January Window (11 page)

‘Look, Christoph, if you’re asking me for advice on being gay, I can’t give you any. I have one or two friends who are gay but none of them are in football. But if you’re asking me what I think you’re going to ask me…’

‘Should I tell the guys in the team I’m gay? That’s what I want to know. That’s what I’d like.’

‘Then the answer is no, absolutely fucking not. Don’t ask me to justify it, Christoph, because I can’t, but being gay is just not acceptable in football for the simple reason that the game is the last bastion of open bigotry and homophobia. There are no openly gay footballers in any of England’s top four divisions. Of course that’s not to say there are no gay players. Everyone knows who they are, or thinks they do, but those players keep it quiet for one simple reason: fear. Not of the other players, but fear of the abuse an openly gay player would receive from the fans. Right now there are lots of fans on terraces all over England who still sing songs about the Munich air crash and about the Hillsborough disaster, and who make gassing noises towards Tottenham fans who are all presumed, wrongly, to be Jews. In my time in football I’ve heard these bastards sing songs about Sol Campbell’s mental breakdown, Dwight Yorke’s disabled son, Karren Brady’s miscarriage, the floods in Hull, and the excellent public service done by various murderers including Harold Shipman and Ian Huntley. All of which means that there’s quite enough shit that they can throw at you already without giving them anything more. That’s why you can’t tell anyone, Christoph. Wear a pair of rainbow football laces if it makes you feel any better; there are at least some straight players who’ve done that. Otherwise you have to keep this quiet. You’ll be committing career suicide if you say something now. I know this is not what you wanted to hear, but I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.’

Bündchen sighed. Looking at him now it was hard to believe the young German could be gay; then again, I never notice these things. Sonja claims she can tell, but I never can. A small part of me wanted to applaud him for his desire to be so open, but mostly I felt I’d told him how it was. Individually most football fans would probably tell you they couldn’t care less about someone’s sexuality, but on the terraces, a different mood prevails. The Germans have a word for it:
Volksgeist
. It means ‘the spirit of the people’, and the spirit of the people usually collects around the lowest common denominator.

‘Look, you have a wonderful talent and on the basis of what I saw the other night against Leeds, you have a fantastic future ahead of you, Christoph. You could do anything in the game. You could play for your country, make a great deal of money and get right to the top of football. And having got there – who knows? In a few years it could be you who leads from the front and who changes things for the better. I for one hope they do change. But you’re at the start of your career and right now my advice to you is never to talk about this with anyone but me at this club. Anyone at all. The fewer people who know about this the better.’

‘I see.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s disappointing.’

‘I’m sorry, Christoph. Truly I wish I could tell you something different. But best keep it quiet, eh? At least until your career is over. And then talk about it. The same way Thomas Hitzlsperger did.’

He nodded. ‘All right. If you think it’s best.’

I breathed a sigh of relief as he went out of the door.

But Christoph Bündchen wasn’t the only one at London City with a secret that had required me to play counsellor. The fact that Zarco was having an affair with Claire Barry, who was the club’s acupuncturist, had become common knowledge at Hangman’s Wood – so common that I had felt prompted to speak to him about it. Me, of all people, offering him advice on the wisdom of having an affair with a woman who was herself married. Claire was a decent woman but her husband, Sean, was a bit of a thug; and if he wasn’t he knew plenty who were. He ran a private security company that did a lot of work in the Gulf States, which meant he was frequently away; he also employed a lot of people who were used to solving problems with violence.

‘People are beginning to talk about you and her,’ I’d said over the Christmas holidays, which is a very busy time for an acupuncturist at a football club, as you might perhaps imagine. ‘Tell me to fuck off and mind my own business if you like, but I’m your friend. You’ve been good to me and I wouldn’t like to see anything happen to you, João. The press would love to give you a going-over for something like this. Remember what happened to John Terry. They think you’re an arrogant bastard and they’re just waiting to catch you out. So why don’t you cool it for a while? I’m not telling you to forget her. That’s up to you. All I’m doing is telling you to keep it zipped for a while. Just to put people off the scent.’

He listened quietly, and then nodded. ‘You’re right, Scott. You were quite right to tell me. And thanks. I’d no idea this was well known at the club. I appreciate it, my friend. And I’ll certainly do as you say. I’ll tell her it’s got to stop.’

Of course, Zarco completely ignored me. How do I know that? I don’t for sure. But a couple of days before the Newcastle game I noticed he had a packet of single-use, sterile acupuncture needles on his desk. He saw me pick them up and offered an explanation before I could even mention it.

‘Claire’s been showing me how to treat my own knee,’ he said, taking the needles out of my hand.

‘In here?’

‘Yes, in here.’

‘You mean you sit in here and stick needles in your own knee?’

‘Yes. Of course. What else would I be doing with these needles?’

‘I don’t know.’

Like a lot of ex-players Zarco suffered from painful knees and acupuncture was able to provide a more effective and safer form of pain relief than drugs and creams. That wasn’t what was suspicious. It was him dropping the needles in the bin while he was talking that made the explanation sound so lame it needed crutches. It looked like someone getting rid of evidence and frankly, given the number of strokes he pulled, he ought to have been a bit better at it. For example, I knew he had three mobile phones: one for work, one for play and one for something else. The play phone and the one for something else he kept in a drawer in one of the filing cabinets in my office and took them out when he needed them; we both knew without him having to ask that this was fine with me. This was just one of his funny little ways and something you had to put up with if you were ever going to be a trusted friend of Zarco’s. You’ve heard of mate’s rates; well this was mate’s traits.

‘You should get her to show you how to do it,’ he said. ‘Maybe you could treat your ankle in the same way. There’s no need to be squeamish about needles, you know. It’s just one prick.’

For a brief irresponsible moment I considered telling him that he was the only prick I knew about before I thought better of it; he was the boss, after all, and if he was still shagging Claire Barry, it was none of my business.

Nor was it any of my business when, one afternoon, I dropped into a BP service station near Hangman’s Wood to put petrol in my Range Rover. Now the club had an account at the nearest Shell garage and Viktor Sokolnikov always picked up the tab for everyone’s fuel, a perk the taxman knew nothing about and which was worth several hundred pounds a week, especially when you were driving a Ferrari or an Aston Martin, as most of the players did at City. Consequently, no one ever went to the BP garage about three miles further on where they had to pay for petrol. No one except me, that is, for I had always been scrupulously honest in all my dealings with the Inland Revenue and I always paid for my own fuel. Untaxed perks were definitely not my thing. When you’ve been to prison you never want to go back there.

Zarco was sitting in his left-hand drive Overfinch Range Rover – identical to my own – which was parked next to a white Ferrari. He was having an animated discussion with the owner of the Ferrari, who I recognised immediately. It was Paolo Gentile, the agent who had handled Kenny Traynor’s transfer. Now when you’re a coach you see a lot in and around a football club that turns out to be not your business, and sometimes, if you want to keep your job, you learn to keep your fucking mouth shut. I learned that in the nick.

So I drove away again without even stopping.

‘You’re a bloody little genius,’ I told Colin Evans.

Colin blushed. He and I and Zarco and Viktor Sokolnikov were standing on the centre spot at Silvertown Dock. I’d brought a ball and had already bounced it several times just to see how it moved on top of the newly repaired surface. Then I tossed the ball in the air and began to play keepy-uppy, all the time trying to test what the spot felt like underneath my feet. I couldn’t tell that anything was different.

‘Yup,’ I said. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Zarco and clapped the Welshman on the back. ‘You’ve done a great job, Colin. I’m really very appreciative.’

‘We aim to please,’ said Colin.

Viktor was comparing the picture that I’d emailed to his iPhone with the ground we were standing on. ‘Incredible,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know there had ever been anything wrong here.’ He chuckled. ‘You know, the next time I have a dead body to bury quickly and without a trace, remind me to contact Colin. We can do it right here.’

I almost gasped. That was typical of Viktor Sokolnikov: making a joke out of a rumour that would have been acutely embarrassing to anyone else. Then again he was in a very good mood about something that wasn’t anything to do with the pitch. His face was tanned and he was wearing an enormous Canada Goose coat that would not have looked out of place worn by Sir Ranulph Fiennes at the South Pole. In spite of the bitter January cold he was smiling broadly.

‘Come to think of it,’ he added, ‘I wouldn’t mind being buried here myself. As mausoleums go, I think the Crown of Thorns would be perfect.’

‘Why not?’ said Zarco. ‘You paid for it, Viktor.’

‘But I’d have to do it in secret,’ said Viktor. ‘The local council would never give me planning permission to get buried here. Not without a great deal of arm-twisting. And bribery, of course. You always need that. Even in this country.’

‘We’ll bury you in secret, if that’s what you want. Won’t we, guys? Just like Genghis Khan.’

Colin and I nodded. ‘Sure. Whatever you want, Mr Sokolnikov.’

Viktor chuckled. ‘Hey, take your time there. Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I’m in no hurry to be under the ground. Let’s think about burying Newcastle here tomorrow before it’s my turn.’

‘After the Leeds match?’ said Zarco. ‘We’re unstoppable. Xavier Pepe’s goal was probably the best goal I’ve ever seen in all my years as a manager. And Christoph Bündchen already looks like a star. The team is riding high, right now. Those Newcastle boys will be crapping themselves.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Viktor. ‘But we mustn’t be overconfident, eh? We have a saying in Ukraine. The devil always takes back his gifts. I hear that Aaron Abimbole is going to be fit.’

Before signing for Newcastle in the summer, Aaron Abimbole had played for London City, and Manchester United, and AC Milan. In fact he collected clubs like some people collect air miles. The Nigerian was one of the highest-paid players in the Premier League and generally held to be one of the most temperamental, too; when he was good he was very, very good but when he was bad he was total crap. Abimbole’s leaving London City – during Zarco’s first tenure at the club – had been acrimonious, and prior to his departure relations with the Portuguese manager, who had bought him from the French club Lens, had become so bad that Abimbole had set fire to Zarco’s brand new Bentley in the club car park.

‘So what?’ said Zarco. ‘This particular Aaron doesn’t have a brother called Moses, so I don’t think we have anything to worry about.’

‘He’s already scored twenty goals for Newcastle this season,’ said Viktor. ‘That’s twice as many as he scored for us when he was here. Maybe we should worry about that.’

‘He’s lazy,’ insisted Zarco. ‘I never saw a lazier player, which is why clubs don’t keep him. He only scores when it’s up his back to do so but he never tracks back. Not like Rooney. You have Rooney, you have a great striker and a dogged defender. When you have Abimbole all you have is a lazy cunt.’

Clearly the United fans had thought the same way as Zarco; I remember watching him play for MU against Fulham and the fans singing, ‘
Abimbole, Abimbole, He’s a lazy arsehole, And he should be on the dole
’. You had to laugh.

‘Besides,’ added Zarco, ‘Scott here has a brilliant plan to fuck with his mind. Wait and see, boss. We’re going to put the hex on him.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

Viktor glanced at his watch; unlike the rest of us he wore a cheap Timex. The first time I’d seen it I’d checked it out on Google in case it was actually a valuable antique, but it cost just £7.50, which was another reason why I liked Viktor – most of the time he wasn’t in the least bit flashy; my suits from Kilgour were probably ten times more expensive than his. He was wearing the coat because it was cold. Only the billionaire’s Berluti shoes were expensive. And the Rolls-Royce Phantom in the car park, of course.

‘And now I’d best be going,’ he said. ‘I have an important meeting in the City. See you guys at the match on Saturday. Don’t forget, João, you’re coming to that pre-match lunch I’m hosting in the executive dining room for the RBG.’ RBG was the Royal Borough of Greenwich.

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world, boss,’ said Zarco, drily.

‘Good. Because you’re the trophy guest,’ said Viktor. ‘At least you would be if we had any bloody trophies.’ Laughing, he walked back to the players’ tunnel, leaving the three of us staring at our much cheaper shoes.

‘Cheeky bastard,’ said Zarco.

‘He’s in a good mood,’ I replied.

‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ said Colin.

‘I know why, too,’ said Zarco. ‘This morning the RBG planning committee is going to announce that it has granted permission for the new Thames Gateway Bridge. It’s going to be worth a lot of money to Viktor’s company because they are building it, of course. That’s why he’s bringing the RBG council here for lunch on Saturday. To celebrate.’