Philip Kerr - Hand of God

After much heated argument, during which time I was ordered to sit in the stands not once but three times, I finally managed to persuade him to read the rules now displayed on my iPad. Mr Blackard then went to consult with his five match officials and I walked back to our dugout to the usual shrill Greek chorus.

‘What’s he say?’ asked Simon.

‘He’s still standing on his dignity.’

‘What did I tell you?’ said Simon. ‘I told you that bastard Backward, or whatever his fucking name is, was bent.’

‘I don’t think he’s bent,’ I said. ‘I think he’s just stupid. And ignorant. And pig-headed. And scared of looking like a twat.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, I’d say. Why did Mohamed Hachani gob on Soltani’s hand anyway?’

I explained about the Champions League music and how Hachani seemed to have taken offence to its subject.

‘People as sensitive as that lad have got no business playing football,’ observed Simon. ‘Next thing we’ll have Hindus refusing to throw in the ball because it’s made of cow leather. Or Muslims refusing to run onto a pitch because the fucking grass is fertilised with pig shit. Christ, when I was playing for Rotherham we used to leave a turd in someone’s fucking shoe. For a laugh, like. I’d like to have seen Hachani’s face then.’

‘This confirms what I’ve always suspected. That Yorkshire men have a sophisticated sense of humour.’

‘Happen that’s true, aye.’

‘But technically this is all Kojo’s fault. If only he’d kept his fucking mouth shut, then none of this would have happened and Soltani would still be on that pitch. It was him who kept on pointing out that Zadok was a Jew.’

‘That’s why he’s the Technical Director, I suppose,’ observed Simon. ‘Because technically he’s a cunt. We both agree about that, boss. But now he’s in place at this club it’s going to be very hard to get rid of the bastard. Anything you say to Vik about him is going to look like sour grapes.’

‘I’d like to stick that fucking fly-whisk up his arse.’

‘Is that what it is? I was wondering why he was walking around with that thing. I thought it was a sort of feather duster. You know? Like Ken Dodd.’

Blackard finished talking to his officials and now waved Jimmy Ribbans onto the pitch and for the first time that evening I smiled, although mostly I was smiling at how anyone could have mistaken a fly-whisk for a feather duster.

‘Thank Christ for that,’ said Simon. ‘It seems like the Irish cunt has seen sense. Now maybe we can get on with the fucking game.’

I glanced behind us up into the stand and met the faces of several thousand hostile Greeks who proceeded to tell me that I was a malakas and other interesting epithets to do with the colour of my skin. I wondered if any of them could even read the many Respect and No To Racism slogans that appeared in Greek and English on the perimeter advertising hoardings.

A minute or two later, the referee checked his watch and, fifteen minutes later than scheduled, he blew his whistle for the game to start.

After everything that had happened before the match, it was a relief to watch a game of football, even though that wasn’t the way I’d decided we were going to play it. Because right from the kick-off our players were quickly on their weakest player — the midfielder, Mariliza Mouratidis — like they held him personally responsible for keeping us all in Greece, and closing him down like they were a bunch of liquidators.

‘I hope this works,’ said Simon. ‘You know what European refs are like. They hand out cards like Japanese businessmen. And after what just happened with that Irish bastard, Backward — he’s probably dying to send another of our lads off.’

‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘I think that what happened might just work in our favour. Backward already looks stupid because he didn’t know the rules. He’ll know that in his bones now. There’s no point in looking like a cunt as well.’

But two extra-hard tackles in the first fifteen minutes stood out from the rest. Mouratidis ran at speed onto a long ball from Roman Boerescu which landed just inside our box, with the ball bouncing just a little too high for him to control; he looked up, waiting for it drop a little so he could perhaps head it onto his foot, with no idea that Kenny Traynor — all six foot three of him — had already taken off and, like Mercury himself, was now heading through the air, fist first.

Kenny punched the ball cleanly and fifteen yards clear of his box, at least half a second before his trailing knee caught Mouratidis on the side of the head and clotheslined him. Fortunately the inevitable Greek howls and demands for a penalty were wasted on the Irish referee and the officials who’d had an excellent view of what had happened. Anyone looking at the incident would have said that Kenny had touched the ball first and behaved with an almost foolhardy lack of concern for his own safety, so much so that everyone in the City dugout was relieved to see him get up again. Everyone but the Olympiacos supporters, that is, who were outraged that a penalty was not going to be given.

‘Nice one,’ I said. ‘That should give the lad plenty of pause for thought.’

‘You fucking Irish malakas ,’ someone not very far behind me was shouting at the ref. ‘You want to wear your glasses instead of keeping them up your arse.’

Mouratidis stayed flat on his back for at least two minutes; and after treatment off the field, returned to the game with no obvious signs of injury. It was perhaps unfortunate for him that the next incident involving the boy was to compete for a fifty-fifty ball with Gary Ferguson, who has the hardest head in British football. The man could head a wrecking ball and still walk away with a smile on his face. The two players jumped for a high ball, with the difference between them being that the later slow-motion replay showed Gary’s head arriving with more energy and malice aforethought than a rock from a trebuchet; it was almost as if he had regarded the football as an unfortunate impediment to the delivery of a real Glasgow kiss. And Gary knew what he was doing; he seemed to head his way through the ball, before his head connected with the young Greek’s forehead.

Once again Mouratidis went down as if felled by a Tyson uppercut only to find that Gary, who knew very well how appearances can influence weaker-minded referees, had already beaten him to the deck and was now holding the crown of his head and writhing on the ground as if trying to roll himself up in turf.

Anxiously I glanced at the linesman and was reassured to see his flag had stayed by his side.

‘Christ,’ muttered Simon as both physios sprinted onto the pitch amid a virtual storm of whistled air. ‘I hope that crazy Scots bastard is all right.’

‘He’s not injured,’ I said. ‘A head like Gary’s could breach a castle wall. He’s just wriggling his way clear of a potential yellow, that’s all. You mark my words, Simon. Just as soon as he sees the ref’s hand is staying away from his top pocket he’ll be on his feet again, like nothing happened.’

A minute later my prediction was fulfilled and, still holding his head as if he could feel his hair transplant starting to work, Gary came back to the line with Gareth Haverfield. I got up from the bench, grabbed a bottle of water from the kitbag and stood beside them. Gary took the bottle from my hand and, with the plastic tit between what few teeth were left in his head, muttered back me, ‘I’ll be very surprised if the fucker gets up from that, boss.’

‘We don’t want the bastard off the field,’ I said. ‘I told you. We just want him nervous when he’s on the ball. Like it was filled with fifty thousand volts. So that the next time Prometheus runs at him he’ll think it’s better just to stay the fuck out of his way.’