Striker Boy Kicks Out (21 page)

“OK, gentlemen,” said Ian Fox. “With Jobson and Carigio gone, I've decided to switch things around for the final – give Talorca a bit of a surprise.”

Nat raised an eyebrow at Emi.

“We're going to play four-three-two-one. I know we've never played that system before, but Stan and I think it's the right team shape for this particular match. So I'm going to announce the team now and we're going to work on the basis of this new formation, OK?”

The players nodded, some of them a bit uncertainly. Nat felt a spark of hope. This could be good news for him. Had the manager opted to play Jensen up front,
with him and Robbie Clarke as the two behind him? That would be superb!

“So, Dalston stays in goal and our back four remain the same. In midfield, we're going to play Adilson on the left, Luke Summers on the right and Clifton in the middle. Up front will be Clarke and Sinclair as the two strikers playing behind Jensen.”

Nat felt the colour drain from his cheeks. Fox had just placed Nicky Sinclair ahead of him in the pecking order! What the hell was he playing at? Surely Nat was miles ahead of Sinclair? Nicky was a decent player but he'd hardly stamped his personality on the training sessions and his form had been very shaky. Why was Fox doing this – did he think Nat was getting above his station because he'd put in a couple of decent substitute appearances? Fox didn't need to play psychological games with him – if that was it, it was pathetic!

For the rest of the session, Nat was in a foul mood, although he tried desperately not to show it. In the five-a-sides he played like a man possessed, running harder than any of the other forwards and shooting with power and accuracy.

I'll show Fox he's making the biggest mistake of his life!

Nicky Sinclair had a few nice touches, but both of his shots went wide. In the last few seconds of the final game, Nat scored with a blistering strike that flashed past a fully-stretched Jack Bell. But when it was all over, Nat's buoyancy over his good show in the games was replaced by the cold emotion of disappointment.
Fox wasn't going to change his mind. He'd gone with Nicky Sinclair and there was nothing Nat could do about it.

As the players trooped back towards the tunnel, Kelvin caught up with Nat.

“I haven't got a clue what Fox is doing,” whispered Kelvin, making sure his words were well out of the manager's earshot. “I can't believe he's put Nicky in there instead of you. We need you, man!”

Before Nat could reply, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He span round and came face-to-face with Ian Fox.

“See you in a minute,” Nat mouthed at Kelvin, who nodded guiltily and disappeared into the tunnel.

“Come and sit down for a minute,” said Fox. They walked over to the technical area and sat down on the home team's bench.

“You're angry about Sinclair getting the nod instead of you?” asked Fox.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Just short of having a sign painted on your face.”

Nat grimaced. “I've played better than Nicky this week. He's only had a few minutes on the pitch as a sub without doing that much. I've come on and made a difference.”

“My decision isn't based on strictly football reasons.”

Nat frowned.

“There are several things I factored in when I selected tomorrow night's side. I know I don't need to explain myself to you, but I'm always aware of your ‘situation', so I want to put you in the picture.”

Nat sighed deeply, keen to hear what the boss had to say.

“You've really picked up over the week,” went on Fox. “Your attitude and performances have risen to a good level.”

Finally, a bit of praise from the manager!

“But tomorrow night La Plaza will be a cauldron. It will be packed to the rafters and the crowd will really get behind their team. I mean, they'll be making some serious noise.”

“I can handle it, boss,” said Nat, aware that his voice sounded slightly desperate.

“That's for me to decide,” replied Fox firmly. “I read what Alberto Tieras said about you in the papers. And while I'm not one to allow big-mouthed opposition players to dictate who I choose to play, Tieras is a fearsome battler, and for some reason he's got it into his thick head that you're some kind of threat to him, and that he'll cause you damage. If he goes for you, you could easily sustain a career-threatening injury.”

“But surely if I want to develop as a player, I need to face people like Tieras?”

“On one level you're right, Nat, but I don't feel I can risk putting you on at the start. Tieras will head straight for you and anything could happen. I don't want to be responsible for that.”

“But aren't risks a central part of the game?” asked Nat.

“There are risks and there are risks,” answered Fox.
“And don't forget, I've only said I don't want you
starting
the match, I haven't said I won't use you at all. I just want Tieras to have exerted himself a bit before I think about bringing you on. You'll have better luck against him if he's already made twenty challenges.”

“But . . . but . . . does this mean that every time a defender says he's going to mark me out of a game I'll go straight to the back of the queue?”

“Of course it doesn't, but we must remember. . .” He lowered his voice. “You're thirteen, Nat, and I'm not taking any chances. You'll be on the bench but there's a strong possibility you'll get on. I can't say fairer than that.”

Nat tried to rationalise Fox's position, but it was hard to see beyond the fact that he'd done much better than Sinclair and his only reward was for Sinclair to jump ahead of him in the queue.

Talk about unfair!

“I need to make sure that you're not exposed to things before you're ready,” said Fox, standing up. “Now go in there, get changed with the rest of the lads and be in the best mental and physical shape for tomorrow night. We have a final to play for the first time in this club's history and we're going to give it our all.”

As the Hatton Rangers players walked out of the building to the team bus, another group of Spanish teenagers were waiting for them. They ran over and got as many Rangers players to sign pieces of paper and old football programmes as they could. An elderly man walked
over to Nat and spoke to him in broken English.

“I am Talorca FC supporter.”

“Hi,” nodded Nat.

“But I do not like what Tieras says about you.”

“Thanks.”

“He is big mouth. You are young player. You go out and play good football, yes?”

“Yes!” smiled Nat. He shook the man's hand. At least it wasn't just him and the Rangers party who thought Tieras was a nightmare.

Stan Evans slotted down into the seat next to Nat on the team bus.

“The boss said he had a word with you about Tieras.”

Nat nodded. “He told me I didn't make the starting line-up because he was protecting me – something along those lines.”

“Absolutely,” said Evans. “I just wanted to let you know that we've made a formal complaint to Talorca FC about Tieras's quote in the Spanish press today and his behaviour at the radio station. We're appalled by it and we've let them know our position before the match.”

“Have Talorca got back to you?”

“Not yet, but we've laid down a marker. We've also made it very clear that we'll be watching every move Tieras makes. If – or when – you get onto the pitch and he in any way tries to deliberately injure you, we'll be on to him in a second. We're also going to speak to the referee before kick off. We want him to know the situation – be on his guard for Tieras.”

“Thanks,” said Nat.

Evans grinned. “You don't have to thank us – just do your best if you get onto the pitch, like you did in the other two games. You don't have to worry about Tieras.”

Nat let out a breath of relief. It was far better that it was all out in the open and that Fox and Evans were going to be looking out for him.

All he needed now was to get a game.

A man named Gregor, with an Eastern European accent, wearing a long brown raincoat, large sunglasses and a coat of stubble on his face, arrived at Talorca's central bus station at 7.15 p.m. He'd arrived early because he wanted to spot the journalist Ray Swinton, before Swinton saw him. He'd found several recent pictures of Swinton on the internet and had studied them carefully.

He headed round a large group of women wearing multi-coloured wigs, a tall blind man with dark glasses, a panama hat and a white stick, and a huddle of teenage boys in hoodies. A guard went hurrying by, holding a twoway radio and looking harassed. Gregor calmly walked past the stops for the number forty-five and number seventy-seven buses, and then studied a large poster on the back of the stop for the number twelve. It showed a luxurious beach with golden sand and a turquoise sky. If all went well here, before the night was out, he would have an extra £10,000 to play with. That would pay for a couple of nice holidays.

He thought about his two phone calls with Swinton.
The
Sunday Crest
journalist had come over as tough and combative, but those notebooks with their hundreds of scribbles and jottings and roughly-sketched diagrams must be vitally important to the man if he'd agreed to hand over such a substantial sum of cash. They looked like they represented years of work. Gregor was pretty sure that Swinton would stick to his word and be there alone, but that didn't stop him from casting his eyes around – looking out for any plain clothes police officers. In Gregor's experience, they were generally easy to spot because of the somewhat mismatched outfits they wore to ‘fit in'.

At 7.30 on the dot, Gregor spotted Swinton at the number twenty-eight bus stop. The
Sunday Crest
journalist was standing with his back against the wall, holding a thick white envelope tightly in his right hand, just as Gregor had instructed. His facial expression gave away nothing as he glanced at his watch. He was alone and there was no one close to him who looked anything like a police officer.

Gregor stood by a bench, waiting while a bus pulled into the stop. Some people got on, others got off. Gregor stayed exactly where he was, keeping a beady eye on the journalist. The bus moved on and when it had disappeared round the corner, Gregor started walking towards Swinton. When he reached him, he stood beside him and in a low voice said, “Can I have the envelope please?”

Swinton immediately handed it over. Gregor checked both ways down to see if any police officers had suddenly appeared, but all was quiet. He quickly slit open the envelope and looked inside. There were three large bundles of euro notes. He flicked through them rapidly to make sure they were real and that they added up to the agreed sum. He'd once been stung by a handover where the only genuine notes were the ones on top of the bundles and the ones below had been fakes.

Satisfied that this cash was real, and after checking around them again, Gregor placed the envelope in one of the inside pockets of his coat. He was now in possession of £10,000 in euros. He reached inside a larger pocket and produced a plastic bag with the notebooks. It was now Swinton's turn to do some checking. He looked at each of the notebooks, checking carefully to see that no pages had been ripped out or replaced. When he'd seen that all was in order, he turned to face Gregor.

“Did you or any of your ‘colleagues' copy any pages?” he asked.

“None,” replied Gregor. “They are intact and they have not been tampered with. This is a one-off deal. There will be no second demand.”

“There better not be!” growled Swinton.

“Our business is concluded,” said Gregor curtly. “You now go the way you came and don't look back.”

Swinton stared at him for a couple of seconds and then moved off. Gregor watched him for over a minute, by which time he'd disappeared from view. Gregor then
began to stride back in the direction he'd come, a feeling of deep elation spreading through his veins as it did after every ‘job'. He couldn't help but praise himself and his masterful planning, and he was particularly delighted with this end of the deal. Swinton had been a walkover. Gregor was already planning his next job in his head and, emboldened by this one, he now intended to hit a higher-profile victim, possibly a celebrity who would pay a far larger amount for the return of their personal documents.

Gregor saw a number seventy-seven bus pulling in to its stop and he quickly headed towards it. The women with the coloured wigs and the blind man also got on. They all proceeded to the standing room in the centre of the bus. It was hot and crowded. The bus passed a couple of stops but pulled in at the third. The blind man moved towards the doors. As he did so, he stumbled and fell forward, barging into Gregor's shoulder.

“
Lo siento
,” said the blind man apologetically, straightening up.