Striker Boy Kicks Out (9 page)

Nat gave him a relieved smile. He knew he'd done well, but he wasn't going to rest on that – he'd try even harder in training tomorrow. He so badly wanted to play his way onto the subs bench for the Celtic game tomorrow night.

It was only when training was over that Nat allowed himself the chance to take a look round the stadium. The stands were empty – the man in the blue suit wasn't there. He breathed a sigh of relief and went in to join the others.

Nat was pretty sure that, though he'd performed very well in training, Ian Fox wasn't going to rush over and shower him with praise. And he was right. The boss gave him nothing, not even an encouraging nod. Fox could dish out criticism, but he was very sparing with congratulations – too many years at the coalface of football life had made him extremely wary of gushing sentimentality. Adilson, however, came up to Nat and shook his hand so hard he almost yanked his arm out of its socket.

“Excellent goals, Nat,” he grinned. “Get a couple like that against Celtic tomorrow and we'll be sorted!”

“Cheers,” replied Nat, grateful for the acknowledgement.

It's nice to be appreciated!

When the players emerged from the El Mar Stadium, Nat spotted a small group of Spanish teenagers, wearing their country's shirts and laughing among themselves.

One of them, wearing a red and yellow baseball cap and a huge fake gold medallion, shouted to his mates and they scuttled over to Nat, Emi and Kelvin.

“Alright, guys,” said Emi jovially.

“If you make it to the final, you will play Talorca,” said the boy wearing the baseball cap.

“How do you know Talorca will make it to the final?” asked Kelvin, with a broad smile on his face.

The guy laughed. “Of course we will make it to the final. We will soon be Spanish champions – you will see!”

“If we make it to the final, I reckon we'll beat you!” replied Emi.

The lad quickly translated this conversation into Spanish. His friends laughed loudly and said something back.

“They say, ‘In your dreams',” reported the boy.

“We beat Manchester United a few weeks ago,” Nat pointed out.

“I know,” replied the boy, “but Manchester don't have Alberto Tieras, do they?”

“We've dealt with far tougher players in our time,” grinned Emi. “Tieras is a kitten compared to some of them!”

“We'll see about that!” said the Spanish boy, reaching out to shake Emi's hand. All of his friends then insisted upon shaking Emi, Nat and Kelvin's hands and after that, posing for photos with all three of them, and getting them to autograph several pieces of paper, two canvas bags, a notebook and the baseball-cap boy's left shoe.

When the team bus pulled up alongside the kerb, the Spanish boys shouted their thanks and farewells and made off, delighted with the autographs and photos they'd accumulated and still utterly convinced that if Rangers made it to the final, they'd come up against Talorca and get completely battered.

“Do you reckon we've got a chance to make it to the final?” asked Kelvin as the coach pulled away and set out for the team hotel.

Nat didn't say anything. He was focusing solely on tomorrow night's Celtic game and achieving the thing that he craved the most – some precious minutes on the pitch.

“I've brought you some extra blankets, more food and scissors to cut your hair.”

Carlos grabbed the loaf of bread Rudy brought out of his rucksack, tore a great chunk off it and ravenously tucked in. The barn they were sitting in was a couple of miles off the nearest back road.

“Are you sure no one followed you here?” demanded Carlos, in between mouthfuls.

“Absolutely,” Rudy replied. “I hardly saw any other vehicles for the whole journey.”

“Good,” nodded Carlos. “Is everything arranged?”

“Tomorrow night we make our move,” nodded Rudy. “I've staked out the place for the last five nights and the pattern is always the same. There are two guards. During their changeover they have a cup of coffee in the hut round the side of the building. This takes a minimum of ten minutes – on some nights it's more like fourteen.”

“Excellent,” said Carlos, taking a slug from the bottle of water Rudy had provided.

After Carlos had found a phone in the village the previous night, he'd run back to the ditch and awaited Rudy's arrival. It was pitch-dark by then and the headlights of Rudy's vehicle were the only points of light on the deserted country road.

They'd gone fifteen miles when Rudy pulled up, opened a metal gate at the side of the road and drove down a bumpy trail that ended next to a dilapidated barn. Rudy had visited the barn on several occasions at different times of day to be absolutely certain it was never used.

Rudy killed the engine and they got out. Flicking on his torch, Rudy pulled back the creaky barn door. It had obviously once been a place where animals had been kept because there were old sacks of animal feed on the ground and a couple of pens. But that had been years ago.

Carlos had nodded his approval of the place. “There will be scores of police out looking for me,” he said. “They'll be checking every place I've ever hung out. The escape will be a massive embarrassment to the prison service and they'll want me back inside as soon as possible.”

“I know,” nodded Rudy. “The story's been everywhere. This place is perfect, at least for the moment. When we've finished the project we'll have to sort you out something more permanent. People can properly ‘disappear' if they get a total identity makeover. We'll give it our best shot.”

“Let's not worry about that now,” replied Carlos. “It's one day at a time for the minute.”

Rudy nodded.

“OK,” said Carlos. “Make your move out of here and I'll see you tomorrow night.”

A full twenty-four hours had passed since then without Carlos being detected. The story of his break-out had been on the radio and in the press, but had quickly dropped down the news agenda when a massive forest fire broke out near some farmland, and public sector workers announced a strike over pay and working conditions.

Rudy turned away, ready to leave Carlos for the second day, when he remembered something. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a photo and handed it to Carlos.

“This is the guy?” asked Carlos, shining the torch onto the print.

Rudy nodded.

Carlos studied the face. “What's his name?” he asked.

Rudy paused for a second and then said in a cold, clear tone, “Nat Dixon.”

The atmosphere back at the hotel was relaxed. Training had gone well, the players were getting used to the heat and the facilities were great. After a long lunch, Nat spent the afternoon relaxing by the pool, swimming and playing several games of table tennis and snooker with Kelvin and Adilson. Nat was really enjoying himself, so the hours flew by and suddenly it was supper time. Alcohol wasn't banned by the club, but everyone knew Ian Fox's attitude towards excessive drinking, so a few of the players had a single beer with the meal, while the rest settled for soft drinks.

After eating, Nat played another couple of games of snooker with Adilson and then wandered to the hotel lobby, intending to use the quietness of the place to phone his dad. It was empty save for an elderly couple enjoying a cup of coffee and a large, suited businessman with oversize dark glasses talking on his mobile. Nat spotted Emi sitting by himself on an armchair next to a low coffee table. A bottle of lemonade was sitting there,
half drunk. Emi looked serious and was busy sending a text on his mobile.

Nat strolled over and sat down on the armchair opposite. He waited until Emi had finished texting and then spoke.

“Hey Emi, what's up?”

Emi looked up. “Oh, hi Nat. I've just been texting my mum. My dad's not well.”

“What's wrong with him?”

“He was rushed into hospital this morning in Yamoussoukro – that's the capital of Ivory Coast. He complained of chest pains last night – he and my mother thought it was just indigestion. It went away and he got a good night's sleep. But this morning it was a whole lot worse and he also got these shooting pains up his left arm.”

“Was it a heart attack?” asked Nat quietly.

“The doctors thought so at first, but they ran some tests on him and it wasn't.”

“So what was it?”

“They don't know,” sighed Emi. “They've kept him in for more tests. My mum is really worried. She's convinced he's at death's door. But my father is a fighter and keeps telling her not to be ridiculous. He says if he was facing death he'd know about it, and that these are definitely not his last breaths.”

“When will they know what's going on?” asked Nat.

“No one knows,” replied Emi. “But I'm worried and
it's tough not being there with them. A part of me feels I should get on a plane right now.”

“Why don't you? The gaffer would totally understand.”

“I know, but my dad would kill me! He's so proud of what I do that if he thought I'd shirked away from any team duties even for a day or two he'd never let me hear the last of it. But look – here I am going on about my dad, when you lost your mum. I shouldn't be complaining about it.”

“Of course you should,” smiled Nat sympathetically. “You're worried and you
need
to talk about it. It's natural.”

They sat in silence for a minute or so.

“Nat,” said Emi softly, “did your mum die of a heart attack?”

Nat felt a jolt in his chest. He'd told Emi and Kelvin that she'd died but he hadn't given them any details.

“No,” sighed Nat. “She was killed in a car crash.”

“My God!” whispered Emi, “I'm so sorry.”

“It was awful,” Nat murmured, “the worst thing that could ever happen to you as a kid – your mum being taken away from you in such appalling circumstances. My dad was so crushed by the whole thing that we packed up and left England. If I hadn't been discovered by Stan Evans in the States, I'd probably still be out there.”

“Do you still miss her?” asked Emi quietly.

“Every day,” said Nat, “but it's much, much better than
it used to be. It's been so long that I'm used to it now. There'll often be moments when I want to tell her about something I've done, but the pain isn't so great now. It's still there, but I can live with it.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, both of their eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“I can't believe you had to go through all of that,” said Emi.

“But come on, Emi. You're going through a rough time at the moment. It must be really difficult for
you.”

“So should I go back?” asked Emi.

“Why don't you speak to one of the doctors, gauge their opinion about your dad's condition. You can make your mind up after that.”

“Good idea,” replied Emi. “I'll do that.”

The conversation then lightened up and they switched to chatting about the Celtic game. Nat felt a pulse of relief in his chest. Talking to Emi about his mum hadn't been so bad. Emi was a really sympathetic listener and at the moment he could really relate to Nat's loss. Maybe Nat needed to talk about his mother a bit more – maybe it would help the healing process if he got things off his chest from time to time.

They were talking about the hulks of Angus Reakin and Paul Smithfield an hour later when Ian Fox and Stan Evans strolled into the lobby.

“OK, you two!” called Fox, marching over to them. “It's nine thirty. Time for bed!”

“Who says so?” laughed Emi.