Philip Kerr - January Window

I waited for the team to show up at the training ground and boarded the coach with them. There are always one or two who manage to be late and in those cases I have to order them to pay a fine. But today was different; two players were late for the team coach but these were my two Africans — Kwame Botchwey and John Ayensu were both from Ghana — and I had a very good reason for wanting them on my side so for once, fines were not imposed.

We arrived at Silvertown Dock at about the same time as the Newcastle team and let them go in first in order to avoid confusing the sports reporters, who were waiting in the players’ tunnel to watch the yobs walk into the dressing room. In their woolly hats and big Dr Dre headphones, and dragging carry-on luggage containing all their personal items, our yobs looked much like the Toon yobs. Besides, I had an extra reason to want to keep the two teams apart for as long as possible.

Fit or not, everyone in the team is obliged to turn up for the team coach on a match day; that’s how it works. Even the players who are injured or on the transfer list like Ayrton Taylor are required to put in an appearance, although generally speaking they can remain in their normal clothes. In Taylor’s case this seemed to involve looking like a tramp, which, after the match, was going to cost him a fine: at Silvertown Dock it’s jackets and ties for players who aren’t playing through injury or for disciplinary reasons.

I shook hands with the Newcastle management and coaching team: Alan Pardew, John Carver, Steve Stone and Peter Beardsley. I have a lot of time for Beardsley. People talk about Lionel Messi but, in his prime for the Toons, Beardsley was very like Messi. Like him, Beards could beat three men, get tripped, stay on his feet and score a beauty with either foot. Christ, he even looked like Messi. Some of these arrogant young bastards today should be honoured just to be on the same coach as Peter Beardsley.

Team sheets were exchanged and I gave theirs and ours to a club spokesman to read them out to the waiting reporters. As usual it was all filmed for London City TV and must have made some very boring television; then again, some fans will watch anything to do with football.

Feeling the butterflies now — I always get them before a match, even more now that I’m no longer playing — I went along to our dressing room and waited for Zarco to show up and do his pre-match talk. He was pretty good at this kind of thing. There was no one better at understanding and motivating men; he inspires loyalty and players just want to do well for him. If he hadn’t been a football manager he’d have made a very good general, I think. But not a politician: he was much too direct and straight-talking to be a politician, although in my humble opinion what this country needs most is someone to tell us that we’re all a bunch of lazy cunts.

The game was supposed to kick off at 4 p.m. but it was now nearly three and Zarco still wasn’t here, so I picked up the dressing-room landline and I was about to call the dining room when Phil Hobday put his head around the door; he might have been club chairman but he wasn’t above running the odd errand for Viktor Sokolnikov. Phil was smooth and talked the same language as Viktor; he was fond of comparing football clubs to big companies like Rolls-Royce, or Jaguar, or Barclays Bank. For Phil, London City was a company just like Thames Water. I’d learned a lot from Phil Hobday.

‘Do you know where João is, Scott?’

‘No. As a matter of fact I was just calling the dining room to tell him to get his arse down here.’

Hobday shook his head. ‘He was there until about an hour ago, when he took a call and left. When he didn’t return we thought he must have come down here. Viktor’s pretty angry that he just buggered off like that without saying goodbye to any of his guests. Even he’s gone to look for him.’

‘Well, Zarco’s not in here as you can see. Although I rather wish he was.’ I shrugged. ‘I take it you’ve called his mobile.’

‘Tried. Several times. But it’s pointless. The signal here on a match day is awful, as I’m sure you know.’

I nodded. ‘Sixty thousand people trying to get reception. You might just as well get a word from God.’

‘Is it possible he went to say hello to the Newcastle manager?’

‘That’s highly unlikely. There’s not much love lost between those two. Besides, it’s not considered appropriate to go into the other side’s dressing room before a match in case you hear anything you shouldn’t.’

‘Talking of which — look, you don’t think...’

Hobday beckoned me outside the dressing room for a moment.

‘You don’t think he’s with — with her?’

‘Who would that be, Phil?’

‘Come on, Scott. Stop trying to cover for him. You know exactly who I’m talking about: our lady of the needles — Claire Barry. I know she must be in the ground because I just saw her old man in one of the hospitality bars upstairs.’

‘Honestly? I’m sure he’s not with her. Look, nothing is more important to João Zarco before a match than the match itself. You know that. Not Greenwich Borough Council, not her, not a quick shag in a broom cupboard. If he’s not with you then this is where he would be.’ I frowned. ‘You are telling me everything, aren’t you, Phil?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s not had another row with Viktor and walked out? You know what he’s like. Sometimes he can be quite petulant.’

Phil shook his head. ‘No. Absolutely not. They were the best of friends, upstairs. Really.’

I shook my head. ‘Look, perhaps he got caught short, or something. Maybe he’s in the bog. I’m sure he’ll turn up. This is an important match. I’d look for him, only I’ve got to take charge of the warm-up. I’ll call Maurice and see if he can find him. If anyone can, he can.’

‘All right. Thanks, Scott.’

Phil went back to join Viktor’s important guests, who were probably tucking into their lunch. Hobday didn’t drink, himself, which was a pity as Viktor always served the best wines in the executive dining room. I could have used a large glass of Puligny-Montrachet myself.

I called Maurice on the landline and explained the situation.

‘I’ll get straight on it,’ he said.

‘And make sure you check the bogs, in case he’s had an accident.’

I think that was the first time it crossed my mind that something might have happened to Zarco. He was a strong, fit man but you read all kinds of things about managers having heart attacks — almost half the football managers in the English league have had significant heart problems: Gérard Houllier, Glenn Roeder, Dario Gradi, Alex Ferguson, Joe Kinnear, Barry Fry, Graham Souness. As high-pressure jobs go, football management is one of the worst. When you’re a player you can run that feeling off as soon as you go on the pitch; but a manager has to sit there and take it. Just look at Arsène Wenger’s face during a game at the Emirates and tell me that he’s a man who’s relaxed about watching his team; and Arsenal are doing well right now.

I took the lads outside for the warm-up and tried to concentrate on the game in hand; the music on the loudspeakers in the ground hardly helped: it was Puff Daddy’s ‘I’ll be Missing You’. By now I was certain that something must have happened to the Portuguese. Hadn’t I seen him rubbing his arm and his chest that same morning as if he was in pain? I also spent some time checking out the opposition, who were warming up in the other half. Aaron Abimbole was playing and always reminded me of Patrick Vieira, the way he dominated the midfield: tall, with quick feet, good technique, aggressive and very brave, he was everything you want in a player. Well, almost. He had two faults: he was a greedy cunt and he was fucking lazy; sometimes he just wasn’t in the mood, and that was why City had let him go. But that afternoon he already looked like he was itching to score against his old club, which left me starting to get a pain myself. This was some extra pressure I didn’t need.