Philip Kerr - Hand of God

‘Not when they’re twenty-nine,’ I said. But Gareth didn’t hear me; the stretcher had halted briefly so that he could help to give Bekim CPR again.

‘Go with them,’ I told Simon. ‘Go with them to the hospital. And stay in touch.’

‘Yes, boss.’

I turned to find Gary standing behind me. He looked pale and drawn.

‘Drink something,’ I said, almost automatically. ‘You look like you’re dehydrated.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. But it’s not looking good right now.’

‘We can’t play on tonight,’ he said. ‘Not in these circumstances, boss. The lads need to know Bekim’s all right.’

‘I think you’re right.’

‘Christ, it makes you think what’s important, eh?’

I walked towards the touchline where Merlini, a UEFA official and several guys from Olympiacos were in conference. Merlini had both hands clasped as if he’d been praying too; he was biting his thumbnail anxiously as he tried to decide what to do. The Olympiacos manager, Hristos Trikoupis, put a hand on my shoulder.

‘How is your man?’

I shook my head. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘They’re taking him to the Metropolitan,’ he said. ‘It’s a two-minute walk from here. It’s a very good hospital. A private hospital. Not a public one. Try not to worry too much. It’s where all our own players go. I promise you, they’ll give your guy the best treatment available.’

I nodded dumbly, a little surprised at this turnaround in his attitude to me; before the match he had said some very unpleasant things about me in the Greek newspapers; he’d even brought up my time in prison and had joked that that was where I belonged, given my record as ‘a very dirty player’. Mind games, perhaps. All the same, that had hurt. You don’t expect that kind of behaviour from someone you used to play alongside. It had been all I could do to shake hands with Hristos Trikoupis before the match without trying to break his arm.

‘Look,’ I said eventually, ‘I don’t think my boys can play on. Not tonight.’

‘I agree,’ said Trikoupis.

Merlini, the referee, pointed to the tunnel. ‘Please, let’s go inside and have a talk there,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel comfortable deciding what to do in front of the television cameras or all these people.’

He blew his whistle and waved at the players on the pitch to come off.

I grabbed my jacket and then we went into the officials’ room; Merlini, the UEFA official, Hristos Trikoupis, the two team captains and me.

We sat down and for almost a minute nobody said a thing; then Trikoupis offered around some cigarettes and everybody took one, me included. There’s nothing like a cigarette to help draw yourself together; it’s as if, when you inhale smoke into your lungs, you’re pulling something back into yourself that had been in danger of escaping.

Gary smoked like a hard-bitten soldier in a trench on the Somme. ‘I used to think these would kill me,’ he said. ‘But after what’s happened here tonight, I’m not so sure.’

Trikoupis handed me a glass of what I thought was water and it was only after I’d downed it that I realised it was actually ouzo.

‘No,’ I said, firmly. ‘We can’t play tonight.’

‘I agree,’ he said.

‘So do I,’ said Merlini. He seemed relieved that the decision had been made for him. ‘The question is, when is the match to be finished?’

The UEFA official, a Belgian called Bruno Verhofstadt, who looked like Don Draper wearing Van Gogh’s beard, nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘That’s agreed. I’m sure we all hope and pray that Mr Develi will make a full and speedy recovery. Obviously I’m not a doctor but I trust Mr Manson and Mr Ferguson will forgive me if I state a very cruel and unpalatable truth: that it seems to me whatever happens now there can be no question of Bekim Develi playing for London City in the very near future. Not after a heart attack.’

I nodded. ‘That’s fair, I think, Mr Verhofstadt.’

‘Thank you, sir. I hope you will also forgive me if I suggest that we use this opportunity to try to find the best way forward from where we are now. By which I mean the situation as it exists, from UEFA’s point of view.’

‘Which is?’ I asked.

‘I’ll understand completely if you don’t feel you want to talk about this now, Mr Manson. I wouldn’t like you to feel that I’m putting you under pressure to make a decision about what to do next.’

‘No, no. Let’s talk about it. I agree, I think we have to do that now. Makes sense. While we’re all here.’

‘Very well. So then, given we are agreed that Mr Develi is unlikely to play any further role in this cup tie...’ Verhofstadt glanced at me as if awaiting confirmation.

I nodded.

‘Then according to UEFA a match which has begun must be completed as soon as possible. UEFA rules also forbid domestic games taking place in Europe on the same night as the Champions League or Europa League games. Tomorrow night is also a Champions League night. There are no domestic games anywhere else. From a scheduling standpoint it would seem to make sense that we complete this match at the earliest available opportunity that is convenient to both teams.’

‘You mean tomorrow,’ I said.

‘I do mean tomorrow, Mr Manson.’ He sighed. ‘Come what may.’

I knew exactly what Verhofstadt meant by that. He meant that we would have to play the game even if Bekim Develi died; but I hardly wanted to admit out loud that this was a possibility, even though I knew in my heart of hearts that this felt like something much more than just possible.

‘Come what may. That also makes sense. It’s not like we had many travelling fans here tonight. I think most of our supporters were already here on holiday.’ I nodded. ‘I mean, we’re all here in Greece. If we don’t play tomorrow then it’s hard to imagine when we are going to be able to play this cup tie. We’ve got Chelsea on Saturday, and then we’re supposed to have the home match of this cup tie, next week.’ I glanced at Gary Ferguson. ‘It’s either that or we withdraw from the competition. What do you think, Gary?’

‘We can’t withdraw,’ he said firmly. ‘No, boss. If we have to play we have to play. I don’t know of any circumstances under which Bekim would want us to withdraw from the Champions League — not on his account, anyway. Especially not now we’re a goal up.’ He took a superhuman drag on the cigarette and then used it to reinforce the point he was now making. ‘Look, I don’t know how to say this, boss, except to mention an old movie I once saw, with Charlton Heston. Bekim Develi is your El Cid kind of guy. I mean, dead or alive, he’d want us to be there tomorrow. To play, you know?’ He shrugged. ‘Just for the record, I’d feel the same way. My club, do or die, okay?’

Verhofstadt looked at Trikoupis.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I agree. We can play tomorrow, as well.’

‘Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you all for being so accommodating in an extremely difficult and tragic situation.’

I shook hands with Hristos Trikoupis and then with Mr Verhofstadt.

‘Then that’s settled,’ he said. ‘This match will be postponed until tomorrow.’

As Gary and I left the officials’ room, Trikoupis drew me aside.

‘I didn’t want to say this in front of the UEFA guy,’ he said, suddenly much less amicable. ‘After all, you’re a big boy now, Scott. But do you really know what the fuck you’re doing? I don’t think so. You think it was tough out there tonight? That was nothing compared to how it will be tomorrow. Don’t think that we’re going to go easy on you just because you have a player who had a heart attack. A player, I might add, who was not much loved after what he said about this country at the press conference the other night.’