Linehan Saves

Linehan Saves

  Bryan Murphy

  Copyright 2013 Bryan Murphy

  Dark Future Books

  Cover by Mao Qing

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, places or events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination.

  To discover more work by Bryan Murphy, visit:

  https://www.bryanmurphy.eu

  ******

  Linehan Saves

  Yingnmeng, China, April 2020.

  “I want a man! A man!”

  Seán Linehan slams the door in the young woman’s face. She takes a step back, stands still for a moment, then adjusts her dress to its most opaque and walks away down the corridor, shaking her head.

  Linehan leans back against the other side of the hotel room door and tries to control his breathing. God, she was beautiful. He staggers over to the armchair next to the bed, flops into it, pulls out his phone and calls Mo.

  “Show-un! Good to hear you. What can I do for you?”

  “A man! I want a man!”

  “You don’t like Miss May? Everyone likes Miss May.”

  “I want a man,” he groans.

  “Miss May is the best we have. Most pretty. Very sweet.”

  “A man.”

  “You will see. She is an excellent interpreter. The bestest.”

  “Look, Mo, I’m here to work. How can I work if my very sweet, most pretty interpreter keeps turning the front of her clothing transparent?”

  “You don’t like?”

  “Yes, I do. Too damned like. So if you people really want the 2030 World Cup, you’ll get on to the agency double quick and have them send me a male interpreter. A good one. Who wears normal, old-fashioned Western or Chinese clothes!”

  A wave of tiredness hits Linehan. Jesus Christ, it feels late.

  Mo is talking. “Sure thing, Show-un, I’ll do that. Whatever you want. Are you OK? You don’t seem quite yourself.”

  “You’re right. I’m not the Seán Linehan you met in Switzerland. And I’m not your typical corruptible sports executive. See? I’m the new, improved version. Seán Linehan in shining armour. So you guys had better clean up your act. Get it?”

  Mo is laughing softly. “You seem jet-lagged.”

  “Yes, I am, my friend. You can’t imagine. It’s been a long, long journey.”

  “You hungry? I send you Aunty Jun’s speciality. Noodle soup and thousand-year-old egg.”

  “No, I just need sleep.”

  “Must eat. Very important.”

  “I’ve eaten.”

  “Eaten? Good. Anything you want, you ask the Reception. Anything at all.”

  “Right.”

  “I send interpreter tomorrow. We meet afternoon. Good, not good?

  “Good.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  Linehan closes the connection. Good, not good? He never gave that a thought, once. Now it has become the central question in his life.

  Feeling both hungry and thirsty, he reaches out and opens the mini-bar. It is well stocked with beers and spirits, but they are all laced with energy-boosting potions. He settles on something named ‘Red Bullock’: alcohol-free beer laced with an energy-boosting potion. To accompany it, he pulls out a bag labelled ‘Chompis’. He munches a handful as he sits dictating another message to Veronica, who has not yet answered his first one. The Chompis are crispy and savoury, though he cannot identify the precise taste.

  Linehan finishes the Chompis and half of the Red Bullock, then falls asleep in the armchair.

  He wakes up a couple of hours later, alert. Something has changed. Just below the door, five business cards sit on the grey carpet.

  Linehan pulls himself out of the armchair, picks them up and examines them carefully. All feature photos of a young woman pouting as she disrobes. The woman is the same, but the name on each is different, as are the promises of satisfaction on offer. Linehan groans, bins them, takes off his own clothes, climbs into bed and falls straight into a dream of Veronica.

  The morning light seeps through the thin curtains and banishes Veronica. Linehan wakes, aggrieved that he has not been kissed goodbye. He wonders where on earth he is. The theme tune of Chinese Housewives Karaoke OK! blares through walls, ceiling and floor to remind him. For a moment, it makes him wish he were back home in London, or at work in Zurich, but then he remembers that he has a mission, for football and for himself. I’ll show ‘em, he thinks, and gets up and ready for the day ahead, full of energy.

  On the way out, he slips on the pile of business cards by his door. It is thicker than the pile of the carpet. A couple of fingers appear below the door and flick another card on to the heap. Linehan tries to stamp on the fingers. He is a fraction too slow. Enraged, he boots the cards out of the way. One of them features a different woman. Her hair is blonde, though her features are Chinese. Linehan picks this one up and slips it into his shirt pocket without reading it. He throws the rest into the bin with force, then leaves the room.

  There are only two people manning the Reception desk. Linehan does not mind, though he used to lodge at swanky hotels on his travels. Before Padania. Now he saves money from his daily travelling allowance by staying at businessmen’s stopovers like the KK Inn. The money is destined for the World Football Authority’s Development Fund. He has specifically earmarked it for grassroots soccer in Laos. It gives Linehan a real buzz to feel that he is at last putting something back into the game.

  Linehan explains to the young man standing behind the counter that the last thing he needs is a prostitute. He ignores the devil in his head whispering Only one? They’ve got to be joking! The young man smiles and nods, repeatedly. Behind him an older man stares levelly at Linehan over the back of his computer’s monitor. When the young man deems Linehan has finished his rant, he gestures in the direction of another young man, who is sitting in the lounge area, engrossed in the Seattle International Times.

  The interpreter folds his newspaper and rises as Linehan approaches. His shiny suit does not fit him well, but his tie looks new. His handshake is dry and firm.

  “Good morning, Mr. Linehan. I trust that your jet-lag is receding.” He is tall, and he does not smile.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Xiao Xin Xue. But I use the English name Daniel. Look, I hate to bring bad news, but while you were sleeping – and I’ve already told those Reception people not to let the hookers wake you – Switzerland was getting a hiding.”

  “What?”

  “World Cup qualifier: Turkey 4, Switzerland 1. Sorry.”

  “No, no. That’s good. Turkey is a much bigger audience. Anyway, you’ll do. I mean, I’m glad to meet you. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  It is late afternoon. Linehan is in another restaurant, Mo’s favourite. It is much classier than the one where he had brunch. Linehan is tired after his whirlwind tour of the city with Daniel. Daniel proved knowledgeable and efficient, good company, but Linehan has sent him home for the day. He doesn’t need an interpreter with Mo. Linehan is happy to be getting down to business.

  “Firing squad, is it?” asks Linehan.

  “No. Bullet in the back of the neck. Person who shoots does duty, is happy, does not mind who knows.”

  “Yeah. I’d do it. No hesitation. People who drag our game through the mud.”

  “You would, Show-un?”

  He would. But Linehan knows he should not. Not even want to.

  “Well, maybe not. No, I couldn’t, not personally. More to the point, Mo, you can’t!”

  “WFA say government must not interfere in sport. Right?”

  “Damn right!”

  “Our government say WFA not interefere in government. Right?”

  “Wrong. I
t’s not government, it’s murder.”

  “China business. Only China business.”

  “Not when you kill two Brazilians as well.”

  “Brazil so special?”

  “In football, yes.”

  “In China, all equal before law. Brazilians equal, too. Break law, get punish.”

  Linehan can see this is getting nowhere. It is not Mo he has to convince but Mo’s big boss, the Minister for Sport. Better to mine his friend for information.

  “How did you nab the bastards?”

  “Heard too many rumours to ignore. Brought in experts.”

  “Football experts?”

  “No. Financial experts. People who crunch numbers and spot patterns.”

  “And what did they spot?”

  Mo gets technical. “They start with the simplest things: throw-ins.”

  “Throw-ins?”

  “Yes. They find lots and lots of money being waged on how soon the first throw-in is given in certain matches.”

  “Big deal!”

  “It becomes a big deal when it correlates with spending patterns by players in the team that gives away the first throw-in.”

  “Come off it, Mo! The fans won’t stand for that kind of thing.” Linehan tries to sound convinced.

  “The fans won’t know. And they will soon forget a throw-in if their team scores a goal or two before half-time. And when their team goes in at half-time, the players find red envelopes waiting for them in their lockers. We have it on film.”

  “Even so, you don’t shoot footballers for giving away throw-ins.”

  “Not yet. So our experts look for more patterns. Anomalous patterns. Unusually high-scoring games. That kind of thing. And they match them