Striker Boy Kicks Out (14 page)

“Er . . . yeah . . . OK, I suppose” he nodded uncertainly.

“Alright, let's do it,” said Emi.

“Great!” beamed Aldershot. “We'll go to the radio station by taxi. Apparently it's only fifteen minutes away.”

“When do they want us?” asked Emi.

She checked her watch. “We should leave in half an hour,” she replied.

So thirty minutes later, the three of them set off for the radio station, having got the hotel to call a cab. Aldershot sat in the front, Nat and Emi in the back.

“You are footballers?” grinned the driver, looking at Nat and Emi in his rear-view mirror.

They nodded.

“I like Liverpool,” he informed them. “Beautiful team, yes?”

“Beautiful,” replied Emi, “but not quite as good as us!”

“Your team are OK,” said the driver. “Henton Rangers, yes?”

“Hatton Rangers,” corrected Aldershot.

It wasn't long before they pulled up in front of a tall, white building, set back from the road and surrounded by a high red brick wall. Aldershot paid the driver, rang the intercom on the front wall and they were buzzed in.

The reception area was all glass and chrome. A man with a bleached Mohican sitting behind a desk made a phone call, and a tall, spindly woman holding a clipboard
appeared and asked them to follow her. They walked up a flight of stairs, through the open-plan production area and into a waiting room. They were left there for a few minutes, during which Nat and Emi talked about the next night's Lazio match, with Aldershot dropping her own thoughts into the conversation. She knew more about Lazio than either of them did, so they listened to her description of the keeper Paulo Calari's habit of diving to his left at penalties.

Suddenly the door was flung open and a huge, pot-bellied man with a massive beard and long hair swept into the room. He was wearing a very loud yellow and gold t-shirt and black shorts, with a huge gold medallion round his neck. He was followed in by the wafer-thin woman and a boy who looked no older than ten.

“Hi guys, I'm Paul Rodriguez – the main man of Spanish radio!” he cried flamboyantly. “It's great of you to visit our humble abode!” He waved his arms around, nearly knocking the thin woman over.

He exchanged hearty handshakes with Nat, Emi and Helen.

“This is Claudia, who works as my assistant, and this guy is Marco – my producer,” explained Rodriguez.

Nat stared at the ten-year-old-looking man with amazement.

“Claudia's and Marco's English isn't what you'd call first class,” chuckled Rodriguez, “so I'll tell you all you need to know. The show goes on air in fifteen minutes
and you're our first guests. You'll be on about ten minutes into the show. We'll keep you in the studio for about twenty minutes and then let you out, OK?”

Nat and Emi nodded.

“How are you finding Andalusia?” enquired Rodriguez, taking a giant pear out of his shorts pocket and sinking his teeth into it.

“It's great,” replied Emi.

“Very friendly,” added Nat.

“You haven't heard me on air yet, have you?” enquired Rodriguez hopefully.

Nat and Emi exchanged a glance.

“Only joking, guys! Make yourselves comfortable and I'll see you in a while.”

He exited the room with Claudia and Marco in his wake.

“Wow,” said Helen, “he's a bit of a character, isn't he?”

“You could say that,” murmured Nat. He was starting to regret agreeing to do the interview. What if Rodriguez started asking questions about Stan Evans discovering him in the States? What if he made some comment about Nat looking too young to play professional football? He could really do without that.

Five minutes later, Claudia came back into the room, smiled awkwardly and motioned for the three of them to follow her. They headed down a corridor and waited outside a door, above which stood a bright red light. When the light went off, Claudia led them inside into
the studio. She showed them each to a place around a horseshoe-shaped table covered in green baize, with five microphones on stands. She pointed to headphones on the table and they each put a pair on.

Through a large window they could see Rodriguez and Marco, both wearing headphones, waving encouragingly at them. The red light positioned in the middle of the table stayed off for a further few seconds and then lit up. The show was live on air again. Through the headphones Nat heard Paul talking fast in Spanish, but a few seconds later, the DJ switched to English, alternating with a Spanish translation.

“Emi Adeyo and Nat Dixon are footballers from the English Premier League side Hatton Rangers, and guess what? They're here in my studio right now! How about that! I issue you both the warmest welcome to Spain, gentlemen! You're here for the six-team tournament hosted by our beloved local team – Talorca FC. How are you finding our little corner of this great nation?”

Rodriguez quickly translated into Spanish.

“So far, so good,” replied Emi.

“Good facilities, great organisation,” Nat chipped in.

“Tell us what it's like to play in the English Premier League,” said Rodriguez. “We see loads of games on TV and we LOVE IT!”

“It's very competitive,” answered Nat.

“We have plenty of Spanish players based in England,” cut in Rogriguez. “It often takes them a few months
to acclimatise to the English style of playing.”

“That's right,” nodded Emi. “Your teams out here
can
play very fast, but they sweep the ball around in a much more relaxed way. There's more time on the ball. Back home it's receive, control and pass.”

“You beat Celtic one-nil last night – a quite magnificent victory, with your Brazilian star Adilson scoring the winning goal. How are you feeling about tomorrow night's Lazio game? Will they be tougher opponents than Celtic?”

“No disrespect to Celtic, but I think Lazio will be a harder game,” responded Emi. “They have some excellent players and they're very experienced at playing European games. We'll have to be on top form to get something out of the match.”

“Nat, we read something about you and the ex-Hatton Rangers goalkeeper Chris Webb. He was involved in a match-fixing scam that you helped stop. Can you tell us exactly what happened?”

Helen Aldershot shook her head forcefully.

“Er . . . I can't say anything about it,” answered Nat. “There's a court case to come.”

“OK,” nodded Rodriguez. “We're going to a break, but stay tuned because these two great players are going to be hanging around for a bit longer and we have a beautiful surprise lined up for them!”

The red light went off while a Spanish car advert played.

“What's the surprise?” asked Aldershot nervously into Emi's microphone.

“Don't worry,” grinned Rodriguez from the other side of the glass, “it'll be fun.”

Aldershot looked anxiously at Nat and Emi. “Any ideas?” she whispered.

They both shrugged their shoulders.

Next up was an advert for a fizzy orange drink, followed by one for a bank. During the bank advert the studio door was pushed open by Claudia and in stepped . . . Alberto Tieras.

Nat, Emi and Helen Aldershot looked up at the giant Talorca defender in shock. He really was massive – six foot five, with a huge, puffed out chest, straggly, light brown hair and two sneering eyes sunk deep into his face. Before they could say anything, he slipped into a chair on the opposite side of the studio table and pulled on a pair of headphones. A second later the red light flashed on.

“OK, boys and girls!” crowed Rodriguez. “We have something very special now for you. Alongside our friends from the English Premier League, we have our very own Talorca legend and club captain, Mr Alberto Tieras.”

There was whooping from the control room and Rodriguez held a quick chat in Spanish with Tieras before switching back to English.

“So, Alberto, what do you have to say to our English buddies?”

“I wish them luck in their match against Lazio tomorrow night,” replied Tieras slowly in English.

“Will you be giving them the same message if they win their group, Talorca win theirs and your two teams meet in the final?”

“No!” laughed Tieras. “If the final is them against us, then they become our enemies.”

Helen Aldershot frowned.

“We don't really see it like that,” said Emi quickly.

“That does not surprise me,” laughed Tieras. “In England players are treated like princesses. Things are different here. We are treated like men so we behave like men. We fight when we need too.”

Nat quickly glanced at his companions. Helen Aldershot was sitting with her mouth open so wide it looked like a basketball could fit inside it. Emi was shaking his head and looking angry.

“We see it as a game, not a war,” said Nat testily.

“Say what you want,” sneered Tieras with contempt. “Talorca are the only real team in this battle . . . in this war. We won't be giving respect to an English team that finished . . . where was it. . .? Seventeenth out of a league of twenty!”

“Hang on a second,” cut in Emi, glaring at the Talorca captain. “We're not here for a war! We're here for a friendly tournament, hosted by your club!”

“Rubbish!” cried Tieras. “Every football match is a war. You should take that to heart. It might help you
next season. Maybe you could finish sixteenth! How about that?”

“That's it!” snapped Emi, standing up, throwing his headphones onto the table and storming towards the door. Nat and Aldershot quickly got to their feet and followed him. Tieras roared with gleeful laughter.

“Hang on a second!” cried Rodriguez stepping out of the control room. “It was only a bit of fun!”

“You set us up!” shouted Emi.

“You're totally out of order!” added Nat.

“Guys, come on!” pleaded Rodriguez. “Don't take it like that!”

But they brushed past him and took the stairs at a pace. Marching back out into the sun, Aldershot flagged down a taxi. She looked very pale and distressed.

“I am SO sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I had no idea anything like that would happen.”

“It's not your fault,” replied Emi. “They obviously had the whole thing planned – you know, let's wind up those lightweight English visitors!”

“Tieras is just a macho idiot,” said Nat angrily. “Most Spanish fans are nothing like that. They love the Premier League and respect the players.”

“Absolutely!” nodded Aldershot. “He was well out of line.”

“And he clearly doesn't watch any of our games,” added Emi. “I'd love to know what the Wildman would think of his outburst.”

“Look,” said Nat with a deep sigh. “Let's just get back to the hotel and chill. It's only some small radio station – chances are no one heard it.”

But as they flagged down another taxi, all three of them felt hot, flustered and very angry.

Carlos and Rudy pulled up in front of the newly-built office block, its white stone walls glistening in the sun. Carlos was wearing a blue baseball cap, dark sunglasses and a suit. The photo accompanying the story about his prison escape in the paper was old and grainy, but he wanted to be absolutely sure that no one recognised him. Rudy was also wearing a suit, but his sunglasses were resting on top of his head. The man from the property management company was standing by the front door of the complex. He was wearing a pinstriped suit and narrow glasses and was on his mobile. The minute he saw Carlos and Rudy, he ended his call and walked over to greet them.

“Vladimir Daskov,” he declared, by way of introduction. In spite of his Russian roots, his Spanish was perfect and almost accent-free. “You said on the phone you're interested in renting out one of the spaces here?”

“Yes,” nodded Carlos, shaking Daskov's hand. “We've heard that the entire place is still unoccupied?”

“At present, yes,” nodded Daskov, swiping a card on a
panel by the front entrance. The door opened inwards and they followed him through. “We've had plenty of interest, though. It's a prime location with excellent local amenities and is proving to be very popular. I would strongly suggest that, if you're interested, you put down a deposit today.”

Carlos and Rudy ignored this opening salvo of sales patter and followed Daskov to the third and top floor.

“Each floor has four units,” Daskov announced, turning two keys in the last door on their left and pushing it open.

The three of them stepped into a small entranceway, which opened out to a large, empty square. At the far side were two large windows. There was a door on the far right.

“When do you envisage other tenants arriving?” asked Carlos casually.

“I can't give you an exact date,” replied Daskov, “but as I said, it's popular and I'm showing several units to other interested parties over the next few days. Obviously, if you put down a deposit for this one, it's yours and I won't show it to anyone else.”