by Alison Bond
‘What?’ he said. ‘Were you just hoping that if you worked hard enough then one day everyone would forget who you once were, that your past would just go away?’
It was exactly what she had been hoping. It was the strategy she had been counting on her whole life long.
‘So what do you say?’ he said. ‘Do you want to play?’
‘I … don’t know.’
She couldn’t say yes, but how could she say no? If people had been dealing with her because she was an agent who might be open to the occasional under-the-table payment she would soon lose goodwill when they found out that she was beyond reproach.
There was a part of her, a tiny whispering part, which seemed to be reaching out from beneath her ethics and begging her to pay attention to his offer. She wouldn’t be the first or only agent out there to bend the rules when it suited, as long as they weren’t caught. Even Legends, whatever Jackson might hope, wasn’t immune to a few subtly shaded manoeuvres. There were rules being bent at right-angles across the game. And with the Lubin family in her corner, would she ever be caught?
‘Can I think about it?’ she said.
‘I am returning to Russia until the new year,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk again then. Obviously you must give me your answer before the transfer window closes.’
‘Obviously,’ she echoed.
He turned away and then seemed to reconsider, turning back to look at her intently, the way he had the very first night they’d met. ‘You should come with me,’ he said.
‘To Russia? For Christmas? I … no, I don’t think so.’
‘It is a wonderful time of year to see my country. We could have a lot of fun.’
His flashing eyes made it clear the sort of fun he had in mind.
‘You told me Russia was a hole in the ground.’
‘I did? When?’
‘The night we met.’
‘When you got drunk and refused to sleep with me.’
‘Yes.’
‘So people can change their minds. Think about my other invitation. About Gabe. Think very carefully. It is a big opportunity for you.’
He dropped a brief kiss on her lips and then he left.
Had he seen something in her, something left over from her past, that was open to danger? And after suppressing that part of herself for all these years while she played it safe, perhaps, just perhaps, it was time for her to let go.
She watched Gabe and Joe running themselves into the ground at the other end of the pitch. It could be a second chance for Gabe to shine, something nobody would have predicted. But she wouldn’t jeopardize her career for his sake. No, if she was going to change tactics and play dirty she would be doing it for herself. Playing by the rules had only served to sully her reputation, not to mention missing the biggest round of bonuses to date. Honesty does not prevail. All this fuss over three hundred thousand dollars. What about the million-pound bonus she would not be getting this Christmas? Someone somewhere was a million pounds up on the year because she was a million pounds down.
A new version of herself started to form in her imagination. Her toy-boy lover – a billion-heir, being at the heart of the scurrilous deals of the eastern frontier, sinking deep into a world she had self-righteously ignored. A frisson of excitement carried her imagination. So what if it wasn’t strictly ethical? It was only business. Perhaps that was who she had to be to succeed.
30
It was early afternoon on Christmas Eve and Samantha was lying on her sofa in London staring at the television screen, watching nothing. She cycled through the channels with the remote control three times before it occurred to her to switch it off. The instant silence was an oppressive reminder of her less than festive mood.
How had she ended up alone?
She was Sam Sharp: Superagent. This was her first day off in months. Shouldn’t she be having a fabulous time?
It was already dark outside, dark and cold. She wondered if it might snow. It would be snowing in Russia, she bet. Somewhere over there Aleksandr Lubin would be at some party, probably hosting one, surrounded by beautiful rich people and merriment. She was beautiful and rich. That’s where she belonged. Not here, trying to find the energy to get up from the sofa and fix herself something proper to eat instead of picking listlessly at the hunk of Stilton cheese in front of her.
She missed her brother. She thought this would be a Christmas for them both, the first for years. When she was a girl, back before they lost their mother, before they lost their home, Christmas had been the only day of the year that they spent together, the three of them, the whole day, without Mum running off to see her friends or shutting herself in the kitchen with the radio on and the chink of ice into a glass. On Christmas Day they wore their pyjamas all day long and were little enough to want love more than presents. They would squish onto the sofa together, watch a Disney film and eat chocolates from a box. It was enough. They remained her favourite Christmas memories.
This was a Christmas she would gladly forget as soon as possible.
And what about Jackson? What would he be doing? Last year they had flown to Venezuela and checked into a five-star hotel on one of the tiny islands off the coast. Nowhere obvious she had said, and they both knew that she meant too much chance of bumping into someone that they knew in Barbados. She had been so afraid of ruining her reputation. It was almost funny if you thought about how ruined she had been in the end. But not actually funny at all.
No doubt he would have a new lover by now, all those Christmas parties, finally free to catch one of the beauties who regularly threw themselves at him. She conjured an image of Jackson in a bar with someone like Richard, taking their pick from the women, girls really, who fluttered around rich men like butterflies, and she was surprised by how much it hurt.
It was only because she was feeling lonely. Jackson could sleep with whomever he chose. What business was it of hers? Why should she care?
Right?
She had hours until bedtime. And then she could look forward to waking up in this empty house on Christmas morning and rattling around like a lost button in a tin. This wasn’t Christmas, it was agony. She should have gone to Russia and had an adventure. Anything would be better than this.
His business proposal haunted her. She was reluctant to get further involved with him than she already was. And yet … cash in brown envelopes, a loyal circle of contacts, a Mafia-esque lifestyle. She wasn’t immune to the charms of such a life. She’d missed out on enough opportunities because she was a woman. Was she now going to miss out because she was too principled to play around the edges of what was right? She was the naive schoolkid who thought that being a nice person was enough to make you popular.
When everyone knew that the opposite was true.
There was a knock at the front door and a truly awful voice began carolling outside.
We wish you a merry Christmas …
She stayed quiet and still hoping that they would assume nobody was in and move on. After all, how many people in this part of town had nothing to do on Christmas Eve? She might possibly be the only lonely soul on this street.
God, Sam, pity yourself much?
The terrible singing continued. She would put the television on to drown it out, but that might draw attention to her presence. The doorbell rang again and the melody changed.
Give up and go away.
Tears prickled her eyes and she wondered why, then she listened to the singing that was filtering in despite her best efforts to block it out. She tuned in to the voice. A bloody awful voice. Solitary and far too old to be carol singing. Except it wasn’t a carol.
If happy little bluebirds fly …
She threw open the curtains and there he was. All she wanted for Christmas. He was the reason she was in London. In case this happened. In case he came back.
Liam.
He waved. ‘Please let me in,’ he shouted. ‘It’s freezing out here!’
And she hustled him into her warm home with a
flurry of excited hugs, shushing him when he started to apologize, offering wine, making tea, finding crackers for the Stilton and unearthing a box of chocolates, and suddenly it felt a little bit like Christmas after all.
It soon became clear that something wasn’t right. He took off his coat at her insistence, but sat stiffly, as if he might leave any moment, sipping his tea politely, as though he was visiting an old aunt.
‘Where have you been staying?’ she asked.
‘Vauxhall,’ he said. ‘An old friend.’
She didn’t know that he had any friends, certainly none that ever visited him in prison, so what kind of friends could they be? Why would he rather be with them, than here with her? Her feelings were hurt, but she tried to be cool.
‘Liam,’ she said. ‘Is everything, you know, okay? I mean, I can’t imagine what it’s like for you, but I thought, well, I thought you might be happy, happier. It’s over; you’re out. You can get on with your life.’
He sighed, like she patently didn’t understand, and she felt awkward and inept.
‘I need to talk to someone,’ he said.
‘You can talk to me.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I mean I think I need to talk to someone, you know, professional.’
‘Oh.’
He smiled at her, a discomfited half smile that made her feel uneasy. ‘No offence.’
‘Why would I be offended?’
‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Maybe because you want to be the one who fixes me?’
‘You don’t need –’
‘I do, Sam. I’m a mess.’
He started talking and she listened without saying a word, swallowing down every question that rose in her throat. He told her about the guilt that had been his constant companion since the day he was released, about how he couldn’t sleep at night without hearing the screams of people dying in the back of that car.
‘It’s like it happened yesterday,’ he said. ‘I just wasn’t expecting to feel this way.’
His parole officer said it was a common reaction, survivor’s guilt, and he suggested a counsellor, and even though he was scared he was going to give the guy a call and set something up.
‘I can’t live like this,’ he said. ‘It’s too much for me to handle. I killed them. And now I’m out and they’re still dead.’
She swallowed her tears. It wasn’t over. They had waited all these years for it to be over, patiently looking towards the horizon, only now they were here they saw that they still had another mountain to climb.
‘About the house in Kentish Town …’ he said.
She wished she’d never bought him the damn house. She could see now that her largesse had caused so much trouble.
‘I won’t mention that house again, until you’re ready. Liam, I just didn’t think. And, well, I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to apologize,’ he said. ‘Don’t be silly. I just … I can’t live there; it’s too much. I was thinking maybe I’d sell it?’
‘You can do what you like with it. It’s yours. It’s all in your name. I don’t want it.’ The truth was that she never wanted to see it again.
‘Maybe I’ll sell it, quickly if I can, as quickly as possible, just move it, and get myself a little one-bedroom flat or something.’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘No rush.’
‘Come on, Liam. You think I’m stupid? You just said, as quickly as possible.’
‘I only want us both to get past this.’
When they were little she used to be able to tell instantly if he was speaking the truth by the hesitation that crept into his voice, the small pauses he took to allow himself time to think. She couldn’t hear that hesitation now, but perhaps prison had made him a better liar. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Are you … clean?’ The notion that he might still be using drugs was repugnant.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m clean, I swear. It’s too much, Sam, that’s all. I don’t need life to be so easy. I don’t deserve life to be so easy. I’ll stash the rest of the money away. Maybe one day you’ll have a family of your own and they might want it?’
‘You’re my family, Liam.’
‘I know, but …’
‘If that’s what you want,’ she said, ‘then that’s what you should do. I want what you want.’
Liam looked at her, smiled and shook his head in disbelief. ‘You can’t be this amazing, you just can’t be.’
She gestured to the room around them. ‘I’m sitting on my own feeling sorry for myself on Christmas Eve. That’s hardly amazing.’
‘You’re not alone,’ he said.
They curled up on the sofa and watched a Disney film eating chocolates out of a box and she pretended that she was five years old again.
Was it possible that life had ever been that simple?
31
Thank God for January. Thank God for work. It was time to put all her carefully organized preparation into practice. The deals were poised, the transfer window was open and even though the club owners would dither over the fine print until the very last minute it was finally time to do some serious business.
She was ready.
Saturday dawned a beautiful crisp morning and she walked to the stadium watching the city emerge from the iron-grey grip of winter if only for one day.
She was about to watch her star client play his last competitive game before he wore the shirt for England. It was exciting. And as for Lubin and his proposal she was still hoping for inspiration. Perhaps when she saw him she would know what to do.
She was tempted. And confronting the lure she felt towards the illicit made her deeply uneasy.
She was a good girl. Wasn’t she?
But Lubin wasn’t in the players’ lounge and so she went searching for him and found Gabe instead. She spotted him just outside the dressing room. He looked awful, exhausted and ten years older. Still, she was glad to see him. She rushed over and wished him a happy new year.
‘I very much doubt that,’ he said tersely, and slipped through the door without explaining himself.
Samantha couldn’t ever remember seeing him looking so sad.
When the match kicked off she was so focused on Joe that it took her a while to notice that Gabe was playing erratically. Chasing everything, making selfish runs on goal and thoughtless passes. It wasn’t until a big groan came from the home crowd, as once again Gabe went for goal instead of passing the ball to Joe who was wide open, that she started to pay close attention.
What the hell was he doing? He was playing like a child.
The right back sent a long ball towards the forwards and they both jumped for it, a clash of heads sending the ball spinning aimlessly across the grass where it was picked up by their opponents. The crowd groaned again and tensed collectively as the action went straight back up the other end, and the opposing team scored the first goal.
Down on the grass Joe knew Gabe was pissed off about something. He only wished that he knew what, then he might have half a chance of talking him round, and half a chance at goal.
They weren’t friends any more though they pretended that they were. They called each other ‘mate’ when they passed on the training pitch, but they were faking it. They hadn’t been out for a drink since that night south of the river. He missed him a bit, but what with the England call-up and everything he hadn’t given it too much thought.
Gabe was furious with Samantha, but without good reason. All she had done was wish him a happy new year. Was he going mad? But they were all the same these agent types, weren’t they? The game, the game of football, had gone crazy since they’d got involved, all about the money. He never should have listened to Samantha Sharp. Coming out here was the worst mistake he had ever made. The gulf in his marriage was now so wide that he found it too complex and hence too much effort to traverse.
That morning he had asked Christine if she was going to bother to come and watch him play and she’d
burst into tears. Just burst into tears like that. About nothing.
It was almost as if she knew. But she couldn’t know.
Gabe felt guilty. He felt guilty all the time. He felt guilty that he hadn’t made enough of this incredible chance, guilty that he had started smoking again and mostly he felt guilty about a teenage prostitute with nipples the colour of bubblegum, who had given him a blowjob he’d enjoyed so much he could no longer look his wife in the eye in case she guessed.
Joe could have stopped him that night. He should have stopped him.
He lashed out wildly at the ball again and sent it directly to the feet of an opposing player. His concentration was shot.
Samantha watched him with growing panic. She found herself willing the manager to pull Gabe off and put on a substitute.
Joe was playing well, but unable to compensate for Gabe’s frequent mistakes. He fired off a ball towards goal and it ricocheted off the post into the arms of the waiting goalkeeper.
An easy save.
It was the closest White Stars had come to equalizing and Joe groaned with the home supporters, his hands flying to his head in an instinctive gesture.
Gabe was happy that the kid had missed. Not quite the wonder boy everybody thinks, eh? Nobody seemed to remember that without him Samantha never would have found Joe out here in the middle of nowhere, might as well have wrapped a bow round Joe’s head and called a gift a gift. But did he get any thanks for it? Did he hell. Joe had his life in front of him, a life to train and become an even stronger player. Joe wouldn’t have to fit a career into the sunset years, to try to force the best form of his life out in what few years remained for him. Joe would play in many FA Cups, of that he was certain, not just one, and by the time Joe was Gabe’s age – in two fucking decades – he would have a thousand footballing stories to tell.
Not just one.
Joe would be a true hero. And Gabe would be long forgotten.
Fucking Joe.
