January Window (2 page)

When I got home from the hospital to my flat in Manresa Road, Chelsea, Sonja, my girlfriend, came straight to the door with large eyes and a small voice.

‘Matt’s here,’ she said.

‘Matt?’

‘
Matt Drennan
.’

‘Christ, what does he want?’

‘I’m not sure he knows himself,’ said Sonja. ‘He’s drunk and in a bit of a state, I think.’

‘That is a surprise.’

‘He’s been here for an hour, Scott. And I don’t mind telling you I’ve had a hell of a job keeping him away from the drinks tray.’

‘I’ll bet.’

I kissed her cool cheek and squeezed her backside simultaneously. I knew she didn’t like Drennan and I couldn’t blame her; she’d never known the Matt Drennan I’d once known.

‘Scott, you won’t let him stay here, will you? Not overnight, anyway. He scares me when he’s drunk.’

‘He’s harmless, angel.’

‘No, he’s not, Scott. He’s a one-man disaster zone.’

‘Leave it to me, love. You go and… do something else. You’ve done your bit. I’ll take care of him from here.’

Drennan was standing in the sitting room – but only just – staring at one of the Hamblings: a huge wave, reminiscent of a tsunami, that was about to crash on a Suffolk beach close to where the artist lived and worked. I went and stood beside my old team mate for a while and put my hand on his shoulder to steady him. In the short interval between Sonja leaving the room and me entering it, he’d helped himself to a glass of whisky from the tray and I was hoping to take it away from him if ever he put it down. His shirt was torn and none too clean and there was a large berry of encrusted blood on his earlobe where a diamond stud had once been.

‘That looks exactly how I feel,’ said Drennan.

His breath smelled like a wheelie bin for mixed glass.

‘You’re not going to throw up, are you, Matt? Because this is a new carpet.’

Drennan laughed. ‘Nah. I’d have to have eaten something to throw up,’ he said.

‘We could go and get a kebab if you like. And then I could drive you home.’

It had been a long time since I’d visited The Kebab Kid in Parsons Green; these days I was happier with sushi, but I was prepared to go there if it meant keeping Drenno happy.

‘Not hungry,’ he said.

‘What are you doing here? I thought you were spending New Year with Tiffany.’

Drennan regarded me blearily. ‘I came to ask how that French lad of yours was getting along. You know, the one who cracked his head? I went to the hospital but they threw me out because I’m shit-faced.’

‘I’m amazed they didn’t offer you a bed. Look at the state of you, Matt. Did someone else throw you out before that, or is the NHS really as bad as they say it is?’

‘I had a tiff with Tiff.’ It was something I’d heard him say before. But I had no idea that it had been much more than just a tiff; that Tiff was herself in the same hospital as Didier Cassell, and that this was very likely the real reason Matt Drennan had shown up at my flat.

‘She threw a bloody riding boot at me.’ He laughed again. ‘Just like Fergie. We could have used her in the dressing room at Highbury, eh? I tell you, Scott, that woman has a mouth on her like a fucking blowtorch. Not like that lassie of yours. Sandra, is it? She’s a peach. What is it she does again?’

‘She’s a psychiatrist, Matt. And it’s Sonja.’

‘Aye, that’s right. A shrink. I thought there was something familiar about the way she looked at me. Like I’m a fucking head case.’

‘You
are
a fucking head case, Matt. Everyone knows that.’

Drennan grinned and shook his head like the affable mutt he was – most of the time – and then rubbed his head furiously.

‘Has she thrown you out again?’

‘Aye. She has that. But we’ve been through worse, her and me. I expect it’ll be okay. She’ll chew my ear off and I’ll have to sleep in the garage.’

‘It looks as though she already did,’ I said. ‘Chew your ear. There’s blood on it. I can put something on that if you like. A plaster. A bit of antiseptic cream. A
Sun
photographer.’

‘S’awright. It’ll be fine. Tiff clouted me with a riding boot, that’s all.’

‘Normal then.’

‘Normal enough, aye.’

Overweight and balding, Matt Drennan cut a forlorn figure. Like me he was a Scot but there the similarity ended; well, almost. Looking at him now, it was hard for me to believe that it was fewer than ten years since we had both been members of the same Arsenal team. A broken leg had ended Drenno’s career at just twenty-nine, but not before he’d scored more than a hundred goals for the Gunners and made himself one of Highbury’s heroes. Even today he could show up at the Emirates and have the whole crowd cheering him just by walking onto the pitch. This was more than the bastards ever did for me. Even Spurs fans seemed to like him, which is saying something. Since he’d stopped playing football, however, his life had become a chapbook of very well-publicised fuck-ups: drink, depression, an addiction to cocaine and Nurofen, three months in the nick for drunk driving and six months for assaulting a police officer – I couldn’t hold that against him – a flirtation with Scientology, a short and ignominious career in Hollywood, bankruptcy, a betting scandal, a bitter divorce from his first wife and reportedly a failing second marriage; the last I’d heard of him he’d checked himself into the Priory Clinic, again, to try and get himself together. Not that anyone gave it a snowball in hell’s chance of success. It was well known that Matt Drennan had dried out more often than a Holiday Inn bath towel. For all those reasons, Drennan was the only footballer I’d ever met whose autobiography was a fascinating read, and that includes my own crappy book. He made Syd Barrett look like the Moderator of the Church of Scotland. But I loved him as if he’d been – well, not my sister, I don’t speak to her much these days, but someone important in my life.

‘So how is he? You didn’t say.’

‘Didier Cassell? Not good. Not good at all. He’s out for the rest of the season, that’s for sure. And right now I’d say you’ve got a better chance of playing again than he has.’

Drennan blinked as if considering this might be a real possibility.

‘Christ, I’d give anything to play a full season again.’

‘We all would, pal.’

‘Or just one FA Cup Final. A sunny day in May. “Abide with Me”. Us against a decent side like Tottenham or Liverpool. The whole Wembley thing. The way it used to be before the Premier League and foreigners and television turned the whole thing into a bloody sideshow.’

‘I know. That’s the way I feel about it, too.’

‘As a matter of fact, it’s my intention to make one last headline appearance at Wembley. And then call it a day.’

‘Sure, Matt, sure. You can lead the community singing.’

‘Seriously.’

Drennan lifted the Scotch to his lips but before it got there I tackled the glass neatly and carried it out of harm’s way.

‘Come on. The car’s just outside. I’d let you sleep here but you’d only drink all my booze and then I’d have to toss you out on your shell-like, so it’s best I take you home now. Better still, why don’t I just drive you straight to the Priory? We can be there in less than half an hour. Tell you what, I’ll even pay for your first week. A late Christmas present from your fellow Gooner.’

‘I might even go, too, but they don’t let you read in there and you know me and my books. I get so fucking bored if I don’t have something to read.’

As if in evidence of this statement he glanced down at a rolled-up paperback in the pocket of his jacket, as if checking it was still there.

‘Why do they do that? Not let you have books?’

‘The cunts think that if you read you won’t come out of your shell and talk about your fucking problems. As if that makes it better. I’m trying to get away from my problems, not crash into them head on. Besides, I have to go home, if only to get my diamond stud back. It fell out of my ear when Tiff belted me and the fucking dog thought it was a wee mint and swallowed it. He’s very fond of mints. So I locked the bastard in the garden shed to let nature take its course, you know? I just hope naebody’s let the thing out for a walk. That stud cost me six grand.’

I laughed. ‘And I thought I had all the shitty jobs at London City.’

‘Exactly.’ Drennan grinned and then burped loudly. ‘I like it,’ he said, pointing to the picture before glancing around the room and nodding his appreciation. ‘I like it all. Your place. Your girlfriend. You’ve done all right for yourself, you canny bastard. I envy you, Scott. But I’m glad for you, too. After everything that happened, you know?’

‘Come on, you stupid cunt. I’ll take you home.’

‘Nah,’ said Drennan. ‘I’ll walk up to the King’s Road and get a cab. With any luck the driver will recognise me and give me a free ride. That’s what usually happens.’

‘And that’s how you end up in the newspapers for getting yourself thrown out of another pub by the landlord.’ I took him by the arm. ‘I’m driving you, and that’s final.’

Drennan took his elbow out of my hand with fingers that were remarkably strong and shook his head. ‘You stay here with that nice wee lassie of yours. I’ll get a taxi.’

‘Straight home.’

‘I promise.’

‘At least let me come with you some of the way,’ I said.

I walked Drennan up to the King’s Road where I hailed him a cab. I paid the driver in advance and, when I was helping Drennan into the cab, I slipped a couple of hundred quid in his coat pocket. I was about to close the cab door when he turned and caught my hand and held it tightly. There were tears in his pale blue eyes.

‘Thanks, pal.’

‘For what?’

‘For being a pal, I guess. What else is there for people like you and me?’

‘You don’t have to thank me for that. You of all people, Matt.’

‘Thanks anyway.’

‘Now fuck off home before I go and get my violin.’

There was a man sitting on the pavement in front of the ATM. I gave him a twenty although frankly it would have been better if I’d given him the two hundred. The guy in front of the ATM was at least sober. Even as I’d put the money in Drenno’s pocket I’d known it was a mistake, just as I knew it was a mistake not to drive him home myself, but that’s how it is sometimes; you forget what it’s like dealing with drunks, how self-destructive they can be. Especially a drunk like Drenno.

When I got back to my flat I found Sonja preparing dinner in the kitchen. She was an excellent cook and had made a delicious-looking moussaka.

‘Has he gone?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

I inhaled the moussaka greedily. ‘We could have given Drenno some of that,’ I said. ‘A bit of food inside him was probably just what he needed.’

‘It’s not food he needs,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’m glad he’s gone.’

‘You’re supposed to be the sympathetic one.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because you’re a psychiatrist. I sort of thought that it was part of the job.’

‘It’s not sympathy my patients need, it’s understanding. There’s a difference. Drenno doesn’t want sympathy. And I’m afraid he’s all too easy to understand. He wants something that isn’t possible. To turn back the clock. His problems will be solved the minute he recognises that fact and adjusts his life and behaviour accordingly. Like you did. If he doesn’t, it’s plain to see where it will end. He’s that rare thing: a self-destructive personality who really wants to destroy himself. He’s a classic case.’

‘You might be right.’

‘Of course I’m right. I’m a doctor.’

‘So you say.’ I put my arms around her. ‘But from where I’m standing you’re the best-looking WAG I’ve ever seen.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment even though I regard the idea of looking like Coleen Rooney as anathema.’

‘I don’t think Coleen knows Ann Athema.’

We were finishing dinner at the breakfast bar and considering an early night when the telephone rang. The caller ID showed it was Corinne Rendall on the phone, Viktor Sokolnikov’s secretary. He was not someone I was used to speaking to very much, a fact of which I was sometimes glad. Like many people in football I’d watched the recent
Panorama
special about Sokolnikov, which was where I’d learned of the rumour that he’d inherited his business from another Ukrainian called Natan Fisanovich, an organised crime boss in Kiev. According to the Beeb, Fisanovich had disappeared along with three of his associates in 1996 and it was several months before they turned up in four shallow graves. Sokolnikov denied having anything to do with Fisanovich’s death, but then you would, wouldn’t you?

‘Mr Sokolnikov would like to know if you can take a call from him in ten minutes,’ said Corinne.

Instinctively I looked at my new watch – a brand new Hublot – and reflected I wasn’t about to say no to the man who’d just spent ten grand on my Christmas present. I, Zarco, everyone on the team, had got a Hublot just like it.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘We’ll call you back.’

I put down the phone. ‘I wonder what he wants.’

‘Who?’

‘Mr Sokolnikov.’

‘Whatever he wants, don’t say no. I’ve no desire to wake up in bed one morning and find I’ve been warming my toes on a bloody horse’s head.’

‘He’s not like that, Sonja.’ I put some plates in the dishwasher. ‘He’s not like that at all.’

‘If you ask me, they’re all like that,’ she replied. She pushed me towards the sitting room. ‘You go and wait for your call. I’ll clear up. Besides, you must be tired after wearing that watch all day.’

A few minutes later, Corinne rang again.

‘Scott?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have Viktor on the line.’

‘Viktor, happy new year and thanks again for the watch. It was very generous of you.’

‘It’s my pleasure, Scott. I’m glad you like it.’

I did like it – but Sonja was right, of course; it was heavy.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘A couple of things. First I wanted to ask you about Didier. You saw him today, right?’

‘He’s still unconscious, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s too bad. I’m planning to go and see him as soon as I’m back. But right now I’m in Miami, on my way to the yacht in the Caribbean.’