Philip Kerr - False Nine

In truth, most of the time I was sitting in my room with the bottle I was trying to think of a way of salvaging something of Jérôme’s career. Nobody likes to throw someone on life’s scrapheap. Least of all me, who knows a few things about being on the scrapheap. When you’re in prison you realise that the scrapheap looks like a step up from where you are now.

I might have called someone with whom I could talk this over — my dad, perhaps — but the signal on my phone was, predictably, non-existent. So I was on my own. And those are the toughest decisions of all.

I slept for a couple of hours, woke around four, took a shower and went downstairs. The Louis Vuitton bags were still piled in the hall and the twins were where I’d left them on the sofa, wearing expressions of deep concern and anxiety. I glanced around. The knife was gone, thank God. I went into the kitchen, brewed some Bonifieur coffee and came back into the drawing room. Both of the twins stood up, expectantly.

I saw no point in beating around the bush so I took a deep breath and said, ‘I’ve decided. I’m afraid the answer has to be no.’

‘I told you,’ said Philippe. ‘He’s their man, not yours. You should never have trusted him, Jay. Now what are you going to do? It’s over, do you hear?’

He stared balefully at me for several seconds, as if he dearly wanted to hit me.

‘You bastard,’ he said. ‘All you people care about is money. None of you gives a damn about the people who play the game. Real people. And the real people who depend on them.’

And then he walked out.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Jérôme. ‘He’s upset, that’s all.’

‘I can see. Look, I’m sorry. But that’s just how it is.’

He sat down again and stared at his hands. ‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Actually no, I don’t think you do. I may be English but Barcelona — this club is like family to me, Jérôme. And you don’t lie to your family. I agree with everything you told me last night. It all makes perfect sense. But I can’t get over the fact that if I allowed Philippe to take your medical I’d be letting the club down badly. I’m sorry, Jérôme, but it’s a bridge too far, I’m afraid.’

He nodded silently.

I sat down, poured some coffee, and hoped that the sofa would swallow me up; either that or that the limo driver would ring the doorbell and I could leave. I don’t like flying all that much but this was a flight I was really looking forward to.

‘Tell me, what kind of football player is Philippe?’

‘Are you making polite conversation? Because I’m not feeling very polite right now.’

‘Humour me. What kind of player is he? A defender? A goalkeeper. Describe him.’

‘Honestly?’

‘You can certainly give it a try.’

Jérôme grinned. ‘He’s a natural winger,’ he said. ‘A good one, too. Right-footed. A good passer of the ball. His range of passing is excellent. He sees gaps in defences from a long way off. And he runs with the ball almost as fast as he does without it. Very strong, very fast, and very, very fit. Well, you can see for yourself how fit he is. If he’d had an earlier start in the game he might have been a professional, too. Probably at a top club. That’s why it was so easy for him to take my medicals. He looks the part already and he has some good ball skills. Enough for the cameras. And, in spite of what you’ve seen of him since you’ve been here, he is a very calm sort of individual. Steadier than me.’

‘So why didn’t he start earlier in the game?’

‘The opportunities here are, as you’ve probably observed, limited. It’s not like footballing scouts come to Guadeloupe as a matter of course, although perhaps they ought to given the way the island supplies footballers to the French national team. Besides, Philippe was always more interested in his school work than in sport. He wanted to go to university, to go his own way. We’ve never been the kind of twins who always did the same things. When we were living together, almost always he tried to do different things from me. And then of course we were separated. Which is a weird thing to do with twins. But in a way he didn’t mind. Neither of us did. Which makes us much more individual than you might think.’

‘And did he go to university?’

‘Yes. He studied agriculture at the University of the French West Indies and Guiana in Martinique. Paid for by me, of course. He now works for the Guadeloupe and Martinique Banana Growers’ Association.’

‘Does he like that?’

‘Not really. It’s only lately that he’s come to wish he could have been a footballer, too. And to realise what he’s missed. When he saw the way that I live in Paris — my cars, my apartment, my girlfriend — I think it was pretty hard for him to take all that on board. What might have been, you know?’

‘I can imagine.’ I left unasked the question I wanted to ask, which was if he’d slept with Bella Macchina. ‘Is it a well-paid job? With the banana company?’

‘By local standards, yes. But not by French standards. Most of his money comes from me. What I give him and my father enables them to have a pretty good lifestyle out here. But for that he’d like to come to France more often and look for work there.’

‘And is he married?’

‘Married?’

‘That’s right. You know? A woman with a ring on her finger and a rolling pin in her hand.’

‘No. Look, Mr Manson, if all of these questions about my brother are because you’re going to suggest that he could take my place at Barcelona or Paris Saint-Germain on a permanent basis, we both know that isn’t going to work. There’s no way he could survive the pace of the game in Spain. Or for that matter in France.’

‘You think I don’t know that? I’m not that naïve, son. That isn’t what I’m suggesting. I told you, I’m not going to be a part of your very forgivable fraud; equally I’m not going to tell Barcelona anything about your VSD. Since you were only on loan, I figure it’s not their business.’

‘What are you going to tell them?’

‘You can leave that to me,’ I said, without having the least clue. ‘But I will have to say something more to PSG, who hold your contract, although I’m not yet exactly sure what. I need some time to work out some things in my head.’

‘They’ll sack me. You know it. And I know it.’

‘That’s right. They probably will. The real trick is going to be to get them to sack you for all the wrong reasons.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Look, Jérôme, I think I already told you that I know one or two things about being dumped. A lot of what happened was my own fucking fault, on account of how I’ve never been able to keep it zipped. But believe me when I tell you that however low you’re feeling at this present moment in time, I have felt much much lower. Which is why, against all my better judgement, I’m determined to try and help you.’

‘If you really want to help me, Mr Manson, then let Philippe go to Barcelona to take my medical.’

‘I think you need to clean your bloody ears out. I’ve told you why I can’t do that. So, I suggest you put FC Barcelona out of your tiny mind for good, and place every ounce of your trust in me. That’s right. You’re going to have to trust me on this for a while. But first I’m going to ask you a very important question to which I want a straight fucking answer.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Then here it is. And think about it before you open your trap again. Is football still the most important thing in your life? Don’t answer yet. Think about it. I don’t mean all that off-the-field shit that comes with being a top footballer — the deals and the endorsements and the commercial bollocks — I mean the game of football, pure and simple. Is it the pre-eminent thing in the life of Jérôme Dumas? No, really think before you answer. A Saturday afternoon and a big match with you playing in front of fifty thousand fans. Think. Is that what still floats your boat?’