Philip Kerr - False Nine

‘What are you not telling me?’ I asked.

Jérôme shook his head.

‘Come on. There’s always something people keep back right to the end. Something they don’t want to give up.’

‘Like what?’ asked Jérôme.

‘I don’t know. But that’s just how it is when you’ve been in prison like I have. You spend enough time with enough liars, you get a feeling for when there’s more to tell.’

‘I think you’re being a bit unfair,’ said Grace. ‘It sounds to me like Jérôme’s made a clean breast of everything. He was worried about his father. Any man can understand something like that, surely.’

‘Now I know you’re lying. You’ve got your lawyer speaking for you.’

Grace laughed. ‘Here we go again. It’s lucky I’ve got a sense of humour.’

‘But I’ve told you everything,’ insisted Jérôme. ‘Honest.’

‘Believe me, that’s a word you never use when you’re trying to tell someone the truth. Not that the football field is much different from prison, mind. The bullshit you hear when you’re out there on the pitch. I wish I had five quid for every lie I’ve heard during my twenty-odd years in football. I never meant to hurt him. It was a fair tackle. I never dived. Who me? I played the ball, not the man. It was a fifty-fifty ball. That was ball to hand, ref, not hand to ball. I am ten yards back. And that’s to say almost nothing about the lies you hear in the dressing room when you’re a manager. The leg’s fine, boss, it doesn’t hurt at all. I can play the next half without any problems. I couldn’t hear what you were saying, boss.

‘Jérôme, do I look like a dick? All footballers are fucking liars. Lying is just part of the game now, like ice packs or isotonic energy drinks, or a chunk of Vick’s VapoRub on your shirt front. I honestly think that if a team suddenly started to tell the truth, everyone would think they were on drugs. So, what is it that you’re not telling me?’

‘Nothing,’ he protested. ‘I’ve told you the whole story. And that’s the truth.’

But I was swiftly wrong-footed by what happened next.

Jérôme Dumas began to cry.

‘That’s it,’ said Grace. ‘I think he’s had enough.’

‘Now you really sound like his brief.’

Grace stood up. ‘I think it best that we finish this discussion for now. We can meet again later. This evening. When Jérôme is feeling like himself again.’

‘Suppose he goes walkies again? Then what? I’ll have summoned the Barcelona jet here for no reason.’

‘So wait a little,’ said Grace. ‘A few hours’ delay until you’re satisfied everything is as it should be won’t matter very much now, will it?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

She sat down next to the weeping footballer and put her arm around his heaving shoulders.

‘You’re not going anywhere, are you, Jay?’ she said. ‘Not now that we’ve found you.’

He wiped his face and shook his head. ‘No, I’ll be here.’

‘We’re going to walk back to the hotel,’ she told him. ‘We’ll come back at around seven when perhaps we can go somewhere for dinner. That is, if we can think of anywhere they serve something that’s actually edible.’

Our two-roomed suite at the Auberge de la Vieille Tour was, we were told, the largest that the hotel had to offer, although that didn’t make it seem any more comfortable. The dressing room at Stoke City was probably better appointed.

There was a long, split-level terrace with a table and couple of sunloungers, a nice view of an amethyst-green lawn and beyond this the sea, and in the blue sky a wide variety of bird life. Mostly these were mockingbirds whose sharp mockery possibly related to our choice of hotel. It certainly felt that way. There was no carpet, only a marble floor, and the suite was furnished with but the one armchair, a cheap-looking sofa that you might have found in any cut-price bedsit, and a TV with all the main French and Italian channels, which at least meant I wasn’t going to be deprived of football. The minibar was about as well-stocked as a student’s refrigerator and the Wi-Fi signal was weaker than a signal from the Mars Rover. One night in Guadeloupe’s best hotel looked like it was going to be quite enough. I couldn’t wait to get back to Jumby Bay and then London.

After the emotional energy of the conversation with Jérôme Dumas I was feeling a little tired and the bed looked comfortable enough so I had a quick shower in the tiny bathroom and climbed under the crisp white sheets. I fell to reflecting on the events of the afternoon. If there’s one thing I hate in football it’s a snivelling crybaby. Some of these pampered kids don’t know how well off they are and quite a few of them need a fucking good slap. João Zarco hit a few City players in his time and probably the only reason I haven’t decked one myself is because I haven’t been in the job for long enough. Believe me, it happens a lot more than you think. In evidence I give you Brian Clough and Roy Keane. Unthinkable, isn’t it? That’s probably one reason why Keano is such a hard bastard today. I got decked myself when I was playing at Southampton, and rightly so.

But Dumas was different. He seemed genuinely depressed and there’s no telling where something like that can end up, especially when the happy pills have run out. Hanging yourself on Wembley Way like my old mate Matt Drennan, or trying to head-butt a lorry on the A64 like poor Clarke Carlisle. In spite of what he’d said I reflected that there was still some careful handling to be done if I was going to get Jérôme Dumas on a plane to Barcelona.

Soon after I closed my eyes I found Grace lying naked next to me and smelling lightly of perfume and body lotion. I lay silently for a minute or two, enjoying the relaxing sound of the ocean through the open window. I love the sound of the sea. Maybe it’s because I’m a Pisces, but I think it has more to do with the fact that having been born in Edinburgh — which has in Leith a proper sea-port — the sea and the sound of seagulls wheeling over Edinburgh Castle were probably the first ambient noise of which I was ever aware. That and the sound of a few Hearts supporters carousing home along the Gorgie Road after a successful local derby. Relaxation was slow in coming, however; I was feeling a little guilty about the way I’d spoken to the woman now occupying the same bed as me.

‘I owe you an apology.’

‘Debatable.’

‘Jérôme’s father. John Richardson. What are his chances?’

‘John will certainly plead self-defence. There’s plenty of evidence that DJ Jewel Movement gave almost as good as he got. The trouble is that Jewel Movement was popular in Antigua. Finding an impartial jury might be difficult. Lots of people knew him and liked him. So, a jury might easily convict just because of that. Of course, John does have a very good lawyer.’

‘I certainly wouldn’t disagree with that.’

‘I’m glad.’

I turned around and put my arms around her. She laid one long leg across my hip, gathered me closer and licked my chest as if it was the choicest morsel.

‘It’s my considered opinion that she’s a very fine lawyer indeed.’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

‘All the same, I just want to say that I didn’t mean to insult you back there at your cousin’s friend’s house. And I hope you weren’t offended.’

‘No offence taken. I think I’m a lot thicker-skinned than you imagine.’

‘So we’re all right, then,’ I said.

‘Better than all right. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘I’m certainly not about to contradict you while we’re in bed.’

‘We could do with more people like you in England,’ I said, teasing her a little now; I was going to make her wait for it after the way she had kept the truth from me. ‘People there are increasingly quick to take offence about almost anything. In evidence I give you the Twitter storm caused by something I tweeted a few days ago. For which I shall probably get fined by the FA and for which I shall have to apologise. Otherwise they could take away my coaching licence.’