Man of the Match (9 page)

 

 

“So what's he like then?” asked Stuart Cribbins, Seaport's left-winger. He was one of the best characters in the squad. And certainly the funniest dancer!

The whole of the Seaport Town squad was in the clubhouse watching Hawkstone v Aldwich City, which was live on the TV. It was a big game. Hawkstone had to win it to go second.

 

Premier League Table

 

It had been Porlock's idea to get all the players and staff together to celebrate Seaport's recent good form. They could even make the play-offs now.

“What's who like, Stu?” asked Jamie, vacantly. He didn't like talking much when Hawkstone were playing. He wanted to watch and remember everything that was going on in the game and he couldn't do that while he was talking.

“Bertorelli,” said Cribbins. “What's he like in the dressing room then? Is he as cool as he looks? Has he got women coming out of his ears? Come on, spill the beans!”

Jamie turned to Cribbins. A couple of weeks ago, he might have stood up and punched him. Might have told him never to mention Bertorelli's name again.

But now, right at this moment, Jamie didn't feel angry. In fact, with the way things had been going on the pitch for Seaport and with his form returning so rapidly, Jamie actually felt happier than he had done for a really long time.

“Shall I tell you a secret about Bertorelli?” asked Jamie, pretending to whisper but actually speaking loud enough for the whole of the Seaport squad to hear him.

“Yeah,” said Cribbins, his eyes widening like a child about to receive his birthday present. “Yeah, go on, tell us an' all!”

“OK,” said Jamie, looking around. “But it's a secret, remember?”

“Yeah, I know,” said Cribbins. “Go on, tell us.”

“OK,” said Jamie. “Well . . . Mattheus Bertorelli is not as cool as he seems. On his bum, right . . . he's got a whole load of spots!”

“What?” laughed Cribbins. There were grins from the growing group of players now surrounding Jamie to catch the gossip.

“Yeah – it's true,” said Jamie. “I'm not talking normal spots here, either. I'm talking big, red boils, full of pus! They're so big that they sometimes pop in the shower and squirt everywhere. I'm not joking! Once he said that some had got infected and it was too painful for him to train! He missed training because of boils on his bum! Have you ever heard of that?!”

By now everyone in the room, including Jamie, was bent double, laughing. A couple of the players found it so funny they almost started crying!

Yes, it was all a complete and utter lie, but Jamie didn't care – he was too busy cracking up.

And he realized something else too: he was beginning to feel right at home at Seaport Town.

 

Jamie was up off his seat before the Hawkstone goal had even gone in.

He knew what was going to happen before anyone else because it was a set-piece they had practised every day in training: Glenn Richardson drifted a corner to the near post, where it was flicked on by Bertorelli. Meanwhile, Rigobert West, a.k.a. The Beast, would make a run to meet the ball at the far post.

The plan had just worked to perfection. It was a winner in the eighty-sixth minute. Hawkstone were going back to second in the Premier League and Jamie Johnson was going a little bit mental. . .

“Oh baby!” he roared, leaping up off his chair as though he'd just been fired from an ejector seat.

Then Jamie tore off his top and revealed that he was wearing his own Hawkstone United shirt underneath. He pulled it over his forehead and started sprinting around the room like an absolute madman. He couldn't see a thing because the shirt was over his eyes. He could have easily run head first into a brick wall!

While the rest of the Seaport players just sat, watched, and mostly laughed at Jamie's rather unusual performance, Jamie concluded his blind sprint with a full-length dive across the carpet of the Seaport Town clubhouse.

“You don't stop The Beast!” he yelled. “I'm tellin' you, you DO NOT stop The Beast!! We are Hawkstone! Say we are Hawkstone!”

 

 

 

“It was a good night,” said Raymond Porlock as he and Jamie finished clearing up the clubhouse. “The closer we are off the pitch, the better we are on it.”

Jamie had stayed behind to help with the cleaning since he'd been the one who had created most of the mess during his celebrations for the Hawkstone goal. He'd knocked a whole bowl of crisps off the table and now they'd been trampled into the carpet.

Besides, he was sort of getting to enjoy spending time with Raymond Porlock now. He'd realized that often there was actually a whole load of sense behind some of the mad comments his manager made.

“And it's good to see you happy,” said Porlock, tying up one of the black bin liners, which was full to the top of empty plastic bottles. “You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Mr Porlock,” Jamie replied. “Well, I guess if Hawkstone win, I'm happy. Simple as. Always been the same.”

Jamie realized now that this would never change. No matter where he was in his life, who he was playing for or how old he got, he would always remain the same thing that he had been since the day Mike had introduced him to football – a Hawkstone United fan.

“You're a good man, James,” Porlock smiled. “And you will play for Hawkstone again. I have no doubts about that.”

“I hope so,” said Jamie. He liked being referred to as a man. “I really hope so.”

“And when you do go back there,” Porlock enquired, in slightly softer tones, “what about you and Bertorelli? Would you be prepared to play alongside him?”

Jamie sat down. He'd never actually thought that far ahead.

“I don't know,” he replied. “I don't think I can answer that question.”

“That bad, eh?” said Porlock, drawing a chair up alongside Jamie's. “What he did was really that bad?”

Jamie nodded. Then he sighed.

“Even if I did tell you, you probably wouldn't believe me.”

“Try me,” said Raymond Porlock.

 

Jamie told Raymond Porlock everything. How he'd heard Bertorelli arranging to fix a match. How they'd got into a fight at the training ground. And how Harry Armstrong had told him that, if he ever breathed a word of it to anyone, he'd never play for Hawkstone again.

And now the two of them were sitting next to each other, with only the truth in between them.

“That's a lot to carry around on your shoulders, James,” said Porlock, sympathy in his voice.

“So you believe me?” said Jamie.

“Of course I believe you. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” said Jamie. “What can
I
do? Harry Armstrong says I'll never play for Hawkstone again.”

Raymond Porlock shook his head.

“Seems to me, James, that you don't really have too much of a choice. You have to do something.”

“Me? Why?”

“Think about it. This little problem can go one of two ways: either the guy and whoever he's working with pull it off – in which case Hawkstone lose a massive game, probably the league title too, and he leaves the club and gets away with it . . . or . . . he gets found out after it's too late.

“Then the whole of football comes under suspicion – I'm talking about every single game that gets played, people are going to wonder whether it's been fixed – and Hawkstone United will for ever be known as the club that threw a game. Either of those outcomes sound any good to you?”

“But what about what Harry said?” asked Jamie. “Who knows? Maybe he's even in on it too.”

Porlock flicked his hand out as if swatting an imaginary fly.

“Harry Armstrong did what any manager would have done. He tried to protect his dressing room. Tried to protect the team unit. Look at it from his point of view: far easier to send you out on loan and keep the team together than believe his star player – and new signing, don't forget that – is planning to fix a game.”

Raymond Porlock took in a deep breath of air. His eyes were darting everywhere, searching for ideas. Searching for answers.

“But believe me,” he said. “I go back a long way with Harry. He's as honest as the day is long and he loves football as much as anyone. If he knew the truth, he'd want you to do something. Not for your sake. Not even for Hawkstone's sake. But for football's sake.”

“But what?” asked Jamie. “What do I do? Who do I go to? The police?”

Porlock shook his head.

“No time for that. It'll take too long. You need to speak to someone who can act quickly. Before it's too late.”

“Like who?” said Jamie. “That's what I'm saying – if I knew someone like that, then I would have gone to them in the first place, wouldn't I?”

“Think, James,” insisted Porlock. “There must be someone. I can't do it. I'm in football. Too close to it all. It needs to be someone on the outside. And above all, it needs to be someone who you can trust.”

Jamie thought for a second.

“Well,” he said, finally . . . hesitantly. “There is
one
person. . .”

 

 

Jamie made the call. Then he hung up. Then he made the call again. This time he let it ring. . .

He knew this was a risk. A massive risk. But he couldn't think of any other way.

“Hi, JJ,” said the voice at the other end.

“Hi, Jack,” said Jamie. “I'm calling because I need your help. . .”

 

There was a long, painful silence.

Jamie had just told Jack everything. Jack had hardly said a word during the entire phone call. She'd just let Jamie talk. And as he'd told his story, Jamie had become increasingly aware of how far-fetched it all sounded. Match-fixing, throwing a game to make millions. . . Jamie knew that if the roles had been reversed, if this had been Jack telling him the exact same story, he'd have struggled to believe her.

He even started to doubt himself. Had he really remembered it all exactly as it had happened? Or had he imagined some of it? Part of it? All of it? Was he really a hundred per cent sure that Mattheus Bertorelli, one of the biggest stars in football, was a cheat?

“You're an idiot, Jamie,” said Jack, sharply.

“See, I knew it!” shouted Jamie. “I knew you wouldn't believe me! You think I'm just making this up cos I'm jealous of him, don't you? Well I'm not! He's a cheat! He's a fake, and by the time you see, it'll be too late. He'll have ruined everyth—”

“Jamie! Calm down!” Jack responded, a cool confidence in her voice. “You're an idiot for not telling me sooner. . . Of course I believe you.”

“Oh,” said Jamie. “Right. . . OK, then. So, what are we going to do?”

Another silence. Jamie could almost hear Jack's mind working. Quickly. Intelligently.

“Leave it with me,” she said. “I need to do some digging. Find out more. I'll get back to you.”

“OK. But be quick. The match could be anytime.”

“I will, don't worry. See you later, Jamie.”

“Jack, wait . . . do you reckon you can stop this thing happening?”

“You know me, Jamie, once I put my mind to something—”

“Yeah, I know,” smiled Jamie. “You don't let go until you win. But be careful, Jack. These guys could be dangerous.”

“I can look after myself,” said Jack. “And anyway, that's the exciting part! Listen, don't worry, I'm on it. Probably best that we don't speak about it for a while, though. We should keep you out of this.”

“Cool,” said Jamie. “Thanks, Jack.”

“No probs – I'll get to the bottom of it. . . And Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“You did the right thing calling me.”

Jamie smiled as he put down the phone.

If there was one person in this world who he trusted, it was Jacqueline Alexandra Marshall.