False Nine

24

From the hotel we walked back to the villa in the dark, along a main road that was busy with cars and mosquito-like scooters. There was an evening market in the car park at Le Gosier and we paused for a while to inspect the local fish, exotic fruits and vegetables, jars of honey, fresh-baked bread, jars of spices, sweets and candy, meats — raw and cured — and bottles of rum. There were even a couple of hamburger vans serving food that actually smelt appetising. It was all very colourful and just a little bit puzzling.

‘Maybe we should just have dinner here,’ I said. ‘We certainly couldn’t do any worse.’

Grace pulled a face.

‘No, really,’ I insisted. ‘Some of the best meals I’ve ever had have been snatched at vans parked in front of English football stadiums.’

Ignoring the vans we walked on. The locals seemed friendly enough but we might easily have been somewhere in West Africa and it was hard to believe that we were in a part of the EU, although the prices were almost as high as if we’d been at a tourist market in provincial France. I wondered how the people of Guadeloupe — who looked as if they didn’t have much money — could afford anything at all. But we bought some things and walked on, hand in hand.

‘You know I’m going to need your help, Grace,’ I said. ‘The kid seems like a nervous wreck. There’s no telling what he’ll do. And if, when we go back to the house, Jérôme says he’s changed his mind about returning to Barcelona with me, I’m going to need you to help me persuade him that his father has a reasonable chance of acquittal.’

‘I know.’

‘So, are you with me?’

‘Let me tell you something about my cousin, Scott. I know you think he’s a bit of a wastrel. But I owe him everything.’

‘Is that a no?’

‘No. Not exactly. But you have to understand how much I owe him. It wasn’t just my university education he paid for. It was my apartment, too. And my offices. And my car. He also paid for his father’s apartment, in Antigua. And his car, too. And Jérôme will certainly be paying for John’s legal defence. That man we met this morning — the one on the sunlounger? He’s the former football coach at the local lycée here in Pointe-à-Pitre. Gerville-Réache. To which Jérôme also regularly gives money. The woman in the hairdresser’s? Jérôme sent her money when he found out that the earthquake had closed her business. He’s the most generous man I know. Without him a lot of people on this stupid island would have nothing.’

‘I appreciate that. And believe me, I think it’s good that he looks after his friends and family. But surely you can see that he needs to earn money. Without a big salary from PSG and FCB all that could come to an end. If the goose stops laying the golden eggs it’s not just bad for Jérôme Dumas, it’s bad for everyone.’

‘I understand that. But you see Jérôme and John, they weren’t always close. And now they are. Very close. Especially since Jay’s mother died. Since that happened they’re even closer. So it’s natural that he should be worried sick about all this.’

‘I’m a football man, Grace. I’m not a sports psychologist. My job is to represent the club and to make sure he understands the club’s position.’

‘Just as long as you understand mine.’

‘Oh, I do. But look, all he has to do is come back with me, have his medical and then explain why he went AWOL. He could even ask for some compassionate leave and return to Antigua for a while. If I endorse that request they’re bound to say yes. Because they’ll owe me big time for finding the kid.’

‘You really think they’d allow it?’

‘Why not? They’ve been very understanding of Messi while his whole life is being turned upside down by those bastards in the Spanish tax authorities. So I’m pretty sure they can extend a little of the same understanding to Jérôme Dumas and his father.’

‘All right. I’ll back you all the way. One thing’s for sure; he can’t stay here in Guadeloupe. Spending all day hunched on the PlayStation isn’t good for anyone. Least of all someone who’s depressed. He needs to be doing what he’s good at again, and that’s playing football.’

We reached the house which was almost as private from the street as it had been on the beach — just another door in a wall that led into a lushly planted garden. This time Charlotte, the housekeeper, admitted us, and in person. She was a large, smiling woman in her forties who said almost nothing, but it was clear that dinner had been prepared at home; something delicious was well under way in the kitchen. Grace and I looked at each other and breathed a sigh of relief. We were both famished.

‘Mr Dumas will be with you shortly,’ she said, showing us into the drawing room. She pointed at a bottle of expensive rosé chilling in a wine cooler next to some glasses. ‘Help yourself to some wine.’

I poured two glasses, sipped the excellent wine and then we went to inspect the beechwood bookshelves.

‘Who did he say owns this house?’ said Grace.

‘A French footballer. Gui-Jean-Baptiste Target.’

‘He seems to like reading about the game as much as he likes playing it,’ she said. ‘Nearly all of these books are about football.’

‘That would certainly explain the PlayStation 4.’

‘Oh my God. This one is by you. Foul Play.’ She took it back to the sofa and opened it. ‘Did you write this or did someone else do it for you?’

‘No, I wrote that myself. Which probably explains why it didn’t seem to sell very well. I should have got myself a ghost. Like Roddy Doyle or Phil Kerr. Kerr’s more expensive, I hear. But then he doesn’t look for a credit. The rumour is he’s done quite a few famous footballers. Probably because as ghosts go he’s more transparent than most.’

‘Mr Target bought it. And from the condition of the book I’d say he read it too. There are passages here that have been heavily underlined.’

‘Really? Such as?’

‘“Football has become the new Esperanto. A modern lingua franca in the true meaning of that phrase: it is a bridge language, a trade language which facilitates cultural exchange throughout the world. A friend who was in a remote part of Vietnam told me that in the two weeks he was there he got by with just two words: David Beckham. Everyone has heard of Becks. And everyone likes him. Just to mention his name is to create some kind of bond. So let’s forget Prince Andrew. It’s Goldenballs who should be given a job as Britain’s special representative for trade and investment; not to mention a knighthood and anything else that will show our appreciation for a man who is one of our best exports. Frankly, the royal family needs the lambent glow of Beckham receiving a knighthood more than the man needs this gewgaw himself. And isn’t it time Beckham was asked to join the FA’s board of directors? With all due respect to Heather Rabbatts — a non-executive director of the FA board — it’s not racial diversity that the existing board lacks, it’s bloody footballers. If I can borrow a phrase of the England rugby captain, Will Carling, speaking of the RFU commission, the FA are just fifty-seven old farts. If the England team is ever going to matter again we’re going to need footballers to make decisions about the English game. Because the national team is becoming increasingly irrelevant. If, with apologies to E.M. Forster, any football fan had to choose right now between not watching his country and not watching his club, it is more or less certain that he would have the good sense not to watch his country.”‘

I winced. ‘I’d forgotten that. Oh shit. I don’t think that’s going to help me when I face an FA disciplinary panel for bringing the game into disrepute with my tweet about Rafinha’s period. Do you?’

‘Probably not. Could be you’re going to need a lawyer there to do the talking for you.’

‘It sounds like it, doesn’t it?’

‘Unless you can persuade David Beckham to represent you.’

Grace turned several dozen pages, read some more and laughed.

‘What?’ I said.

‘This isn’t much better. “The game is truly egalitarian in that it has something that appeals to everyone. It is the last bastion of tribalism in an otherwise civilised world. As such it is a refuge from all politically correct thinking. Those who preach politeness, orthodoxy, toleration and the socially homogeneous can be safely ignored; witness the hostile reaction of Tottenham fans to the FA’s cloth-eared proposal to make using the phrase ‘Yid Army’ subject to legal sanction. Men and women feel safe within the world of football. It is an enclave from the self-righteous values of the BBC, the Guardian, the Labour Party, the fifty-seven farts and all the cares of the world and you try to breach its walls at your peril. Going to football is like saying ‘fuck off’ to all of the above. When you go to football you don’t need to give a shit about your country’s economic travails, bird flu, AIDS, gender equality, the war in Iraq, Afghanistan, the Troubles, Africa’s starving, Islamic terrorism, Islam, 9/11, the Palestinians — in fact you don’t need to think or care about anything very much except the game itself. Not only that but a football stadium is perhaps the last place in the world where a grown man or woman can behave exactly like a child without anyone really noticing or caring very much. It’s like fishing in the way it clears the mind of everything except catching a fish, with this important difference in these socially fractured times that we live in: when you go to football you are part of a family. A family that doesn’t ask questions about who or what you are because it’s the colour you wear that counts; it’s the scarf that matters, not what you say, or think, or do, and to hell with everything else.”’

Grace put the book aside for a moment.

‘How much did you say they can fine you?’ she asked.

‘That bad, huh?’

‘No, really how much?’

‘I’m not sure if there’s an upper limit, actually. I think the highest fine ever imposed was on Ashley Cole for calling the FA a bunch of twats on Twitter. True of course. But that cost him ninety thousand quid. No, wait. It was John Terry. Yes, of course. How could I forget? In 2012 he got fined £220,000 for calling Anton Ferdinand a fucking black cunt.’

‘Two hundred and twenty thousand — pounds?’

I nodded. ‘Frankly, I’ve been called a lot worse. And I’ve racially abused more than a few myself. It’s swings and roundabouts, really. I think it’s a complete nonsense that there’s language you’re forbidden to use on the pitch when half of the players in the Premier League can’t even speak fucking English. Who says what — it’s all bullshit. How is it even possible to police something like that when, for example, the Spanish word for the colour black is “negro”?’

‘It would take me almost five years to earn that kind of money.’

‘That’s ten days’ pay for John Terry. It’s lucky he didn’t bite Anton, as well.’

‘I don’t understand. How have you got away with this until now?’

‘I told you nobody read that book. It was remaindered almost immediately. Most of the copies are in my attic, I think. Nobody reads fucking books in England. Not any more. But put something on Twitter and this is something very different. They treat a tweet like it’s a letter from Emile fucking Zola.’

‘They will read your book now, don’t you think? The FA, I mean.’

‘You’re right. I’m going to need a brief to represent me, aren’t I? So. The job’s yours if you want it.’

‘Really? You’d fly me over for the hearing? To London?’

‘Why not? Just as long as I get to fuck you again, Grace. I ought to get something out of this hearing, don’t you think? Besides, it will look good me having a black brief.’ I grinned. ‘I always did like black lingerie.’

‘Scott, my dear, I think I’d better start thinking of your defence right now. Tonight. You’re going to need every word of mitigation I can find in the thesaurus.’