Striker Boy Kicks Out (3 page)

“Yeah,” replied Nat. “But I'm very new at the club. They signed me before the transfer window closed back in January, but there were problems with the paperwork so I only got to join up with the team a few months ago.”

This was the line Stan Evans and Ian Fox had invented for Nat. He could recite it in his sleep.

“He's being modest,” cut in José. “He scored the winning goal against Manchester United on the last day of the season. He saved Hatton Rangers from being relegated. That's a big deal. There are some people
in England who think Nat may be ‘the next big thing'.”

“I don't know about that,” blushed Nat. “It'll take me a few years to prove myself.”

“It sounds like you're doing pretty well already,” smiled Inés, “and as the club have given us tickets for both of your league games we'll be able to see for ourselves. They've also invited us to the Lazio versus Celtic game.”

Nat's cheeks went even redder.

José said something sharply to his mother in Spanish.

“Alright,” she replied, quickly changing the subject. “Have you been to Spain before?”

“I spent a month in Barcelona about three years ago,” Nat replied. “My dad and I travelled for quite a long time. That was one of our stops. We saw a game at Camp Nou. It was awesome!”

“How long were you away for?” enquired Inés.

“Seven years,” responded Nat.

“
Seven
?” exclaimed Inés in astonishment.

“I was . . . I was . . . nine when we set out,” responded Nat, who'd learned to add three years to every stage of his life, to make sure his fabricated backstory held tight.

Inés was about to ask another question when the phone rang and she went to answer it. Nat and José sat in silence. Nat thought about attempting to follow up the comments about clubs buying success, but José stood up, walked to the sink, placed his plate in it and left the room. Nat watched him go, unable to work him out. Was he shy or unfriendly, hostile or disinterested? As Inés
continued her call, Nat went to the sink and started on the washing-up.

A couple of minutes later, Inés wrapped up her call. “You're a guest. You don't need to do that!” she said, wagging a reproachful finger at Nat, as if he was one of her students.

“It's no big deal,” replied Nat.

“Well, OK then,” she laughed, taking a tea towel and doing the drying-up. When they'd finished, Inés beckoned Nat over to the map of Spain on the wall. “How much do you know about Spanish geography?” she enquired

“Er . . . a little.”

“We're about three miles outside of Talorca,” she said, placing a finger on the map, “and a mile and a half from the sea. Up the coast is Almería, down the coast is Málaga, and a bit further on is that favourite resort of the British – Marbella. You said you've been to Barcelona? Well, there it is up on the north-east, beside the Balearic Sea. Madrid, of course, is pretty much bang in the centre of the country.”

Nat studied the map and took in some of the place names. As well as Barcelona and Real Madrid, there were several other top flight Spanish teams who played regular Champions League football – Sevilla, Málaga and, more recently, Talorca themselves.

And José had been right about large amounts of money being pumped into Talorca FC. Their millionaire President, Victor Mabena, had poured a fortune into the
club. In the last couple of seasons, Talorca FC had signed some world-class players – especially their number ten, Lombardo, a Brazilian who possessed a mesmerising collection of tricks and skills. Their captain Alberto Tieras, originally from Bilbao, had been snapped up from AC Milan, also for a substantial sum. And he'd been worth it – terrorising attackers with his trademark ‘no-nonsense' tackles.

“I'm sure you'll get used to the weather quite quickly,” said Inés, “but the days will be far hotter than back home. And even though you'll have your meals at the standard English times here, we Spanish eat lunch and supper much later than you. So don't be surprised if you're offered food at all sorts of different times!”

“Thanks for the warning!”

Inés yawned. “I need to get some rest,” she smiled. “I'll drop you off at training after breakfast.”

“Really?” asked Nat, who hadn't thought about the logistics of staying elsewhere from the rest of the team.

Inés nodded. “I'll say goodnight now,” she said, before leaving the kitchen and heading for her bedroom.

Nat walked to a door on the other side of the kitchen which led to the courtyard and stepped outside. It was just after 11 p.m. and it was still warm, even though a faint breeze blew across the courtyard. The black sky was lit up by thousands of stars. Nat strolled over to the large shed he'd seen earlier. Its door was wedged open and shafts of moonlight shone through. Nat poked his head inside
and spotted several pieces of broken farm machinery, a smashed-up motorbike and piles of logs.

He was about to go back inside when his mobile rang.

“Nat.”

“Hi Dad, how's it going?”

“Good. How was your flight?”

“Easy.”

“And the place you're staying?”

“Really comfortable. Nice people – a woman and her son.”

“Look, mate, I'm really sorry, but I won't be able to make it out for either of your group games. Work's really mad. I've got to build this massive bookcase and some shelving units.”

“No problem,” replied Nat, attempting to cover his disappointment. “I'm really tired so I'm heading off for bed now.”

“Good idea, mate.”

“Speak to you soon.”

“Of course, sleep well.”

Nat went back indoors, changed into his pyjamas and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He was upset that his dad wouldn't be able to make the matches. He always felt better when Dave was in the crowd. Mind you, if his dad had got
his
way Nat would have already started at secondary school and be facing a new term in a few weeks time. The Rangers adventure would have
never happened. Instead, Nat was out here in Spain, having broken into playing for the Rangers first team, and approaching a major pre-season football tournament.

With this delicious thought floating through his mind, he fell into a deep slumber.

An hour after Nat fell asleep, the supper shift at Adelcia Prison was drawing to a close. Situated fifteen miles from Talorca's La Plaza Stadium, the prison had a reputation for being very tough. Even the most hardened criminals picked up new skills here. A guard named Parerra was standing at the front of the prisoners' queue, while the other guard, Haldas, waited at the back. In Parerra's hands was a small electronic device. On its screen were the names of each prisoner present. They were lining up in the canteen. Parrera viewed the queue and ticked off each of the twenty names on the screen. A prisoner named Carlos was at the very back of the line. His cellmate Mundo was three places in front of him. Carlos was tall and wiry, with spiky hair and dark brown eyes. An earring in the shape of a sword hung from his right ear, a tattoo of a dragon perched on the back of his neck. Mundo was short and squat, with small, suspicious eyes and a mane of thick black hair. He walked with a swagger and had a perpetual hacking cough.

Carlos and Mundo's cell was small and uncomfortable.
All it contained were bunk beds with two thin mattresses, two prison regulation blankets, a small sink, a tiny table and two chairs.

“OK, let's go!” barked Parerra.

The men moved towards a door at the far side of the canteen. This was covered by a metal grille and had three locks. Parerra pulled out a bunch of keys and slowly undid the locks. The prisoners started to file through.

“Hurry up!” shouted Parerra.

Carlos watched everything intensely, his entire body poised for action.

“Come on, you lot!” shouted Haldas from the back.

At that second, Mundo cried out in pain.

Parerra waited at the front of the queue, and held up his hand for the prisoners to stop. Haldas suspiciously hurried towards Mundo, who was bent double.

“I think it's my appendix,” groaned Mundo.

Haldas had seen a lot of prisoners pretending to be in pain before and he unleashed his baton, prepared in case Mundo tried to jump him. But when he reached the prisoner his suspicions instantly evaporated. This looked like the real thing. Mundo seemed to be in genuine agony.

“Call medical!” shouted Haldas.

Parerra quickly looked down at his trouser pocket to pull out his walkie-talkie.

This glance took three seconds but it was all Carlos needed.

Parerra retrieved his walkie-talkie and instructed the
medical team to meet them at Mundo's cell. Haldas eased Mundo up, put an arm round his shoulders and shouted for Parerra to lead on. Parerra gave him a thumbs-up and continued ushering the prisoners out of the canteen. Mundo was writhing in pain as Haldas led him forwards. Parerra waited until the prisoners were through, then closed the three locks and proceeded down the corridor.

What neither Haldas nor Parerra noticed was that there were now only nineteen prisoners.

Carlos had disappeared.

In that crucial three seconds, Carlos had silently backed away from the line and slipped over the serving counter that fronted the prison kitchen. He crouched down and slipped unseen past two cooks who were busy arguing over a large pot. He exited by some swing doors at the back. This led him to a long corridor which arched to the right. He hurried down this and reached a metallic green door. A panel with number keys stood on the wall. He pressed a sequence of numbers and the door clicked open.

He was now in the tarmac courtyard at the front of the prison. The high brick walls were topped with large coils of razor wire. Only a fool would try and get over them. Carlos hung back in the shadows. He scoured the area for a sign of Bellos, the guard he'd bribed heavily for assistance, but there was no sign of him. Carlos felt his muscles clenching in anxiety. Mundo (who had also been paid) had bought him time in the canteen with an excellent piece of acting, and now it was Bellos's turn to be useful.

Carlos checked his watch. 10.59 p.m. If Bellos didn't get here in the next minute or two, Carlos's plan would be completely derailed. Bellos had told him that the localised CCTV cameras would be disabled from 10.55 to 11.02 – that was the longest time period he could offer.

The seconds passed agonisingly fast as Carlos's anxiety levels reached new heights. But just as he was starting to really panic, Bellos appeared from a side door and, after taking a quick look over his shoulder, marched straight towards a large black gate.

Bellos reached the gate and swiped a card through a panel at its side. The door clicked and swung open. Bellos threw some sort of parcel through the gate and hurried back towards the building.

The second he was out of sight, Carlos sprang forward. The black door was time-coded to stay fully open for just ten seconds and then close quickly. It was about twenty metres away, and by the time Carlos was halfway across the courtyard, its ten seconds of opening time were over.

Frantically, Carlos rushed forwards, watching in horror as the door began to close. He sped on – the door had now reached the halfway point of closure. In another few seconds, his chance would be gone. As the gate reached the final quarter of closure, Carlos launched himself through the air, smashed against the door's surface and ricocheted past it and out onto a gravel concourse. He looked back and in horror saw that the door was about to close on his right foot and crush it to pulp. With a frantic tug he just managed to yank it free.
The door slammed shut behind him with a clang.

Sweating and pumped up with adrenalin, Carlos grabbed Bellos's parcel and opened it rapidly. It contained a set of clothes and a pair of brogues. If he stayed in his prison gear, he wouldn't get far. It took him thirty seconds to swap clothes. He stuffed his prison outfit into the bag and ran across the concourse. At the end he turned left onto a large and deserted street. For a second he gazed at a photo he'd lifted from the pocket of his prison shirt.

“Don't worry,” he said to the photo in Spanish, “I won't let you down.” He placed it in his new shirt, before breaking into a run and disappearing into the night.