Philip Kerr: Hand of God

‘Sure I am. It’s about the one thing that Muslims and Christians in my country can both agree on. But as it happens there are very few black Africans who are shirtlifters and bum bandits. Really, it only seems to be a problem in white countries.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t use these words,’ said Gary. ‘Live and let live, that’s what I say. So why don’t you zip it, sunshine, and get showered.’

‘I’m just saying that it’s only in big cities where this problem with batty boys seems to arise. In Africa it’s not really a problem at all.’

During this exchange nobody was looking at Christoph Bündchen who was trying his best to pretend that the conversation wasn’t happening, but clearly Bekim felt his acute discomfort almost as much as the young German did himself. The Russian glanced anxiously at Christoph before looking back at Prometheus.

‘Where do you get your fucking ideas from?’ said Bekim. ‘That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard. No gay people in Africa? Of course there are gay people in Africa.’

‘Put a sock in it,’ I said. ‘All of you. I don’t want to hear any more talk about gays in this dressing room. D’you hear?’

‘I’d have thought the dressing room is where the matter needs to be discussed most of all,’ said Prometheus. ‘I don’t want to share a bath with some homo who might touch me up or give me Aids.’

‘Shut your mouth, Prometheus,’ I said. ‘And if you ever showboat in a match like that again I’ll take you off and fine you a week’s wages.’

Towards the end of the match he’d played keepy-uppy for several seconds, making an obvious chump of the defender before passing it to Bekim who’d scored. It wasn’t such an egregious error in the light of the final outcome but I was desperately trying to change the subject.

‘I think you’re fucked up, sonny,’ Bekim told Prometheus. ‘You might have joined an English football team. But clearly you’ve yet to join civilisation.’

‘That goes for you, too, Bekim,’ I said. ‘Put a sock in it.’

‘And I think maybe you’re standing up for batty boys because you’re one yourself,’ Prometheus told Bekim. ‘Not to mention a racist. Me, uncivilised? Fuck you, Ivan.’

Bekim stood up. ‘What did you say?’

‘That’s enough,’ I said.

Prometheus stood up and faced him. ‘You heard me, batty man.’

‘ Ya toboi sit po gor loi ,’ said Bekim, speaking Russian now. He always started speaking Russian when he got angry; he wasn’t called the red devil for nothing. ‘ Ti menya zayebal. Dazhe ney du mai, chto mozhesh, menjya khui nye stavit . Don’t even think you can dis me like that, you fucking animal.’

‘Will you two bastards behave yourselves?’ shouted Simon.

By now I was standing in front of Bekim gripping his wrists, and Gary Ferguson was blocking Prometheus, but it wasn’t going to stop these two powerfully built men from taking a pop at each other. Sometimes the dressing room is like that. There’s too much energy, too much testosterone, too much frustration, too much mouth, too much attitude. You can’t explain it except to say that shit happens. One minute they were shouting insults at each other, the next they were trying to punch each other in the face. I did my best to keep hold of Bekim’s wrists but he was too strong for me, and there was a loud smack as the Russian’s forearm connected with the side of the Nigerian’s face and Prometheus collapsed like an overloaded coat stand. He was up again almost immediately, grabbing at the Russian’s red beard and taking a swing himself. He missed and hit Jimmy Ribbans, who reeled away with blood pouring from his mouth before turning and flicking a hard jab square into the face of Prometheus.

I have to admit that there was a small part of me that was hoping some of this might knock some sense into the young Nigerian’s head, but I have to admit it seemed unlikely that Prometheus was going to stop being a homophobe just because someone had punched him.

‘You fucking hit me?’ Prometheus yelled at Bekim as he was restrained for a second time. ‘You fucking hit me?’

‘You only got what’s been coming for a long time, sonny,’ said Bekim.

‘I’ll put the hex on you, batty man. You see if I don’t. I know a witch doctor who’ll fix your faggot arse good. I’ll have you killed. I’ll burn your fucking car. I’ll rape your fucking wife and make her suck my cock.’

‘Fuck you, chyernozhopii . Fuck you and the chimp that gave birth to you.’

This second exchange of insults initiated another flurry of fists and kicks.

‘Cool it,’ I yelled again as the rest of the team and playing staff pulled the three combatants apart. ‘The next person who throws a punch is suspended. The next person who insults someone else is suspended. I mean it. I’ll suspend you both without pay and then I’ll fine you a week’s wages; and when I’m good and ready and you’ve sat on the subs bench for the whole season I’ll fucking sack you both. I’ll make sure that every club in Europe knows what a pair of twats you are so no one will buy you. I’ll make sure you never work in football again. Is that clear?’

‘And if that’s not enough I’ll beat the living shit out of you both,’ said Simon. ‘And I’m not talking about the handbags we just had in here.’ There were few who would have doubted he could have done it, too. There was nothing bluff about the big Yorkshireman’s threat. When he took his glasses off and removed his upper plate he was one of the most frightening men in the game. ‘It’d be worth the sack just to beat some sense into your fucking heads. I’ve never heard the like. Call yourself team mates? I’ve seen Old Firm matches that were more cordial than what just happened in here. What a pair of cunts.’

In spite of my terrifying experience aboard an Aeroflot Ilyushin jet, I dislike flying in helicopters even more than in Aeroflot Ilyushin jets, and this included Vik’s luxurious Sikorsky-92 which, following the team’s return from Russia, left London’s Battersea Heliport one Tuesday morning in August, bound for Paris. Aboard were Viktor Sokolnikov, City chairman Phil Hobday and me.

Whenever I fly in a chopper all I can think about is not the time we’re saving but Matthew Harding, the millionaire vice-president of Chelsea FC who was tragically killed in a helicopter back in 1996 after an away game with Bolton Wanderers. It’s an old wives’ tale that helicopters are any less aerodynamic than an airplane — a helicopter’s blades will continue to rotate, despite a stalled engine (or so Vik told me); but it’s a fact that helicopters do more dangerous things than planes, such as take-off and land in closely built-up areas, and what’s more in parts of the world with very poor weather. To be killed in a helicopter would be bad enough, I think; but to be killed in somewhere like Bolton really would be bloody awful.

We were flying to Paris to have lunch with Kojo Ironsi who, as well as being the agent and manager of Prometheus Adenuga, was the owner of the famous King Shark Football Academy in Accra, Ghana. Vik already owned a stake in King Shark, but Kojo — who was rumoured to be short of cash — was looking to sell him a bigger share and I was along to help City’s billionaire club-owner evaluate just how much the academy might be worth. Or at least that’s what I thought. I had player reports from an independent African-based coach, which I was supposed to bring into play if Vik decided that Kojo was asking too much.

All of the players who had come through the King Shark Academy — including Prometheus and several other big names — had a contractual relationship with KSA which meant that they and the football clubs who acquired them paid a percentage of their transfer fees and wages to KSA. Kojo claimed to be a philanthropist and that what he did was to the advantage of talented young Africans who might otherwise struggle to find opportunities to play for the top clubs, but from the outside it looked like these players were indentured to Kojo and KSA for the whole of their professional lives.