False Nine

26

I kissed Grace and then her fingers, still inky from the night before and smelling strongly of me. Taking advantage of our last chance for a fuck before I flew back to Spain, neither of us had had much sleep. Every time I’d opened my eyes I’d climbed on top of her bones.

‘I’m exhausted,’ she admitted. ‘You must be, too.’

‘I’ll sleep on the jet,’ I told her. ‘In fact I’m kind of banking on that. It’ll be a good way of escaping from Russell Bore’s half-baked theories about the future of global capitalism.’

‘He means well.’

‘So did Robespierre. Seriously though, how much influence do you have with your cousin? Because someone needs to tell him to button his lip for a while. Catalans are a generous-hearted people but they don’t much like it when people start telling them where to get off. There’s a good reason that Spain had a civil war.’

‘I’ll speak to him.’

‘Do. And while you’re at it tell him to lay off the hookers and the weed.’

‘Yes. I will. I must say the gun thing still worries me a bit.’

‘You can leave that to me.’

We left the hotel and went to the airport in Pointe-à-Pitre to get on the Diamond Star I’d chartered for a return flight to Antigua. It turned out that Guadeloupe’s airport had the best mobile signal on the island. As soon as we were there I started to receive texts and missed call messages. Most of them were from Jacint Grangel at Barcelona, Charles Rivel at PSG and Paolo Gentile, but there were one or two from Louise Considine, in London. To her I sent a text saying that I missed her and that I was looking forward to coming home: both of which were true. I’d already spoken to Jacint from the hotel, the night before.

It was a bumpy flight that had us both groaning like a couple of pensioners on Blackpool’s Big Dipper, and I was glad I’d hired a twin engine light aircraft; there’s something about having two engines instead of one that reassures me — even if they are propeller engines.

When Grace and I landed in the airport at St John’s and had recovered our nerves we said our goodbyes in the terminal.

‘I’ll see you in London,’ I told her.

She said nothing for a moment.

‘The FA? My disciplinary charge? Remember?’

‘No.’ Grace shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘What do you mean? I’m going to need your silver tongue, Grace. My own has a habit of getting me into trouble. That and my thumbs. But I’ve taken your advice and binned my Twitter account. I should have done it months ago. It’s been nothing but grief.’

‘Look,’ she said, ‘the last few days — they’ve been nice, very nice, but frankly I’m going to have my hands full preparing my uncle’s defence. In spite of what I told Jérôme back in Guadeloupe, there’s still a long way to go on this one. Any optimism you might have heard from me was calculated to help you get him back to Spain for his medical. Until the DPP says that this is a case of manslaughter he’s still facing a capital charge.’

‘Yes, I had wondered about that.’

‘Before you spoke to him last night you asked me to back you up and I did. Not because I was anxious to please you, Scott, but because I don’t see that anything’s helped by him staying here. So, let’s just agree that we had a great time and leave it at that, can we? Maybe you’ll come back here to Antigua and maybe you won’t. We’ll just wait and see, okay? For the record I hope you do. But I think I told you I wasn’t looking for anything serious right now. And I meant that. I might not have mentioned this before but I’m thinking about going into politics and I don’t want anyone on the island thinking that I’m not a serious person. Which it could easily look like if I go to London to defend something as trivial as your sexist tweet.’

I grinned. ‘Well, that’s telling me.’

‘Oh, but you’ll easily find a brief to look after you. Hire yourself a QC. There’s plenty of them doing not very much. Better still, hire Amal Clooney. I’m sure that this is just the sort of high-profile case she’s looking for. It seems to me strange that the English law I studied and learned to love has nothing better to do these days than pay attention to a long line of stupid people who are just waiting to be offended by someone’s else’s opinion. I used to think England was the home of free speech. Thomas Paine. The rights of man. Speaker’s Corner. Now I tend to think it’s just the home of wimps, wallies and witch-hunts.’

‘I can see you were made for politics,’ I said.

She was right, of course. I knew that. But as Everton ferried me back to the hotel I felt just a little sad that I wasn’t going to see Grace any time soon. I hadn’t told her — it wasn’t perhaps what she wanted to hear — but she was the first black woman I’d ever been with and I’d liked it; I’d liked it a lot. I don’t think there’s anything Oedipal about that but maybe, just maybe, I’d fallen for her in a way I hadn’t expected.

‘Did you find him, boss?’ said Everton. ‘Your missing footballer? Monsieur Dumas.’

‘I found him. He’s been hiding in a house on Guadeloupe.’

‘Hiding? From what? Or who?’

‘I think he probably had a nervous breakdown.’

I was trying out this explanation just to hear how it sounded. It sounded a lot better than saying Jérôme’s father killed someone. That never plays well.

‘I’m going back there this afternoon. I’ve returned to Jumby Bay to settle my bill and fetch my bags. Barca are sending a jet for us. To Pointe-à-Pitre.’

‘They must be pleased.’

In truth ‘pleased’ hardly covered it. Jacint Grangel had been ecstatic.

‘I knew you were the man to find him, Scott,’ he’d said when I called him from the hotel in Le Gosier the previous night. ‘This is fantastic news. And very timely. We have weeks to get him fit for el clásico. Oriel is going to be delighted. And Luis. As for Ahmed, well, he had his doubts that you could pull this off. I’m really going to enjoy watching him hand you a cheque for three million euros. But is he fit? Is he all right? And where the hell are you? I’ve called you several times.’

‘Just charter a private jet. And send it to Guadeloupe as soon as possible. There’s a company in England I use sometimes called PrivateFly. They’re pretty good. It’s a little complicated so if you don’t mind, Jacint, I’ll explain everything in an email.’

‘Sure. I can’t wait to read it. Will you please copy it to Paolo Gentile? I think he’s phoned me every day since you left Paris. Have I heard anything? What’s happening? Would I be sure to call him back the minute I had any news? He said you’d ignored all his texts. If it comes to that you’ve ignored mine as well.’

‘Mobile reception isn’t so good on Guadeloupe. Nor is the food. The food is lousy. As a matter of fact, nothing is very good. Except the weather, of course. No complaints about that.’

‘It’s better than here, I can assure you. It’s been cold in Barcelona. We’ve even had some snow in the mountains above Tibidabo.’

I was going to miss the weather, but probably not much else. I wasn’t looking forward to meeting the FA, but I was very much looking forward to getting back home to London and seeing Arsenal at home to London City — although that was going to be a difficult match for me to watch. Who was I going to support? The last time I’d seen the two in action against each other I’d favoured the Gooners, only because I’d once played for them and because I was still angry with Viktor Sokolnikov; but time had softened my anger, not to mention my principles. I missed the team. I missed them more than ever I could have admitted to almost anyone.

I tried to give Everton some more money but he wouldn’t take it.

‘You done give me enough already, boss.’

‘All right. But if you’re ever in London — to see Tottenham Hotspur — make sure to look me up. We’ll go together.’

‘For sure.’

At Jumby Bay there was already a message from Jacint saying that a Legacy 650 — a long-range jet — would collect us from Guadeloupe at seven o’ clock the following morning, Atlantic Standard Time. This meant I was going to have another night in the Caribbean whether I liked it or not. I would have preferred to have spent my last night at Jumby Bay, which is a beautiful hotel. But I didn’t want to risk leaving Jérôme on his own for too long; in spite of everything that had been talked about and agreed I still worried that he might go walkies again. Without his meds anything was possible. So I packed my bags and flew back to Pointe-à-Pitre in the Diamond Twin Star that had brought Grace and me to Antigua.

I paid little or no attention to the spectacular view you get in the back of this aircraft. I’d realised there was something about the Caribbean — anywhere in the Caribbean — that I didn’t like. Probably the fact that it’s so very far away from anywhere else. I used to be jealous of people who went there during the winter while I was stuck at home playing football, but actually I think I was better off. Going to the Caribbean every winter is a kind of curse. It made me feel a little bit like Napoleon exiled on St Helena.

At the airport I bought Brand’s book and tossed it into the back seat of the white Mercedes limo that was to ferry Jérôme and me back to the airport. Then it drove me to the house in Le Gosier. I was banking on staying the night there and not La Vieille Tour which, without Grace to keep me company, would have been too depressing. I told the driver to pick us up at five the next morning and then rang the doorbell.

Charlotte let me in the door just as the Queen Creole hairdresser I’d seen the previous day seemed to be leaving. Charlotte told me that le maître was in the front garden. A heap of Louis Vuitton luggage lay in the hall which I found reassuring. At least it looked like he was ready to leave. I tossed my own cheaper overnight bag on top of the pile and went to find Jérôme.

He was lying on a sunlounger with a pair of red Beats on his ears. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing the previous night, including the earrings and the watch. It was almost as though he hadn’t been to bed, and the minute I started speaking to him I knew something was wrong. It seemed that he’d developed a cold — a box of fresh tissues lay on a glass table by his arm, while under the sunlounger was a cloud formation of used ones — and, perhaps understandably, he seemed very morose. His hair was shorter and I concluded that the hairdresser must have come there to cut it but it didn’t seem worth mentioning.

‘Have you got a cold?’

He sniffed loudly and nodded back at me. ‘A cold. Yes. It came on this morning. I just hope a cold is all it is and not something else. Like flu.’

I tried not to wince; the Embraer Legacy 650 seats thirteen which, as private jets go, is a good size, but the cabin is still small — small enough for a sneeze to carry his cold germs to me. I’d had a flu jab in the UK but there are so many different strains of flu you’ve no way of telling if that covers you for whatever flu they get in a tropical climate like that of Guadeloupe.

‘That’s too bad,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think it will affect your medical. These days sports doctors know how to take that into account. They’re looking for something a bit more serious than a cough or a runny nose. Take a sleeping pill, get plenty of sleep on the plane and you’ll probably be fine.’

He nodded again.

‘Here, I got you a present from the shop at the airport.’

‘What is it?’ He eyed the paper bag suspiciously and then held out his hand.

‘The book.’

He looked blank.

‘Russell Brand’s magnum opus.’ I took it out of the bag and handed it to him.

He stared at the cut-price Karl Marx on the cover almost as if he’d never seen him before.

‘The one you asked for?’ I said.

‘Oh, right. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I’ll read it on the plane this evening, perhaps.’

He didn’t even open it; instead he just laid the book under the lounger on a bed of snotty tissues. It’s keeping the right company, I thought.

‘Which reminds me. The plane is going to be a little later than I said. We won’t be leaving until seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’ I glanced at the Hublot on my wrist — a present from Viktor Sokolnikov. I shrugged. ‘I thought I could stay here with you until then. I’d already checked out of that hotel when I found out about the plane.’

‘Sure. Be my guest. Tell Charlotte to pick out a room.’

‘All right. Thanks.’

‘How long does it take? To fly from Pointe-à-Pitre to Barcelona?’ His voice was rusty with cold.

‘Eight or nine hours, probably. Which gives you even more time to recover from whatever it is that you’ve got. So that’s good.’

He grunted and stood up, almost as if he wanted to get away from me.

I followed Jérôme onto the lawn, collected the football still lying there under my instep, toed it into the air, dropped it onto my knee, bounced it a couple of times, let it fall onto the grass and gently kicked it to him.

Without much enthusiasm he trapped the football with his right foot, tapped it off the laces on his pink shoe six or seven times, flicked it up into the air, nodded it twice, headed it back to me, and then turned away. Game over.

He retreated indoors and for a while I left him alone; I wondered if he was upset about having to leave Guadeloupe in order to fly back to Spain to face the music. And I had to remind myself that I was dealing with someone who was a depressive; whose mood swings made him seem unpredictable, not to say a pain in the arse. So slapping him was not an option. Besides, he was more muscular than I had realised earlier; his upper body made him seem as muscular as Cristiano Ronaldo, who has probably the best physique in the game today. I don’t doubt that he could have hit me as hard as I could hit him; maybe harder.

A little later on I went into the kitchen where Charlotte was polishing marble work surfaces and generally avoiding my eye.

‘Our plans have changed a little,’ I explained. ‘We’re leaving first thing in the morning. So, I’m going to need a bed. For tonight. It’s just one night.’

She nodded. ‘Just pick yourself out a room, sir. All of the beds are made up.’

‘Thanks. I will.’

I went out and put my overnight bag in the spare room with the painting of a pumpkin by Yayoi Kusama, very like the one Dumas had at his apartment in Paris. Then I went back to the kitchen. I’d seen a Krups bean-to-cup coffee machine and was now intent of making myself a cup. I did, and it tasted delicious.

‘Is this coffee local?’ I asked Charlotte who was still there. ‘It’s fantastic. I noticed it last night after dinner. This stuff makes the coffee in the hotel taste like mud.’

She nodded. ‘That’s Bonifieur you’re drinking,’ she said. ‘It’s the local coffee here in Guadeloupe. Bonifieur is the ancestor of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, and very rare. Very expensive, too. That is, anywhere else except this island. Here, I’ll make you some more.’

‘Bonifieur,’ I said. ‘I never realised. I wonder if it’s too late to go and buy some beans.’

‘There’s no need, sir. I’ll give you a bag before you leave. We’ve got lots of it.’

Charlotte made a pot of coffee, put it on a tray with a cup and a jug of hot milk and I carried it through into the drawing room where I sat on the sofa, turned on the TV, hunted down a sports channel and started to watch some golf while I savoured what I was drinking. I loved watching golf more than I enjoyed playing it. I especially like those plush American courses like Augusta where even the fairways look like they’ve been upholstered with green velvet.

After a while I noticed Jérôme standing on the level above.

‘At last,’ I said. ‘I’ve found something I really like about Guadeloupe. The coffee. It’s Bonifieur. Fantastic. You want some? I’ll fetch a cup.’

‘I don’t like coffee very much,’ said Jérôme.

‘Me, I love it. Coffee’s my thing, you know? I mean, after football.’

‘I prefer fruit juice.’

‘You should watch that. A lot of fruit juice, it’s just sugar. People think it’s good for them and it’s not.’

‘Okay.’

‘You know, I think it’s really good the way you support people on this island. The local school’s football team. Grace told me that you even sent money to that hairdresser who was here earlier.’

Jérôme sneered. ‘Yeah, I’m a real saint, aren’t I? Everyone loves me. But I’m not such a great guy, you know. I can be difficult. A selfish prick, you know? In fact, there are times when I fucking hate myself.’

He was off his meds all right; his mood seemed to be the exact opposite of the one I’d seen last night.

‘I think we all get like that sometimes.’

‘Maybe.’

I finished the cup I was drinking and went up to join him on the upper level.

‘You and Gui must be great friends if he’s prepared to lend you this lovely house.’

‘He’s all right, I guess.’

‘You know him from Monaco, you said.’

‘Yes.

‘I don’t recall seeing him play. Is he good?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with his taste anyway.’

Jérôme shrugged moodily.

‘That Spanish teacher I was telling you about last night,’ I said. ‘The one who taught me? I found her address. I’ll text it to you.’

He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘And I was thinking. You know what would really make them love you in Barcelona? If you took the trouble to learn just a few words of Catalan, for the press conference. I don’t speak much Catalan myself. But I can give you a few words. For example, you could say something like Estic encantat de ser aquí, and Tinc moltes ganes de jugar per al miller equip del món. You can learn it like a parrot. If you can say all that I just said then I swear they’ll think you’re the next Messi.’

‘You think so?’

‘Sure. They love people who make an effort to speak a bit of Catalan. It’s important to them. Part of their national identity.’

Jérôme looked doubtful. ‘Whatever you say, Mr Manson.’

‘Scott. Call me Scott. I can see I caught you at a difficult time.’

‘Meaning what exactly?’

‘You’re in a mood.’

‘I’ve a cold.’

‘No, it’s a little more than that.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Are you angry with me, Jérôme? Did Grace say something, perhaps?’

‘Like what?’

‘About me? About us?’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know.’ For her sake I thought it best not to mention that she and I had been intimate. ‘It’s just a pity she’s not here now. To help reassure you that everything is going to be all right.’

‘Look, I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all. I’ll be glad when all this is over.’

‘Sure.’

Jérôme went into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. By now I was quite sure he was avoiding me. The previous evening I’d gained the strong impression that he liked me. But now I had the impression that he couldn’t bear to have me around.

I went into the room I’d chosen for myself. Something was wrong, all right. But I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. And then, seeing the painting of a pumpkin by Yayoi Kusama, I had an idea. On closer inspection it turned out to be just a print. I lifted the frame off the wall for a moment and then replaced it carefully.

I went back downstairs and poured myself some more coffee. The sports channels were all in French but finally I found a football match — Chelsea versus Burnley, which is a very different experience when you have a French commentator who almost manages to make Burnley sound like it’s somewhere exotic.

A few hours later I heard Jérôme moving around upstairs and went to find him.

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ I told him.

‘Oh?’

I pointed through the door of the room I’d picked out for myself.

‘This picture,’ I said, pointing at the Yayoi Kusama. ‘It’s a copy of the one that’s in your apartment in Paris, isn’t it?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It might be. I have an art advisor who buys all my pictures. As investments mainly. To be honest I know nothing about art.’

‘It’s the same one,’ I said firmly.

‘If you say so.’

And then he walked out again.

By now I knew there was something strange happening in that house. The picture was upside down. I knew this because it was me who’d hung it like that.

And if that had been the only strange thing about Jérôme Dumas I might have excused his behaviour. Quite apart from his offhand manner there were a number of things I’d noticed about him which didn’t seem quite right. For a start there was the way he had favoured his right foot when playing keepy-uppy earlier; I knew Jérôme was famously left-footed. Then there was his declared dislike of coffee when after dinner the previous evening I’d seen him drinking several cups. And after all his declared interest in Russell Brand, why hadn’t he been a little more pleased to receive a copy of his book — a book which he’d told me himself he was very keen to look at? And what had happened to the ink stain on his fingers? The same ink had still been on Grace’s forefinger at the airport in Antigua when I’d said goodbye to her that morning.

I stood up, turned the picture the right way up and lay down on the bed to think. After a while I got up and went into the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror, almost as if hoping the guy looking back at me might say exactly what was wrong. He said nothing helpful; and yet it was almost as if he could have told me the answer. As if I was actually already in possession of the solution to the mystery which was confounding me.

‘Why is Jérôme Dumas behaving strangely?’ I asked the person in the mirror.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Scott Manson. ‘Perhaps it’s just that he’s a cunt.’

‘But you do admit that there’s something peculiar here?’ I said.

‘Yes. Very definitely. But look, all of this strange behaviour can be easily explained, surely. You’ve said it before. He’s off his meds.’

‘That only explains the observable behaviour, not the physical details. For example, did you ever know a lefty who instinctively played the ball with his right?’

‘No,’ said Scott. ‘But lots of lefties are good with both feet.’

‘That’s not what I’m asking,’ I said. ‘I passed him the ball when he wasn’t expecting it and without thinking about it, he trapped the ball with his right. That’s reaction. Not choice.’

‘All right. I’ll concede that.’

‘What about the picture?’

‘The picture? I think that’s weird, yes. But I don’t know that you can infer anything from that. Perhaps he just didn’t notice the picture was upside down? Perhaps he’s just a philistine.’

‘If it was any old painting, I’d agree. But even a print by Yayoi Kusama costs a lot of money. The one in his apartment must have cost at least a million dollars. I know because I checked it out when I was in Paris. But he didn’t turn a hair when he was looking at it the wrong way round.’

‘He’s got a cold,’ said Scott. ‘So, he’s not seeing straight. I’ve had a cold and I didn’t know what day it was.’

‘You’ve never had a cold that meant you didn’t know what day it was. You’re exaggerating.’

‘Yes, but to make a point.’

‘What about the inky finger?’

‘He washed his hands.’

‘Grace washed her hands. Since last night I estimate she washed her hands at least three or four times. And the ink was still on her fingers this morning.’

‘So, maybe he’s just the fastidious type.’

‘In which case why is he wearing the same clothes he wore last night? I can still see the traces of the ink on his jeans from when he wiped his hand on them. That’s not very fastidious.’

‘Good point. The book by Russell Brand can be easily explained. It’s just a fucking book you gave him. Not a big deal. Besides, he’s ill-mannered. You already know that about him.’

‘And not liking coffee?’

‘Perhaps he was drinking coffee last night for a reason. To be sociable. To stay awake for some reason. I’ve met people who drink coffee who aren’t as crazy about it as you are.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Of course, anyone overhearing this little chat with yourself would conclude that there’s nothing wrong with him. That you’re the one who’s fucking crazy. A schizophrenic.’

‘True. All right. We’ve got until seven o’clock tomorrow morning to figure this out, all right? After that we’ll be on the plane back to Barcelona. And it will be too late.’

‘Mmm hmm. How many engines does this plane have anyway?’

‘It’s twin-engined.’

‘Would you call yourself a nervous passenger?’

‘Yes, Scott. I would.’

‘Then maybe he is, too. Did you think of that, Sherlock? Maybe he doesn’t like to fly any more than you do.’

‘I never thought of that. But still, it would only explain the moody behaviour. Not the details. And aren’t you forgetting something? When I was giving him a couple of Catalan phrases? I never suggested a Spanish teacher to him last night. Nor before. That was just bullshit. A bluff. To see what he’d say.’

‘You’re a suspicious fucker, Manson. Do you know that?’

‘Yes. I am. Let me know if you think of anything, okay?’

‘You know where to find me. I’ll be right here whenever you need me, pal.’

I went back into the bedroom and lay down. I hadn’t slept much the night before and so I closed my eyes and, for some surreal, peculiar reason I started to dream of Manchester United and a League Cup game they’d played against Barnsley back in 2009.

The way you do sometimes.