Authors: Philip Kerr
‘Is it possible he went to say hello to the Newcastle manager?’
‘That’s highly unlikely. There’s not much love lost between those two. Besides, it’s not considered appropriate to go into the other side’s dressing room before a match in case you hear anything you shouldn’t.’
‘Talking of which – look, you don’t think…’
Hobday beckoned me outside the dressing room for a moment.
‘You don’t think he’s with – with her?’
‘Who would that be, Phil?’
‘Come on, Scott. Stop trying to cover for him. You know exactly who I’m talking about: our lady of the needles – Claire Barry. I know she must be in the ground because I just saw her old man in one of the hospitality bars upstairs.’
‘Honestly? I’m sure he’s not with her. Look, nothing is more important to João Zarco before a match than the match itself. You know that. Not Greenwich Borough Council, not her, not a quick shag in a broom cupboard. If he’s not with you then this is where he would be.’ I frowned. ‘You are telling me everything, aren’t you, Phil?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s not had another row with Viktor and walked out? You know what he’s like. Sometimes he can be quite petulant.’
Phil shook his head. ‘No. Absolutely not. They were the best of friends, upstairs. Really.’
I shook my head. ‘Look, perhaps he got caught short, or something. Maybe he’s in the bog. I’m sure he’ll turn up. This is an important match. I’d look for him, only I’ve got to take charge of the warm-up. I’ll call Maurice and see if he can find him. If anyone can, he can.’
‘All right. Thanks, Scott.’
Phil went back to join Viktor’s important guests, who were probably tucking into their lunch. Hobday didn’t drink, himself, which was a pity as Viktor always served the best wines in the executive dining room. I could have used a large glass of Puligny-Montrachet myself.
I called Maurice on the landline and explained the situation.
‘I’ll get straight on it,’ he said.
‘And make sure you check the bogs, in case he’s had an accident.’
I think that was the first time it crossed my mind that something might have happened to Zarco. He was a strong, fit man but you read all kinds of things about managers having heart attacks – almost half the football managers in the English league have had significant heart problems: Gérard Houllier, Glenn Roeder, Dario Gradi, Alex Ferguson, Joe Kinnear, Barry Fry, Graham Souness. As high-pressure jobs go, football management is one of the worst. When you’re a player you can run that feeling off as soon as you go on the pitch; but a manager has to sit there and take it. Just look at Arsène Wenger’s face during a game at the Emirates and tell me that he’s a man who’s relaxed about watching his team; and Arsenal are doing well right now.
I took the lads outside for the warm-up and tried to concentrate on the game in hand; the music on the loudspeakers in the ground hardly helped: it was Puff Daddy’s ‘I’ll be Missing You’. By now I was certain that something must have happened to the Portuguese. Hadn’t I seen him rubbing his arm and his chest that same morning as if he was in pain? I also spent some time checking out the opposition, who were warming up in the other half. Aaron Abimbole was playing and always reminded me of Patrick Vieira, the way he dominated the midfield: tall, with quick feet, good technique, aggressive and very brave, he was everything you want in a player. Well, almost. He had two faults: he was a greedy cunt and he was fucking lazy; sometimes he just wasn’t in the mood, and that was why City had let him go. But that afternoon he already looked like he was itching to score against his old club, which left me starting to get a pain myself. This was some extra pressure I didn’t need.
After we’d warmed up I brought the lads back into the dressing room hoping to find Zarco there, but in the doorway I met Maurice, who was shaking his head.
‘Can’t find the cunt,’ he murmured.
‘Keep looking.’
Maurice nodded. ‘Tell you what, though. There are some right bastards out there if he has gone missing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Unfriendly faces. That is, unfriendly to Zarco. Sean Barry for one.’
‘He’s a City supporter. Why the fuck would he be unfriendly?’
‘Because he knows that Zarco’s been banging his missus. That’s why.’
‘Shit. Look, Maurice, I don’t have time for this. Call him at home. Call him at the fucking Ivy if you have to, just find him.’
I turned to face the dressing room.
‘Right,’ I said, ‘listen up. The boss is feeling a bit Uncle Dick so I’m going to do the talking today. That means I talk, and you listen. Got that?’ I repeated this in Spanish and then spoke in English again, doing the same all the way through my team talk:
‘All right, here’s the deal. Normally I’d be telling you that the number one threat out there this afternoon is going to be Aaron Abimbole, and to mark him like you were tied to him with a piece of red rope. But instead we’re going to fuck with his mind and here’s how. We’re going to neutralise him. And this goes especially for you, Kwame, and for you, John.’
They both nodded keenly.
‘The last time we played those Geordie boys I noticed you two were very friendly with Aaron, even though he wasn’t playing. That was fine. I get that. You’re friends. But this is a big game and this time it’s going to be different. The fact is that man still feels just a little bit guilty about the way he left this club for more money. I want to exploit that feeling. So, when we’re in the players’ tunnel waiting to go out onto the park I want you to blank him, like he was Idi Amin and Charles Taylor and Laurent Kabila and Jerry fucking Rawlings all rolled up into the one shithead. Kwame and John will tell the rest of you ignorant bastards who those guys are later. Don’t get me wrong. Aaron is a nice fellow. I never met a nicer one. But being in England has not been easy for him. He’s never settled and it’s my impression that he misses home a lot. Seeing you two African lads here today is a little touch of home that he appreciates. Only you’re going to disappoint him, okay? After the game you can be as friendly as you like with him. But when you see him outside in the tunnel I want you to treat him like herpes. This goes for all of you. You don’t shake his hand. You don’t smile at him. It won’t matter quite so much when he gets the cold shoulder from the white guys. But from Kwame and John it will fucking hurt. This is his old club, see? He thinks he can come back here with no hard feelings. Well, we have to make him think again about that. And just to rub it in I want you to treat the rest of those Toons like they were your best friends when you’re in the tunnel. All of them. It’s just Aaron I want singled out for special treatment. When he goes out on that park I want to see his bottom lip quivering like someone just stole his fucking train set.’
Kwame and John thought that this was a great idea – they were laughing and grinning at each other.
‘That big stupid bastard is going to be so pissed off after the game when we tell him,’ they said.
‘Yeah, don’t tell him it was my idea. I’ve got enough on my plate this afternoon without having to worry about him sticking one on me.’
‘What about the official team handshake?’ asked Kwame. ‘Do we blank him then, too?’
‘Absolutely, yes,’ I said. ‘Like he was fucking invisible.’
Minutes later, in the tunnel, I watched carefully as our players lined up quietly, ready to walk onto the pitch. Aaron Abimbole swaggered out of the Toon dressing room, no doubt feeling quite at home, grinning his big grin and glad-handing one or two officials; and he looked genuinely taken aback when he offered a brother’s handshake to Kwame Botchwey and the Ghanaian turned the other way. I could almost hear him swallow his disappointment as John Ayensu did the same. But he kept grinning for a few moments longer as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.
‘S’a matter with you guys? What’s wiv the dis?’ asked the Nigerian. ‘Something wrong wid you?’
Ayensu ignored him and bent around Abimbole to shake the Newcastle goalkeeper’s hand.
Since his arrival in London Abimbole had managed to learn some Brixton black man argot; he was a quick learner.
‘What’s cracking, bruv? Break it down for me, man. How come you trying to flex on me?’
By now Abimbole didn’t know where to put himself and looked about as isolated and lonely a figure as if he was already on another transfer list: even his own Newcastle team mates seemed to sense that something was wrong and started to blank him, too, which was strange. The two Ghanaians had played their parts to perfection, so much so that I thought Aaron Abimbole was going to cry; and he was the last man to leave the tunnel.
But for a while it was a tactic that looked as if it had gone badly wrong. With just ten minutes of the game gone, Aaron Abimbole scored with a skilful chip when he saw our bright new goalkeeper off his line. It was a sucker goal and left me feeling a fool for having spent nine million quid on someone who looked like he was still keeping goal at Tynecastle, where skills like Abimbole’s were in much shorter supply. So much for the Scotsman’s idea of keeping a clean sheet for the rest of the season. Fuck off.
Now Abimbole was pumped up like a car tyre with a score to settle against his old club and threatened again just three minutes later. This time our new signing made a great save that spared everyone’s blushes and it’s fair to say that while anyone could have saved the Nigerian’s first shot, no one but Traynor could have saved his second; suddenly the nine mill looked like a much better spend.
And then – ‘innocent face’ – it all went spectacularly wrong for Aaron Abimbole. For several minutes he was everywhere – you couldn’t have asked for a better work rate – and yet to my mind he needed to calm down: it was almost like he needed to prove himself, not just to the Newcastle fans but also to the City fans, too, who booed every time he went near the ball. I could see Alan Pardew felt the same. On the edge of his technical area he was shouting at Abimbole to stay in position and to pace himself. But the Nigerian wasn’t listening to anything except the blood roaring in his curiously shaped ears.
A couple of minutes later, having read Dominguin’s pass to Xavier Pepe on the edge of the box as if it had been sent by Western Union, Abimbole launched himself from behind at the little Spaniard with both feet, all his not inconsiderable weight, and more studs showing than an England ruck; he virtually chopped the other man’s legs in half. I’ve seen riders come off superbikes at Monza who were moving slower than Abimbole was when he intercepted Pepe. It wasn’t so much a sliding tackle as an assault with intent to commit actual bodily harm and the referee didn’t hesitate, showing him a straight red card that brought the whole of Silvertown Dock to its feet, cheering wildly for although we were a goal down, you could see the effect on the Newcastle players at the Nigerian’s dismissal. I might have felt sorry for the boy if I hadn’t been so concerned about Xavier Pepe, who had yet to move after the tackle.
Fortunately he wasn’t injured and was soon hobbling around on the touchline; four minutes later he was back on and scored the equaliser when he ran onto a pin-point pass from Christoph Bündchen. After that Newcastle struggled to cope with the one-man deficit; City peppered the Toon box with shots and by half time we were a goal up.
As we went back into the dressing room there was still no sign of João Zarco and Maurice McShane was looking worried.
‘And?’
Maurice shook his head.
‘I’ve looked everywhere.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, not everywhere. It’s a capacity crowd here today: sixty-five thousand people. It’s Where’s fucking Wally out there on the terraces, Scott. But I’ve looked everywhere that’s obvious and quite a few of the less obvious places, too. I’ve phoned his wife, his agent, his ghost—’
‘His ghost? What do you mean by that, Maurice?’
‘The bloke who wrote Zarco’s book,
No Games, Just Football
. Phil Kerr. He’s here this afternoon. He’s always bloody here. Loser. I’ve called Claire. I’ve even called his builder. I’ve also had a quiet word with the police to see if they can help to find him. I’ve done everything but make an announcement on the Crown of Thorns PA.’
‘Don’t for Christ’s sake do that,’ I said. ‘The press will wet their pants if they think he’s gone AWOL.’
‘I think the cat’s out of the bag on that one, Scott. Sky Sports have noticed he’s not in the dugout. Those penguins have been indulging in an orgy of speculation about where the fuck he is.’
‘Any bright ideas from Jeff Stelling?’
‘Only that we should send Chris Kamara to look for him. Kammy knows everything about being fucking lost.’
‘Very funny.’ I smiled. ‘No, it is. If I wasn’t so frazzled now I might even laugh. I feel like Charlie Nicholas’ haircut.’
‘It’s been suggested that he’s walked out. That he and Viktor have had some kind of barney and that João threw all his toys out of the pram and just buggered off.’
‘If that were true Phil Hobday would have said something. And he didn’t.’
‘Fair enough. But those two have history. Everyone knows it. Even Chris Kamara.’
‘Look, try some of the hospitality boxes. Get the security boys to help you. But don’t make a big deal out of it. Just say Zarco’s left his mobile phone in the dressing room and we don’t know how to get hold of him. Better still, have them search the terraces with the Mobotix, as if we were looking for a hooligan.’
The Mobotix video system comprised seventy-seven high-resolution cameras providing cutting-edge crowd management and security. It worked well during our matches and it was a pity it hadn’t been switched on when someone had dug a grave in the centre of the pitch.
When we went back on for the second half the Toons were still moaning to the officials about the sending-off, but there was little they could do about it now. Aaron Abimbole was already in a taxi and on his way home, which suited me very well. Pardew had substituted a couple of players and moved to a 3-5-1, but the game was already beyond them and fifteen minutes into the second half Bündchen scored two in quick succession, and that was the way it ended: 4–1.
I was dreading the post-match interview on Sky Sports. They were paying for the game and that meant we had to put someone in front of their cameras. I didn’t want to do it but I had no choice since, in Zarco’s absence, there was no one else. I knew Geoff Shreeves was going to ask me about where Zarco was and I really had no idea what I was going to tell him. Shreeves could be terrier-like with his questions and I just hoped he would let go and that I wouldn’t do a Kenny Dalglish and lose it on live television. Being a Scot that’s always a possibility.