Final Whistle, Page 5

  “So why don’t you tell me all about it?” I relaxed back into my chair. I guessed that this would take some time. I needn’t have worried. Almost as soon as my words were out my best friend exploded into a long, tortured explanation, as is the way of those who have kept a secret for too long.

  I listened carefully as he explained how, on a visit to Angeline’s, a local nightclub, he was sought out by Roy Bennett. Roy had introduced himself as my friend and had engaged Aaron in a shouted conversation, both men trying to speak above the loud music. As usual Roy had been charming and amusing, until he took Aaron outside into the quiet of the hallway.

  In the quiet solitude of the rear passageway Roy had asked Aaron to ensure that Brackley Town, a non league club, put two goals past United in our third round tie. He didn’t want United to be beaten, just to allow two unexpected goals in.

  “Alex, I was confused,” Aaron said quietly. “I thought to myself why would a friend ask such a thing? Surely he hadn’t asked you to deliberately throw matches for money? For a moment I didn’t know what to say but then I said ‘No way’. But he wouldn’t listen. He said he was desperate and that I had to help him. He even said that he could end up having a nasty accident if I refused to go along with his plan. All I wanted to do was to get away and avoid the awful pleading in his eyes and so I agreed, without ever having an intention to follow it through.

  Alex, you should have seen his face. It lit up with relief and he grinned, telling me that his friends would see me ‘all right’. I was going to get you to ring him later and tell him it was all off but time passed and I hoped that he had forgotten all about it.” The big man paused.

  “Alex, I just convinced myself that I had drunk too much and that he wasn’t serious. But now. Well, now I remember the look in his eyes and I just know he was serious, deadly serious.”

  My brain was in turmoil as thoughts raced into my head and fought for precedence. The possibilities were almost endless, but one idea seemed to go beyond simple theory and as I considered it more deeply I became convinced that it must be a fact. Roy’s match rigging exploits had somehow led to his horrible death.

  ************

  Eventually Aaron’s words sunk in and I tried to recall the Brackley match. We had been drawn at home and no-one would have imagined that a non league club would score against us on our own turf when top Premiership teams had failed to find the net for three months. I replayed the match in my mind. Brackley came at us like lions for the first twenty minutes and there was no time to settle on the ball before a tackle came in. We were overrun for a while and only magnificent goalkeeping maintained our record on clean sheets. Eventually against the run of play I scrambled one into their net after thirty minutes and their heads went down. Before the end of the ninety minutes another five went in from all angles and distances, without us conceding. The Marshmen, as Brackley were known, had half a dozen good efforts, but in each case the Icelander proved to be too big an obstacle to overcome. Finally, in the eighty ninth minute, we got sloppy at the back and a good corner kick skittered through a gaggle of players to barely trickle across the line. Brackley celebrated as if they had won the cup and Aaron blasted the back four with an ear-searing array of obscenities.

  Clearly Aaron had not complied with Roy’s request. Quite the opposite, in fact, he had played out of his skin to keep a clean sheet. It had taken a miss hit shot with a series of wicked deflections to beat him.

  “Aaron” I said. “You will have to go to the police.”

  “I can’t,” he replied, handing me a well folded sheet of paper. I opened it up and noted that it was a statement from the Royal Bank. On the credit side was a single entry £30,000.00. The deposit was made the day before the match and the statement was issued on the day of Roy’s death.

  “If I go to the police there will be an investigation and it will look as though I let in a soft goal for Thirty thousand pounds.”

  “Nonsense,” I replied with certainty. “They won’t believe it.” Aaron looked at me and shook his head.

  “Tell that to Bruce Grobelaar,” he countered.

  ************

  I was reclining in my easy chair with my cast resting on the footrest when the doorbell rang. Tanya was in the shower and so I laid down my copy of Ninety Minutes and struggled to my feet. Leaning on the chair I grabbed hold of one of my crutches and hopped towards the lounge door. The bell rang again.

  “I’m on my way,” I shouted to my unexpected guest.

  A few seconds later I was at the front door. With some difficulty I manoeuvred the crutch so that it would not stop the door opening and I unlatched the door. When I opened the door I got a big surprise. Standing before me was a tall and thin woman whose beauty had always entranced me. She removed oversized dark glasses to reveal bright blue eyes that were sparkling like a teenager’s might. The short dark hair framed an exquisitely boned face.

  “Oh, Alex daaarling. I have only just heard.” Her manner was theatrical but sincere. “You must think so badly of me. My beautiful Alex is hurt and I don’t even come and see him.” She placed long fingered hands on either side of my face and kissed me full on the lips. I tried to pull away.

  “Stella, really!” I said by way of reproach.

  “Oh , Alex you are so bashful.” She hugged me and I almost fell over. Stella stepped back to take a look at me.

  “Well, everything else looks to be in working order.” She smiled wickedly and I blushed as I always did. I had first seen Stella in the West End of London when she played Peter Pan. That was over twenty years ago and she genuinely didn’t look any older. Of course I didn’t know her then, I was just a child enjoying his first theatre trip. Stella Martin- model, singer, dancer, actress and my mother in law.

  “Well, are you going to ask me in?”

  I smiled and took her hand.

  “Only if you leave the showbusiness, luvvy talk at the door.” She grinned and little lines appeared at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  “You are so cruel to me," she mocked. “You know I should never have let you marry Vicki. I should have kept you for myself. You would have kept my feet on the ground.” Linking my arm she led me slowly back into the living room. Once I was comfortably ensconced in my recliner Stella folded her long legs underneath her and sat on the floor beside me. She took my right hand and absent-mindedly stroked the back of it as she spoke.

  “Seriously, Alex,” she asked. “How bad is it?” Her voice was soft but filled with concern. Her accent was elocuted stage school English, which after all these years was as natural to her as any regional dialect would have been.

  “Stella, I’m not going to lie to you. It’s pretty bad.” She looked tearful.

  We spoke for a while about me and my career, I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I may never play again but I think she knew anyway. She held me and laid her head against my chest so that I would not see her tears flowing. I ruffled her urchin styled hair and silently thanked God for my mother in law. To protect herself in the heady world of showbusiness Stella had long pretended to be an airheaded actress, carefree and ageless. But in truth she was a sensitive and compassionate woman who had been more of a mother to me than my own mother ever had been. We sat there in companionable silence for a long time before we were interrupted.

  “Gran!” Tanya shrieked at the top of her voice. Stella jumped to her feet and swept Tanya off hers and the two swirled around the room giggling and shrieking.

  “Don’t you ever call me Gran outside these four walls,” Stella said by way of smiling reprimand. Secretly she adored being Grandmother and surrogate mother to the fifteen year old whirlwind of a girl she was now embracing in the tightest of hugs.

  “What are you doing here?” Tanya asked. “I thought you were in Florida working.” I suddenly realised that I hadn’t even thought to ask why Stella had returned to England.

  “I took a few days off to come and see you and your dad and.....” The actress in her paused for effec
t. “I was doing the publicity photos for the Pantomime in December. I am doing Peter Pan again.”

  Tanya and I were both pleased that she would be with us for Christmas.

  “And guess what?...... I am doing panto at the Playhouse this year.” Tanya whooped for joy. Stella would be performing in Manchester only six miles away.

  “Stella, you must stay here,” I insisted. “We have lots of room.”

  “We’ll see,” she replied, despite repeated pleadings from her grand-daughter.

  “I don’t want to get in the way of your love life,” she joked, tweaking my cheek.

  “Haven’t got a love life,” I answered quickly.

  “Well, perhaps its about time you did have one,” she parried. I saw the look of sadness deep in her eyes and knew that she meant it.

  Tanya looked out of the window at the gleaming pink convertible car in the driveway and plans quickly developed in her fertile teenaged mind.

  “Gran, if you are here for a few days and have the car we can...” Stella chipped in before she had a chance to finish the sentence and they both shouted in unison.

  “Go shopping!”

  I groaned and began to formulate a list of imaginary appointments that would prevent me from joining them.

  ************

  Whilst I had never felt any great affection for Arsenal Football Club in my youth, my Dad had always admired Charlie George. As I grew up I too shared his admiration even now I have video footage of his best matches. His long hair and his overly thin frame belied the fact that he was one of the best strikers England has ever produced. His casual strides seemed to eat up the ground as in half a dozen giant steps he went from the halfway line to the eighteen yard box leaving defenders in his wake. Charlie scored some of the most memorable goals I have ever seen and his celebrations were always exuberant and original. For years a large colourful poster adorned my bedroom wall, much to the distress of my mother. It depicted Charlie George lying flat on his back with his arms outstretched and head raised waiting for his team-mates to lift him up and salute his glorious winning goal.

  I pondered on these memories and the many Saturday nights I spent watching my heroes on Match of the Day on a portable TV as I waited for the doctor to finish his sketch. The girls had gone shopping and I was sitting in the living room with my long time GP. He spoke as he drew.

  “Alex, Charlie George was just one of a long line of players to leave the game after damaging their cruciate ligaments. You see ligaments are collagenous fibres and they are found in the flexible joints of our bodies, the shoulders, wrists, ankles and of course, the knee.”

  “These ligaments connect the bones from one part of the joint to another.” He laid out a neatly drawn diagram. “It was once thought that they actually held the bones together, but that isn’t strictly true.” He pointed to the centre of the diagram. “In the knee joint the ligaments are firmly attached to the bone here and here.” I looked and pretended to understand.

  “Those particular ligaments are the cruciate ligaments. The name is derived from the Latin, simply because they form a cross of sorts. The thigh bone above the knee,” he pointed and I began to comprehend, “is called the femur and it is connected by two cruciate ligaments to the bones of the lower leg.” The doctor highlighted the ligaments in a fluorescent yellow. “As you well know, the bones in your lower leg are the tibia and fibula, they’re the ones that are currently on the mend.”

  “There is one ligament on the inside and one on the outside. If for some reason the knee is twisted with immense pressure and at the same time the foot is prevented from turning to compensate, then these ligaments can tear.”

  My mind wandered and loose word associations began to form. Cross. Cruciate. Crucifixion. Excruciating pain. I shuddered at the memory of my agony and drew myself back to the present.

  “Usually of course the weakest point gives way first, often the muscle tissue in the ankle. A sprain of that kind will heal in just a few days or weeks. Unfortunately a torn ligament can take many months to heal, and then only if it is kept immobile.”

  The doctor looked directly at me and deliberately softened his tone.

  “Alex, I have been your GP for nearly ten years and we have been friends for most of that time. As a friend I have to tell you that this will be a long haul.” He paused and looked away at his chart, gathering his thoughts.

  “The truth is you may never play Premiership football again.”

  There it was. Out in the open at last. My career might be over at twenty nine. Lawrence waited for my response. I tried to be upbeat.

  “Well, I guess I’ll just have to rest it and let it get better.” He smiled at my bravado.

  “Unfortunately your surgeon doesn’t think that rest alone will be enough. You see the ligament is torn here.” He pointed at the thigh bone, the femur. “You will need surgical intervention.”

  “An operation?” I asked for clarification.

  “Yes” he replied bluntly. “But the good news is that if all goes well it may regain its full strength. Of course this means weeks of keeping the knee joint immobile and more months of physiotherapy before you can even think of light training.”

  Enforced immobility is scary for anyone, especially a sportsman, and I could feel panic welling up inside me. I forced myself to ask the worst question of all.

  “What are the chances of me making a full recovery and playing again?”

  “Very good, if you do as you are told and don’t try to do things too quickly. Your knee will be almost as good as new and shouldn’t give you any more trouble as long as it is not so horribly mistreated again.”

  I sighed. My broken leg was healing quickly, the plaster would be off in a week or two. But then what? An operation and another cast for weeks or even months. The thought of it was very depressing.

  “Will I be able to walk about on my new plaster?” I asked. Lawrence was pleased to be giving some good news.

  “Yes. They will be giving you a lightweight ‘Sportsmen’s’ cast. But you will have to be careful.”

  It seemed to me that I was bound to be careful. How careless can you be with a cast on your leg? I thought of Charlie George and Paul Gascoigne and promised myself that I would get back to full fitness and perhaps play again.

  Lawrence folded his diagram and slipped it into his black pilot case. Standing up he extended his hand and shook mine firmly.

  “Take care, Alex,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.” He smiled wanly and was gone.

  ***********

  I woke with a start as the phone by my bed chirped into life. The handset allowed me to carry the phone with me, a godsend in the current circumstances. I picked up the hand set and extended the aerial.

  “Hello,” I said, noticing that the clock on my bedside table read ten minutes to midnight.

  “Alex Carter?”

  “Yes. Who is this.”

  “Never mind that just now, I need to see you.” I was still dull from sleep and decided to let my first question ride for the time being.

  “About what, exactly?” I asked.

  “ I don’t want to say over the phone.”

  “ You’re not giving me much to go on, are you?”

  “All right, all right.” The gruff male voice sounded agitated. “Let’s just say it involves an ex striker of your acquaintance and a very current goalkeeper.”

  “You’re not trying to blackmail me or anything, are you, because I’ll go straight to the police.”

  The distant voice on the other end of the line exploded.

  “You stupid berk, I’m trying to help you. If you go to the police you’ll get us both killed.” The comment seemed to me to be over the top until I remembered what had happened to Roy Bennett.

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “I want a meet.”

  “Where? And please remember I’m a bit restricted at present. With my leg and all.”

  “No problem. Take a taxi to the MGM multiscreen cine
ma at the quayside and stand by the ticket collection point. I’ll find you.”

  “When?” I asked, wondering whether all of this cloak and dagger stuff was necessary.

  “Seven o’ clock tomorrow.”

  “ Can’t you come here?”

  “Don’t be stupid. They’ll be watching your house for sure.” The line went dead and I was left listening to the dialling tone.

  CHAPTER 6

  The taxi company was beginning to get used to me and my idiosyncrasies and so had despatched a small minibus to collect me. The journey to the multiplex cinema took only a few minutes but it seemed longer as my aching leg complained at the vibration of the ageing adapted Ford Transit. As I stepped out I asked the taxi driver to wait. He was puzzled but shrugged his shoulders before negotiating a suitable additional fare.

  I made my way up the disabled ramp, swinging and stepping. I found my way into the glass enclosed foyer, hoping all the while that my hat and a day’s stubble would offer a little disguise. My nervous friend would be unlikely to approach me if I was surrounded by autograph hunters. Thankfully there was a nice soft padded bench seat by the ticket point and I lowered myself onto it and waited.

  The foyer of the cinema was teeming with people old and young but through a mass of bodies I made eye contact with a man who looked almost as rough as I did. I fancied he’d had as little sleep as me last night. He carefully scanned the gathered masses before approaching me. My contact leaned over and took my arm, helping me to my feet.

  “Sorry about the play acting, Mr Carter, but you must believe me when I say it is necessary.” The voice was the same but the accent was clean, deliberate and cultured. I got to my feet and we walked towards the exit.

  “Is that minibus outside your taxi?” he asked. So he had been watching me. I confirmed that it was and he directed me towards it. He slid open the side door of the van and spoke to the driver in the roughly accented voice of the night before.