Dead if You Don’t

9

Saturday 12 August

15.00–16.00

On the far side of the Amex Stadium car park, Dritan Nano sat behind the wheel of a stolen, old-model 5 Series BMW, on false plates. He was relieved to see the Porsche arrive; it was an hour later than expected, and he had been beginning to wonder whether something had happened and it was not going to appear at all.

The thirty-two-year-old Albanian had a permanently sad-looking face, which was at odds with his powerful, muscular body mass. Limp, damp-looking hair brushed forward into a widow’s peak lay low on his forehead. With large, round eyes, he looked vulnerable in the way a tortoise’s head looks out of proportion and exposed when protruding from the safety of its shell.

He watched the Porsche drive past the barrier and pull in to a parking bay. The smartly dressed man and his son, in jeans and a shirt, climbed out and headed off towards the stands. Their body language told him they’d had an argument, the father striding on ahead, the son, hands in pockets, following in his own time.

Dritan had had an argument today, too, and was feeling terrible. Crap. Totally. Crap. He had woken feeling nervous about his task ahead, but full of excitement for what lay beyond. A big day today, in every way.

Until the text from Lindita.

His girlfriend of five years, whom he was due to marry next spring, had gone back, three months ago, to her native Kosovo, because her grandmother had only days to live. Somehow, defying the doctor’s predictions, the old bird had struggled on. Then, last week, she had finally succumbed.

Yesterday, he had texted Lindita excitedly, telling her — a little white lie — that he was due a big bonus from his employee, Mr Dervishi, and this would give him enough money to buy the lease of a coffee house. He would quit his job and run the café with her, as they had long dreamed of doing. With luck, he should have the money in a few days, and they could be open for business by October. Lindita would create the snacks and sandwiches — she was a great cook — and he would, by then, have done a barista course.

Last night Lindita had texted him back. She was sorry, she said. She had met someone back home and was not returning to England after all.

He looked at the text again, for the twentieth time or maybe the thirtieth, fighting back tears.

She finished it saying:

He had tried numerous times to reply but she had blocked him. He couldn’t believe it, nor accept it. He loved her so much; they had planned their whole life together. Sure, OK, she knew who he worked for and she had an idea of some of the things that involved; but he had always promised her this was only until he had got enough money together for the coffee house they dreamed of, and she had seemed to believe him.

He pulled her tiny photograph out of his wallet and stared at it. Her short brown hair slanting across her forehead. Her smile. Her green eyes staring at him, filled with warmth and trust.

Now she had found someone else. How, how could she? That hurt so much.

Earlier today he had confided in his friend and colleague, Valbone, with whom he shared the apartment above Mr Dervishi’s garages, and who was somewhere in the stadium now. But he didn’t get much sympathy. His fellow Albanian told him to man up, and that there were plenty more fish in the sea.

Dritan replied that he didn’t want fish. He wanted Lindita.

They’d had a big falling-out.

Now he was aware that he was dangerously distracted, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered any more. Nothing but getting away as quickly as he could, going to Kosovo and finding Lindita. Finding her and convincing her he had changed, totally, completely, utterly. She would believe him, wouldn’t she?

He looked at his watch. Less than two hours till kick-off.

Less than two hours to go. He tried to focus on his task, although there wasn’t really much to focus on. When the time came, all he had to do was drive.