Striker Boy Kicks Out (10 page)

“Me!” stated the gaffer.

“Yes, boss,” said Emi, as he and Nat stood.

“Good,” said Fox with satisfaction. “Now get some sleep and you'll be fresh for the morning. “

Nat phoned Inés to tell her he was going to get a cab back.

“You don't need to,” she replied. “It's part of the deal. The club are paying me to have you as my guest, remember? Let me come and get you.”

“I'm fine, honestly. There are plenty of cabs outside.”

“OK, if you're sure.”

Nat and Emi went outside to get taxis. Their hosts lived in opposite directions, so Emi got into one cab and Nat climbed into another. In faltering Spanish he had to give the driver Inés's address three times before the man understood him. The taxi had only just set off when his mobile rang.

“Hi Dad.”

“How was training today?”

“It was much better than yesterday.”

“That's great. You all set for tomorrow night?”

“I don't know if I'll get on.”

“You're bound to feature at some stage.”

“Ian Fox never reveals what he's thinking. I might not even get on the subs bench.”

“Don't be mad! Think of what you did against Man United.”

“I think he's forgotten that now.”

“Well, whatever happens, don't forget how you got there – by sheer hard work and determination.”

“And some major lying,” quipped Nat.

“OK,” laughed Dave, “that as well. One of the lads at work has hundreds of cable channels and he says that one of them is showing tomorrow's match.”

“Nice one.”

“Where are you now?”

“I'm in a cab on my way back to the villa.”

“Good move. Hope tomorrow turns out well.”

“Cheers Dad, catch you later.”

The taxi driver took a slightly circuitous route, but Nat wasn't prepared to try and have an argument in his weak Spanish so he just paid the fare.

As he walked towards the villa, he passed the window of José's room. The curtains were open and Nat spied José sitting on his bed with a look of intense concentration on his face. At first Nat assumed he was reading a magazine or a newspaper but when he edged a bit closer he saw that he was counting some bank notes. And this wasn't a small pocket-money type pile. This was a huge wad.

Nat frowned and hurried on, making sure that José hadn't spotted him. Where on earth did José get that kind of cash? He didn't have a job at the minute and it certainly wouldn't be Inés's money – she'd said she didn't earn that much from teaching and that they just about got by on her salary and a small pension left by her husband.

Nat stepped inside, mulling this over. Could someone have lent it to him? Or maybe he'd just sold something valuable on eBay or another trading site? But what? And did Inés know about this money?

Nat got changed for bed, still thinking about these questions. As he closed his eyes, his mind switched from José's money to tomorrow night's Celtic game. He now understood why some players were so reluctant to retire. There was something so incredible about being part of a set-up at a club like Hatton Rangers. All of the players battled for each other – it was an amazing camaraderie and one you'd do very well to ever better. He closed his eyes and pictured the El Mar Stadium, the pitch bathed in rays of floodlight as it had been on Sunday night for the Lazio v Celtic game.

Come on, Fox – give me a chance out there!

Ray Swinton handed over the money to his waiter and left the restaurant. He'd only arrived in Talorca three hours before, but after checking in at his hotel (which was a five minute walk from the one the Hatton Rangers players were staying in) he'd already interviewed the Talorca manager, written up a match preview of the Hatton Rangers v Celtic game and emailed it to his editor, and placed a couple of bets on the game. He'd also enjoyed a good meal and a glass of decent Spanish wine.

Hatton Rangers had always been Swinton's team – he'd followed them as a kid, and as a journalist on the
Sunday Crest,
he reported on pretty much every game and going-on at the club, as well as covering quite a few other Premier League teams. He'd avidly followed each twist and swerve of last season's nail-biting campaign, culminating in Nat Dixon's glorious last-gasp winner against Manchester United. Nat Dixon had given Swinton an exclusive on the Chris Webb match-fixing
story, which had added thousands of sales to the
Crest
and had garnered Swinton some praise from the paper's editor Hugh Asquith.

The Dixon lad fascinated Swinton. Not only because of his part in thwarting Webb's ugly dealings or because of his amazing pace, excellent passing and thunderous shot. No, Swinton had also received an anonymous tip-off from Brazil that Dixon was younger than the sixteen years both he and his club claimed him to be. Swinton would have gone with this story if it hadn't been for Dixon delivering him the Webb scoop. He'd promised Nat that he'd go nowhere near this ‘age' story again, but if he ever got solid proof that it was true, he'd be more than tempted to have another look at it. After all, how often did you get an underage player plying their trade in the Premier League?

Swinton arrived back at his hotel and took the lift to the fourth floor in excellent spirits. He was looking forward to catching a late-night Spanish football show on TV and having a nightcap from the minibar. He was out here in Spain at his newspaper's expense. Life could taste sweet.

So he was totally taken aback when he found two Spanish policemen outside room 112 – his room. One of them said something to him in Spanish.

“Er . . . I'm sorry,” replied Swinton. “Do you speak English?”

The first policeman looked blank, but the second
one stepped forward. “Is this your room?” he asked in heavily-accented English.

Swinton nodded.

“Unfortunately your room and the two rooms on either side of it have been broken into,” explained the policeman. “We have someone inside at the moment looking for fingerprints.”

“I don't believe it!” exclaimed Swinton, “I've only been in the country for a few hours.”

“I'm sorry, sir. We got a call from the manager twenty minutes ago. The doors had been forced. We came here immediately.”

Before Swinton could reply, a man emerged from his room, holding a small case and shaking his head – there were no fingerprints. He spoke to both officers then headed off down the corridor.

“You may go into your room now,” said the English-speaking officer. “The hotel will fix your door. When you have had a look around we will need to ask you about what has been taken.”

“Fine,” said Swinton, walking past them and entering his room.

It was in a state. The cupboards and the writing desk had been turned out, the bedding was on the floor and his duty free bag had been emptied, with several bottles of spirits now missing. Luckily Swinton had had his wallet and passport with him. It could have been much worse.

And then a thought struck him. He span round and
looked at the bedside table. He'd placed three of his most treasured and precious possessions on there – his irreplaceable notebooks. He felt a bolt of shock in his chest when he saw to his dismay that they were no longer there. This was far worse than a few missing bottles of vodka. This was serious. It had big implications, not just for him, but for other people as well. And one of those people was Nat Dixon.

At breakfast Inés was quiet. She read the papers and kept sipping from a small cup of coffee. José wasn't around. Nat had some toast and orange juice. After a while Inés folded the newspaper and put it down on the table.

“There's something I want to tell you,” she said.

Nat looked at her expectantly.

“It's about José.”

Nat looked back towards the door, expecting José to be hovering there.

“Don't worry,” said Inés, “he's gone to Almería this morning – chasing some kind of lead about a possible job with an architect's firm. He really is trying.”

Nat pursed his lips, waiting for her to cut to the chase.

Inés sighed. “It's about him storming out yesterday. I should try and explain.”

“You don't need to,” said Nat.

“I know, but I want to.”

“OK,” replied Nat.

“You know I told you about my husband's crash?”

Nat nodded.

“Well José was involved in the crash too.”

Nat's eyes widened.
They were on that motorbike together!

“They crashed into a tree. My husband took the full force of the impact. José was thrown onto the road.”

“Did he get hurt?”

“Oh yes,” nodded Inés sadly. “He was heavily concussed and broke several bones in his right leg and ankle. He was in hospital for a couple of weeks.”

“But he recovered?”

“Yes, but unfortunately it put paid to his playing career.”

Nat raised an eyebrow.
His playing career?

“José was on course to become a professional player, Nat, just like you. He'd been with Talorca FC youth teams since the age of eight. The injuries he sustained on his leg and ankle meant he would never play again.”

Nat took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. “I can't believe it,” he said.

“I know, it's a tragedy,” sighed Inés. “He was a very promising player – a midfielder. Everyone at Talorca rated him very highly. But then the crash happened and that was all extinguished in one breath. That's why he's gloomy a lot of the time and why he feels so negative about Talorca. He's just very crushed inside. It will take him many years to come to terms with it.”

They sat in silence, Nat trying to absorb this new and shocking information.

“It must be hard for José having me stay here,” mused Nat. “I mean, I'm a professional player staying in his house. You must have thought about that when you agreed to have me to stay.”

“Of course I did,” replied Inés, “but when I mentioned it to José he said it was a good idea.”

“Really?” exclaimed Nat with surprise.

“He seemed very keen. I don't know, maybe it's some kind of test for him – if he could deal with having a footballer to stay, he could further get to grips with the accident and the fact that his career was ruined by it.”

Nat mulled this over. He knew that if the tables were turned and he was the one whose career was over, he'd never in a million years want a player staying at his house. It would be too painful. Maybe Inés was right, though, maybe José wanted to test himself.

“Anyway,” said Inés, “now I've told you and I'm glad that I did. I just wanted to let you know about José's sensitivity with regard to Talorca FC.”

“Thanks for telling me,” replied Nat, pleased that she'd confided in him.

“We'll set out for El Mar in a couple of minutes, OK?” said Inés.

“That's great,” replied Nat.

He headed off to his room to collect his things. The door to José's room was open a fraction. Nat peered
round it, half expecting the huge wad of cash José had been handling to be on his bed or desk, but there was no money anywhere, save for a couple of coins on the floor.