Philip Kerr - Hand of God

‘What’s up with him?’ said a voice next to me. It was Simon. ‘Heat too much for him, do you think?’

I nodded. ‘He’s fainted, yes. It is incredibly hot in here.’

‘Twenty-nine degrees Celsius,’ said Simon. ‘I don’t know about him but I feel like a fucking chicken vindaloo. I hope he hasn’t fainted. If he’s fainted he’ll have to come off. Perhaps he got hit with something. A coin, perhaps.’

‘Could be. They’ve been throwing money away in this country for years. Makes a change from a banana.’

Risking another banana perhaps, I walked anxiously to the edge of the technical area. I put my glasses on; I am just a little short-sighted — more so at night, when I’m feeling tired. But what I could see now made little sense; Bekim Develi appeared to be trying to head-butt the ground and Gareth was trying without success to turn him onto his back. I knew this wasn’t good when the referee ran to the Olympiacos dugout and said something that made their whole medical team sprint onto the pitch; instinctively, without waiting for the ref’s permission, I followed, slowly at first, as if not quite sure of what I was doing, and then a little more quickly as I began to realise just how serious things were.

By now Develi had stopped moving altogether, and one of the Greek medicos had cut off his shirt with a pair of scissors and was giving him chest compressions; Gareth, our own physio, was doing mouth-to-mouth as a paramedic frantically unrolled an oxygen airway tube. Even the crowd seemed to have realised what was happening and fell silent.

Seeing me, Gary Ferguson stood up from his team mate’s side and came towards me. His cheeks were wet, but not with sweat.

‘What is it?’ I asked, already feeling sick to my stomach. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s dead, boss. That’s what’s fucking wrong with him.’

‘What? He can’t be. How?’

‘I dunno. One minute he’s running around like he’s the dog’s bollocks; the next he’s on the floor. The way he went down I thought he must have been shot.’

The referee, an Italian called Merlini, came over and for a minute I thought he was going to tell me to leave the pitch; instead, he shook his head sadly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t look good, I’m afraid. They’re bringing a defibrillator to the pitch now. They would take him to the hospital across the road, but they’re worried about moving him.’

‘Jesus,’ muttered Gary.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kenny Traynor with his head in his hands, and Soltani Boumediene with his face buried in Xavier Pepe’s shoulder. Prometheus was talking animatedly to one of the Olympiacos players. Jimmy Ribbans appeared to be kneeling in prayer for his stricken colleague. I might have knelt down to pray myself but I knew Bekim’s girlfriend was probably watching at home and the last thing she needed now was to see me looking like I’d given up hope.

I glanced up at the television display screen and then at my watch.

Merlini seemed to read my mind.

‘He’s been like that for several minutes, now,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do. I think I’d better speak to the other officials. And to the guys from Olympiacos. I should tell them what’s happening, too.’

‘I’d better speak to the rest of the lads,’ said Gary after Merlini had walked away. ‘If he wants to restart this match we’re going to have to pick ourselves up pretty quickly. And who are we going to bring on to replace him?’

‘Iñárritu,’ I said, numbly.

Gary walked away as one of the Greek medicos finished attaching two large sticky defibrillator pads to Bekim’s now motionless chest.

‘Do not touch the patient,’ said a female American woman’s voice from inside the yellow machine, which looked more like a child’s toy than something that could revive a man like Bekim Develi. And then: ‘Shock advised. Charging. Stand clear.’

‘ Stékeste ,’ said one of the Greeks loudly; everyone sat back from Bekim.

‘Press flashing shock button,’ said the machine voice.

‘ Stékeste ,’ repeated the Greek medico and then pressed the shock button.

Bekim’s body jerked momentarily but otherwise he remained motionless.

‘Shock one delivered,’ said the machine voice. ‘It is safe to touch the patient. Begin CPR, now.’

The Greek translated for some of the others attending Bekim and then, together with Gareth, he started chest compressions, while Gareth gave Bekim mouth-to-mouth, thirty and two, like you’re supposed to. The men were drenched in sweat not just from the heat in the stadium, but from the sheer effort of what they were now doing: trying to bring a man back from the dead. And this in full view of more than thirty thousand spectators.

‘Continue for one minute thirty seconds,’ said the machine.

‘Christ,’ said Simon who was now standing alongside me in the centre of the pitch. ‘Has he had a heart attack, or what?’

‘Worse than that, I think,’ I said. ‘It seems like his heart has stopped beating altogether. They’re trying to get it going again now.’

‘It can’t be,’ said Simon. ‘Not him. Not Bekim. The lad’s only twenty-nine and as fit as a flea.’

‘Right now it doesn’t look as though he’s going to make thirty,’ I said.

‘Stop CPR. Stop now. Do not touch the patient. Analysing heart rhythm. Do not touch the patient. Shock advised. Stand clear.’

‘ Stékeste ,’ said the Greek medico.

‘Press flashing shock button.’

Once again Bekim’s body jerked spasmodically and then remained motionless. Some others came onto the pitch with a scoop stretcher to pick the man up just as soon as he could be safely moved. It was already beginning to look pointless.

‘He needs to be in hospital,’ said Simon. ‘Someone needs to call a fucking ambulance.’

‘They’re doing the right thing,’ I told him. ‘If they stop with the defibrillator then there’ll be no point in taking him to the hospital.’

‘No point anyway if the fucking doctors are on strike,’ said Simon.

By now the news that Bekim was in serious trouble had reached the small contingent of English supporters who were somewhere in the stadium and they began to sing his name.

‘BEKIM DEVELI! BEKIM DEVELI!’

‘BEKIM DEVELI! BEKIM DEVELI!’

To my amazement the Greeks joined in and for almost a minute the whole crowd was as one in its attempt to let the stricken Russian know that they were rooting for his recovery.

‘BEKIM DEVELI! BEKIM DEVELI!’

I swallowed hard, and in spite of the heat shivered a little with emotion, trying to keep it together, but inside I was in complete turmoil. What about his baby son? I kept asking myself. What if he doesn’t make it? Who’s going to look after Peter? What will happen to Alex? Football, bloody hell!

Bloody hell, indeed.

As six pairs of hands lifted Bekim onto the stretcher and hurried him off the pitch, I followed Gareth to the mouth of the players’ tunnel. The air was as warm as an open oven but I felt cold and empty inside. The audience started to applaud the man now fighting for his life.

‘Is he alive?’ I asked him.

‘Only just, boss. His heart’s all over the place. Maybe they can do something for him at the hospital. His best chance now is a massive shot of adrenalin. Or if they open him up and massage his heart. But we’ve done all we can for him here, I think.’

‘But what happened? What caused this?’

‘I’m not a doctor, boss. But there’s something called SADS — Sudden Arrhythmia Death Syndrome, or what the newspapers call Sudden Adult Death Syndrome — but that’s just what doctors call it when they have no fucking idea why people keel over and die. Except that they do. All the time.’