Close Range (7 page)

‘Mum!’ Jake protested. ‘Don’t be so old-fashioned. They’re not all like George Best these days. You can meet them after practice, if you want.’

He checked the clock on the dashboard: ten-thirty. Training was due to start at eleven. If it wasn’t his mum driving, he might be worried about being late.

‘I’ve had about as much football as I can take, thanks,’ she said. ‘Watching your dad get muddy for ten years was enough.’ She turned into the stadium approach road. ‘Anyway, I’ll have plenty to concentrate on sorting out –’

Something hit the windscreen. His mum screamed and screeched the brakes, and Jake’s stomach lurched. He saw pieces of shell and egg yolk drip down the glass.

‘Oh my God!’ his mum gasped.

Another egg splattered on the bonnet, and he heard shouts. At his door, he saw an angry face and a hand slammed on the window.

‘What’s the hell’s going on?’ he asked.

His mum flicked on the central locking. ‘Granble warned me about this,’ she said.

A crowd of people gathered around the car, wearing matching T-shirts with the slogan:
No to blood diamonds!
One carried a placard saying:
Granble hates South Africa.

A woman stepped right in front of the car and pointed at them. She shouted something that Jake didn’t understand and those around her took up the chant.

Jake was torn. He half wanted to get out of the car and fight them off, but they looked ready to turn nasty. Jake’s mum beeped her horn in frustration, but a woman stepped forwards and kicked the car.

‘Damn!’ his mum exclaimed. ‘Haven’t they got anything better to do?’

‘We need to get out of here,’ Jake said, looking at all the furious faces.

‘I know, Jake, but –’

There was a massive crash in the back of the car, and Jake instinctively bent over as splinters of glass showered over them. He twisted round to see that a jagged wooden block had been driven through the rear window, splintering glass on the seats.

‘Mum! Are you OK?’

She was pale with shock, with glass in her hair, but she nodded.

‘I think so.’

Uniformed guards and suited men stepped forwards and began pulling the protestors away. As soon as the path was clear, a guard waved them on. When they’d safely pulled up in a space, Jake noticed his mum was trembling.

‘You’re not OK,’ he said.

She turned off the engine. ‘I’m fine, Jake.’

‘What was all that about? What’s Granble done to wind people up so much?’

‘It’s complicated,’ said his mum. ‘When you’re as successful as Granble, you make enemies.’

‘But how did they know who you were?’ he asked.

His mum sighed. ‘Mr Granble said they were organised. Not just your standard demonstrators. These guys link up via chat rooms on the web. They’ve done some pretty bad things
to protest back in South Africa. Criminal damage, arson. A model even got her face slashed, Mr Granble told me.’

Jake swallowed and looked at the broken window. A few hundred euros would sort it.

It could have been a lot worse.

Jake remembered what Abri had said back in the church, about Granble abusing his power.

‘Mum, is there something dodgy about these diamonds? Y’know, like blood stones … conflict diamonds … you’re
sure
Granble’s mining these himself and not buying them off some warlord?’

‘Everyone says he’s legitimate,’ his mum said. ‘All his stones are certified.’

‘Yeah, but documents can be forged. I saw this programme …’

‘Listen, Jake,’ said his mum. ‘I’m not going to be lectured. This is my job. A well-paid job, I should add. I can’t afford to let the opportunity pass. It could be an access pass to much bigger things. Let’s say no more about it, yes?’

Jake would normally have argued back. If Granble really was as bad as Abri said, if his diamonds had anything to do with financing wars, then promoting his business was wrong. There was no two ways about it. But his mum looked really upset, so he just nodded.

As they climbed out of the car, the small pocket of protestors was still chanting as they were corralled by security. His mum gathered her things from the boot, looking nervously over towards them.

Now I know what Dad meant by ‘look after her’.

While his mum went off to find the models, Jake took his football kit and dashed down to the dressing rooms. He pushed open the door and twenty faces turned to look at him. The entire England squad.

‘Hey, it’s Little Bastin,’ said Mark Fortune, stepping up to shake his hand. ‘We weren’t sure you’d make it.’

‘Thanks for letting me join in,’ he said.

‘You kidding?’ said Fortune. ‘When someone like Steve Bastin asks, you don’t say no. Go and get your kit on, and let’s head out.’

Jake scrambled into his shorts and shirt, and laced up his boots nice and tight, then ran out on to the pitch. Ebner was standing in a tracksuit on the sidelines, holding a ball, which he threw in Jake’s path.

‘Just a light session today,’ he said. ‘Big game tomorrow for the boys.’

Cones were lined up widthways across the turf, and the players were dribbling a ball between them to warm up.
Jake’s ball skills were always pretty spot on, but he took a bit more care than usual.

No way I’m going to make an idiot of myself by being too clever.

When he’d done a few slaloms, Ebner called them all over for relay shuttles between the halfway line and the D. Jake was surprised how quick some of the team were in the flesh. Especially Ed Francis, the striker. He might not have the best control in top-flight football, but he was like a whippet between the lines. Still, at least Jake was quicker than the defenders. He just about kept pace with Mark Fortune, but by the twentieth shuttle he was panting.

‘You’re doing really well,’ said the midfielder, tossing Jake a water bottle. ‘Ebner’s a bit of a fitness Nazi, but it’s good for the team.’

After that, the assistant coach announced they’d move on to ball drills.

At last,
Jake thought.
Some real football.

Across the pitch, a platform was being wheeled out on to the sidelines. It looked like the sort of thing they used for trophy presentations. When Jake spotted his mum pointing, he realised what it actually was: a catwalk. The Granble logo was daubed on one side.

‘My wife won’t stop dropping hints,’ said Dave Adams,
the England left back. ‘She says these Granble stones are supposed to be amazing.’

‘I’m gonna get some cufflinks cut with them,’ said Robbie Odeji, the winger.

One of the players whistled when a gaggle of models came out. They were struggling with heels in the grass.

‘Eyes on the ball, fellas,’ said Ebner. ‘There’ll be time for fun when you retire.’

They played three-on-three, trying to keep the ball from the opposition. It was fast stuff, and Jake got caught on the ball a couple of times by Francis. Mark Fortune showed him a neat trick to draw the ball away and give himself some time, though, and next time Ed came up on him, Jake was able to dummy it away. Francis slid over on to his backside.

‘Nice one, Little Bastin,’ Robbie said.

The sound of clapping made them all look round. Standing on the sideline, and wearing a short dress showing slashes of bare skin, was Abri.

‘Hey, Jake,’ she called over. ‘You’re pretty good.’

All the players looked at him in amazement. He could tell they were itching to say something.

‘What is this?!’ shouted Ebner. ‘Put your tongues away. No drooling on my pitch – it’s not good for the turf. Jake, if you want to speak with your girlfriend, give up the ball!’

The players all laughed as Jake trotted off to the sidelines.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘He didn’t mean that, about the girlfriend …’

‘What?’ said Abri. ‘You mean you wouldn’t want to go out with me?’

‘No … I …’ he began.

Her face broke into a wide smile. ‘I know what you meant,’ she said. ‘I was just teasing.’

Jake was sweating a bit anyway, but he felt the blood rush to his cheeks. What was it about this girl that made him a stammering wreck?

‘How’s it all going?’ he asked.

‘Boring,’ said Abri. ‘And hot!’ She fanned herself. ‘All this make-up in the middle of summer is
not
a good call.’

Jake took the opportunity to inspect her outfit more closely. ‘You look good.’

‘Why, thank you,’ she said. ‘Don’t know why we need to practise, though. I’ve been putting one foot in front of the other since I was a year old.’

Jake laughed. Were all supermodels this cool? ‘I’m sure there’s more to it than that.’

Jake was aware that someone in a pale suit was walking up towards them. The last thing he wanted was an interruption. Not when things were going so well.

‘Hi there,’ said the man in an American accent. He flicked out his hand, which held a card. ‘Randy Freemore, pleased to meet ya.’

Abri gave an amused frown.

‘Hello,’ said Jake as warmly as he could manage. He took the card. ‘Jake Bastin.’

‘I know who you are. Let’s just say a little bird told me Bastin Junior would be training today.’

Jake hardly knew what to say. Was this guy a scout? He straightened his shoulders. ‘I’m just practising with the team,’ he said. ‘I’ve not gone pro yet.’

‘Really?’ said the man. ‘Well, that kinda makes you
exactly
what I’m looking for.’

Jake looked at the card. On it was Freemore’s name, above the words ‘Talent Manager'. The head of the card read:
‘Olympic Advantage: Be the Best.’

‘I’ll catch you later, Jake,’ said Abri, giving a little wave.

‘No, wait,’ he said. ‘I …’

‘See you at the church with your mum this afternoon. You’ll be there, won’t you?’

Jake hadn’t been planning to, but he changed his plans in an instant.

‘I’ll be there,’ he said.

Abri winked and strode off. Jake watched her for longer
than he should have, then turned his attention back to the smooth-talking American.

‘What’s Olympic Advantage?’ he asked.

Freemore smiled. ‘I knew you’d be interested. It’s a specialist training camp, based in Florida. Starts in a month’s time. We get the best young amateur athletes from around the world, bring ‘em to the States, then give ‘em a two-week intensive course in physical education. They train with others in their chosen sport, then cross-train with world-class athletes from other disciplines. The idea is to establish ourselves as the stable of the sporting future. We take control of everything – sleep patterns, diet, training. Kind of a one-stop shop for physical excellence.’

Jake wasn’t sure about Freemore, but the camp sounded interesting. If his parents wouldn’t help him become a professional footballer, maybe this was the next best thing.

‘Let me think about it,’ he said.

‘Sure,’ said Freemore, clicking his tongue. ‘But don’t think too long, kid.’

The sound of the tannoy split the air.

‘Extra security to pitch-side immediately.’

Jake and the players all looked to the far side of the pitch. A crowd of around thirty people were climbing from one of the tunnels over the top of the seats. They made it down to
the advertising hoardings and scrambled over. Even from a hundred metres away, Jake could make out the T-shirts he’d seen in the car park, bearing anti-Granble slogans. A few of the protestors wielded pieces of wood. One swung a crowbar. Another had ripped up a chair and held it above his head. A dozen security guards came streaming out of the players’ tunnel and threw themselves into the onrushing mob, and Jake saw one protestor brutally punched until he keeled over. But it wasn’t enough.

The remainder screamed abuse like a war cry as they charged across the pitch towards the catwalk platform. Towards Abri.

And Jake’s mother.

‘B
ack to the dressing room
now!’
Ebner shouted.

The players began to file off the field, casting confused looks at each other. Not all went, though. Robbie, Price and Mark Fortune came with Jake. They ran towards the catwalk where his mum and the models were sitting ducks up on the runway.

‘Slow down the protestors,’ Jake shouted. ‘I’ll get the others to safety.’

Granble’s people were standing around looking professionally useless, and Jake even noticed the Granble reps from the church scurrying off down the tunnel.

More security came out to face the charge along with the players, but Jake could see it still wouldn’t be enough. They met in a scrum near the centre circle.

Jake remembered what his mum had said about this group – the lengths to which they were willing to go. He sprinted up
to where the wheeled runway jutted out from the tunnel. Abri, Sienna and Monique were already pushing it around sideways on and Jake threw his weight into it too. Together they tipped the structure over. It crashed on to the turf, forming a barrier between the tunnel and the pitch.

‘Climb over,’ shouted Jake.

Monique went first, scrambling up the platform and heaving herself over the top. Then Sienna.

There was a shout behind as two of the protestors came running through the melee in the centre circle.

‘Diamond thieves!’ one shouted. Jake saw that he had some sort of metal piping in his hand, and a wild look in his eyes that said he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. As Jake went forwards to meet him, his mother screamed.

‘Jake, no!’

The man lifted the pipe but Jake rammed into him before he could swing, charging with his shoulder. They went down together, and Jake pressed his forearm into the attacker’s face. He howled. The second one ran on, and Jake scrambled up just in time to see Abri drive a foot into his groin. With a cry of agony, the protestor fell into the upturned flooring of the catwalk, and curled into a ball.

Sienna and Monique pulled Jake’s mum to safety behind the overturned platform. A few more protestors had broken
through, and were approaching fast. Their eyes were crazed with anger.

‘Abri, get over!’ said Jake, picking up the piping dropped by the other protestor.

‘You first,’ she said.

Jake looked at her in amazement. This girl had guts!

‘We’ll go together,’ he said. Jake hurled the pipe towards their attackers, who ducked out of the way. It gave them enough time to scramble over the other side of the platform barricade.