mischief was hard-wired into his DNA. It was a part of him, like the red beard on his face.
Now that he was gone I wondered which of us – me or Viktor Sokolnikov – was going to telephone Bekim’s girlfriend, Alex, back in London and tell her the bad news. Vik had already spoken to her several times to assure her that everything that could be done was being done. The fact was Vik had known them both for longer than I had and, much to my relief, he volunteered to make the call himself. I’ll say one thing for our Ukrainian proprietor: he never shirked a difficult job.
‘Besides,’ he said, ‘she’s Russian and she ought to hear this terrible thing in her own language. Bad news is always less kind in translation.’ Vik shook his head. ‘Please, excuse me. Help yourself to a drink and make yourself comfortable. I may be a while.’
He went away and was gone for almost forty minutes.
We were on Vik’s yacht, The Lady Ruslana. His helicopter had flown me from the landing pad in front of the hotel onto the ship soon after my arrival back in Vouliagmeni from the Karaiskakis Stadium. He’d offered me dinner on-board, which I declined. I had no appetite for food although the same could not be said of his other guests on the yacht – Phil Hobday, Kojo Ironsi, flicking mosquitoes away with one of those African fly-whisks, Cooper Lybrand wearing an immaculate white linen suit that made him look like Gatsby, a couple of Greek businessmen who had lost their razors, and several pretty girls – who even now were loudly tucking in to dinner on the outside deck that would not have disgraced the table of a minor Roman emperor. Even close to the death of someone I was sure he had cared a lot about, Vik lived well; perhaps that’s the only way to be: with an eye not to the future, or the past but only on the present. Tempus fugit and all that.
The yacht’s red ensign flag at half-mast was a nice touch but I could have done without Kojo’s big, booming laugh; or the fireworks and lightshow on
another yacht – bigger than the Vatican State and just as opulent – moored about a hundred metres away.
‘That’s Monsieur Croesus,’ said Vik when he came back to the stateroom where he’d left me, ‘Gustave Haak’s boat; the investor and arbitrageur,’ as if that was all the explanation needed for such a conspicuous middle finger to the cash-strapped Greeks who must have watched what was happening from the shore with something like astonishment. ‘It’s his birthday. Haak likes to enjoy his birthdays. Me, I prefer to forget them. There have been too many, and they come too often for my liking.’
‘How did she take it?’ I asked. ‘Alex?’
Vik sighed. ‘Stupid question.’
‘Sorry. Yes, it was.’
‘Actually, it so happens I’m very good at giving bad news. But then, as a Jew coming from Ukraine we’ve had generations of practice.’
‘I didn’t know you were Jewish, Viktor.’
‘So was Bekim. I don’t suppose you knew that either.’
‘No, I didn’t. Why didn’t I?’
‘Jews in football. This isn’t something to shout about like some stupid Haredi with a kolpik on his head. It’s like being gay: best kept quiet about in front of the great British public with its strong sense of sporting fair play.’
‘You got that right.’
He grimaced. ‘I’m worried about Alex. According to Bekim she’s suffering from post-natal depression. That’s normal, of course. But when I first got to know her she was addicted to cocaine. It’s at times like this that people – weaker people, such as her – reach for the wrong kind of help. I told her to leave all of the arrangements for Bekim’s funeral to me, but perhaps it would be better for her to be busy. You see, I know he wanted to be buried in Turkey, where he was born. In Izmir.’ He pointed at one of the windows. ‘Which is just across the Aegean Sea, in that direction. So it makes sense that I should do it. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes. And I, for one, am very glad you’re doing it. I’m not sure I can handle the Champions League and the local undertakers in the same day.’
