January Window

2

The Crown of Thorns is the nickname local people have for the City football stadium at Silvertown Dock in London’s East End, although the phrase was first used by the sculptor Maggi Hambling, who was the artistic consultant to the building’s architects Bellew & Hammerstein. I like her work a lot and own a number of fantastic pictures she painted of the sea. Yes, the sea. They sound crap, I know, but if you saw them you’d see that they are really something special.

The stadium is not dissimilar in construction to the Bird’s Nest in Beijing, which was used for the 2008 Olympics, being two structures independent of each other: an orange concrete seating bowl (orange is the colour of the City home strip) and an outer steel frame which really does resembles a crown of thorns. It’s the most distinctive building in the whole of east London and cost five hundred million quid to build, so it’s just as well the club is owned by a Ukrainian billionaire who must shit money he’s got so much of it. According to Forbes magazine, Viktor Yevegenovich Sokolnikov is worth twenty billion dollars, which makes him the fiftieth richest man in the world. Don’t ask me how Mr Sokolnikov made his Matterhorn-sized pile of cash. Frankly I prefer to live in ignorance about that side of things. All I know is what Mr Sokolnikov told me: that his father worked in a factory that manufactured photographic film in a little Ukrainian town called Shostka, and that he got his first million trading coal and timber, which he then spent on some risky investments that paid off. And don’t ask me how he persuaded the FA and the Mayor of London to let him take over the debt on a quartet of old east London football clubs that had gone into administration so that he might relaunch them in the Second Division as London City, either. But money — shed-loads of the stuff — might have had something to do with it. Sokolnikov has spent a fortune regenerating Silvertown Dock and the Thames Gateway, and the football club — which achieved promotion to the Premier League after just five years — now employs more than four hundred people, not to mention the money it brings to a part of London where investment was once a dirty word. As well as the stadium, Sokolnikov has promised that his company, Shostka Solutions AG, will build the new Thames Gateway Bridge that was cancelled by Boris Johnson back in 2008 because it was too expensive; or at least he will when the Labour Party cunts on the planning inquiry wake up and smell the coffee he’s making. Right now the project is beset with objections.

When I got home from the hospital to my flat in Manresa Road, Chelsea, Sonja, my girlfriend, came straight to the door with large eyes and a small voice.

‘Matt’s here,’ she said.

‘Matt?’

‘Matt Drennan.’

‘Christ, what does he want?’

‘I’m not sure he knows himself,’ said Sonja. ‘He’s drunk and in a bit of a state, I think.’

‘That is a surprise.’

‘He’s been here for an hour, Scott. And I don’t mind telling you I’ve had a hell of a job keeping him away from the drinks tray.’

‘I’ll bet.’

I kissed her cool cheek and squeezed her backside simultaneously. I knew she didn’t like Drennan and I couldn’t blame her; she’d never known the Matt Drennan I’d once known.

‘Scott, you won’t let him stay here, will you? Not overnight, anyway. He scares me when he’s drunk.’

‘He’s harmless, angel.’

‘No, he’s not, Scott. He’s a one-man disaster zone.’

‘Leave it to me, love. You go and... do something else. You’ve done your bit. I’ll take care of him from here.’

Drennan was standing in the sitting room — but only just — staring at one of the Hamblings: a huge wave, reminiscent of a tsunami, that was about to crash on a Suffolk beach close to where the artist lived and worked. I went and stood beside my old team mate for a while and put my hand on his shoulder to steady him. In the short interval between Sonja leaving the room and me entering it, he’d helped himself to a glass of whisky from the tray and I was hoping to take it away from him if ever he put it down. His shirt was torn and none too clean and there was a large berry of encrusted blood on his earlobe where a diamond stud had once been.

‘That looks exactly how I feel,’ said Drennan.

His breath smelled like a wheelie bin for mixed glass.

‘You’re not going to throw up, are you, Matt? Because this is a new carpet.’

Drennan laughed. ‘Nah. I’d have to have eaten something to throw up,’ he said.

‘We could go and get a kebab if you like. And then I could drive you home.’

It had been a long time since I’d visited The Kebab Kid in Parsons Green; these days I was happier with sushi, but I was prepared to go there if it meant keeping Drenno happy.

‘Not hungry,’ he said.

‘What are you doing here? I thought you were spending New Year with Tiffany.’

Drennan regarded me blearily. ‘I came to ask how that French lad of yours was getting along. You know, the one who cracked his head? I went to the hospital but they threw me out because I’m shit-faced.’

‘I’m amazed they didn’t offer you a bed. Look at the state of you, Matt. Did someone else throw you out before that, or is the NHS really as bad as they say it is?’

‘I had a tiff with Tiff.’ It was something I’d heard him say before. But I had no idea that it had been much more than just a tiff; that Tiff was herself in the same hospital as Didier Cassell, and that this was very likely the real reason Matt Drennan had shown up at my flat.

‘She threw a bloody riding boot at me.’ He laughed again. ‘Just like Fergie. We could have used her in the dressing room at Highbury, eh? I tell you, Scott, that woman has a mouth on her like a fucking blowtorch. Not like that lassie of yours. Sandra, is it? She’s a peach. What is it she does again?’

‘She’s a psychiatrist, Matt. And it’s Sonja.’

‘Aye, that’s right. A shrink. I thought there was something familiar about the way she looked at me. Like I’m a fucking head case.’

‘You are a fucking head case, Matt. Everyone knows that.’

Drennan grinned and shook his head like the affable mutt he was — most of the time — and then rubbed his head furiously.

‘Has she thrown you out again?’

‘Aye. She has that. But we’ve been through worse, her and me. I expect it’ll be okay. She’ll chew my ear off and I’ll have to sleep in the garage.’

‘It looks as though she already did,’ I said. ‘Chew your ear. There’s blood on it. I can put something on that if you like. A plaster. A bit of antiseptic cream. A Sun photographer.’

‘S’awright. It’ll be fine. Tiff clouted me with a riding boot, that’s all.’

‘Normal then.’

‘Normal enough, aye.’

Overweight and balding, Matt Drennan cut a forlorn figure. Like me he was a Scot but there the similarity ended; well, almost. Looking at him now, it was hard for me to believe that it was fewer than ten years since we had both been members of the same Arsenal team. A broken leg had ended Drenno’s career at just twenty-nine, but not before he’d scored more than a hundred goals for the Gunners and made himself one of Highbury’s heroes. Even today he could show up at the Emirates and have the whole crowd cheering him just by walking onto the pitch. This was more than the bastards ever did for me. Even Spurs fans seemed to like him, which is saying something. Since he’d stopped playing football, however, his life had become a chapbook of very well-publicised fuck-ups: drink, depression, an addiction to cocaine and Nurofen, three months in the nick for drunk driving and six months for assaulting a police officer — I couldn’t hold that against him — a flirtation with Scientology, a short and ignominious career in Hollywood, bankruptcy, a betting scandal, a bitter divorce from his first wife and reportedly a failing second marriage; the last I’d heard of him he’d checked himself into the Priory Clinic, again, to try and get himself together. Not that anyone gave it a snowball in hell’s chance of success. It was well known that Matt Drennan had dried out more often than a Holiday Inn bath towel. For all those reasons, Drennan was the only footballer I’d ever met whose autobiography was a fascinating read, and that includes my own crappy book. He made Syd Barrett look like the Moderator of the Church of Scotland. But I loved him as if he’d been — well, not my sister, I don’t speak to her much these days, but someone important in my life.

‘So how is he? You didn’t say.’

‘Didier Cassell? Not good. Not good at all. He’s out for the rest of the season, that’s for sure. And right now I’d say you’ve got a better chance of playing again than he has.’

Drennan blinked as if considering this might be a real possibility.

‘Christ, I’d give anything to play a full season again.’

‘We all would, pal.’

‘Or just one FA Cup Final. A sunny day in May. “Abide with Me”. Us against a decent side like Tottenham or Liverpool. The whole Wembley thing. The way it used to be before the Premier League and foreigners and television turned the whole thing into a bloody sideshow.’

‘I know. That’s the way I feel about it, too.’

‘As a matter of fact, it’s my intention to make one last headline appearance at Wembley. And then call it a day.’

‘Sure, Matt, sure. You can lead the community singing.’

‘Seriously.’

Drennan lifted the Scotch to his lips but before it got there I tackled the glass neatly and carried it out of harm’s way.

‘Come on. The car’s just outside. I’d let you sleep here but you’d only drink all my booze and then I’d have to toss you out on your shell-like, so it’s best I take you home now. Better still, why don’t I just drive you straight to the Priory? We can be there in less than half an hour. Tell you what, I’ll even pay for your first week. A late Christmas present from your fellow Gooner.’

‘I might even go, too, but they don’t let you read in there and you know me and my books. I get so fucking bored if I don’t have something to read.’

As if in evidence of this statement he glanced down at a rolled-up paperback in the pocket of his jacket, as if checking it was still there.

‘Why do they do that? Not let you have books?’

‘The cunts think that if you read you won’t come out of your shell and talk about your fucking problems. As if that makes it better. I’m trying to get away from my problems, not crash into them head on. Besides, I have to go home, if only to get my diamond stud back. It fell out of my ear when Tiff belted me and the fucking dog thought it was a wee mint and swallowed it. He’s very fond of mints. So I locked the bastard in the garden shed to let nature take its course, you know? I just hope naebody’s let the thing out for a walk. That stud cost me six grand.’

I laughed. ‘And I thought I had all the shitty jobs at London City.’

‘Exactly.’ Drennan grinned and then burped loudly. ‘I like it,’ he said, pointing to the picture before glancing around the room and nodding his appreciation. ‘I like it all. Your place. Your girlfriend. You’ve done all right for yourself, you canny bastard. I envy you, Scott. But I’m glad for you, too. After everything that happened, you know?’

‘Come on, you stupid cunt. I’ll take you home.’

‘Nah,’ said Drennan. ‘I’ll walk up to the King’s Road and get a cab. With any luck the driver will recognise me and give me a free ride. That’s what usually happens.’

‘And that’s how you end up in the newspapers for getting yourself thrown out of another pub by the landlord.’ I took him by the arm. ‘I’m driving you, and that’s final.’

Drennan took his elbow out of my hand with fingers that were remarkably strong and shook his head. ‘You stay here with that nice wee lassie of yours. I’ll get a taxi.’

‘Straight home.’

‘I promise.’

‘At least let me come with you some of the way,’ I said.

I walked Drennan up to the King’s Road where I hailed him a cab. I paid the driver in advance and, when I was helping Drennan into the cab, I slipped a couple of hundred quid in his coat pocket. I was about to close the cab door when he turned and caught my hand and held it tightly. There were tears in his pale blue eyes.

‘Thanks, pal.’

‘For what?’

‘For being a pal, I guess. What else is there for people like you and me?’

‘You don’t have to thank me for that. You of all people, Matt.’

‘Thanks anyway.’

‘Now fuck off home before I go and get my violin.’

There was a man sitting on the pavement in front of the ATM. I gave him a twenty although frankly it would have been better if I’d given him the two hundred. The guy in front of the ATM was at least sober. Even as I’d put the money in Drenno’s pocket I’d known it was a mistake, just as I knew it was a mistake not to drive him home myself, but that’s how it is sometimes; you forget what it’s like dealing with drunks, how self-destructive they can be. Especially a drunk like Drenno.