Close Range (6 page)

‘I’m fine,’ said Jake. He could feel a bruise where the charges had entered him, but nothing bad. Just wounded pride.

‘Jake,’ his father said, suddenly serious again. ‘The game starts in a few hours. I can’t let my employers down again. I’m on thin ice after this little escapade. I need you to be good and stay out of trouble.’

Despite his relief, Jake couldn’t help feeling patronised. After all they’d been through in Russia, here was the ‘great’ Steve Bastin treating him like a kid all over again!

‘Dad, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting the minister. That you, y’know …’

His dad nodded slowly, and gave a small smile. He looked around the room and checked the voice recorder wasn’t on. ‘You thought it was something to do with my job? Well, Jake, it isn’t. And that’s none of your business anyway. Got it? You could have been deported for this stunt, or worse. Let me look after my affairs. The right thing now is to stay with your mother, look after her …’ he trailed off.

Look after her?
thought Jake.
Weird way of putting it …

‘Come on, then,’ said his father, standing up, and offering his hand. ‘And let’s keep this between us. The less Hayley knows the better.’

‘Agreed,’ Jake said, shaking on it.

They walked through the station without any hassle, and his dad spoke for a few moments with the captain, shaking his hand and repeating
‘grazie’
several times in the conversation.

The young officer with the toothpick gave a sneer and sly wave as Jake climbed into his father’s car outside. He felt like a teenager being picked up early from a party by his parents.

‘I had to give him and his brother free tickets to the final,’
said his dad. ‘Plus a behind-the-scenes tour. Good to see the police’s reputation for corruption is still valid.’

Jake gave a fake laugh, but his mind was no longer on the police.

I can keep a secret from Mum, he thought. But if you think you can keep one from me, Dad, you’re wrong.

T
hey drove back across the city towards the stadium.

‘I did have a surprise planned for you tomorrow,’ his dad said gravely, ‘but I’m not sure you deserve it.’

Jake looked at his dad’s face, and thought he saw the hint of a smile. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I know I screwed up. There’s no need to mess with my head.’

‘Well, I thought you might like to do a bit of training while you’re here. At the San Siro …’

‘Oh my God, Dad, that’s great!’ said Jake. He’d only ever seen the stadium on the TV, the flares and the noise during the AC Milan–Inter Milan derbies. The Champions League final. It was one of the most iconic grounds in the world.

‘Oh, and I forgot to mention,’ said his dad, ‘you’d be training with the England team.’

As the words sank in, Jake’s mouth fell open. ‘Are you serious, Dad?’

His father was beaming and gave Jake a glance. ‘Sure I am. Mark Fortune said he’d show you a few tricks.’

Jake felt like sticking his head through the sunroof and whooping at the citizens of Milan, but perhaps that wasn’t a great idea.

‘I can’t believe it!’ he said. He hammered the dashboard with his palms. ‘That’s awesome!’

‘Thought you might be pleased,’ said his father, laughing. ‘While we’re on the subject of bribes, think of this as a pay-off to keep you out of trouble.’

As the city passed by, Jake was lost in his thoughts. He’d dreamed about playing with Fortune and the team: being called on in extra time and scoring the winning goal in the World Cup Final. Playing as a professional footballer was all Jake had ever wanted, and so far his parents had stood in the way. Sure, they let him play in school teams, and the occasional Sunday League match, but when it came to the big time they’d always put their parental feet down.

‘It’s too soon,’ his mother would say. ‘Concentrate on your school work.’

‘Too soon?’ Jake would reply. It’d be too late! Many players were signed by the time they reached their sixteenth birthday.

‘It’s not a long-term prospect,’ was his dad’s mantra.

Well, it had worked out all right for him!

Jake had always thought he knew the real reason they were so against it. Truth was, football had got in the way of his parents’ marriage. The hours spent training, or away with the team, had gradually eaten into their time as a couple, driving them apart. With his dad changing teams, from Spurs to Liverpool, Jake’s mum was forced to move with him, abandoning the life she’d built up. She needed to be near London for modelling assignments, so when his dad went up north it had been a real strain. Eventually the relationship had collapsed.

Well, that’s what he’d believed until a fortnight ago. But perhaps the real reason was Steve Bastin’s other activities. He’d have had to lie, and perhaps those lies had caught him out …

‘You sure you aren’t just trying to get me out of the way so you can bug some rooms?’ said Jake, testing his dad’s newfound sense of humour.

‘I can tell Mark you’re not interested, if you like?’

Jake guessed that was the signal to drop it.

The stadium rose up before them. The San Siro! Five columns ran along each side like giant springs, and the red girders that supported the stands jutted from the top. It looked more like
a factory or power station than a football ground. The car park was mostly empty this time of day, but a few stewards in their fluorescent jackets milled around.

‘I’m serious now,’ his dad said. ‘Let me take care of my own business. You concentrate on your football. Mark and I go way back, to when I was coaching the under-21s. Don’t let me down.’

‘I won’t,’ Jake promised.

As his dad reversed into a spot in the private car park on the south side of the ground, Jake noticed a black smudge on the front of his shirt.

‘You gotta make yourself presentable, Dad,’ he said, leaning forwards to brush it off.

His dad looked down. ‘Oh, that. I must have forgotten to take it off in the hurry to save my firstborn from incarceration in a foreign prison – know what I mean?’

‘What is it?’ Jake asked, climbing out of the car.

‘A transportable transmission device,’ said his dad. Jake frowned. ‘A roving microphone to you and me.’

They took a staff entrance into the ground, his dad flashing a security pass at the guard.

Inside, the ground looked pretty old-fashioned compared to somewhere like Wembley, or the Emirates. The carpets were worn down in the middle. Light fittings on ceiling tracks
picked out grubby marks on the walls. As they signed in at reception, a runner with earphones and some kind of electronic clipboard came dashing up to his dad.

‘Mr Bastin, you’re needed in Comm Box Two right away.’

‘Sure,’ said Jake’s dad.

They took a back route, through service corridors with linoleum floors, lined with insulated wiring. Then through a set of double doors marked ‘AV Department'. There were lots of doors off one side of the central waiting area, with temporary signs pinned outside each. One read SKY SPORTS. Jake followed his dad through.

The room was bright, up-lit around the outside. One wall was all glass, looking out to the stadium, three tiers of stands rising steeply from the pitch, the giant digital clock. The stadium was filling up, and already the shouting had started. At least thirty players were scattered over the pitch, pinging balls between themselves.

In the room, a large mounted camera was facing towards an illuminated desk, and three steel chairs. Sitting on one was a man dressed in a slim-fit grey suit, with a runner checking the microphone on his shirt. His face was familiar but it took Jake a couple of seconds to realise who it was. His dad was taking his jacket from a hanger in an anteroom.

‘Dad,’ Jake whispered. ‘Is that Frederico Alessi?’

His father straightened his tie in the mirror.

‘Sure is,’ said his dad. ‘He’ll be commentating along with me.’

Alessi was an Italian striker of the late seventies – way before Jake’s time, but still a legend.

‘Can you introduce me?’

His dad checked his cufflinks and then looked at his watch. ‘Maybe later. I have to start soon.’

The make-up woman put her head round the door.

‘Mr Bastin, I need you now, please.’

Jake followed his dad back into the other room. It was filling up now, with two people in shorts and T-shirts fussing over the camera. On the pitch below the players were finishing their warm-up. A guy Jake guessed was in charge was sipping from a polystyrene cup, and speaking into a mobile phone in Italian, while a runner brought a jug of iced water and laid it on the table.

Jake’s dad took a seat, and the make-up lady brushed his cheeks with some kind of powder.

‘You’ve forgotten the lipstick,’ Jake joked.

His dad tried not to laugh.

Another suited presenter came in, nodding greetings to everyone, and took a seat beside Alessi. The director stepped up to him and whispered something in his ear.
The presenter frowned and leant across to Alessi and his dad. He spoke in English.

‘It’s not good, Mr Bastin. We’re a runner down. Some sort of stomach bug.’ He massaged his fingers over his temples. ‘That means we can’t get the team news from the coaches. We’re screwed.’

Jake’s dad looked at him. ‘What if we send my boy?’

The presenter scoffed. ‘We need a professional.’

‘He knows the game as well as anyone,’ said his dad. ‘That OK with you, Jake?’

Jake grinned. ‘Definitely.’

The director, who looked flustered, nodded. ‘Paulo, link him up.’

A guy with a satchel came forwards and attached a microphone to Jake’s neck and clipped on an earpiece. They went through a quick soundcheck, with all three presenters speaking through the intercom to Jake.

‘You need to go down elevator four,’ said the director in broken English, pinning a Sky Sports press badge on Jake’s shirt. ‘Go to the dressing rooms with Roberto.’ He tapped the guy with the heavy-looking camera perched on his shoulder. ‘There should be team people around. They’ll be able to help you.’

They were hardly the most detailed instructions, but Jake
didn’t care. He was going right into the belly of the stadium, where all the players would be nervously waiting. Roberto was quick for a guy carrying a cumbersome piece of equipment, and they weaved past all the assorted personnel from the other stations, took the elevator and were soon by the dressing rooms.

‘Can you hear me?’ said his dad.

‘Got you,’ Jake replied.

‘Good. See if you can find Ebner. He’s the man you need to speak to.’

If it was busy upstairs, down here it was organised chaos. There were physios, coaching staff, subs, security, players, match officials, all jostling around. Jake recognised dozens of faces, but hardly had time to put names to them. They pushed through to a holding area, where Jake spotted the England assistant coach, Karl Ebner, talking to a bunch of journalists. Jake joined the pack.

‘We heard Smith was injured,’ said one. ‘Can you tell us about that?’

Ebner nodded. ‘That’s right. His ankle was still swollen from training, but he’s had it on ice and he’ll be on the bench.’

Jake relayed the information to the commentary box, and Alessi asked him about formation.

‘Mr Ebner,’ Jake shouted above the others. ‘Will you be
going with a lone striker, or two up front?’

Ebner did a double take, presumably not used to seeing someone so young doing Jake’s job. ‘We’ll see how it pans out,’ he said. ‘We’ll probably keep things fairly tight for the first half, with Fortune dropping into a holding role, and the wingers tucking in.’

‘But you’ve got Sanderson on the bench,’ said Jake. ‘Wouldn’t he be better sweeping up? He played in that position for two seasons at Aston Villa. That would free up Fortune to move forwards. He’s England’s top goal-scorer, after all.’

Ebner looked gobsmacked. ‘Yes, well … as I say, we’ll see how things pan out.’

He excused himself soon after.

‘Good work, Jake,’ Alessi said.

Jake joined Roberto beside the dressing rooms to catch some footage of the players lining up. Jake noticed they were all wearing black armbands. On both teams. Had someone died? Was it an anniversary?

‘What are they commemorating?’ he asked the cameraman.

Roberto shrugged.

‘You did well, Jake,’ came his dad’s voice over the earpiece. ‘Why don’t you find somewhere to enjoy the game? There’s a pressbox down there somewhere.’

Jake watched the players stream out on to the pitch, with Fortune at the front.

One day,
he thought,
that’ll be me.

He soon found out what the black armbands signified. As he was settling into a seat in the press area, watching the big screen, he heard the tannoy announcer: ‘There will be a minute’s silence to remember a gifted player who died recently – Devon Taylor.’

The players on the screen bowed their heads in remembrance and the press room was quiet too. Jake squirmed a little in his chair. Those paying respects knew nothing about the real Devon Taylor, the one who had tried to kill him in St Petersburg on behalf of his father, the one who’d been willing to let innocent people be blown to bits for a few million dollars.

As the whistle blew, Jake’s negative thoughts drifted away and he became rapt with the game. Germany scored early when Jason Price, the England defender, sent a sloppy backpass to the keeper, but Fortune took England to one-all just before half-time. The second half was slow at first, with both teams playing cagily, but Smith came on to big cheers in the sixtieth minute. His ankle seemed absolutely fine, and after five minutes he picked up a raking cross-field ball from Price,
and drilled it into the bottom corner off the post. The defender had made up for his earlier blunder, and when the final whistle went, it was 2–1 to England.

Jake was still buzzing the next day as he and his mum drove to the stadium.

‘And after the game, Dad introduced me to all the players,’ Jake said.

‘I’m not sure I like the idea of you mixing with all those older guys. I know what footballers are like.’ His mum was all nerves again. She was going to check everything was prepared for the catwalk show that would take place at half–time during the big game between England and Italy at the close of the tournament.