January Window

43

Zarco might have been dead but I was certain that the Portuguese’s memory could still inspire the City team to victory. And not just his memory. I didn’t blame him, but Maurice probably thought I was crazy, or, even worse, that I was going religious on him — that I was going to tell him that Zarco’s spirit would actually be present in the dressing room. Of course I didn’t believe this any more than he did; however, I did want the players to think something like that, which was why, before any of the players arrived in the dressing room — while Manny Rosenberg was still laying out the kit — I went in there with a hammer and some nails and hung Zarco’s portrait on the wall. I’d brought it with me from Manresa Road especially for this purpose.

Manny was a tall, thin man with thick, white hair and heavy black glasses; he looked like Michael Caine’s older brother. Sounded like him, too.

He was about to lay the black armbands on each shirt when I stopped him.

‘I’ll give those out tonight if you don’t mind, Manny,’ I said.

‘As you wish.’ He handed them over.

‘I want to make this feel personal,’ I explained.

‘I take it that picture’s not permanent,’ he said, with one eye on the portrait. ‘I wouldn’t want to leave anything as nice as that in here. You know what these sods are like. Balls getting kicked around. Boots thrown. So-called practical jokes.’

‘No, it’s just for tonight.’

‘Wise.’

Manny nodded and gave it a longish appraisal. ‘Who did that, then?’

‘An artist called Jonathan Yeo.’

‘I know. He’s the Tory politician’s son. I read about him in the paper. That’s a good portrait, that is. Lad’s got talent. Not easy to capture with a brush, a man like João Zarco and what made him tick, but he’s done it very well, so he has. Soft twinkly brown eyes, big broad nose, sulky mouth, with just a hint of a sneer. Face like an African tribal mask, when you think about it. Hard as fucking wood but full of mischief, too. There was always so much going on behind the eyes, you know? Like now. I mean you can look at this painting and tell exactly what’s in Zarco’s mind.’

‘What’s in his mind, Manny? Tell me. I’m interested.’

‘Easy. He’s thinking if these overpaid cunts don’t win this fucking match tonight out of respect for my memory I’m going to haunt the bastards forever. I’ll sit in their fucking Ferraris and their ridiculous Lamborghinis and scare the cunts off the road and into a ditch. And they’ll deserve it, too.’

I grinned. ‘Maybe you should do the team talk, Manny.’

‘Nah. They’re so gullible they might actually believe me. Besides, you’ll know what to say, Mr Manson, sir.’

‘I hope so.’

Of course, I’d thought long and hard about what I was going to tell the players. Every word, every inflection of my voice would be important. I knew they would be looking for something extra from me tonight, a reminder of who and what they were playing for. And as I looked into Zarco’s eyes now I could hear the advice he had once given me about how a manager talks to his players. I was grateful to Manny for reminding me of what Zarco had said:

‘I’ve heard a lot of dressing-room team talks in my time, Scott. We both have. Most of them were a joke — David Brent in a tracksuit, a shop-steward on a soapbox, a travesty of what it means to manage players. You know why? Because most managers and coaches are stupid, ignorant men, who’ve had no real education and possess no imagination. Can you picture some of our own players becoming managers? Jesus Christ, they can’t even manage their pet dogs, let alone men. Their brains are in their feet. They haven’t got the words — at least not ones that don’t have four letters. I don’t know why but a lot of guys in football think they’ve got to behave like that marine drill sergeant in Full Metal Jacket. Fuck this, fuck that, kicking lockers, punching the air. Ridiculous. Embarrassing. Futile. When I was a player and I heard this kind of thing I wanted to laugh, every time. This kind of talk is going to motivate me? I don’t think so. You shouting in my ear like I’m some guy in the army is going to make me score a goal? Not a chance. Half the time I think maybe the managers are shouting because they really don’t know what to say. They’re angry because they don’t have a solution to the problems they see on the pitch.

‘Sure, sometimes you have to be a bully, but motivating players is something else. To motivate men in sport is like motivating people in any other walk of life. You need two things. First thing is you need to understand people and you can only do that by listening to them; too many people talk but they don’t listen first. Listening is essential. Get to know your players; talk to them quietly and with respect; and treat them like individuals. Like human beings. Second thing you need is to have earned people’s respect. People respect experience, and mostly that means experience of life itself. Now I don’t know many men who have as much experience of life as you, Scott. After all that’s happened to you, I see a man who other men will always listen to. Sure, you played professional football for years, you’ve been where they are, but this is the very least you can expect of a manager. That he’s done the job himself. More important than any of this is that you’ve survived the worst things that life can throw at you and come out the other side. You’re a survivor. This makes you a man that other men will listen to. Even me.

‘But when you do speak, what will you say? Actually, speaking to players is simple; you have to say a lot but in as few words as possible, because they have very short attention spans. You have to make every word count. Simplicity is the most sophisticated motivational tool in the world. It takes real intelligence to know what not to say as well as what needs to be said. I’m not talking about doing it in a hundred and forty characters but frankly, men who can say what needs to be said in less than a thousand words are the best men in football.’

A couple of hours before the game Simon Page arrived with the team from Hangman’s Wood; full of noise and jokes and excited to be playing a match they trooped into the dressing room but gradually fell silent when they saw me already sitting there below the portrait of Zarco. I was wearing a black suit, a white shirt and a black tie and I probably looked like a funeral director. At least I hoped I did.

The lads changed into their kit and waited quietly for me to say something. For once nobody had his ears full of music or a PS Vita in his hands; I think if I’d even seen one of these stupid handheld game consoles I’d have thrown it into the bin. This was no time for games. But I wasn’t ready to say anything yet. I wanted my words still to be ringing in their ears like the noise of the crowd as they waited in the tunnel. Instead I handed each man his black armband, told him to wear it on his left arm and reminded him that there would be a minute’s silence on the pitch before the match.

Just before the team went out onto the pitch with Simon to warm up, Viktor arrived in the dressing room with Bekim Develi. They’d just flown in to the nearby London City Airport on Viktor’s private jet. Silvertown Dock was the only ground in the country you could fly to and be in the stadium within twenty minutes. He was dressed for Russian cold in a long-haired beaver coat and Develi was wearing something similar; these two bearded men looked like the Brothers Karamazov.

The dressing room always stiffened when Viktor appeared; he was essentially a shy man and in spite of his lavish generosity he lacked the common touch. Maybe it was the fact that he was Ukrainian or maybe it was because he was sometimes embarrassed to be quite as rich as he was, but sometimes Viktor expressed himself a little awkwardly.

‘I just came down to wish you luck tonight,’ he said, ‘and to introduce you to Bekim Develi, who I think you will all agree is certainly the best midfielder in Europe. Now that the objections to Bekim’s coming to this club have been thrown out of the window, he’s joining us from Dynamo St Petersburg, where as many of you will know he was on loan from Paris Saint-Germain.’

I wasn’t sure what Viktor meant by this remark. After all he wasn’t to know that I had discovered — more or less — the way in which Zarco had really been killed. Was it possible that he was unconsciously referencing the manner of Zarco’s death? A Freudian slip, or something like it? A tasteless joke, even? Surely not. It wasn’t long before Viktor’s words started to feel like a piece of grit in my shoe.

‘At a press conference tomorrow,’ continued Viktor, ‘Bekim will be introduced to the world as our last and, with due respect to Kenny Traynor, our most important January signing. Before then I’m sure you’ll all want to make him feel very welcome at London City, just as I’m sure you’re going to beat West Ham tonight.’

Viktor certainly saw his gift to me hanging on the wall of the dressing room, but he didn’t mention Zarco at all; perhaps he was leaving that to me. But it surprised me a little, as did the fact that Viktor was wearing Zarco’s lucky scarf, the one I’d looked for in suite 123.

Bekim Develi shook hands with everyone as they went outside to warm up. He was a tall man — well over six foot — powerfully built and handsome, too, with a square shovel of a red beard and fortunately not nearly as fat as had been rumoured; but he smelled strongly of cigarettes and I hoped he wasn’t a smoker. I shook his hand and handed him a black armband.

‘What’s this?’

‘I’m surprised you have to ask. Didn’t Viktor tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

Just as I was about to say something rude to our new star signing Viktor came over and started speaking to Develi in Russian. Although I don’t know the language, it was quite clear to me that Zarco’s death was news to the footballer, which left me in little doubt that in spite of having shared a private jet from St Petersburg to London, the two men simply hadn’t discussed it. I was astonished by this.

‘That’s Zarco’s lucky scarf,’ I said as I handed Viktor a black armband.

‘Is it?’ he asked nonchalantly.

‘It’s from Savile Rogue,’ I said, pointing out the JGZ written on the logo, just in case anyone nicked it. ‘They make cashmere football scarves.’

‘Cashmere, eh? I wondered why I liked it so much.’

‘Perhaps, if he’d been wearing it, then he might still be alive,’ I said pointedly. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘He left it in the executive dining room on Saturday,’ said Viktor. ‘I took it with me when I went to look for him. I thought someone ought to wear it tonight. Just in case we need any luck. Do we? Need any luck tonight?’

‘Of course we do,’ I said. ‘Because if we lose, luck, or the lack of it, will be the best way of explaining why the other side won.’