《Crooks - A London Gangsters Tale | COMPLETED》


 Chapter One

    From up here, it''s like you''re king of the world. Emperor of the known universe. That''s what David Carter was thinking in a rare moment of solitude as he gazed down through the floor-length windows at the sea of emerald green below him. All the way up in the director''s box, the roar and rumble of the crowd was little more than a muted hum. He could see them all, heads bobbing and feeble attempts at a Mexican wave rippling limply around a few of the rows. But he was not one of them, not anymore.


    He checked his watch; six minutes to kick-off. Now that he ran the place, he knew he should no longer feel nervous about an insignificant match like this one. But at the end of the day, he was still a footie fan, in spite of everything. And Mile End was his club. It always would be. The players were all on the pitch, making a show of their warm-up stretches for the crowd. Wayne was down there among them, waiting for the ref''s whistle. Waiting for the match to begin.


    Someone behind David cleared their throat, and he turned slowly to see Rochelle, one of his media consultants, hovering agitatedly. "Mr Carter? I wanted to let you know, sir ¨C Lorenzo has just touched down at Heathrow. He''s got his entourage with him and they''re coming straight to the stadium."


    "Thanks, Rochelle."


    "I''ve prepped the media hub, and we''re going to interview him after the match."


    "Perfect. You''re a gem."


    Rochelle smiled and politely withdrew, closing the door behind her as she clicked away on Stiletto heels. David watched her go with sense of satisfaction. Rochelle was young, but she was ambitious. As soon as she first set foot across the threshold of the Mile End stadium, she¡¯d done whatever it took to get to the top. Bit by bit, day by day, he saw her getting closer to what he knew she desired.


    Colombian striker Fabian Lorenzo was quite an acquisition for little old Mile End Athletic. Not because of his (admittedly mixed) record on the football pitch, though; but because of what else he¡¯d brought with him on his private jet ¨C besides his entourage, that is.


    "It was a hell of a risk, you know." Max Linley was sitting at the far end of the director''s box, sipping whisky from a cut glass tumbler. Max was David''s second-in-command. His right-hand man. They had been friends for decades, and each man trusted the other implicitly. Max was intuitive. In some ways, he was like an extension of David''s own personality. A man who could finish his sentences for him. But to look at them, they could not have been more different. David was forty-seven but looked a good decade younger. He had a head of thick, dark hair without so much as a hint of grey. His face was thin but sharp-featured. Like Shakespeare''s Cassius, he had a lean and hungry look. He wore exquisitely tailored suits, the finest Saville Row had to offer.


    Max Linley, on the other hand, was rotund and balding. He dressed exclusively in tracksuits, which was ironic, as he could scarcely get up a flight of stairs without running out of breath. He drank and he chain-smoked. He also just happened to be the cleverest man David knew. Someone David would trust with his life.


    Max and David were now alone in the box, so they could talk freely. "I know," said David, "and I respect the lad for it."


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    "No, I mean he took a real risk. Maybe you weren''t aware, Dave, but this is the largest single shipment ever to arrive on English soil by private jet."


    David looked over at Max and winked. "The largest shipment people know about, anyway. But it''s not such a big risk as you might think, Max, my old man. I took a few extra precautions, you see. This morning I put in a call to the Met with a tipoff about a couple of mules arriving at Stansted. Dopey backpackers with a couple of bricks of coke up their jacksies. So the boys in blue have got their hands full."


    "And what do you think will happen when they don''t find the backpackers?"


    "Ah, but they will. You see, I arranged a couple of decoys to arrive at Stansted just as Lorenzo touches down at Heathrow. I like to throw the Met a bone every now and then."


    "Commercial flights?"


    "Yep. And I know a thing or two about police psychology ¨C they''d much rather go for the little fish they know they can catch than the big fish they might not. It''s just human nature. The path of least resistance."


    Max shrugged. "Well, I hope you''re right."


    "Course I am. Now shut up, will you? It''s nearly kick-off."


    With that, David turned away to watch the drama unfolding below. But even as his gaze focused on the players assembling for kick-off, he was conscious that Max hadn¡¯t moved.


    In fact, Max was still staring at David, his glare burning into the back of his old friend¡¯s head. Max was indeed clever, and he knew it. He was also patient. After all, he¡¯d been waiting for a long, long time. So long, in fact, that even he could not really remember what he was waiting for. But it was moments like this ¨C little moments of passive aggression from Davi ¨C that reminded him that underneath the friendship was a lust for the power and acclaim that took priority. David wanted it all.


    ¡°There¡¯s something else I want to know about,¡± Max said. David ignored him, but Max knew he was listening. ¡°Silvertown.¡±


    David twitched, as if ridding himself of a fly. ¡°Silvertown can wait. Right now I¡¯ve got more pressing concerns.¡±


    Max smiled to himself. For a while now, David had been dodging the Silvertown question.


    The thin sound of the ref''s whistle reached up to the director''s box, and all at once the pitch was a blur of frantic motion, players darting here and there. It took David a moment to pick out Wayne from amongst them. But sure enough, there he was, at the head of the pack, pushing forward, always pressing onward. He wasn''t built like a typical footballer. He was bigger and burlier, wide-shouldered and thick-limbed. When he wanted to be, he was like a tank: unstoppable. He was built to attack. Built never to accept defeat. Just like his dad.


    That''s when David picked out the chant, echoing up to him all the way up there on top of the world. He''d been hearing it more and more lately. You only play coz your father, play coz your father, play coz your faaaaatherr....


    "Soppy bastards," said David. "That''s his own fans shouting at him. Don''t they know what kind of effect that''s going to have? Don''t they care if it fucks up his gameplay?"


    ¡°Anything to get out of discussing Silvertown, eh David?¡± Max grinned slyly.


    David shrugged. "You need to get your head in the game, Max. Silvertown is nothing to worry about.¡± Silvertown was a property development that David had been talking up for a long time. He¡¯d drawn in a bunch of investors, but Max was dubious.


    Nonetheless, he took his cue from David and focused on the game. ¡°Wayne''s got thick skin. If anything, the chanting''s good for him. It helps to toughen up.


    ¡°Maybe you¡¯re right,¡± David said. ¡°He''s still got to prove himself, hasn¡¯t he? Not just to them, but to me."


    Max studied David thoughtfully, then finished his whisky in a single swallow. "He''s a lot like you, Dave. He really is."


    "Thank you."


    Max lit up a cigarette with a disdainful glance at the STRICTLY NO SMOKING sign. He puffed and settled back in his low-slung easy chair. He wasn''t sure if what he had said was a compliment.

 Chapter Two

    Mile End Athletic versus Sheffield Wednesday. Not even a particularly important match, but Wayne Carter played every match as though his life depended on it. He treated every single challenge like it was a battle to the death. It was just the way he did things; the way he had been brought up. He had to succeed in everything he did. He just had to. He could not accept failure. His dad could not accept failure.


    Of course, he heard the chants. You only play coz your father, play coz your faaaatherr...


    It had started among the home supporters, but had since spread to the away stands. Everybody in that stadium was watching him, scrutinising him, criticising him. They wanted him to fail, because his dad was the club director. But little did they know, he thrived on the attention. He lived for it. He felt a little shudder of anticipation as the ref blew his whistle.


    Then he was away and running.


    Wayne was twenty-two, so the fact that he lacked a conventional athlete''s build didn¡¯t matter so much. He compensated with his boundless energy, not to mention his insatiable drive to push forward. To put the opposing team on the defensive. He was a kid with a one-track mind.


    Scarcely ten minutes in, the ball came to him thanks to a back pass from Nick Devlin, the centre-forward. With a couple of dazzling feints, he dribbled his way past the Sheffield defenders, masterfully controlling the ball as he brought it in line with the goal. This was no time for showboating. No time for putting on a performance. It was just about getting the job done as fast and as effectively as possible. For a split-second his eyes met those of the keeper, who spread his arms wide in anticipation.


    There was a sort of animalistic power coursing through Wayne as he hoofed the ball directly into the back of the net. He was unstoppable. The keeper never stood a chance.


    When the ball pelted straight into the goal, it was as if time stood still. The chanting ceased. Every single pair of eyes in the vast stadium was glued to the ball, and to the reckless (but ruthlessly effective) young player.


    Then, like a rubber band snapping, the tension dispersed. A roar went up from the home crowd, and they seemed to forget they had been insulting him a moment earlier.


    While some players liked skidding across the turf on their knees like excitable eight-year-olds at a wedding, Wayne had never felt comfortable with that kind of showmanship. He simply stood, his hands raised heavenward in a beatific pose, and let his teammates bring their adulation to him. They smacked him on the back and enveloped him in sweaty hugs. He just stood there with a faint but knowing smile.


    "Lucky little fucker," Devlin grinned at him.


    Wayne grinned back but said nothing.


    In some ways, Devlin''s comment was the root of Wayne''s problems on the team. Devlin didn''t mean anything by it, of course, but it reflected the way a lot of people felt about him. The fans simply couldn¡¯t accept that he had got onto the first team on merit alone. They couldn''t comprehend the fact that he worked harder and ran faster than just about everybody else. All they could see was his surname. His family connection. It didn''t matter how many goals he scored, or how well he played. He would always be Mile End''s "lucky little fucker."


    But the truth was that Wayne Carter had an innate instinct for the game. It had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember, and he¡¯d been playing for Mile End since he was seventeen. It had made his adolescence bearable by giving him something to focus his attention on. In some ways, the game had given him a sense of purpose. Not that he was a master of technique ¨C far from it, in fact. In some ways, Wayne was decidedly unskilled. He lacked the co-ordination for dive headers, bicycle kicks and chip shots. He had no interest in the theatrical side of things; he hated the idea of showboating for the crowd. The way he saw it, he didn''t owe them anything other than to play the game to the best of his ability. And what he lacked in nuance, he made up for in sheer, raw power. He worked harder than just about any other player.


    That''s how he managed to regain possession of the ball scarcely two minutes after his first triumph of the match. And all at once he was pressing forward toward the goal once again. This time, though, the defenders were ready for him. There were a couple of decidedly messy attempts to tackle him, but he maintained control with a couple of quick flicks of the foot. He clung to the ball like a limpet mine; he wasn''t giving it up for anybody.


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    This time, the Sheffield keeper was ready for him ¨C or thought he was. He was desperate not to get caught out this time, so he made a show of hurling himself forward. Unfortunately for him, Wayne managed to curl the ball around him. It arced through the air like a guided missile, pelting the back of the net once again. ?


    And there it was: his tenth goal of the season. Ten goals, and the season was only halfway through! If Wayne had stopped to think about it, he would have realised just how startling his success as a midfielder had been.


    The crowd had scarcely got over the excitement of his first goal of the match, and here they were cheering for the second. The lucky little fucker had done it again.


    When the cheers had died down, Wayne risked a glance up in the direction of the director''s box. He was able to make out the familiar outline of a figure in a smartly tailored suit. The shape of his father, standing there as still and emotionless as a statue, watching his every move.


    Someone in the crowd must have spotted this little look of his, for soon enough the chant started up again: You only play coz your father, play coz your faaaatherr...


    Wayne tried hard not to let it get to him. Usually, it motivated him. But sometimes, so much hatred and venom got to him. When he signed for the club, there had been a lot of speculation in the press as to how he had managed to land such a lucrative position at such a young age. But after his first couple of matches, the football media had more or less accepted the merits he brought to the team. But he still hadn¡¯t won over the fans. He wondered if he ever would.


    The game continued, but there were no more goals in the first half. When the ref blew his whistle and the teams traipsed off to their respective changing rooms, Wayne risked another look up at the director''s box, but his father was gone. At least, he was no longer visible. Wayne sometimes felt that his father didn¡¯t need to be watching him to know his every little move. It was as if David Carter was a kind of elemental spirit, or God Almighty Himself, hovering above everything with his omniscient eyes. Wayne would never have put it in such literal terms, but it was as though his father was the puppet-master and he himself was little more than a marionette.


    The atmosphere in a changing room at half-time is decidedly febrile. Of course, it depends on the score, but with Mile End two goals up it was like walking into the middle of a party. Wayne felt a bit like the spectre at the feast. No one spoke to him. He downed a bottle of water and then slumped onto the hard wooden bench.


    But for all the team¡¯s enthusiasm, the second half was a muted affair. There were no more goals to be had, and Wayne had lost some of the drive he had possessed in the first few minutes of the game. The commentators picked up on it, and there was some sympathetic speculation that the ceaseless chanting of the crowd might be getting to him after all. But in reality, he was just conserving his energy. He was fast and he was a hard worker, but he was no fool.


    When the final whistle blew and the score was still two-nil, Wayne exhaled a sigh of relief and lumbered back into the changing room, away from the scathing eyes of a crowd that still did not trust him.


    Wayne headed straight for the showers. He washed off the mud and sweat, towelled himself down, then started to dress in his smart grey suit. As he buttoned his shirt, Cameron Abioye, the keeper, came up and slapped him playfully on the back. "Looking sharp there, my man Wayne! Let me guess, you''re leaving us to go up and see daddy in the director''s box?"


    Wayne laughed. "Course I am, you silly cunt! Why do you think I''m done up like the dog''s bollocks? Free champagne up there!"


    "Put in a good word with the old man, will you?"


    "About you? No chance. If anyone deserves it today, it''s me. Score two goals next time and I might bring you with me." It was all said in good fun. But like just everything else, there was an undercurrent of truth to it. Even his own teammates weren''t sure about him. He would never be part of the establishment in the way his dad was. But because of his pedigree, he would never really fit in with the team either. He was Mister In-Between. Buttoning his shirt all the way to the throat, so that it almost constricted his breath, he started to tie his tie. There was a mirror on the far wall, and he approached it to check his appearance. He looked okay. His hair was close-cropped and blond in an American-style buzzcut. He looked more like his mum than his dad; full in the face, with blue eyes. His dad was dark. To look at the two of them side by side, you would struggle to tell they were related. Wayne had even briefly toyed with the idea of changing his name, to hide the fact that he was a Carter at all. Of course, David would never have stood for that. To him, the Carter name was a badge of pride.


    "Need me to tie your laces for you there, Wayne?" Devlin called out, punctuating his witticism with a roaring guffaw.


    Wayne responded in kind. "Fuck off," he said, still smiling ¨C but only just.


    Somebody cracked open a bottle of Prosecco ¨C there was always at least one bottle in the communal fridge for match days ¨C and sprayed the bubbling white froth around the room, liberally dousing the other players. There were cheers and laughs and shouted conversation.


    Wayne took the opportunity to discreetly withdraw. "See you at training Monday then, Wayne?" asked Cameron.


    "Yep," Wayne answered, exiting the changing room and heading along the corridor.

 Chapter Three

    Inside the Mile End stadium was a maze of corridors and rows of glass doors. Conference rooms and hallways that smelt of stale coffee and carpet samples. When he was a kid, Wayne had more or less had the run of the place. He knew it inside and out, and could easily have found his own way up to the box where his dad was waiting for him.


    But these days, everyone at Mile End was more security conscious. Ever since the notorious Euros final ''21, when fans had charged the gates and completely overwhelmed the staff, there had been a noticeable increase in violence at matches throughout the country, and Mile End Athletic was no different. The fans were unpredictable ¨C the fact that the home team had won did not preclude general unrest among the crowds as they dispersed post-match. David Carter wasn''t going to take any risks. He had employed a raft of new security guards who patrolled both inside and outside the stadium.


    The two guards that met Wayne outside the changing room weren¡¯t as tall as he was, but they wer twice as wide. They wore the standard uniform of white shirt, black tie and black puffy jacket, and they both had uniform cauliflower ears and broken noses, mashed flat against their faces like a pair of pancakes.


    "Afternoon, Mr. Carter," said one of the security guys. They resented Wayne, just like everybody else. But unlike the rest of them, they were being paid to look out for him. Calling him "sir" or "Mister" was just part of the deal.


    "Nice work this afternoon," said the other security man. He spoke in a dull monotone. The compliment was perfunctory; it might even have been scripted.


    "Yeah, cheers," said Wayne, not meeting their eyes. "I''m going up to the box."


    "Right this way," said the first security man, holding a door open for him and escorting him along the corridor toward the lift. Wayne reached for the button, but the guard beat him to it, prodding the panel with authority. The doors eased open and Wayne stepped inside.


    "Cheers," he said again as the doors eased shut. The guard did not reply.


    When the lift opened on the top floor, there were a couple more guards waiting. It really was ridiculous, at least to Wayne. But he had little choice in the matter. It was just a petty inconvenience.


    "Alright there, Mr. Carter," said one of the guards. They looked so similar to the previous guys that it took Wayne a second to convince himself he had not stepped out of the lift on the same floor. But no, he was now standing on a carpeted mezzanine which offered sprawling views of the pitch and the stands.


    "Nice work this afternoon," said the second guy.


    Wayne just grunted, not looking at either of them. "Box," he said.


    "Right this way," said one of the guards, as though Wayne had not spent the majority of his life in and around this stadium. They escorted him down another corridor, towards the double doors which led into the box itself. And, surprise surprise, there was another pair of guards waiting there, eyeing him suspiciously. At least, one of them was. The other, a guy Wayne had not seen before, was smiling slightly.


    "Mr. Carter," he said. With a swift gesture he indicated for the second guard to stay where he was. He would take care of Wayne. This man had a shaved head and beady eyes. He was a little shorter than the other guards, but made up for it with his stocky build. From Wayne''s experience, it was the short guys you had to watch out for. They were the real tough guys, the ones who had fought and worked harder than their burly counterparts.


    He held the door open for Wayne with a deferential little bob of his head. Wayne was still not used to being treated like a celebrity. It didn''t happen as often as he might have liked, and when it did he liked to make an effort. "You''re new," he said.


    "I am," the guard agreed. "That was a hell of a play this afternoon.¡±


    "Thanks."


    Wayne headed through the door, but before he could cross the threshold this new guard blocked his path with his bulky frame. He produced a crisp white envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Just a sec," he said in a low voice. "Sorry about this, I feel a right prat, but my son''s a big fan of yours. I mean, a big fan..."


    Wayne felt himself going a bit red.


    "He wrote you a letter," the guard continued, handing him the envelope. "He wants to be like you when he''s older. He spent a lot of time on this letter. It would make his day if you''d have a read of it and maybe send him a reply."


    "Sure," said Wayne, "course I will." He smiled at the guard and tucked the envelope into his own pocket. He liked getting fan mail. It was still a relatively new sensation for him, and it gave him a much-needed ego boost when it occurred. More often than not, the mail he received at the club and the messages he got online were hateful, or at the very least mocking him because of the perceived nepotism behind his place on the team. So a letter from a kid he had inspired made a nice change. He would read it, he decided, and he would write a reply.


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    But within moments he had forgotten the letter. All at once he was in the fray once more. The director''s box was crammed with people, men and women in suits. Some of them Wayne had met before, but he had no memory for names. These were media people and money men. Friends of dad''s. And right in the centre, like the king surveying his domain, was David Carter.


    The crowd burst into applause when they realised Wayne was among them. They cheered and slapped him on the back.


    "Nice work, Wayne."


    "You did it again, kid."


    "Two goals in ten minutes! I couldn''t believe my eyes..."


    Times like this, when he was surrounded by his father''s lackeys and hangers-on, Wayne felt like royalty. Especially when he had just scored two goals. Waves of adulation washed over him. People toasted him with their champagne flutes ¨C real champagne, not the Prosecco they sprayed around in the changing room. Wayne himself could not taste the difference, but he would never have dared admit that. Particularly in front of his dad, who always insisted on the best of everything for his family. Tail-coated waiters carried trays of glasses brimming with the crystalline beverage. Wayne helped himself to one and took a sip. It was purely for show. He would have preferred a pint of something to all these bubbles.


    "There he is!" bellowed David Carter, his arms spread wide. "There''s my champion!"


    "Alright, Dad?"


    "Alright? I''m fucking ecstatic, matey boy!"


    It was amazing how David Carter''s presence could make or break a party. When he was in a good mood, he seemed to exude waves of bonhomie that the other guests could not help but absorb and emulate. But when he was in a bad mood, he was murderous. You could almost sense the chill in the air. And God forbid you should ever cross him.


    Wayne decided to make the most of the good cheer.


    He looked up to his dad the way most kids look up to their fathers. But there was more to it than that; the roots went even deeper. Throughout Wayne''s childhood, David Carter had been a kind of godlike presence; the voice of fearsome authority; a benevolent dictator. Wayne had learned quickly that the best way to stay in his dad''s good books was to do everything he could to keep the old man happy. In some ways, Wayne had devoted his young life to fulfilling his dad''s every wish. David Carter lived and breathed football, so Wayne did too. David Carter revered professionalism, dependability and honesty in all things, so Wayne did too. Now, David was making a show of his son''s success in front of a crowd. What choice did Wayne have but to mimic his enthusiasm?


    As David hugged him tight, Wayne glimpsed Max Linley over his dad''s shoulder. Uncle Max was one of David''s oldest friends, and he had been a part of Wayne''s life for as long as he could remember. But at a party like this, Max seemed almost as uncomfortable as Wayne felt. Wayne gave bald, fat, track-suited Max an encouraging smile. It was his way of saying don''t worry. It''ll be over soon. But Max did not smile back. Instead, he fished his mobile phone out of his pocket and prodded the "answer" button.


    Wayne made out the word "Lorenzo." Fabian Lorenzo, the Colombian striker. His arrival had been hotly anticipated in the press and among the fans. It had even briefly shunted Wayne from people''s minds and silenced the endless debate about whether or not he deserved his place in the first team.


    Wayne was intrigued and a little intimidated by the Colombian''s reputation. He had heard mixed things.


    Max finished his phone conversation, then sidled up to David. "Lorenzo''s arrived," he murmured. "Rochelle''s taking him straight to the media hub, but I thought you''d want to go and say hello."


    David nodded. "Good thinking." He turned to Wayne. "Keep yourself entertained for a few minutes, there''s somewhere I have to go. Won''t be long."


    Wayne felt a sudden surge of fear. Abandoned in a crowd of strangers, he found himself at a loss for words. People in suits were still congratulating him. He found himself repeating "thank you, yeah, thank you, cheers," like a kind of mantra. He helped himself to another glass of champagne and knocked it back in one go.


    There was so much about David Carter''s professional life that was a mystery to Wayne. He lacked the innate business sense that had enabled David to climb the slippery slope to the top and fulfil the ambitions of a lifetime. Wayne¡¯s instincts were better suited for sport. Schmoozing crowds and networking with investors was better left to dad.


    Wayne was conscious of the crowd forming a circle around him, as though he were an exhibit in a museum. He grabbed a third champagne. By the fourth, he had finally started to have a good time.


    That''s when David reappeared, and he was even more jubilant than he had been earlier. "Drink up, my boy!" he shouted. "It''ll put hairs on your chest." Then he approached Max, who was standing alone by the window, looking out at the floodlit pitch. Wayne sidled up too, hoping to eavesdrop on what the two men had to say to one another. But neither of them spoke; instead, they simply shook hands, as though sealing a deal.


    And all at once, it was as if a great weight had lifted from Max''s shoulders. He finally smiled at Wayne, and said: "Well, well, look who it is! The bloody boy wonder!"


    When the party finally began to disperse, some of David''s associates were talking about heading to a club, taking the party elsewhere. "You coming, Mr. Carter?"


    "Thanks but no thanks,¡± David said. ¡°You may not have heard, but our latest acquisition is in the building. He''s being interviewed at the moment, but I''d better take him out to dinner, give him an old-fashioned Mile End welcome."


    "Can I meet him?" Wayne asked.


    "You can meet him on Monday, when the rest of the team does.¡±


    The room had begun to sway. Wayne was now in too good a mood to resent being rebuffed by his dad. "Where''s my driver?" he mumbled to no one in particular.


    Max had his phone in his hand once more. "I''ll call him for you," he volunteered.


    Wayne slipped out of his jacket and flung it playfully over his shoulder. He took the lift back down again, not really noticing the guards as they escorted him to the exit.


    By the time he got outside, a cool breeze was whipping around him and he was glad to tumble into the back of his Rolls Royce (nothing but the best for David Carter''s son). The driver gunned the engine and the city slithered by in a blur of lights. Wayne''s eyelids fluttered and he began to doze.

 Chapter Four

    Wayne had experienced many hangovers in his life, but the one that scorched his retinas and seared his cerebellum when he woke the next morning was up there with the worst of them. There was something about champagne, it knocked him out better than any other booze. It was eleven in the morning when he finally plucked up the courage to lift his head from beneath the bedclothes. He blinked furiously into the blazing sunlight that streaked in through the blinds.


    These days his bedroom was very different from the one he had grown up in; this one was vast, white and sterile. Like the moon, or maybe an operating theatre. It nestled on the top floor of the grade-II listed mansion in the wilds of Essex that Wayne now called home. A place of echoing, cavernous hallways and creaking staircases. If he were a different kind of person, he might have found it spooky. But Wayne had never had much use for imagination.


    What he appreciated most about this place was freedom. It was his, a place where he could come to get away from the looming shadow of his father. Somewhere to get drunk and host parties and bring a girl if he could find one. But of course, really it was just the illusion of freedom. Dad had picked the place for him, hired the staff to look after him, and ensured the house and gardens were well-maintained. Basically, this house was a sprawling, luxurious prison cell.


    But Wayne wasn¡¯t thinking about that when he tumbled out of bed that Sunday morning. In fact, he was struggling to form even the most basic coherent thoughts. That champers last night had really knocked him for six. His feet sank into the rich, plush white carpet and he looked down to discover that he was naked. Well, that was a development. He grabbed a bathrobe from a hook on the back of the bedroom door and quickly wrapped it around himself. Then he headed through to the ensuite, where a blast of icy water helped to revive him somewhat.


    But he was still feeling giddy and a little sick as he stomped down the stairs. The place was empty; all the staff had Sundays off. The hallway was littered with clothes. He must have stripped off and tumbled into bed as soon as he got in last night. His suit trousers were draped over the bannister, his boxers hooked on the chandelier. He followed the trail of discarded clothing into the kitchen. His jacket was draped over one of the chairs. He picked it up and gave it a sniff. Ah, the good old-fashioned stench of boozy sweat.


    Wayne headed for the sink and filled a glass from the tap. He knocked it back in one gulp. Finally, the room stopped spinning. His head still felt as though a pneumatic drill was chugging away between his ears, but that would soon pass. He sat down at the kitchen counter and ran his hands across the cool, smooth marble surface.


    He looked out the window at the Porsche 911 parked in the gravel driveway. The driver must have put the Rolls away in the garage. His house, his furniture, his clothes and his cars had all been thrust on Wayne with undue speed. At the time, he had felt as if he¡¯d won the lottery. But there was a statistic he¡¯d read online somewhere that said the suicide rate for lottery winners was through the roof. It was possible to have too much money, too much success. Wayne had always worked hard to stay grounded, but circumstances did not make it easy for him.


    That¡¯s when he remembered the strange encounter with one of the guards yesterday. The little guy with the son. Hadn¡¯t he given him something¡­?


    A letter! That was it. Wayne reached over and grabbed his jacket. He fished around in the inside pockets and eventually emerged with the envelope, which was now decidedly creased.


    To Wayne, the outside of the envelope read. Written in felt-tip or something similar. The cursive was decidedly confident; it didn¡¯t look like something a ten-year-old would have done. But then again, writing was never Wayne¡¯s area of expertise. He ripped open the envelope and unfolded a single sheaf of paper.


    It wasn¡¯t tightly packed with childish scribbles. In fact, the handwriting was just as bold and decisive as the lettering on the envelope. The message was brief. It said:


    YOUR DAD STOPS OPERATING IN WEST LONDON


    OR


    WHEN WE PLAY MILE END


    WE END YOUR CAREER


    Time stopped. The world around him froze. And then, all at once, he came crashing back to reality with an undignified crash. In his shock, he had let go of the glass of water he¡¯d been holding in his left hand. It dropped to the tiled floor and shattered spectacularly.


    He sat there in the warm sunlight, reading and rereading the brief cluster of words. His brain could not quite make sense of them. And once the shock began to wear off, it was almost funny. Except, no, it wasn¡¯t funny at all.


    He absent-mindedly got down from the stool and scraped his foot on a shard of glass.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± His voice echoed to the uppermost halls of the old manor house.


    He stumbled out into the hall to retrieve his trousers. His phone must still be in one of the pockets¡­


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    It was. He grabbed it, letting the trousers drop to the ground at his feet. He prodded the keypad a couple of times and opened up his address book. He jabbed a button labelled ¡°DAD¡± and held the phone to his ear.


    ¡°Come on, come on¡­¡±


    He need not have worried. David Carter was not a man to decline a call from his only son, his golden boy.


    ¡°Alright lad! Have a good night last night? Blow off a bit of steam?¡±


    ¡°Dad, listen,¡± Wayne snapped, ¡°something¡¯s happened.¡±


    David¡¯s tone immediately became serious. ¡°What do you mean? Tell me.¡±


    ¡°I need you to go through the CCTV from yesterday. There was someone at the ground who shouldn¡¯t have been. One of the security guards.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re only mentioning this to me now? Why didn¡¯t you tell me last night?¡±


    ¡°Because I didn¡¯t know last night. He gave me a note. He said it was from his son and he told me to read it. I didn¡¯t get around to it till this morning.¡±


    David sighed on the other end of the line. ¡°You always were a slow reader.¡±


    ¡°Fuck off, dad. This is serious.¡±


    ¡°Alright, so what did this letter say?¡±


    Wayne held it up in front of him, disconcerted to spot that his hand was shaking slightly. ¡°It says: ¡®Your dad stops operating in the West End, or, when we play Mile End we end your career.¡¯¡±


    He waited a moment to see what his dad had to say. Somewhat alarmingly, there was a good ten seconds of silence on the other end of the line.


    After what felt like hours of that hideous silence, David said: ¡°Send me a photo, Wayne.¡±


    Wayne took a quick photo of the note and sent it over.


    More silence as David read the message for himself. ¡°I¡¯ll get security on this,¡± he said. ¡°They can go through the tapes, find out who this fucker is. Can you describe him for me, Wayne?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. He was a bit shorter than the other guards. Now that I think about it, he was kind of out of place. I should have known at the time he didn¡¯t belong. But he was dressed like all the others, and nobody else seemed bothered about him.¡±


    David sucked in air through his teeth; a classic sign that he was furious. ¡°Alright,¡± he said, ¡°we¡¯ll track him down.¡±


    Before David could end the call, Wayne cut in quickly. ¡°You know what this means, don¡¯t you? It means there¡¯s a bad apple in your team. It¡¯s fucking ridiculous that the Popovs were able to hand me a letter in person. What if that bloke had a gun? Or a knife? Could have been a fucking disaster.¡±


    ¡°I know, son,¡± David said softly.


    ¡°Listen, I don¡¯t need any of this, dad. I really don¡¯t. I have enough to worry about with my own fucking home crowd booing me. I don¡¯t need this shit on top of that. I don¡¯t need your enemies trying to put the frighteners on me. You need to sort out whatever you¡¯ve got going on with the Popovs, and make sure I¡¯m left out of it. Alright?¡±


    There was another silence, and for a worrying moment Wayne thought he may have stepped out of line. But then David answered him in a conciliatory tone: ¡°I¡¯ll sort it, son. Don¡¯t you worry. Nothing¡¯s going to happen to you. I give you my word on that.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± said Wayne, then ended the call.


    His heart was racing. He needed something to calm himself down. What he really needed was a drink; hair of the dog. But at the same time, he didn¡¯t want to risk facing the Popovs at diminished capacity. He had to keep his wits about him.


    Luckily (or unluckily) he didn¡¯t have any plans for this Sunday. None at all. That would give him time to think this whole thing through and work out what to do next. His paranoia went into overdrive. He checked all the windows ¨Call seventy-two of them. Every single one was securely locked and bolted. He called the home security firm that handled his alarm system and arranged for all his pin numbers to be changed. He also asked about getting more CCTV set up around the place. Maybe some sort of facial recognition scanner. That way he could guarantee that only a select few people were ever allowed entry to the property. The security guy on the other end of the phone quoted some prices at him, but Wayne was only half-listening. And then all of a sudden he found himself wondering if he could really trust this guy, if even he might be in the pocket of the Popovs.


    He ended the call without settling anything. He ferreted around in a few kitchen cupboards and emerged with a dustpan and brush, which he used to scrape up the broken glass from the floor. Then he went in to one of his seven bathrooms and gave his bloodied foot a good wash with warm water. Next, he dressed. Just a t-shirt and jeans; nothing special. He wanted to look as inconspicuous as possible.


    It had turned out to be a glorious day, and the rolling countryside all around him had never been more peaceful. But when he headed out into the garden, he found himself scanning the horizon for enemies, as though the Popovs were some kind of invading force.


    The Popovs. Even the name made Wayne uneasy.


    Thinking back, there were so many things that happened in his childhood that had warned him his dad was no ordinary businessman. Red flags that would have made a more inquisitive son ask difficult questions. But Wayne had learned from a very young age that the best approach was to not ask questions. To not make waves. To do everything he could to keep the old man happy.


    All the same, there had been plenty of briefcases full of money that seemed to materialize from nowhere around the house. While more and more people were embracing the tech-savvy cashless society, David Carter continued to favour old-fashioned notes. There was nothing too unusual about that, perhaps, but the sheer volume of money coming in and out of the house certainly was unusual. On the few decidedly rare occasions when Wayne did mention this to his dad, David would always change the subject. ¡°Just a bit of spare change,¡± he¡¯d say. ¡°Anyway, shouldn¡¯t you be at practice?¡±


    One of the things about power is that you have to be careful how you use it. David Carter had been investigated a few times by various regulatory bodies over the years. These regulatory bodies were then wined and dined before ¨C surprise, surprise ¨C coming to their senses and realising that David Carter was as pure as the driven snow. But it was close shaves like this that ensured David never took anything for granted.


    When Wayne was growing up he was aware that all his friends¡¯ dads were quick to demonise drugs and alcohol. At school there were regular assemblies and classes devoted to guiding kids away from the illicit substances that could prove to be their downfall. But David was a bit more laissez-faire about things like that. He turned a blind eye when he caught Wayne drinking lager while still underage. Wayne enjoyed the benefits, but he never really stopped to wonder why. Even when it cost him his mother.

 Chapter Five

    Wayne was twelve years old when he realised the true nature of what his dad did for a living. It was the day he happened to find a polythene bag of suspicious white powder in the cupboard under the bathroom sink at home. It was tucked away behind a few pipes, but really very little care had been taken to hide it. Anyone could have stumbled across it, and it just so happened that Wayne did. He pulled the bag out, slid his fingernail under the seal and opened it carefully. Then he dipped his little finger into the powder and gave it a quick lick.


    Wayne¡¯s mum, Maureen, was David¡¯s childhood sweetheart. They had been together virtually all their lives, and she was devoted to their son. When she came into the bathroom and found him holding a bag of cocaine, she hit the roof. Wayne still got goosebumps at the memory.


    ¡°I¡­ I found it!¡± he had protested. She just gave him a stinging slap across the face.


    When David got home from the club that night, she had been waiting for him at the kitchen table. Worryingly, she had a steak knife at arm¡¯s reach.


    ¡°Here, what¡¯s all this about?¡± David had asked, half-joking. ¡°Is it an ambush?¡±


    Maureen¡¯s eyes were brimming with tears, but she did her best to maintain a measured, level tone of voice. ¡°Your son found the bag of coke you hid under the bathroom sink.¡±


    ¡°He¡­ he what?¡±


    ¡°You fucking heard me!¡± she roared. ¡°This is it, David. I¡¯m not putting up with it any more. I¡¯m leaving. And I¡¯m taking Wayne with me.¡±


    Wayne was listening to the argument from the other room with a sensation of mounting horror in his heart. How could he have been so fucking stupid, letting his mum catch him like that? Now he had ruined everything.


    When David spoke, his voice was chillingly calm. ¡°You go if you want, but Wayne stays with me.¡±


    ¡°No way. I¡¯ll kill you first!¡±


    There was a scrape of metal on wood as she grabbed the knife. Wayne came and stood in the doorway, watching as his mum threatened his dad with the blade. But David Carter stood his ground, and she couldn¡¯t go through with it.


    Maureen Carter had packed her bags that night and left without a word. It was the last time Wayne had ever seen her. She had never once tried to contact him since. Not even a phone call or an email. Nothing. Sometimes, he wondered if she may have been trying desperately to reach him, but that David had done everything in his power to prevent it. He wouldn¡¯t put it past his dad, but he couldn¡¯t let himself seriously consider it. The thought was not only too horrible to imagine, but Wayne had a strange feeling that his father would somehow know he was thinking it, and punish him accordingly. So he pushed it from his mind.


    Over time, Wayne''s attitude toward his mum had undergone a dramatic shift. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as the saying goes. The resentment and even hatred he had felt towards her dissipated over the years, like mist in the air. Now he felt only occasional pangs of sadness at her absence. There were times when he had even gone so far as to try and seek her out. Looked her up online at least, checked whether she had a Facebook or Instagram profile. But she was persona non grata. It was as if she had simply ceased to exist.


    The trick, of course, was not to think about it at all. And Wayne had been doing a pretty good job so far. The incident with the bag of coke was certainly a defining moment in his young life, though. And it had accomplished exactly what David Carter had hoped it would: it bound Wayne closer to him. It was a means of establishing loyalty. Obedience. Power.


    That¡¯s what Wayne assumed, anyway. That is father had done it on purpose. And like a good little lapdog, Wayne had rolled over and taken it. Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die. It wasn¡¯t good to think about things too much.


    Take this latest business with Fabian Lorenzo, for instance. A Colombian footballer more famous for his hard-partying lifestyle than for his conduct on the pitch. What exactly was he going to contribute at Mile End Athletic? He wasn¡¯t a great player, and his star did not burn bright enough to attract fresh fans to the Mile End Stadium. He was just a middle-of-the-road celebrity and a mediocre player. But David Carter continued to send his scouts all over the world.


    Wayne knew there was more to it than simply acquiring fresh faces for the team. He knew those flights back and forth were carrying more than just eager young footballers, and he understood where the bag of cocaine under the bathroom sink had come from. You didn¡¯t need to be a rocket scientist to figure it out. But Wayne had simply taught himself not to care.


    There had been close shaves, but it always worked out in the end. For instance, there was the reporter a few years ago who had taken it upon himself to do a bit of digging into David Carter¡¯s business practices. Wayne could picture the reporter now, standing alone in the rain. Watching. He had looked so fat, sad and dissolute, on a collision course with oblivion. Kevin Reece was his name. They had only met once; four years ago. At that point Wayne was pretty new to the team, and unused to dealing with the press. Kevin Reece had accosted him in the car park outside the Mile End training ground one morning. "Wayne, we need to talk."


    "I''ve got nothing to say to you."


    "No, but I''ve got plenty to say to you. It''s about your dad."


    "What about him?" Unconsciously, Wayne had begun squaring up to the reporter. He was so tall, he towered over the little anoraked man.


    "He''s not who you think he is, Wayne. He''s got this whole other secret life."


    "So what if he has? None of your business, is it?"


    "He''s a drug dealer, Wayne. But not just that. He''s a gangster. He runs a whole criminal empire."


    That encounter could have ended so very differently. But that was the moment the rest of the Mile End first team came spilling out of the nearby building, chatting and laughing. They drifted over in Wayne''s direction, and he was briefly swept along by their conversation and good humour. When he looked back in the reporter''s direction, Kevin Reece was gone.


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    In those days, Kevin Reece was known as a crusading journalist pursuing truth and justice. He could have made a lot of trouble for David Carter, given half the chance. But scarcely a month later, his name and face were plastered all over the front pages of just about every newspaper. He had been inexorably linked to a very messy and embarrassing phone-hacking scandal. He quickly came to embody the very worst corruption and sleaze. By the end of the year, he had been sent down for six months. He served two, but by the time he got out, his career was over. And less than a fortnight after he left prison, he was stabbed to death in a botched mugging.


    Wayne had come across news of Kevin Reece''s murder while he was scrolling through his phone, doing the rounds of his various social media profiles. DISGRACED JOURNALIST DEAD was the headline. A mere three words ignominiously rounding out Kevin Reece''s story. No photo. No mention of Mile End Athletic or David Carter (but then again, why would there be?). The news scarcely registered, and Wayne just scrolled away. He was soon embroiled in some Twitter spat or other, and it was almost as if Kevin Reece had never existed at all.


    But now, out of nowhere, Wayne was thinking about Kevin Reece. The memory of the dead paparazzo arose unbidden and unwelcome to the forefront of the young midfielder''s mind. A grim reminder that sometimes the good guy did not always come out on top.


    Well, Wayne was fucked if he was going to let himself become collateral damage and end up dead in a ditch somewhere. If the Popovs wanted a fight, that was Alright with him. As long as he wasn¡¯t the middle man.


    The funny thing is, in another universe, Mikhail Popov and David Carter might have been friends. They had a lot in common, after all. For one thing, they were the same age. For another, Popov owned the Chiswick Wanderers, one of Mile End¡¯s local rivals. They both lived and breathed football.


    Popov had very close links to Russian organised crime, although he presented himself as a ¡°legitimate businessman.¡± It was common knowledge that he was actually anything but. His two sons, Yuri and Stanislaw, were a pair of duplicate sociopaths who acted as his enforcers.


    For a few years now there had been a kind of stalemate between the Popovs and the Carter organisation. It had been mutually agreed that there was little to gain by fighting. They would simply have to learn to live with one another. At least, that had been Wayne¡¯s understanding. But this new development did not bode well. It hinted at underworld warfare, at all kinds of backstabbing and sabotage waiting to happen. Things were going to get ugly.


    As the day dragged on, Wayne found himself wondering what was going on over at the stadium. He wouldn¡¯t have wanted to be the head of security responsible for letting that guy into the building yesterday. Head of security for the Mile End Stadium was a man called Darren Greaves. He was one of David¡¯s cronies, with a fearsome reputation as someone you simply did not fuck with. Wayne knew him pretty well, having been frequenting the stadium since he was a boy, and he knew enough to tell that Darren was a softie. His bark was much, much worse than his bite. To be honest, Wayne liked him. He had always seemed like a decent bloke. Not the brightest bulb, but someone you could depend on.


    When Wayne¡¯s phone started buzzing that afternoon, he picked it up and was surprised to see that it was a video call from Darren. He tapped the ¡°answer¡± button and the screen was immediately filled by Darren¡¯s face. But it took Wayne a moment to recognise the head of security. His features were screwed up, one of his eyes was completely swollen shut and tears were streaming down his face. His lips flapped and quivered, and he eventually managed to speak. ¡°Wayne¡­ I¡¯m sorry. Wayne¡­ Please forgive me. Please.¡±


    ¡°Jesus Christ!¡± Wayne yelled. ¡°What the hell happened to you?¡±


    That¡¯s when he realised that someone was holding the camera on Darren; that the head of security was not alone, wherever he was. It looked to be a dark room, no doubt a dingy, nondescript basement somewhere. A place where his screams would not be heard.


    As Wayne watched, the cameraman turned the phone round to film himself. It was David. He was smiling. ¡°Alright, son? You won¡¯t believe it,¡± he said with a little chuckle, as though this were the most natural thing in the world, ¡°but there¡¯s no CCTV from yesterday. None at all. Nada. The whole lot has been wiped somehow. Some sort of massive data glitch. That¡¯s funny, isn¡¯t it? And would you believe this silly cunt ¨C ¡± he aimed the camera back at Darren, revealing the full extent of the security man¡¯s predicament, ¡°here can¡¯t explain it. He says he¡¯s never seen anything like it before.¡±


    Darren Greaves was sitting on a hard wooden chair. But he was not just sitting; he was attached to the chair. Eight-inch industrial-strength nails had been driven through each thigh, and the blood oozed from him, pooling murkily on the ground at his feet. It must have been agony. His shoulders were hitching up and down with each frantic, desperate breath. He had been badly beaten, likely with bats or metal bars. No doubt David and a few others had been torturing him for several hours.


    ¡°Dad¡­¡± Wayne began, but David cut him off.


    ¡°Wayne, we¡¯re not alone. In fact, you might consider this a conference call. You see, I¡¯ve got Tom on the line as well. Can you hear me, Tom?¡±


    A crackly voice from the ether answered: ¡°Um¡­ yes.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± David grinned. ¡°Because I want to be the first to congratulate you. You¡¯re my new head of security.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I am?¡±


    At times like this, when other men would have recoiled from the horror of what they were witnessing, David seemed to be revelling in it. He reminded Wayne of some kind of perverse, over-enthusiastic daytime game show host. ¡°You are indeed,¡± David said. ¡°Now don¡¯t fuck it up. I mean that. I don¡¯t handle failure well, Tom. You won¡¯t let me down, will you?¡±


    ¡°No, sir!¡± Tom said at once.


    ¡°Now, the reason I wanted both of you on this call¡­¡± David continued, reverting to his habitual businesslike demeanour, ¡°is that I wanted to show you what happens when my head of security puts my son¡¯s life at risk.¡±


    With that, David propped the cameraphone on some sort of surface ¨C likely a work bench ¨C so that it was aimed directly at Darren. David himself was also in frame, standing beside the unfortunate security man, looming over him. Then, in a single fluid motion, David whipped open his jacket and pulled a pistol from his belt. It was a nondescript black handgun, no doubt missing a serial number and altogether untraceable.


    Darren¡¯s one good eye widened in horror as the barrel of the gun hovered level with his temple. Then David squeezed the trigger. The gun did not produce the kind of deafening roar Wayne had anticipated. It was more of a muted pop, like a second-rate firework.


    And Darren¡¯s head did not explode spectacularly. His neck simply jerked sideways and then he slumped forward, his chin on his chest.


    No sooner had the shot been fired than David had replaced the pistol in his belt and buttoned up his jacket once more. After that brief flash of violence, he was back to his old self. But he clearly could not resist kicking Darren in the chest, tipping the poor bastard over backwards so that he landed flat in a pool of his own blood, disappearing from the frame and from their lives forever. Wayne thought he might throw up. It took everything in him not to drop the phone and vomit everywhere.


    ¡°See?¡± said David. ¡°Simple as that. Don¡¯t let me down, Tom.¡± And he ejected the new head of security from the conference call.


    Now that he was alone with his dad again, Wayne was angry. ¡°Did you have to do that?¡± he snarled, doing his best to keep his temper under control.


    ¡°I don¡¯t do things by halves, Wayne. You know that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I noticed.¡± Wayne ended the call and let his phone clatter onto the kitchen counter. On the plus side, his hangover was gone.

 Chapter Six

    Wayne was good at getting on with things. The way his life was, he''d had to come up with all kinds of coping mechanisms. That was why, over the next few days, all the worry he¡¯d been feeling about the fans booing him, or the threat from the Popovs, or the sight of his dad spattering a security man''s brains over the wall of a basement somewhere, drifted away. He let it all wash over him like the tide; all the anger and violence. And any shock, anger or grief that might have been roiling inside of him was replaced by a blissful apathy.


    At the root of this apathy was the profound trust in his dad ¨C he knew he could rely on David to take care of things. So, when he didn''t hear anything for the next few days, he took it as a good sign. He tore the threatening note into a handful of shreds, tipped them into the kitchen bin and carried on with his life.


    Of course, neither he nor David was willing to leave anything to chance, and so he went ahead with increased security. On David''s recommendation he went with a particularly expensive independent contractor. Wayne did not let himself think too much about the fact that the distinctly compromised security detail at the Mile End stadium had also been his dad''s choice. Instead, Wayne simply forked out the cash and settled back into his everyday life. All it meant was that the house felt a bit crowded now. There were men in suits patrolling the gardens and haunting the corridors like the ghosts Wayne did not believe in. He did not trouble to learn their names. Quite honestly, he didn''t care. His dad had told him not to worry, to forget about it. And so he did.


    At least, he would have if his teammates would have let him.


    At training the following Monday, Wayne took the short walk from his Range Rover to the training building accompanied by a pair of discreetly armed guards and was met by a chorus of catcalls. Bloody Nick Devlin was the ringleader, of course. A perennial shit-stirrer, was Devlin. "It''s alright Wayne," he yelled, "no need for the armed escort. We''ll look after you."


    "Piss off, Devlin." Wayne forced himself to smile, though he did not feel like it. While he had gotten used to these lurking presences with their sunglasses and earpieces, he had not stopped to think about what it might look like to other people. He turned to his guards and, with a nod, indicated for them to wait outside the gates for him. They obeyed, and he jogged over to his teammates feeling like a right prat.


    "Didn''t you hear?" he said, thinking fast. "I''ve got a bloody stalker, mate. Absolute nutter. And you know what my dad''s like, he don''t do things by halves. So he''s pushed the boat out and got me a load of security."


    The mention of David Carter had an immediate effect on Nick Devlin. He glanced at his shoes like a naughty schoolboy and immediately changed his tune. "Yeah, well, you''ve got to be careful with stuff like that. These stalkers can be pretty nasty."


    Wayne grinned. "Well, if I wasn''t such a stud they wouldn''t be after me, would they?"


    One of the other players, Rick, took this as his cue to weigh in. "The crazy ones are the best ones, Wayneyboy!" he called out laddishly.


    "Oh yeah? That why you married Cassandra, is it, Rick?"


    Cue a chorus of roars from the rest of the team. "Aw, mate! You got done there Rick!"


    "Alright!" came a sharp bark from the other side of the tarmac. "Enough mucking about." The players looked and saw their head coach, Luke Grimsby, standing with his hands in the pockets of his tracksuit, puffing plumes of chilly morning air. Grimsby had been a player himself in years gone by, until a splintered ankle put an end to his World Cup dreams. Now he contented himself by yapping at the Mile End first team like a pissed off chihuahua.


    Grimsby had his work cut out for him at the moment: he had a new player to contend with, not to mention a team that was largely dysfunctional, in spite of the pretended camaraderie. For all their banter and practical jokes, Mile End Athletic was scarcely a team at all. Rather, it was a bunch of lads out for themselves ¨C and only themselves. They would throw each other under the bus as soon as blink. The particular magnet for their undisguised venom was Wayne. If it had been up to Luke Grimsby, he would have kept Wayne back a bit. He would have let him earn his place in the first team via more visible means, so that the fans could judge the lad''s talent for themselves. But of course, it had not been up to Luke. He had not even been consulted. Wayne was in the team, and that was that. Now the poor lad had to contend with thousands of fans who wouldn''t piss on him if he was on fire.


    Then there was this new Colombian. Again, Luke Grimsby had not been consulted. Well, that wasn''t quite true, he had, but the "consultation" had taken the form of him being escorted into David Carter''s office at the top of the world and informed that he would soon be welcoming a new player to his team. The way David talked about it, the arrival of the player was an inevitability, like an unwanted pregnancy, and there was nothing any of them could do about it.


    While Luke Grimsby strutted around the pitch, occasionally growling encouragement or admonition at the young players, he thought about the Colombian.


    Luckily, he spoke perfect English. Grimsby had worked with enough players from overseas to know that this was not always the case. It could make things very difficult. But a language barrier was not one of Lorenzo''s problems. What was a problem was his ham-fisted approach to the beautiful game. He was aggressive, and he certainly did not lack drive, but there was no panache. No flair. Nothing distinctive. He evidently had a lot of personality off the pitch and was not afraid to indulge in drinking, partying, and just about every other vice under the sun. While Wayne Carter made up for his physical deficiencies with his boundless energy, Fabian Lorenzo was a sloppy player. And now Luke Grimsby, poor bastard Luke Grimsby, who had missed just about every opportunity life had thrown at him, found himself stuck with a team of sub-par players who hated each other. Sometimes he wondered what the hell David Carter was playing at. Not that he would ever have voiced his concerns to the big man. It was more than his job was worth. While the players played, he slumped on a plush leather bench seat and sighed.


    As for Wayne, he found that the more he played, the greater his anxiety. At home he could just sit and watch telly and forget about things. Forget about the pitiful last words of the security man. Forget about the Popovs. But here, at the local training ground, as he darted around and practiced his manoeuvres, he caught himself glancing surreptitiously in the direction of his bodyguards. Checking they were still there. Checking they had not abandoned him. Making sure that he was not on his own.


    The more he thought about it, the worse it got. The faster the adrenalin was pumping through him, the more his paranoia increased. The world around him started to blur, he charged at the ball and tackled his teammates with added aggression. He thought about the security team back at his house, rooting through his stuff, going through all his cupboards and clothes, checking for bugs or bombs or whatever it was they were looking for. He thought of the armed guards, shadowing him day and night. They were in his employ, but if push came to shove, and his father came for him the way he¡¯d come for Darren, would they still protect him? Were they his men, or his father¡¯s?


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    All at once, a feeling of horror flooded his heart. He couldn''t live like this. He couldn''t.


    "WAYNE!¡± It was Luke Grimsby, standing to one side of the pitch, beckoning.


    Wayne stopped what he was doing, took a deep, calming breath, then jogged over.


    "Wayne, what''s the matter with you?"


    "What do you mean, boss?"


    "You''re on another planet. You''re all over the place. What''s going on?"


    Wayne stood with his mouth hanging open for a moment. He had not realised it was quite so obvious. "I¡­ I¡¯m sorry, Luke."


    "Don''t let me down, Wayne. You know it''s a big game tomorrow, I need you on top form."


    A big game. That was most certainly an understatement. Tomorrow''s game ¨C a home match at Mile End ¨C was against none other than Chiswick Wanderers. The Popovs themselves would be in attendance; all of them. Wayne knew that if they were ever going to carry out their threat, it would be tomorrow.


    For the fans, it was a local derby, a chance for them to give their longtime rivals a bloody good pasting. But for Wayne Carter, it was life or death. All at once, the terror and the anger that he had been suppressing ever since he received that note came flooding back.


    "Wayne? Jesus, you look like you''ve seen a ghost. Is it this stalker business?"


    "Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Yes, that''s what it is. Sorry Luke. I''m not myself at the moment."


    END YOUR CAREER


    The words flashed in front of Wayne''s eyes as though in blazing neon. He swallowed. "I... I don''t know if I can play tomorrow."


    "What?" Luke snapped. "The fuck are you talking about?"


    "I don''t know if I can do it."


    Stage fright. First night jitters. In some ways, a footballer is like an actor. A game is a performance. There are plenty of ways to handle a jittery actor, and Luke Grimsby had developed his own technique over the years. "Don''t be a pussy, Wayne," he said, smacking the midfielder on the arm a little too hard. "Time to man up."


    Of course, there was no way Luke Grimsby could entertain the idea of Wayne not taking to the pitch in tomorrow''s game. He cast an unfriendly glance at Fabian Lorenzo, who was doing a few ostentatious stretches and trying his best to look busy. If this guy was the future of the club, then they were all fucked.


    Wayne took a swig from his water bottle, then immediately spat it on the ground. Could be poisoned. No! He was being ridiculous. The Popovs wouldn''t try something like that. Would they?


    He needed to think. He needed space. But more than anything else, he needed to get out of tomorrow''s game. He could try playing the stalker card a bit more ¨C make out that''s what was worrying him. Or...


    That''s when he came up with another idea. It was so simple, why hadn''t he thought of it before? There was a fool proof way to get out of playing in tomorrow''s match, and that was to get injured. Nothing too serious, just a pulled hamstring or something similar. The sort of thing that happened all the time and would not raise the slightest suspicion from his teammates, the fans, or the Popovs. Not a bad idea. He might just be able to pull it off.


    Then, under the watchful eye of Luke Grimsby, Wayne started to put his plan into action. He began playing with increased aggression, even during basic training matches. He was more confrontational in his challenges, charging his teammates and seizing control of the ball with commanding style. In the process he scored about four goals (he wasn''t counting) and made the rest of the team look like lazy twats. But nobody stepped up to meet him at that same level of adrenaline-charged ferocity. He glanced over at Luke and saw the manager nodding his approval. This was not supposed to happen.


    So, Wayne upped the ante a little bit more. He had a couple of near misses, which resulted in him skidding across the ground. But no injury. Not even the hint of an injury. What was the matter with him?


    That''s when another fresh opportunity arose. It was the new guy, Fabian Lorenzo. Wayne had only met him briefly and couldn''t really make his mind up about him. Lorenzo had an air of completely unwarranted arrogance, but it was obviously a front. It seemed to say, I''m not here to make friends. That was an attitude Wayne could identify with, though he knew that Lorenzo would not have to suffer the humiliating chants of 60,000 fans tomorrow.


    When Fabian Lorenzo took possession of the ball ¨C his first time in this training match ¨C Wayne charged at him. He barrelled into the young Colombian, slicing his feet out from under him in his wild attempt at a tackle.


    Lorenzo was obviously not expecting this. He was completely unprepared. He crumpled like an origami swan.


    Wayne found himself sliding along the ground again, conspicuously uninjured and in possession of the ball. What the hell had happened?


    He snapped back to reality at the sound of a shrill cry. Fabian Lorenzo was curled foetally on the ground, clutching his shin and rocking back and forth. Was he crying? Were those tears in his eyes?


    "Jesus, Wayne!" Grimsby snapped. "What the fuck are you playing at?"


    "I''m... I''m sorry..." Wayne said absently, as he clambered to his feet. "I didn''t mean to..."


    "Look, let''s just call it a day, shall we?" said Luke, beckoning to a couple of medics, who came jogging over to attend to the fallen Colombian. "Let''s chalk this up as a loss."


    Lorenzo was stretchered off, still moaning.


    "Fucking hell," Grimsby wheezed.


    "Nice job, Wayne," said Devlin with an unpleasant smile. "Maybe save it for Chiswick next time though, eh?"


    Wayne gritted his teeth. Not only had his plan failed, but he had almost crippled the new guy. There was only one thing for it. Now that the training was over for the day, Wayne showered, got dressed and wandered back in the direction of his two bodyguards, who had been standing by throughout, watching everything with identical looks of profound boredom. Before he reached them, Wayne took his phone out of his pocket and tapped his dad''s name in the address book.


    A few rings, and then David Carter''s voice came on the line, chipper as ever. "Alright Wayne? How''s it going? Set for tomorrow?"


    David was a master of acting as though nothing had happened. Hard to believe that only a couple of days ago, Wayne had watched him blow a man''s brains out.


    "Dad, it''s about tomorrow. I can''t play."


    "You what?"


    "You heard me. I don''t want to play. I don''t want anything to happen to me."


    David sighed. "Is this about that note again? Look, I told you not to worry about that. I won''t let anything happen to you. You know you can trust me."


    "I just don''t want to risk it."


    "That note didn''t mean anything. It''s just part and parcel of the business. This is a game, Wayne, that''s all it is. The Popovs want to put the shits up you. They haven''t got the guts to actually do anything. Not when they''re on our turf, surrounded by my men. I''ve got everyone coming down for this one, except for Tom and his team, who will be keeping an eye on your house while the game goes ahead. It''s all covered."


    "I''m still not sure..." Wayne tried again.


    As David talked, a thin, icy edge crept into his voice. It was subtle, but Wayne was able to recognise it, even over the telephone line. "There''s something else you need to think about, Wayne, and that''s how this makes me look. It''s all about appearances, and if you don''t play, do you know what that looks like? It looks like I''m backing down. And I don''t do that, do I? I don''t back down."


    There was a frosty pause. Then: "Say it."


    "Say what?"


    "Say I don''t back down."


    "You... you don''t back down," Wayne murmured.


    And all at once, David''s good humour returned. "Ata boy. I''ll see you at the match."


    Wayne ended the call and headed back to his two bodyguards. He clambered into the back of his Range Rover without a word, and as the car whisked him away from the training ground, he looked down at his hands and saw that they were shaking.

 Chapter Seven

    When he came off the phone to his son, David Carter made a quick call to his new head of security. "No fuck ups, okay? Or you know what happens."


    "No fuck ups, Mr. Carter."


    "Good." David put the phone down and settled back in his leather office chair. He prodded the buzzer on his desk and said: "Rochelle, put some champagne in the fridge, will you? I''ve a feeling we''ll have earned it by the end of tomorrow."


    At the end of the day''s work, David Carter descended in the plush elevator from his top-floor office and climbed into the back of his polished black limousine, which drove him away from the Mile End stadium at a stately pace. Unlike his son, David had no particular idealised affection for the countryside, and so he lived in a penthouse apartment in central London, with stunning, million-pound views of the Thames. It was a tall, brutalist building of iron and glass ¨C a reflection of its owner''s personality: stolid and immoveable. Lethally stubborn in the face of progress.


    When he got home, David slipped out of his jacket and settled back in an armchair with a glass of whisky. He loosened his tie. Then, with his phone, he switched on his elaborate hi-fi system. Vivaldi, a favourite of his. It calmed and soothed him.


    Sometimes he shared this exquisite masterpiece of modernist design that was his apartment with a woman named Felicia, a girlfriend who was a good twenty-something years younger than him, and who clearly fancied herself a trophy wife in training. But David wasn''t going to let himself be conned like that again. Never.


    Anyway, Felicia wasn''t around tonight. She liked to do her own thing, and often went away at weekends. It didn''t bother David. He didn''t let it.


    That night, he slept like a baby. The Popovs did not even cross his mind as he settled back in his deluxe king-size bed.


    *


    Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Wayne. He knew he was being stupid, and that he was taking this whole stupid thing too seriously. But all the same, he did not sleep. For several hours he paced the chilly marble floors of his mansion and convinced himself that he heard suspicious rustlings in the trees and foliage outside, or a sinister crunch of gravel, or the throb of an approaching engine. But the only people loitering outside were the security guards. It was two in the morning before Wayne finally retired to his bed. But his brain was still whirling. He lay back, staring at the white ceiling, waiting for the dawn.


    *


    Match day was cool and bright. Perfect pitch conditions. The air around the stadium hummed with anticipation; the fast food vendors did a roaring trade, as did the local pubs and eateries. A local derby like this one was always a special event. Police in stab vests patrolled the streets, as well as the heightened private security in and around the Mile End stadium.


    Wayne Carter got to the stadium a good thirty minutes before the rest of the team, accompanied by his own bodyguards. Almost unconsciously, his gaze darted around the place like a startled rabbit, scanning every nook and cranny for lurking assailants. He hated what that note had turned him into: a paranoid, quivering wreck. He wanted the match to be over so that he could get on with his life. Get this season over with, and then take a much-needed holiday. Maybe the Costa Del Sol. Somewhere far away from Mile End and his dad. And the Popovs.


    In the empty changing room, Wayne looked at himself in the floor-length mirror. What a sight he was. Only twenty-two, but his blond hair was greying at the temples, and there were bags under his eyes. He shouldn''t have to put up with shit like this. Nobody should.


    But before he could get too deep into his self-pity, the rest of the team started filing into the changing room, and all at once the air was filled with sweary banter and pre-match good cheer.


    "Right, look alive you lazy bastards! The gaffer''s coming down." That was Luke Grimsby, looking edgier than usual. These local derbies were good for commerce, but they weren''t good for his blood pressure.


    Like soldiers on parade, the team lined up along the wall of the changing room to await the arrival of the big man. David Carter strode into the room, all smiles, his suit sharp and his hair slicked back. "Alright boys?" he asked. "Thought I''d pop down to say all the best, and if you feel like kneeing one of those Chiswick wankers in the balls, then I''ll be glad to turn a blind eye."


    This elicited polite chuckles. Everyone was on their best behaviour.


    "Right!" said Grimsby, clapping his hands. "Enough faffing about."


    And the team dispersed. All, that is, except Wayne, who hung around to talk to his dad. It was obvious that David had something to say.


    "You okay, Wayne? You look like shit," David observed with a crocodile smile.


    "Thanks. I feel like shit."


    "Well, so long as you don''t play like shit that''s fine." David laughed at his own joke.


    "I''m playing," said Wayne with a shrug.


    "Yes you are. You''re a good lad. Right! I''m off. I''ll see you in the director''s lounge after the match." David turned to go, but Wayne stopped him.


    "Dad?"


    "What?"


    Wayne looked at his father, who was now sardonically arching an eyebrow. "Nothing," he mumbled. He stood there, hanging his head, as David strolled out of the changing room, whistling a merry tune.


    "Come on Wayne, get a wriggle on," said Grimsby. The two men shared a glance, and there was an unspoken acknowledgement between them that something was going to happen. Both of them knew that this was no ordinary match, although the rest of the team seemed unaware of that fact.


    One by one, they filed out onto the pitch, where they were met by the cheers and jeers of the crowd.


    *


    The Popovs, all three of them, were in attendance. Even though many of the Mile End and Chiswick fans did not know them by sight, they carried with them such an air of authority that it provoked awed silence in just about everyone who saw them. Mikhail strode through the stadium, stony-faced, flanked by his sons. Like David Carter, each of them was immaculately dressed in the finest suits, with gold watches, designer sunglasses and a host of other luxury accesories. They looked important, so they were important. Like the Red Sea, the crowds parted before them as they made their way through the stadium and up to the director¡¯s box. They had their own security detail which was, by necessity, smaller than David''s, but no less vicious. If anyone so much as looked at Mikhail funny, they would have been escorted out into the car park, or into a nearby vacant toilet cubicle, and given the beating of a lifetime.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    David watched them from across the room. His merciless glare was trained on Mikhail. Mikhail Popov, the bastard who had tried to put the frighteners on him. Who had tried to get to him through his son. Well, two could play at that game. As the ref blew his whistle and the match kicked off, David kept his gaze fixed on the Russian. Popov was chewing gum ¨C an ugly habit, David thought. But then again, maybe it was all part of the image he sought to convey? It''s an old adage that you only stay on top for as long as other people think you''re on top.


    David was conscious of a presence behind him. He spun round like a startled cat, but sighed with relief when he saw it was only Rochelle. "I thought you might like a glass of champagne, Mr. Carter," she said.


    "You read my mind, sweetheart."


    The game was ugly from the very first minute. Chiswick took possession early on, and battled hard to break through Mile End''s defence. The ref had his work cut out for him ¨C he dished out two yellow cards in the first five minutes. One of them was to Chiswick''s secret weapon, Ronnie Vincent. "The hellraiser," the media called him. A vicious cunt if ever there was one. He would have flattened a pretty-boy like Fabian Lorenzo. Fortunately, Lorenzo was laid up at home following his clash with Wayne the previous day.


    Ronnie Vincent liked to play up to his "tough guy" image. In reality, he was a mediocre player with a mean streak, but he somehow managed to convince the punters that he was a real East End gangster, both Kray twins rolled into one. He was tall and stony faced, which certainly helped. Like Mikhail Popov, he looked the part. In fact, Ronnie''s reputation had even led to a few cameos in a couple of British gangster movies, and rumour had it he would soon be leaving the world of professional sport behind him to become an actor. The fact that he had the personality of a plank of plywood had done little to hinder his ambitions.


    Most celebrities couldn¡¯t get away with the kind of stuff that Ronnie Vincent got up to. Bags of cocaine on the dashboard of his Rolls Royce, in full view of paparazzi cameras. Assaulting waiters in fashionable London nightclubs. A porn star on each arm as he walked the red carpet at the Sports Personality Awards.


    The point was that Ronnie Vincent played football¨C and lived his life¨C like a man with nothing to lose. He didn''t have a reputation to think of; if anything, his borderline psychotic approach to the game was just another facet of his media savvy. This would probably be his last season, so he might as well go out with a bang.


    Of all the Chiswick players, Ronnie Vincent was the one Wayne was most wary of. He gave him a wide berth. In fact, Wayne''s gameplay that day was pretty subdued. He lacked his usual drive. Perhaps it was because the crowd wasn¡¯t taunting him today. They had reserved their ire for Ronnie Vincent, chanting PSYCHO... PSYCHO... again and again. Ronnie lapped it up.


    Almost by chance, Wayne came into possession of the ball. It was a back pass from Abike, and Wayne wasn''t sure what to do with it. He had no intention of pressing on toward the goal. But he found himself surrounded by Chiswick players all the same, with no one to pass to. That''s when Ronnie Vincent came into view. They made eye contact and Ronnie Vincent ¨C the famous stone face ¨C smiled. A hideous grin. And he winked at Wayne. That''s when Wayne knew what was about to happen.


    He managed to pull off a deft feint, controlling the ball and manoeuvring it away from Ronnie. After all, in spite of his meanness, Ronnie just wasn''t much of a player. But Ronnie pressed on like a wolf scenting blood. He chased after Wayne with undisguised malevolence. The crowd saw it, too, and their chants of PSYCHO increased in volume and frequency.


    The word echoed in Wayne''s brain. He shouldered his way past a couple of Chiswick defenders and almost made it to their goal. He was just drawing back his right foot to hoof the ball past the keeper when Ronnie Vincent caught up to him.


    It was a moment that would be repeated endlessly on social media and the TV news. A moment, the commentators called it, that would live in infamy. It was gameplay like this, one armchair pundit posited, that brought the beautiful game into disrepute. Players like Ronnie Vincent were a disgrace to the game and should be banned.


    When Ronnie Vincent''s boot connected with Wayne Carter''s shin, it did so with such force that it snapped the bone in two. Later, spectators in the stands would try to convince each other that they had in fact heard the bone breaking, but of course that was impossible. They saw it, though. They saw Wayne''s right leg bend all the way back, as Ronnie Vincent''s savage tackle took his left leg out from under him, too, and sent him sprawling.


    It didn''t help that Wayne landed with his full weight on the broken bone, bending it even further out of shape. Time stood still as the pain jetted through him.


    All the other players on the pitch knew instinctively that this was bad. They stood like statues as the ball rolled to a halt just shy of the goal.


    Wayne let out a shriek of animalistic agony. Tears streaked down his face. He felt as though he had been consumed by flames. People had their phones out, filming the whole thing, trying to capture the perfect angle of this tableau of pain. Ronnie Vincent stood by, open-palmed, shrugging at the crowd, as if to say, Well, what did you expect me to do?


    The ref stopped play while the medics came jogging onto the pitch. There wasn''t much they could do. They studied Wayne''s mangled leg with undisguised horror. The bone was protruding through the skin, like a wisdom tooth bursting through a ruined gum. Blood streaked down what was left of Wayne''s shin. He continued to cry and howl with agony.


    David Carter stood in the director''s box with his palms pressed flat against the glass, watching as his son writhed on the grass below.


    "David..." It was Max Linley, his friend and confidant. A man he would have trusted with his life. "David, I''m so sorry."


    "What are you waiting for?" David demanded. "Get the fucking ambulance."


    Ronnie Vincent accepted his red card with good grace and withdrew from the pitch to cheers, applause and boos.


    The thing with broken bones is that even the slightest movement can do so much more damage. With that in mind, the medics were in no rush to stretcher Wayne off. The ambulance was idling outside the stadium, its engine throbbing loudly, ready to go. The traffic between stadium and hospital would no doubt be very heavy, so the sooner they hit the road, the better. All the same, it still took a few tortuous minutes to get things moving.


    Wayne was now lying on his back on the cold grass, tears streaming down his face, howling heavenward in his agony. The rest of the stadium seemed to be in shock. Of course, the TV cameras had been respectfully aimed away from him, and parents were covering their kids¡¯ eyes, but plenty of fans had their mobile phones out to record the event for posterity. Many of the belligerent spectators who had heckled him during previous matches now stood in horrified silence.


    The paramedics came charging onto the pitch and were met with a few muted cheers, but they were all about the business. They fitted a splint into place ¨C to more animalistic howls from Wayne ¨C and finally slid him onto a stretcher. As he was carried off the pitch, the uncanny silence was broken by polite applause from all around the stadium. The ambulance was waiting for him in the car park, its rear doors hanging open. The paramedics murmured meaningless reassurances in his ear. He would be fine, they told him. He was in good hands.


    David Carter turned away from the window, the undrunk glass of champagne still in his hand. He looked over at the Popovs, who were sitting on a trio of plush seats, watching everything. It was their doing, of course. David had underestimated their capabilities. He had also overestimated their intelligence. This had been a risky, ballsy play. And now they had declared war.


    Max Linley was saying something. David spun back toward him: ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I said, aren¡¯t you going with Wayne?¡±


    David took a slow, deep breath. It was his way of centring himself; of regaining a semblance of calm. ¡°Yes,¡± he said softly, ¡°I am.¡± He glanced back at the Popovs, and saw that a thin smile had insinuated its way across Mikhail¡¯s face. Without another word, David left the room.

 Chapter Eight

    The pain had caused Wayne to throw up all down himself. Luckily, this didn¡¯t happen until he was safely in the ambulance, away from all those cameras. One of the paramedics injected him with a hefty dose of painkillers, and he began to calm a little.


    From that point onward, the world had a kind of weird blur, and he felt as though he were moving in slow motion. He was lifted from the ambulance and laid out on a gurney.


    ¡°Wayne?¡± said a voice. ¡°Can you hear me, Wayne?¡±


    Wayne looked round and to his surprise saw that his dad was standing over him. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn¡¯t. He just didn¡¯t have the energy.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to be alright, Wayne,¡± said David. ¡°Don¡¯t you worry, son.¡±


    But even in his doped-up state, Wayne wondered if his dad was telling the truth.


    David watched as his barely-conscious son was wheeled into an operating theatre, out of his sight. A man in green surgical scrubs approached. ¡°Mr. Carter? My name is Chowdhury, and I¡¯ll be performing the operation on your son.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s bad, isn¡¯t it,¡± said David, absently. He did not even ask it as a question.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Chowdhury, ¡°the important thing is that we get started on the reduction surgery as soon as possible.¡±


    ¡°Reduction surgery? What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°It means that we need to get the bones realigned. That will allow us to assess the damage.¡±


    ¡°Listen, Chowdhury,¡± David said, taking a step toward the surgeon, ¡°he¡¯s going to be alright, isn¡¯t he? Up and about, and what-have-you?¡±


    The surgeon was unfazed. ¡°Your son has suffered a very serious injury. Unfortunately, we won¡¯t know the full extent of said injury until I get him under anaesthetic. My assistants are prepping him now, and then I¡¯ll get to work.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m aware that your son is a football player. With that in mind, I think you ought to prepare yourself for the worst.¡±


    ¡°You mean you can¡¯t fix him?¡±


    ¡°I mean that I may have to put a couple of metal rods in there. Your son will be lucky if he doesn¡¯t walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Now, if you¡¯ll excuse me, I have to get ready to operate.¡±


    David stood dumbstruck, watching as the surgeon strode away. A dangerous cocktail of anger and impotence coursed through him. Things were spiralling out of control; events were running away from him. He was powerless for the first time in a long time, and he did not like it.


    *


    The sight that met Wayne¡¯s eyes when he regained consciousness was not an encouraging one. He was lying on crisp, white sheets, no doubt in the best medical facility money could buy. His right leg was suspended from the ceiling by a network of marionette-wires and cables, but he almost did not recognise it as his own. The flesh that was visible was purple. Not a healthy colour. It was also snared by a cage of interlaced metal rods. The last and most troubling fact was that it had no feeling whatsoever. Wayne looked at it the way he might look at a museum piece in a glass case. It might have been anybody else¡¯s leg, but certainly not his own.


    On the plus side, it was certainly straighter than it had been when he last saw it. But that was about the only good thing he could say. It was well and truly mangled, even after hours of surgical treatment.


    Hours? Days? He realised that he had lost all conception of time. A digital clock on top of the small bedside cabinet told him it was three in the afternoon. But which afternoon? He must have been fading in and out of consciousness for days.


    ¡°You¡¯re awake,¡± said a nurse, and that¡¯s when Wayne started to take more notice of his surroundings. He had a room to himself, of course, and it was decorated with flowers and coloured wallpaper. The hospital staff had evidently done their best to make the place as palatable and homely as possible. The table by the window was filled with flowers and cards, undoubtedly from fans and other well-wishers.


    Before Wayne could say a word, the nurse skittered out in search of a doctor. She returned with a tall, statuesque fellow named Chowdhury. It turned out that he was the one who had operated on the leg. In other words, he was the one responsible for the mess of ruined flesh and wires.


    ¡°Mr. Carter, I¡¯m pleased to see that you¡¯re awake,¡± he said. ¡°How are you feeling?¡±


    Regaining some of his composure, Wayne finally spoke. ¡°How the fuck do you think I¡¯m feeling?¡±


    If Chowdhury was affronted, he didn¡¯t show it. No doubt he was used to this kind of thing. Instead he pulled up a chair, scraping its rubber-tipped legs across the parquet floor. ¡°Wayne, you¡¯ve had a very serious injury.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for the diagnosis.¡±


    ¡°It happened four days ago. Do you remember anything about it?¡±


    Wayne shook his head, so the doctor continued: ¡°Aside from the visible damage, your right leg was also broken in several other places. Almost shattered, in fact. To try and minimize the long-term effects, we had no choice but to insert two steel rods. The healing process will be long, and you will require extensive physical therapy¡­¡±


    Wayne cut him off. ¡°Healing process? Does that mean I¡¯ll be able to play again?¡± It was a glimmer of hope, and he¡¯d take it.


    But the surgeon¡¯s expression quickly snuffed it out. ¡°I understand that you were a professional footballer, Wayne. That¡¯s what makes this all the more difficult. What you have to understand is that it could have been so much worse. In fact, we even debated whether or not to amputate. But you were lucky ¨C we were able to repair some of the damage. Having said that, it¡¯s important that you come to terms with the fact that it is highly unlikely you will ever play football again.¡±


    Wayne¡¯s brain was whirling. ¡°Not impossible though?¡±


    The surgeon cleared his throat. ¡°Nothing is impossible,¡± he said, ¡°but I think it might be wise for you to make¡­ alternate arrangements. I¡¯m very sorry, Mr. Carter. If you¡¯d like, I can arrange for a psychiatrist to¡­¡±


    Wayne stopped listening. He was in shock. In a single stroke, his livelihood and his very reason for existing had been snatched away from him. And it was all his dad¡¯s fault. If not for David Carter and his illegal activities, none of this would have happened. Dad had promised to keep him safe. He had assured him that the Popovs dealt in empty threats; that there was nothing to worry about. Well, there had been something to worry about after all.


    Wayne began to cry angry tears. Dr. Chowdhury, he realised, had left. The nurse tried to comfort him, to dab at his face with tissues, but he shoved her away. He needed to let it out. He lay back on the bed and sobbed.


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    Later that day, his dad paid him a visit. David had obviously formed an understanding of hospitals based purely on repeats of Holby City, because when he turned up he was bearing a bunch of lilies and a packet of grapes.


    Lilies. Funeral flowers. Fitting, Wayne thought, to mourn his son¡¯s career.


    ¡°There he is!¡± David said, all false good cheer. ¡°Looking better already. We¡¯ll have you up and about in no time.¡±


    Wayne turned away. He couldn¡¯t bear to look at his father, let alone hear his meaningless platitudes.


    ¡°How are you feeling?¡± David asked more quietly. ¡°I¡¯ve spoken to the doctor and he says you¡¯re doing well.¡±


    Wayne snorted, but kept his face away from David.


    ¡°Well, as well as can be expected¡­¡± David conceded. Then he lowered his voice. ¡°Believe me, son, the Popovs will pay for this. They will rue the day they ever hurt my son.¡±


    A glint of triumph glittered in David¡¯s eye, and a horrifying thought occurred to Wayne. He stared at his dad, a sick fear building in his stomach. When he spoke, his words came out shaky.


    ¡°Did you do this on purpose, dad?¡±


    David blinked, surprised. ¡°What?¡±


    Wayne licked his lips. ¡°Did you let them ruin my career on purpose? Because you needed an excuse to bring them down, once and fore all?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous, Wayne,¡± David snapped, a lick of anger in his voice. ¡°Your football career meant everything to me.¡±


    ¡°Your career means everything to you,¡± Wayne spat. ¡°And the Popovs have been threatening that for you.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about,¡± David said, shaking his head. ¡°I can¡¯t just take out the Popovs, son. Yes, we¡¯ll have our revenge, but it could take years. So while your theory sounds good on paper, it doesn¡¯t hold up. I don¡¯t need an excuse to end them, because I¡¯m not going to. Not yet, anyway.¡±


    Wayne glared at him. ¡°Maybe, but I still wouldn¡¯t put it past you.¡±


    David¡¯s voice was carefully neutral. ¡°Do you really think so poorly of me?¡±


    Wayne almost laughed. ¡°What did I watch you do the other day? If you can so easily take a man¡¯s life, then taking his leg must mean nothing to you.¡±


    ¡°You ungrateful brat,¡± David breathed. ¡°I¡¯ve sacrificed so much for you, and this is how you repay me?¡±


    ¡°Sacrificed for me?¡± Wayne was incredulous. ¡°This is all on you!


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°This. Everything. If it wasn¡¯t for you, I wouldn¡¯t be in this state. Maybe you didn¡¯t plan it, but it¡¯s still your fault.¡±


    David stared at him, stony-faced. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t play dumb. You should have let me skip the match. If you¡¯d let me skip the match, I would have been fine.¡±


    ¡°I think you¡¯re being a bit dramatic, Wayne.¡±


    ¡°Am I?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be up and playing footie in no time.¡±


    ¡°Up and playing in no time? I¡¯m lucky they didn¡¯t cut off my fucking leg!¡±


    ¡°You need rest, that¡¯s all,¡± David said, rising from his seat. ¡° I¡¯ll let you get some sleep.¡±


    ¡°You could have taken me out of the game!¡± Wayne shouted. ¡°But your pride was more important to you than my life!¡±


    David didn¡¯t respond. He set the lilies and grapes down on the table with the other gifts, then left the room. It was his answer to everything, when things didn¡¯t go his way. Either throw his toys out of the pram, or simply walk away.


    Wayne watched his father walk out with undisguised resentment. David was behind this all. One way or another, it was his doing. He¡¯d escalated the feud with the Popovs. He¡¯d dangled Wayne as bait. He¡¯d spent his entire life sacrificing others for his own ambition. And now he, Wayne, would be lucky to walk again.


    ¡°That¡¯s it!¡± Wayne roared. ¡°Fucking walk away, big man!¡±


    He heard the lift doors sliding shut, and wondered if David had even heard him.


    *


    It was two weeks of close observation and intensive therapy before Wayne was allowed to go home. The metal cage was removed from his leg and a standard plaster cast was put in its place, but he was not allowed to walk ¨C not even with the aid of crutches. So, feeling like an utter fool, he let himself be wheeled out of the hospital in a wheelchair.


    The two bodyguards who had been keeping an eye on him in the run-up to the match were now all that remained of his security detail. The Popovs had already done their worst, so David had evidently put a stop to the patrols and the plainclothes men. The two remaining bodyguards wheeled him out into the chilly morning air and helped him into the back seat of the Rolls ¨C the most spacious of his cars. Even that was a bit of a squeeze, and jets of pain shot through his leg as the bodyguards did their best to manoeuvre him into the most comfortable position.


    Wayne sat in sullen silence as they drove him home.


    The mansion now felt conspicuously empty without all the security people milling about the place. Once he was installed in his wheelchair, Wayne found out for himself how impractical the gravel driveway was as he made his way to the front door. One of the bodyguards offered to push him, but Wayne just shook his head.


    He sat up in his chair, stretching his arm out to open the front door. So this was life now: even the most mundane activity was a major effort. Thanks, Dad.


    Once inside, Wayne told the bodyguards to leave him alone. They didn¡¯t need to be told twice. This was depressing.


    Wayne sat in the kitchen, running through the events of the last few weeks again and again in his mind. Right up until the moment time stopped, and his career ended, when Ronnie Vincent launched that savage attack.


    ¡°Game over,¡± Wayne said under his breath. ¡°Game over.¡±


    *


    The surgeon, Chowdhury, had not been kidding when he said that Wayne would have to undergo intensive physical therapy. Specialists came to and from the house with alarming frequency over the next few weeks. But they accomplished little. They managed to get Wayne up and out of his wheelchair, but it was as if he had lost all semblance of coordination. He struggled with the crutches, which made him frustrated, which ruined his concentration and made him struggle all the more. It was a vicious circle.


    Needless to say, David was paying for the finest care available. But it just wasn¡¯t enough.


    Meanwhile, Wayne found himself deluged with more flowers and get-well-soon cards from fans and players and corporate sponsors; people who had mocked him and made fun of him, who had chanted that he only played because of his dad. The hypocrisy was sickening. But even though David was footing the bill, he made a point of only visiting his son when he absolutely had to. When he did visit, things were frosty between them, and they barely spoke.


    For all intents and purposes, Wayne was utterly alone.


    The only highlight of his daily routine was the painkillers that gave him a brief respite from the gnawing agony. He knocked them back as often as he could and even snuck a few extra ones when the therapist wasn¡¯t looking.


    He looked ahead, and saw the future unfurling in front of him as an endless sequence of identical days. No progress. No hope. No life. Just the hollow walls of this empty mansion and the echoing squeak of his wheelchair.


    Fuck it, he thought. Fuck it all.


    *


    ¡°Alright, boss?¡± asked one of the bodyguards. Wayne had surprised them by rolling into the room while they were in the midst of a hand of Texas Hold ¡®Em.


    He surprised them again by smiling. ¡°Alright, boys. Sorry to break up the game, but I need you to do something for me. Bring me some beers, would you? I feel like drowning my sorrows.¡±


    The guards understood. ¡°Sure thing. Where do you want them?¡±


    ¡°Bedroom¡¯s fine.¡± Wayne rolled away again.


    They carried a crate of lager into his bedroom, as instructed, and he smiled again. ¡°Back to your game, boys. Don¡¯t let me keep you.¡±


    Once they were gone, Wayne opened up the crate and removed a few cans. He heaved himself onto the bed, cans and all, and slipped his hand under his pillow. There they were: his ticket to freedom. He took out the pills he had been hoarding and looked at them. He had been keeping back a couple out of every single pack, and now he had enough to do the job. He cracked open the first can and took a sip. Then he opened his mouth and brought a pill up to his lips.


    But he couldn¡¯t do it. In spite of everything; all the heartache, the trauma, the rage. He just couldn¡¯t do it. He took another sip of lager ¨C Dutch courage ¨C and tried again. But he still couldn¡¯t do it. It was as if his body was in revolt. It wouldn¡¯t let him start taking the pills.


    Eventually, he gave up and threw the pills across the room. They peppered the carpet like buckshot. Then, feeling a surge of anger, he threw the can of lager. It landed on its side, dribbling out its contents like a drunkard¡¯s piss.


    He sat there in bed, with his head in his hands, and cried.

 Chapter Nine

    Wayne awoke the next day with a pounding head and a sudden, unexpected resurgence of his will to live. His therapist had said that the melancholy and desperation came in waves, and that it could take days or weeks to subside ¨C but that when they abated, it would be like clouds finally parting at the end of a storm.


    He hadn¡¯t believed her, but as he glanced out the window and saw the sunlight streaming in, he wondered if she¡¯d been on to something. The darkness would come creeping back in again, he was painfully aware of that, but for now he was himself once again. And he might as well try to live while he still wanted to.


    It was seven in the morning, and he had this wing of the house to himself. He didn¡¯t waste any time.


    He did his best to bathe himself, shave and douse himself with deodorant. When he looked in the floor-length mirror, he saw a determined gleam in his pale eyes. Of course, he was in no condition to leap out of his wheelchair and take to the pitch again, but he had overcome some of the mental obstacles that were in his way. There was work to be done.


    He took a couple of painkillers ¨C only two, the required amount ¨C and then got himself dressed in a charcoal-grey suit that was a staple of his press conference appearances. Even the act of putting on the suit ¨C difficult as it was for him to accomplish alone ¨C helped to get him into a business-like mindset.


    Reaching rock bottom had given him some much needed perspective. His football career was over: somehow, he would have to learn to accept that. It was a shitty thing, and it wasn¡¯t his fault, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He would just have to move on. But just because he would not be scoring goals for Mile End any more did not mean that his life was over. He had thought that the beautiful game was his raison d¡¯etre, and maybe it was. But not as a player.


    ¡°Dad?¡± he gave the word an inquisitive lilt when he spoke it into the phone.


    ¡°Wayne!¡± At once, David Carter was all sweetness and light, chatting to his son as though he were just another business acquaintance he had bumped into at a conference or a party, not someone who had accused him of purposefully ruining his life. ¡°How are you doing, fella?¡±


    ¡°Not too bad,¡± Wayne answered, which was the truth. Last night had been the worst night of his life, but it was over now. He was a new man. He was all about the business. ¡°We need to talk.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± David agreed, ¡°but not now. I¡¯m just heading into a meeting. What do you say I stop by your place tonight? Bring a few beers, we¡¯ll watch a movie or something. Be like old times. How about it?¡±


    ¡°If you want. I need to talk to you about something.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yes, of course you do¡­¡± David was obviously not concentrating on their conversation. Wayne could picture him surrounded by assistants shoving papers under his nose for his signature. Well, that was fine. What Wayne had to say could wait until the evening.


    It was seven-thirty when David arrived at his son¡¯s house. Upon seeing Wayne not only clean-shaven but wearing a suit, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Then he smiled.


    ¡°Alright, Wayne,¡± he said, putting an arm around the lad¡¯s shoulder and deftly spinning the wheelchair around. Wayne would not have put up with that kind of thing from his therapists or bodyguards, but with his dad he didn¡¯t have much choice.


    David pushed Wayne through to the dining room. ¡°Those two security fellas not making a nuisance of themselves, are they?¡±


    ¡°No, they¡¯re alright.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m pleased to see you up and about like this. Dressed up all smart. You look good. Nice to see you¡¯ve got your mojo back.¡±


    Wayne could not help but smile. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t go that far.¡±


    ¡°Alright, maybe not yet. But soon!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? Fancy a beer?¡± David Carter cracked open a can and took a swig. Then he belched loudly: the highest compliment he could pay to a beverage.


    The smile had not left Wayne¡¯s face. ¡°Maybe later.¡±


    He could not put it off any longer. And if Wayne was right, he thought he saw a flicker of nervousness in his dad¡¯s smile.


    ¡°Right then,¡± David said. ¡°What did you want to talk about?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. About you and me. And about Mile End. It¡¯s funny, but I¡¯ve had a lot more time to myself these last few weeks.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know, and I¡¯m sorry about that, Wayne. Had a lot on my plate, haven¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not fishing for an apology, Dad. But there¡¯s something that I wanted to say to you. You know that even when I was a toddler all I wanted was to play football. It was the reason I got out of bed in the mornings. Well, that¡¯s not going to happen anymore¡­¡± He held up a hand to silence David¡¯s protests. ¡°No, it¡¯s not. I¡¯ve come to accept that. But there¡¯s something you need to understand, and it¡¯s that you owe me big time. Why did I go out on the pitch that day? Because of you. Why did I ignore the threats? Because of you. Because I trusted you. And look where it¡¯s got me.¡±


    There was a silence, and David took another sip of his beer. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong, son,¡± he said finally. ¡°I feel terrible about the whole thing.¡±


    ¡°Not as bad as me, I can promise you that. Anyway, the point is this: I want you to make it up to me. Football is my life. That¡¯s not going to change. And if I can¡¯t go out on the pitch and play anymore, then I need to find something to do. Or rather, you need to find me something to do.¡±


    David cocked his head, thinking about this. ¡°What did you have in mind?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got to remember that I know the team. I understand them. And I know the whole club inside and out. It¡¯s my life.¡±


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°Get to the point, Wayne.¡±


    ¡°I want you to give me a job. Manager, or CEO, or something. Something that will give me the chance to make a real difference to the team from behind the scenes. I could do it. I know I could.¡±


    David put his beer can down on the table. ¡°You want me to make you manager?¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s the least you can do.¡±


    David shrugged. ¡°I feel terrible about the whole thing,¡± he said again. He was buying himself time; working out the best way to say no.


    Wayne sensed the direction the conversation was taking. ¡°I¡¯m not expecting anything straight away,¡± he said. ¡°I don¡¯t mind waiting till next season. But you owe me, Dad.¡±


    Another silence. David Carter knew how to use silence and turn it to his advantage. He slowly and thoughtfully reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and emerged with a pack of cigarettes. He slipped one into his mouth and lit it with a dexterous flick of his silver lighter. ¡°You should know, Wayne,¡± he said on the exhale, ¡°that I don¡¯t take kindly to ultimatums. It¡¯s fortunate you¡¯re my son.¡±


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t agree less.¡±


    David smiled wryly. ¡°Smoke?¡± He offered the pack to Wayne.


    ¡°No thanks.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± David smiled. ¡°What have you got to lose?¡±


    Grudgingly, Wayne took the offered cigarette, and his dad lit it for him.


    Then David seized the reins. ¡°You¡¯ve got no experience, Wayne. And I know what you¡¯re going to say, but knowing the team is not the same as knowing the business. Football isn¡¯t just a game. The action isn¡¯t just what happens on the pitch. There¡¯s a whole invisible world you can¡¯t even imagine, Wayne.¡±


    Wayne took a drag of the cigarette, doing his best not to burst out coughing. He had never been a smoker. But David was right: what did he have to lose? ¡°You¡¯re underestimating me, Dad. You always do. If you give me a chance, you¡¯ll see what I¡¯m capable of.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, son. It¡¯s not going to happen. I''ve got to be honest. I don''t think you¡¯ve got it in you. All you''ve ever been is a footballer. That''s all you know how to do. I know it''s hard to hear, but I''m telling you the truth."


    "Dad, are you taking the piss? After everything I''ve put into that club? The sacrifices I''ve made?"


    But David wouldn''t budge. "Use your head, Wayne. The club''s doing well. We''re winning matches. If it ain''t broke, don''t fix it. How do you think the fans will react if I give the manager the boot and install my twenty-two-year-old son in his place?"


    In spite of everything, Wayne had to admit that his dad had a point. He thought of those chanting voices: You only play coz your faaaaather¡­


    "Alright ¨C what about CEO? You know I can do it. Come on. You know I can." Wayne''s voice was rising. He was losing his cool. This was going to turn into a shouting match if he wasn''t careful, and he couldn''t let that happen. The best way to handle David Carter was to use diplomacy. To reason with him, and to gently nudge him in the right direction rather than outright demanding anything.


    David got up and began pacing up and down the room thoughtfully. He was still pluming cigarette smoke. After another excruciating silence, he said: "It''s not going to happen, Wayne. There are going to be a few changes at Mile End, but I can''t make you CEO. We¡¯ve already got a new CEO incoming. Someone I¡¯ve been working with for a while ¨C I¡¯m talking years ¨C training him for the job."


    "What? What do you mean?"


    "It''s going to be Rob Linley."


    "Are you taking the piss? What''s he got that I haven''t got?"


    David shrugged. "An MBA, for starters. And experience"


    "But I know the club. I understand the club."


    "That may be true, son, but I''m afraid the decision''s already been made. I''m sorry."


    Wayne furiously jabbed his cigarette out on the tabletop, ruining its polished surface. Then he rolled his wheelchair over to the window, where he gazed out at the setting sun. "Alright, Dad. I understand. Now get the fuck out."


    "You what?"


    "You heard me. Get the fuck out of my house!" It was the first time in years that Wayne had raised his voice to his dad. Even David was a little shaken by it.


    "Alright," he said, "I''ll go. But just know this, son: you won''t struggle. Understand? I''ll take care of you, I''ll pay for everything while you recover. You''ll never have to worry about money. And then, maybe, a couple of years down the line... I''ll see if I can find something for you. But that''s the best I can do, Wayne. Believe me, if there was anything else, I would do it."


    Wayne was seething. He could not even bring himself to look at his father. "You owe me," he said. "Can''t you see that? If you''re not going to give me something in the company, the least you can do is make it up to me. I want what you promised me at the hospital: I want you to finish Ronnie Vincent. Put an end to his career the way he did mine. And take out the Popovs. Finish them. I want them gone."


    David snorted. "This again? Didn¡¯t you hear me when I told you it¡¯s not that simple? Wayne, you need to grow up. This isn''t the movies. It''s not a bloody Scorsese flick. Listen to me..." and he got down on his knees in front of Wayne, looking his son dead in the eyes. "Wayne, you''re my boy. You mean more to me than anything in the world. Alright? But Popov is the most connected man in London. It''s not just a case of ''taking him out.'' There are so many other things to consider. It''s a long game, it might take years. And as for Ronnie Fucking Vincent, if I take him out now then people will start asking questions straight away. It''s too obvious. And I can''t have anything murky like that hanging over me. Not with this property deal I''ve got coming up."


    "Property deal?" In spite of himself, Wayne was curious.


    "Four years in the making," David explained. He got to his feet again, knowing that he had managed to salvage the situation. He had neutralised the potential threat his son posed. It was all tactics; all part of the game. "Guess how much it''s worth?" He didn''t wait for Wayne to guess. "Five billion pounds. Not five million¨C five billion. That''s what we¡¯re looking to net from this development. And the profits... everything, all of it... when I die it goes straight to you. And your sister, of course. Just think about that. More money than you could ever dream of. That¡¯s how you win against someone like Popov: you make so much money and garner so much power that he can¡¯t touch you. Then you destroy him. And I can''t let anything get in the way of that, especially not anything as petty as revenge. Think about it, Wayne. I know I take the piss out of you, but you''re not a stupid kid. Just give it some time, and then one day you''ll thank me for not doing anything rash. You''ll thank me when you''re on a beach in the Bahamas counting your cash."


    ¡°So when you said Popov would rue the day he hurt me, you meant, what, in fifteen years?¡±


    David clapped a hand on his son¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Slow and steady wins the race.¡±


    Wayne didn''t say anything.


    "I''m going to go now," David told him, "but you think about what I said. I know it''s hard, but you''re just going to have to suck it up for now. At least until the deal goes through. Alright?"


    Still no word from Wayne.


    "Alright?" David repeated, a little louder. There was a threatening edge to his voice.


    "Alright," Wayne said finally.


    "Good lad." And David strolled out of the house, slamming the front door as he went.


    Wayne sat for a long time. It was now fully dark outside. His head was humming with images and ideas. His dad was right about one thing, at least: he wasn''t stupid. He knew when he was being fobbed off. He didn''t give a fucking shit about a property deal, five billion or not. It was all just numbers. Counting cash on a beach in the Bahamas? Was that really David¡¯s idea of paradise? Wayne already had more money than he could ever have wanted, and what good had it done him? Here he was, alone in a mansion with no friends to speak of, no girlfriend. He had given up everything for the club. Every opportunity that had come his way. What he cared about now was making a name for himself. Being somebody. And you didn''t make it big with money alone.


    But there was something he wanted even more than that. Something his Dad would not let him accomplish. Something that might finally help to heal the broken heart he had suffered along with his hideous injury. He wanted revenge.

 Chapter Ten

    After an especially difficult conversation like the one he had just had with Wayne, David Carter liked to clear his head with a tot or two of his favourite whisky. He always kept a bottle in stock back at his apartment, and it was waiting for him when he got home. He had hoped he might still have the place to himself, but Felicia was back, wandering dopily around the place wearing only her silk dressing gown. She gave him a vague greeting and kissed him on the cheek. She looked sort of strung-out, and there was an emptiness in her eyes that usually meant she had been burning the candle at both ends.


    "What the hell have you been up to?" he asked. He wasn''t angry. He found it funny, if anything. She was his girlfriend, but she was also his number-one customer. The fact that most of her coke was bought with his money was just one of life¡¯s little ironies.


    "Oh, seeing a few friends, that¡¯s all," she said.


    "A few friends, eh? Charlie? Jack Daniels? Am I in the right area?"


    She laughed musically. "Oh, you''re awful." Both, in other words. She dropped the dressing gown and disappeared into the bedroom, but David wasn''t going to take the bait. He loosened his tie and sat down in his leather swivel-chair in the living room. He looked out at the city skyline, which had never seemed so glorious and inviting. A city ripe for the taking.


    The frustrating aspect of this fall-out with Wayne was the knowledge that the lad was right. It was all David''s fault. And it could have been prevented. But what Wayne didn''t understand was that this was all so much bigger than just a father-son drama. There were many other people involved, some he knew and some he didn''t. And none of them were to be fucked with.


    Once upon a time, in the dim and distant past when London had been a focal point of the industrial revolution, Silvertown was a thriving foundry. Those days were long gone, and it was finally Thatcher''s government who had seen the place shut down for good. Now, it was one of those problematic locations that wasn¡¯t a point of historical or cultural interest, but which was just old enough to make demolition a troublesome prospect. What it really needed was renovation; a complete rethink.


    Battersea had undergone something similar in recent years, and there had been muted discussions of Silvertown in council meetings and other community hubs. The problem was a simple one: nobody had the money to make a long-lasting difference to the site. It would be such an immense undertaking, and the profit-yield was by no means a sure thing. Who would be willing to take a risk like that? Enter: David Carter.


    David was old enough to remember Silvertown''s final days as a working foundry. Back then, its chimneys had plumed grey smoke, and it had looked a bit like a Pink Floyd album cover. David had often pictured the unfortunate souls who slaved away in there day in, day out. He was glad that he would never be one of them. But over time he had fostered an affection for the place. To him, it was a symbol not just of British industry, but of a kind of patriotic nostalgia for a world which had never really existed. David was a sucker for sentimentality when it came to recapturing a lost past. Maybe it was because he had been striving all his life to build something that would last. And here, with Silvertown, was his opportunity to build a legacy that would outlive him. He knew one thing for sure: Silvertown was important; he would preserve it if he could.


    But he also wanted to make a lot of money; perhaps that went without saying. And while he perceived a lot of potential in the site, it wasn¡¯t something he could enter into alone. He needed investors. People who trusted him and who had the same vision for the future of Silvertown. Fortunately, he possessed a certain charisma which evinced trust in other people. He had an everyman quality that had enabled him to rise to the top, and which allowed him to attract a slew of like-minded money men.


    At the end of the day, what set David Carter apart from the crowd was his ambition. Even after all the achievements he had already attained, he was constantly striving, constantly reaching for something bigger and better. In this case, it was five billion pounds. Five billion is one of those numbers which looks fine on paper, but is almost impossible for the average brain to compute. Imagine having that much money!


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    But David¡¯s ambition was a kind of paradox. In spite of his insurmountable quest for more, David really considered himself to be an ordinary working joe, no different from a Starbucks barista or a traffic warden. They all had the same thing in common: they wanted an easier life. Well, when the deal went through it would be easy street for the Carters.


    Not just the Carters, though. As well as the official investors ¨C the ones who were listed on the books ¨C David had brought in a few "silent partners," faceless shadow-clients who had taken an interest. Each of them could also look forward to a hefty slice of the pie.


    David was a visionary, and he had a vision for Silvertown. Not just houses and apartments, but businesses, retail space, offices, restaurants, entertainment centres... he wanted it all. A self-contained community, a high-class setup. A microcosm of the Carter empire. He was like a prophet. He had seen the future, and the future was Silvertown.


    Naturally, the Popovs had taken an interest straight away. Anything David did brought the Russians sniffing around like bloodhounds. But they¡¯d evidently thought he was chancing his arm, because they had decided not to pursue it any further. No doubt they¡¯d hoped it would turn out to be a great white elephant.


    Unfortunately for them, that was not the case. It took a bit of perseverance, not to mention blood, sweat and tears (none of them his own) before David could finally seal the deal. But when all was said and done, he was looking at a profit of five billion pounds. Five billion! The number had a magical, almost musical quality to it. Sometimes when he was alone he found himself saying it out loud, as though his unconscious mind could not quite comprehend the magnitude of it. Which, of course, it couldn¡¯t. Five billion! The biggest deal he had ever done, and by far the most lucrative, too.


    But with a project like this one, there were so many things to be considered and plates to be spun. There was the political side of things, for one. So there was the question of working out in whose constituency Silvertown fell (there was a surprising amount of debate about this) and once an answer had been reached, ensuring the relevant MP was amenable to the project.


    This was the easiest part of the whole thing. MPs may not have had the best reputation, but from David¡¯s point of view, this one was worth his weight in gold. All it took was a discreet briefcase crammed with nonsequential notes to guarantee his willingness to give the go-ahead. That was the part of the business that David liked best because it yielded the most immediate, tangible results. You knew where you stood with councils, mayors and MPs. They were all as bent as a nine-bob note.


    It hadn¡¯t been hard to sell the MP on the project. After all, the sudden influx of cocaine users to the area, as well as the propensity of homeless drug addicts to settle themselves down in Silvertown, had not only driven down costs, but had made the place as undesirable as humanly possible. Ripe for gentrification. The locals looked on with horror at the rapid degeneration of their beloved Silvertown, and before long they were practically begging for someone to clean the place up. So when the MP heard David¡¯s proposal, he pounced.


    Naturally, David was not the only businessman with his eye on Silvertown. The old factory may not have been pretty, but it was still in the heart of London, one of the most thriving capital cities in Europe. At least, that''s the way it liked to portray itself. So a few industrialists, entrepreneurs and property moguls had taken an interest when they saw property prices in the area beginning to drop. But, one by one, they gradually withdrew any prospective offers. These men each experienced a prolonged run of bad luck, ranging from the unfortunate to the outright tragic.


    The daughter of one of the property men was found dead in the bath of her Chiswick apartment, poisoned by a tainted batch of cocaine. A tragedy, but also a warning.


    Soon the friends and family of all these entrepreneurs, not to mention some of the entrepreneurs themselves, went through a slew of almost biblical misfortunes. There were car crashes, inexplicable office fires, high-profile resignations of key staff members. All that was missing was the plague of locusts.


    One by one they all withdrew from Silvertown with their tails between their legs ¨C either voluntarily or by force. Before long, David Carter was the last man standing ¨C just as he had intended.


    In a way, it was hubris. Everything had been going far too well for David. He might have known that something would crop up at the last moment. Unfortunately, this latest development ¨C Wayne¡¯s injury ¨C had yielded the worst possible outcome. Not just for Wayne himself, but for David too. All the press surrounding Wayne''s injury had brought a lot of unwanted attention, and David''s investors were beginning to get nervous. They didn''t like the idea of anyone shining a light on their involvement with the Silvertown project. So the deal was to be put on ice for a few weeks. David had smashed a few glasses when he heard about that, but he did it behind closed doors. He gave Felicia an awful fright, throwing expensive whisky up the wall. But by the light of day, he was all smiles. He could wait a little bit longer if he had to. But not too long. He needed to make up for lost time.

 Chapter Eleven

    To make it in the business world, you had to be pragmatic about things. And like any other deal, not just ones of this astronomical scale, there were always flies in the ointment. In this case it happened to be the Popovs. Mikhail was a sneaky bastard, and he evidently knew all the ins and outs of the Silvertown deal, thanks to his various spies. He was adept at seeing the big picture.


    In fact, Mikhail Popov had been shadowing David Carter¡¯s every move from the very beginning of the Silvertown project. He had been circling overhead like a vulture, just waiting for a whiff of carrion.


    One of Popov''s hobbies was chess, and he happened to be engrossed in a game via correspondence when Ian Bream was brought into the study at his country home. This was a week before the fateful Mile End-Chiswick match. Bream was a middle-manager in the Silvertown local council, and he was naturally up to his neck in the Carter deal at the moment. But he had an ex-wife and two kids to feed, and so he could hardly say no to a payday from the Popovs.


    With one hand, Mikhail stroked at his grey beard, and with the other he slowly moved the knight to rook-five. He had not yet looked at Ian Bream, who stood on the other side of the desk, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot and wondering desperately if he should say something. Eventually, Mikhail broke that terrible silence. "I like chess," he began, "because I like control. My sons tell me I¡¯m a ¡®control freak¡¯. And what is chess but a battle for control? In that respect, it is very similar to business. Can you see that?"


    "Yes! Yes, I can. Mm-hmm," Ian nodded eagerly.


    "And I love business. Business is my life. Perhaps you feel the same way?"


    "Mm, yes..."


    "This Silvertown deal... you are heavily involved, yes?"


    "Me? Yes, I''m..."


    "Please. I do not wish to know details. What I want is the answer to a single question. Will the deal go through?"


    Ian Bream coughed awkwardly. "Well, I mean there are always other facts to be taken into consideration, nothing''s ever a sure thing..."


    "Spare me your tedious caution. I want an answer."


    There was a look in Mikhail Popov''s eyes that discouraged any further prevarication. "Yes," said Ian.


    "All the signatures are in place?"


    "Yes."


    "Then the deal will go through. Very well. This is good." He looked up at Ian for the first time and evidently perceived a certain curiosity in the middle-manager''s expression. "You wonder, perhaps, why I am pleased about this? After all, the Carter family are my rivals, are they not? Well..." he tapped the side of his nose with a spindly index finger. "That is for me to know.¡±


    For too long now a kind of uneasy stalemate had existed between the Carters and the Popovs. Neither had been willing to make the next move, which could prove to be the final one. But now there was a definite reason for David Carter to behave himself and strive to keep his nose clean. After all, who could say no to five billion pounds? With that in mind, it was time for the Popovs to reassert themselves. After all, Mikhail had an empire to maintain. He had spotted a weakness in David Carter¡¯s armour, and what sort of a man would he be if he did not take advantage?


    This brought him to the next question: where exactly to strike? Where was David Carter''s weakness? The answer was obvious. The son. Mikhail thought of his own two sons, and reflected on what he might do if anything were to happen to them. Fortunately, that was unlikely. No one would dare. But getting to Wayne Carter was a perfect way to get to David and force him to relinquish the control he had established in the West End of London. David had gone to great lengths to keep himself out of reach. Untouchable. But Wayne was a footballer, for God''s sake! A midfielder in the first team! Parading himself on the pitch in front of sixty thousand people every week. David Carter might well be untouchable, but his son was anything but.


    "And when is the announcement to be made?" Popov spoke softly but with crisp precision and authority.


    "Monday, sir."


    "At what time?"


    "I... I don''t know."


    Popov smiled. "No matter. So Mr. Carter will be going public on Monday. That¡¯s fine. That still leaves us with plenty of time to make a move. The money has been transferred to your account, Mr. Bream. Please leave."


    Ian Bream did so with a few mumbled thanks. He resisted the temptation to bow as he backed out of the room. When he got out of the house and back to his car, which was waiting for him at the roadside, he felt an inexplicable urge to be sick.


    While the success of the Silvertown deal was certainly not something Mikhail Popov had wanted, he was adept at rolling with the punches. And he had enough experience to know that he could turn most situations to his advantage if he approached them laterally. So David Carter had managed to secure the Silvertown development ¨C very well. But until the deal had gone through, and the whole thing was in black and white, he would naturally exercise a degree of caution in the other areas of his business. He would be unwilling to indulge in the splashy, vulgar displays of power with which he had managed to secure his position at Mile End. Yes, in some respects Mr. Carter was caught between a rock and a hard place. The Silvertown deal might be untouchable, but everything else was on the table. In that respect, Carter was more vulnerable than he had ever been. West London hung in the balance.


    *


    When David received that phone call from his son, telling him about the note which the dodgy security guard had handed over, the news came at the worst possible time. Silvertown was not good for David¡¯s blood pressure. Now the site was humming with industry once again. Things were in motion. It was the deal David had been waiting for all his life and he wasn''t going to let anything, especially not the fucking Popovs, get in the way.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Of course he saw what Mikhail was up to when he sent Wayne that note, but what was he supposed to do about it? If anything happened ¨C anything out of the ordinary ¨C it might throw the whole deal out of whack. David had to make a choice, and Mikhail Popov could not have made it much more clear-cut. It was Wayne, or it was Silvertown.


    To the locals ¨C and there were plenty of them, in spite of the degradation the place had suffered ¨C David Carter was the white knight. The working class hero, come to rescue them from the mire. Once the deal went public, he would be sure to capitalise on the PR ¨C when he wasn''t counting his money, that is.


    And then Wayne had to bring him that fucking note. Why couldn''t things just go according to plan? David had taken every possible precaution, but this had still slipped through the cracks. So just this once, David had no choice but to let it go ¨C and to let go of his security chief, too. It pained him, but he gritted his teeth.


    If he hadn''t been so distracted by the deal, he would been even more fucking angry than he already was. Still, there would be time for that later. When the deal was done. When the match was over. He would be able to make things up to Wayne. Soon he would have both the time and the energy to put things right.


    *


    The night before the Chiswick-Mile End match, Stanislaw tapped on the door of his father''s study.


    "Come," said Mikhail.


    Stanislaw stepped inside and found his father where he always was: at his desk, poring over the chess board. "Pop, it''s about tomorrow."


    "Oh yes?" there was a glimmer of hopefulness in Mikhail''s eyes. Had they received word from Carter at last? Ever the pragmatist, Mikhail would have been happy to negotiate.


    But Stanislaw shook his head. "So, you want me to go ahead?"


    There was a pregnant pause. Mikhail got to his feet and strode over to the window. He peered out at his vast estate. His own private empire. "It is regrettable," he said. "I have underestimated David Carter. I had thought he would simply roll over, like a good little puppy, and submit to me. But that does not appear to be the case. In a way, I respect it. We have given him a choice between his empire and his son and he has chosen his empire. I admire decisiveness in a man. You could learn a lot from him, Stanislaw."


    Stanislaw ignored this. "So, do you want me to go ahead?" he repeated.


    "Naturally. I respect the man, but he must be forced to take his medicine. So the plan goes ahead. Call Ronnie Vincent."


    "Yes, pa."


    And Stanislaw left the office, fishing his phone out of the pocket of his designer leather jacket. It was funny, but for all his "party animal" reputation, Ronnie Vincent always answered the phone when he saw it was the Popovs calling. Maybe he had more brains than people gave him credit for.


    *


    The whole thing was arse about face. Wayne tried to imagine it the other way around, and he couldn''t. What if David had tried to get at one of Popov''s sons? It wouldn''t happen. It just wouldn''t. Mikhail Popov was famously cautious, he took every conceivable measure to ensure that he and his family were protected at all times. And David, well... the recent events spoke for themselves, didn''t they?


    His dad was weak. It was a painful realisation, but an inescapable one. David Carter was weak, and Mikhail Popov was strong. Simple as that. And if Wayne wanted to make any changes to his own personal situation, he could no longer rely on David to sort things out. It was time to make his own way.


    In spite of everything, Wayne couldn''t bring himself to be angry at the Popovs. He knew they had arranged the incident, that they had crippled him and robbed him of his career. But they would never have done it if not for David. They had given fair warning, and it was all just part and parcel of the business for them. It was David who had made the conscious decision not to take it seriously. In Wayne''s mind, it was David and David alone who was the agent of his present misfortune.


    At long last, the depression he had been suffering from for weeks began to recede. He felt as though he were coming through the other side and was now able to channel that negative energy into righteous anger. He could focus his destruction outward instead of inward.


    Of course, on the surface, things went back to the way they always had been. Wayne cowtowed to David in just about every respect. He answered fan mail and he started making media appearances again. It was now roughly three months since the fateful match, when Ronnie Vincent''s boot brought an undignified end to Wayne''s ambition. He was up on his feet again now, still walking with the aid of a metal cane, and still attending regular physical therapy sessions. But he was slowly getting back to the real world.


    However, whenever he was interviewed by a pundit, or quizzed by a fan, he refused to answer the question: would he ever play again? He wanted to keep them guessing for a bit. He had an ace up his sleeve, and he was going to play it for all it was worth. There was nobody he could trust. Nobody. His father ¨C his hero, his boss, his leader ¨C was now his enemy. He had no girlfriend, no friends to speak of ¨C save for his teammates, who had been conspicuously quiet lately. He was alone. But that gave him an inestimable advantage. It meant that he owed loyalty to nobody but himself.


    "Hello, Mile End Media Support, Rochelle speaking?"


    "Hiya Rochelle." Wayne spoke with self-conscious cheerfulness to match Rochelle''s crisply professional telephone voice.


    "Oh, Wayne! Lovely to hear from you. How are you feeling? On the mend, I hope?"


    "Ah, you know, not too bad. Can''t complain."


    "Is it your dad you''re after? He¡¯s been out of the office for a few days, actually. He¡¯s over at Silvertown, I think¡­"


    This was music to Wayne¡¯s ears. Things would go a lot smoother with Dad out of the way. "No, no, it''s you I want to talk to." He was sitting at home, in his kitchen, which had become the base of operations for his plan. He plotted things out meticulously, as though it were a heist or a military campaign. He knew exactly what he needed to do to ensure things went his way. He knew what to say and how to say it.


    "In fact, I wanted to run something by you."


    "Oh yes? And what''s that?"


    "A press conference. Could you set one up for me?"


    There was a smile in her voice as she said: "You''re going to have to give me a bit more info than that."


    "It''s an announcement I want to make. I want to... go public with something. Can you put it together?"


    "Of course. But you''re being very secretive. What''s it about?"


    "Well... if you really want to know, I''m going to announce my retirement."


    "Oh, Wayne..." Now she was putting on professional melancholy. Rochelle must have a rolodex of emotions, from which she plucked the correct one for each moment. "I''m very sorry to hear that. But I think a lot of us saw it coming. You know that we''ll all miss you."


    "Aw, bless you, thanks Rochelle. But I want to do it on my terms, hence the press conference.¡±


    "I understand. When did you have in mind?"


    "As soon as possible.¡± Considering who he was planning on inviting, it was best that he didn¡¯t give his father much time to find out. "I want to make a clean breast of things. How about tomorrow?"

 Chapter Twelve

    Stanislaw Popov was roaring across London in his flame-red Ferrari (an indulgence which he had not been able to resist) when his mobile phone began to buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out and held it to his ear. "Who''s this?" he demanded.


    "Oh, hello Stan." It was Ronnie Vincent. He had been acting very "matey" with Stanislaw lately ¨C take, for instance, that very unappealing nickname. He was chancing his arm. And even on a good day, Stanislaw was not a patient or tolerant man.


    But he didn''t have the energy for a confrontation now. He just wanted to get home. "What you want?"


    "Um... I wanted to let you know about something. See what you make of it. And maybe it would be a good idea to get your dad''s advice."


    "What? Speak."


    "I''ve had an invitation to a press conference tomorrow. It just come through from my agent."


    "So?"


    "Well, it''s at Mile End. With Wayne Carter."


    "Fuck!" Stanislaw roared as he nearly rear-ended a jeep. "What you say? Press conference? What''s wrong with that?"


    "Stan, it''s at Mile End," Ronnie repeated emphatically. "After what happened, I thought..."


    "You thought David Carter''s up to something?"


    "Honestly, yeah I do. And I don''t want to take any risks, what with me flying out to Spain next month for the movie..."


    "Fine, fine, fine. I talk to pop. Now get off the phone, I''m driving. Oh, and Ronnie?"


    "Yeah?"


    "Don''t ever fucking call me Stan again."


    *


    Mikhail was sitting alone at the head of a long banquet table, dining on a bloody veal steak. Mrs. Popov, who seldom appeared in public, and in some quarters was rumoured not to exist at all, had retired to bed with a headache. Mikhail had no objection, and so she was permitted to leave the table. It gave him an opportunity to sit and think while he enjoyed his delicious food. He was a planner. He liked to map things out in his head down to the smallest possible detail. That was something he had in common with Wayne Carter.


    Needless to say, he wasn''t too happy when Stanislaw came to intrude upon his reverie.


    "Pop, I have question for you."


    "What is it?"


    "I just had Ronnie Vincent on the phone. Cunt nearly made me crash the car. But he was calling about a press conference."


    "For what? One of his shitty movies?"


    "No ¨C a press conference at Mile End. Tomorrow. He''s just had an invite from Wayne Carter."


    "What for?"


    Stanislaw shrugged. "We don''t know. Ronnie is worried. He thinks it''s some kind of trap or something."


    Mikhail smiled. "Perhaps it is. And what¡¯s wrong with that? After all, Ronnie crippled Wayne Carter. The Carters would be well within their rights to retaliate. In fact, I would be surprised if they didn''t."


    "So what do you think? Should we let him go through with it?"


    Mikhail placed his knife and fork either side of his plate and threaded his fingers together thoughtfully. Stanislaw knew not to disturb him when he adopted this contemplative pose. He was weighing up the odds, running through a string of alternative scenarios. It would certainly look bad for David Carter if something bad happened to Ronnie at the press conference.


    "Why not?" He said eventually. "After all, it''s only Ronnie Vincent."


    *


    Wayne glanced out through the curtains. He had sent away all his security guards, telling them he no longer needed them. After all, the Popovs had already done everything to him that they possibly could. He was just a used-up husk nowadays. All the same, there was still one person he was adamant he would not allow on his property ¨C David Carter.


    So when David''s car rolled up on his driveway, Wayne watched carefully from the upstairs window. He watched David march across the gravel. He listened to his father hammering on the door and jabbing the buzzer. Wayne smiled to himself.


    Of course, David Carter would know about the press conference by now. No doubt he had come over to talk Wayne out of it. Probably try to negotiate with him by giving him some middle-management role at Silvertown. Wayne would rather die than become just another corporate stooge in his dad¡¯s company.


    It was a good sign that it was just his dad. If David knew that Ronnie Vincent had been invited, he would have brought his security detail and knocked down the door.


    "Wayne! It''s your dad! Let me in, will you? I just want a word about something."


    But it was no good. David gave it ten, maybe fifteen minutes before admitting defeat. He got back into his car and drove sullenly away. And Wayne turned away from the window, still smiling.


    *


    The Mile End stadium loomed over him like a kind of slumbering behemoth. It dwarfed him. He hadn¡¯t visited the place in several months now, and now it felt as though he were setting foot on an alien planet. Everything was the same, yet different. There were the same faces in the foyer of the business suite, but the cheeky smiles had been replaced by looks of abject sympathy as he leaned on his walking cane.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Wayne was now able to walk short distances without much difficulty, though of course he had a pronounced limp and was unable to stand for lengthy periods of time. As such, his whole appearance had changed. Previously, he had stood ramrod straight, as though there were a steel pipe running through his spine. Now, his shoulders were slumped as he rested his weight on the cane. He might have aged thirty years in the space of those few months.


    But in spite of that, he greeted everyone with smiles, and they treated him like a conquering hero returning from war. Rochelle came to meet him at the front desk.


    She beamed at him. "Ready when you are, Wayne."


    When Wayne limped out in front of the cameras, the reporters and the assorted VIP guests, there came a ripple of polite applause. Wayne held up his hand for silence. There were a few muted cheers as well. Different, Wayne thought bitterly, to his last public appearance.


    One of the Sky Sports pundits was on hand to conduct the interview. Just a cardboard cut-out in a suit, better known for fatuous adverts and for his unintentionally hilarious gaffes during live match coverage. The media suite had been transformed into a kind of makeshift TV studio, with two easy chairs set up on a stage, in front of which were assembled rows of chairs for the audience. Wayne limped over and took his seat. He shook hands with the interviewer. He was all smiles.


    "Now, Wayne, I''ve got to say, it''s good to see you. It''s true that you''ve been keeping out of the public eye for a little while, isn''t that right?"


    "You''re right there, Keith. I''m sure you know what it''s like ¨C I''m thinking of when you had your injury back in 1996."


    The interviewer nodded sagely.


    "Anyway," Wayne went on, the audience hanging on his every word. "I just wasn''t up to it. I mean, you''ve all seen the footage. You know what happened. It takes a hell of a long time to come back from something like that."


    "But I think we''re all dying to know," Keith interjected, "how are you? I mean, really?"


    "Well, I''m just very grateful. The outpouring of support from the fans has been amazing. It''s brought a tear to my eye, it really has."


    "And you''re in the unique position of having your dad as the club director..."


    "Yes, yes, that too. Believe me, Keith, I know that I wouldn''t have got where I am today without my dad."


    "Your dad''s been supportive?"


    "Everyone has. I''ve had so many get well soon cards and flowers and... you name it. It''s amazing what a difference a short little note can make."


    "Now, I''m right in thinking that you are the driving force behind this press conference, isn''t that so? I mean, you''re the one who''s put it all together?"


    "Yes. I wanted to take the opportunity to say something to the media, and to the fans. Firstly, thank you all. I couldn''t have gotten through it without you. And look at me now! I''m up and about, walking almost like normal. It''s hard work, but I''m getting there. There''s something else, though." Now, Wayne was looking somewhere beyond the cameras. Beyond the audience. Tears welled in his eyes. Discreetly, the cameras all honed in on his stricken face. "You probably all had a feeling this was coming. But I wanted to officially announce my retirement from Mile End Athletic."


    There were oohs and ahhs and other murmurs from the audience. Meanwhile, the interviewer was just nodding thoughtfully.


    "It''s been the ride of a lifetime," said Wayne, dabbing at his tears, "but I suppose I knew in my heart it couldn''t last forever." With that, he got cumbersomely to his feet. The interviewer offered his arm for support, but Wayne declined politely. He stood up and said, "I also wanted to take the opportunity to bring somebody out and say a few words. Ronnie? Where are you?"


    Ronnie Vincent emerged sheepishly from behind the plain backcloth to the sound of gasps.


    *


    David Carter had not slept for a couple of days, so when he saw Ronnie Vincent¡¯s face on the TV screen, he thought he might have been hallucinating. He¡¯d been out of the office for a while ¨C almost a week ¨C trying to minimise the damage to the Silvertown deal. He¡¯d packed Felicia off on a spa retreat, so he had the apartment to himself. He¡¯d been making endless phone calls, trying to schmooze his way back into the pockets of the various money men who had been scared off by the Popovs¡¯ attack on Wayne. It was hard-going, but he was making progress at last. So when he¡¯d heard about Wayne¡¯s surprise press conference, he¡¯d been annoyed. The boy shouldn¡¯t make appearances in the press without his approval. But what harm, really, could one press conference do?


    Or so he¡¯d thought, until he saw Ronnie Vincent walk out in front of the cameras.


    First of all, David grabbed his phone and tried to call Wayne. It was an instinctive reaction, and a pointless one. The footage was live, the conference was happening now.


    Then he fumbled for the TV remote and turned on the volume. He needed to know what this was all about.


    Next, he called Rochelle. When she answered, he hissed: ¡°What the fuck is going on?¡±


    Rochelle, ever the professional, responded at once.


    "I''m as surprised as you are, Mr. Carter." She sounded livid. ¡°He didn¡¯t tell me Mr. Vincent would be making a surprise appearance.¡±


    "That treacherous little shit. After everything I¡¯ve done for him! He¡¯s putting Silvertown at risk."


    "Do you want me to shut it down?" Rochelle asked.


    David paused. "And draw attention it? No. That would only have everyone assuming that I didn¡¯t approve Ronnie¡¯s appearance. No, we¡¯ll just have to hope that my son doesn¡¯t fuck this up. What''s done is done. But I want you to help me minimize the damage. Understand?"


    ¡°Of course, sir, I¡¯m so sorry¡­¡±


    "I want you to tell the boys to pipe up if Ronnie or Wayne starts to get controversial. Try Nick Devlin, he''s usually pretty good with this type of thing. Tell him to chip in and draw the attention if Wayne or Ronnie mentions anything about the Popovs. Or ¨C and this is very important ¨C if he says anything about ''Silvertown.'' Understand?"


    ¡°Right.¡±


    "And Rochelle?"


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°If it gets violent, I want you to shut it down immediately.¡±


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    "Now say it back to me."


    "Any mention of the Popovs, or Silvertown, get Devlin involved. And shut it down if there¡¯s violence."


    "Good girl." He ended the call.


    David then took a quick line of coke to perk himself up and went into the bedroom to put on a tie.


    *


    All the cameras were on him, and he smiled somewhat awkwardly. "Hiya," he said.


    "Come here, Ronnie," said Wayne, enveloping the big guy in a hug. "I want you to know there''s no hard feelings. Alright?"


    "Alright," Ronnie repeated back to him. For the first time in his life, he was self-conscious in front of the cameras. This situation was out of his control, and he felt as if he''d been hung out to dry by the Popovs. Where was Stan? No amount of media training could have prepared him for this. He was used to being the tough guy. It was an image that had served him well. Now here he was getting all lovey-dovey with a cunt like Wayne Carter.


    Ronnie Vincent cleared his throat. "Sorry, mate," he said. "Nothing personal."


    "That''s alright, Ronnie," Wayne told him. "Nothing personal." He held out his hand and Ronnie shook it.


    Now that the revelation of Wayne''s retirement was out of the way, not to mention his contrived reconciliation with Ronnie Vincent, there was not much else to say. Wayne thanked everyone for coming, and there was more applause and muted conversation among the audience about just how brave the young lad was.


    While the TV crew was disassembling their equipment and the crowd was dispersing, a man in a suit sidled up to Wayne. It was David Carter, and he had a big, soppy smile on his face. "Wayne, my boy. I''m proud of you."


    If Wayne was surprised to see him there, he didn¡¯t show it. "Aw, thanks Dad."


    "I didn''t know you had it in you. But you''ve done the right thing here, making peace with Ronnie. I just sort of wish you¡¯d let your old man in on his surprise cameo¡­¡±


    ¡°Well, I didn¡¯t want to get in your way. I know you¡¯ve got your hands full at the moment.¡±


    David nodded. ¡°You¡¯re right. This Silvertown mess will be the death of me. And I¡¯m sorry we haven¡¯t been able to work something out for you yet¡­¡±


    "Dad, forget about it," said Wayne, giving his old man a hearty slap on the back.


    "You''re a good lad, Wayne."


    "Well, you knew I wouldn''t let you down. After all, the family business comes first." He uttered this last sentence with undue gravity, and David cast a sideways glance at him. But any tension between them swiftly dispersed, and David escorted him to the nearby bar for a well-earned drink.

 Chapter Thirteen

    Mikhail Popov did not watch the interview when it aired. He had no particular interest in seeing Ronnie Vincent embarrassing himself in front of a camera yet again. Nor did he care all that much about whatever Wayne Carter had to say. No doubt the whole thing had been carefully scripted. That was one thing which David Carter was good at ¨C even Mikhail had to concede the fact. Nobody put on a show quite like Carter.


    So it came as something of a surprise when he was settling back in the leather armchair in his office, sipping a glass of wine and enjoying the emotive strains of Rimsky-Korsakov on the hi-fi, when his son Stanislaw entered the room without warning.


    "Pop, I need a word."


    "You know," Mikhail said thoughtfully, "when I was your age, if I had burst into my father''s office without warning, he would have beaten me to within an inch of my life. And he would have been right to do it."


    "Sorry, pop. But it''s important."


    "Well?"


    "Did you watch the press conference?"


    "I have better things to do with my time."


    "Well, I just had Ronnie Vincent calling me again. He wants to come see you."


    "That''s what''s so important?" Mikhail could hardly keep the smile from his face. "Stanislaw, I think those drugs have ruined your brain. There was a time when you didn''t give two shits about Ronnie Vincent."


    "I think you should speak to him, pop."


    Mikhail narrowed his eyes. Did Stanislaw know something? "Alright," he said, "never let it be said that I''m a tyrant. I will do as you say, and meet with the fool. There, are you happy?"


    Ronnie Vincent arrived at Mikhail Popov''s house within the hour. Once again, he was out of his comfort zone. He wished he was in Spain, filming, beating up stuntmen and soaking up sun. Stanislaw came into the hall to meet him. They shook hands perfunctorily, and Stanislaw led him through to the back of the house, to Mikhail''s office. This time, Stanislaw knocked politely on the door.


    Mikhail was sitting with his back to them as they entered the study. Ronnie Vincent took it all in. He saw the paintings on the walls (several old masters, though he would not have recognised their names), the ornate chess set, the drinks cabinet positively brimming with expensive booze. The place reeked of luxury. And there, in the middle of it all, was the comparatively unassuming figure of Mikhail Popov. He was sitting with a drink in one hand and a book in the other. It was a philosophical treatise of some sort by someone named Ayn Rand. The name meant nothing to Ronnie. And there was classical music playing on the stereo. Again, Ronnie didn''t recognise it. He was out of his depth, and he did not like it.


    Stanislaw cleared his throat. "Pop, I have Ronnie Vincent here."


    Mikhail glanced up, as though he had not been expecting them. "Ah," he said. "Mr. Vincent. You wanted to see me, I think?"


    "Erm, yeah. Sorry to bother you, and all that, but..."


    "Stanislaw, why don''t you leave Mr. Vincent to me?"


    Stanislaw gave a nod that was almost like a bow and then quietly withdrew from the room. At once, Mikhail''s pale eyes were burning into Ronnie Vincent. "Now, Mr. Vincent, you have my undivided attention."


    "Uh... it''s about this press conference earlier today..."


    "What about it?"


    "Well, I met with Wayne Carter about the, you know..."


    "I am quite aware."


    "And we shook hands and he..."


    "He what?"


    Ronnie Vincent exhaled slowly, doing his best to remain cool. "I wanted to bring this to you personally, Mr. Popov. To show you that I''m, that I''m loyal. And reliable. I know who my friends are, and I take care of them."


    Popov was looking annoyed. "Say what you wish to say, Mr. Vincent."


    Ronnie Vincent held out a crumpled envelope. "He gave me this. Slipped it to me when we were shaking hands."


    Mikhail sniffed disdainfully, but all the same he leaned forward to take the proffered envelope. He turned it over and saw the block lettering on the front: MIKHAIL POPOV.


    "You have not looked inside?"


    "No! No, I wouldn''t do that. Not when it''s got your name on it..."


    "Alright. You wanted to bring me the envelope personally. Now you have done so. Thank you for your trouble."


    There was an awkward moment where Ronnie Vincent failed to get the message, but once it clicked he quietly and politely left the room.


    Mikhail studied the envelope. Perhaps he should have watched the press conference after all. Perhaps there was more to this Wayne Carter than met the eye. With a razor-sharp letter opener, he sliced the envelope open and produced a thin sheet of paper, folded in half. He examined the brief message and smiled.


    A telephone number, and then two words: CALL ME.


    In a febrile situation like this one, where neither party fully understood the scope of the other''s ambition, it was essential to exercise a degree of caution. That was Mikhail Popov''s approach, anyway. His initial instinct was to destroy that foolish note, which never should have been written in the first place, and then go on with his life as before. But before doing that, he took the opportunity to watch a replay of the press conference on his computer. He saw Wayne Carter looking brave and stoic ¨C a martyr ¨C and ensuring that Ronnie Vincent looked like a fool and a brute in the process.


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    Frankly, events like this one typically bored Mikhail to tears. He had never shown any interest in pleasing the court of public opinion. But there was something about this press conference that felt a little different. Something about the way Wayne Carter carried himself; his confidence in front of the cameras. It took a moment for Mikhail to realise what it was: Wayne had nothing to lose. At least, the boy had obviously convinced himself he had nothing to lose. Hence the soul-baring, combined with the cynicism of his shameless embrace with Vincent.


    But Mikhail was wise, even if Wayne Carter was not. He understood that everyone had something to lose.


    So Mikhail picked up the telephone on his desk and dialled the number.


    *


    It was the number of a burner phone which Wayne had bought for just this purpose. Wayne sat in his bedroom at home, the phone on the desk, staring at it. Willing it to ring. And when it finally did, he nearly had a heart attack and almost dropped it in his haste. But he forced himself to stop for a moment, to take a breath, and to gather himself.


    ¡°Mr. Popov.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Carter. You wanted to speak with me?¡±


    ¡°Glad to hear you got my message.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Ronnie Vincent may not be good for much, but he makes an admirable delivery boy. Now ¨C there is something you wanted to discuss with me, Mr. Carter?¡±


    Wayne hadn¡¯t really thought this far ahead. He knew what he wanted, but he didn¡¯t know how to broach the subject. Particularly when Popov was being so matter of fact about it.


    ¡°It seems to me that we are bound by a common enemy, Wayne said. It took Mikhail a moment to realise what Wayne meant. When he did, the realisation felt remarkably fruitful. But he would need to proceed with caution.


    "I suppose that your father acted... somewhat rashly,¡± he said slowly.


    "He didn''t act. That was the problem."


    Mikhail smiled. Semantics. "Alright. You asked me to call you, and I have called you. What would you like to discuss?"


    "It''s about Mile End. First off, let me say I''m not blaming you for what happened."


    "Good."


    "But I still feel a bit... hard done by. I''m sure you can understand that."


    Mikhail conceded that he could.


    "Now, I''m a doer," Wayne said. "I''ve got to be doing things or else I''ll go mad. And now my dad''s getting in the way of what I want to do."


    "Which is?"


    Wayne took a deep breath. "It was to play for the Mile End first team. That was all I ever wanted. And now that''s not going to happen. So I''ve got no choice but to make alternative arrangements."


    "It was an unfortunate thing that happened to you."


    "Yes. It was," Wayne said bitterly. "But I''m ready to make the best of it."


    "That is commendable. But I have to ask, what does it have to do with me?"


    Wayne was ready for this question. "It seems to me that our goals are actually pretty in synch, if you know what I mean."


    "I''m not sure I do."


    "You want David Carter out of the picture. To me, that doesn''t seem too much to ask. In fact, maybe I could even... assist you with that."


    Mikhail thought about this. "There has been a rivalry between the Carters and the Popovs for a long time now. It just so happens that things came to a head for your father with this Silvertown business."


    Silvertown, Silvertown. Wayne was sick of hearing the fucking word. Everything came back to Silvertown lately. If it were up to Wayne, he would bulldoze the whole place and sprinkle the ground with salt. He would eradicate it from the face of the earth.


    "I like to play chess," Popov was saying. "Did you know that? My sons tell me that I tend to view life as a game of chess. Both are games in which I am lucky enough to be highly proficient. Well, there is a certain move in chess that applies to your father''s situation. We call it ''zugzwang,'' when one is obliged to make a move, but no matter how they move, they will place themselves at a profound disadvantage. With what happened to you, we were able to place your father in zugzwang.¡±


    Mikhail smiled. It was satisfying when chess and life so perfectly aligned. ¡°In other words, I have him exactly where I want him. Without your help, I might add. So, Wayne Carter, my question is this: what do you have to offer me? And if I take up your offer to betray your father ¨C because, let''s be honest, that is exactly what you would be doing ¨C then what exactly would you expect in return?"


    For the first time, Wayne let his true feelings enter his voice. Up until now, he had been keeping himself under control. Doing his level best to convince Popov that this was really just a matter of business. But now he declared: "I will find a way to sabotage Silvertown for him."


    "You are really willing to betray him, and everything he has accomplished?"


    There could be no going back now. "Yes," said Wayne.


    ¡°Please think very carefully, Wayne. Because once you commit yourself, there will be no going back. None.¡±


    ¡°With all due respect, Mr. Popov, I haven¡¯t thought about anything else for a long time.¡±


    ¡°Very well. I wanted to give you the opportunity to withdraw. Because I am a fair man, you see.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Mr. Popov.¡±


    ¡°If we are to be partners, then you may call me Mikhail.¡± No one called him Mikhail. Not even his closest confidants. But Mikhail Popov knew that the game he was playing was more complex than it had originally appeared.


    ¡°Yes¡­ Mikhail.¡± And at that moment, something changed between them. It was as though Wayne had signed his soul away to the devil. The sky might as well have been spliced by lightning.


    But Mikhail had more to say. "And what about my second question? What do you want in return?"


    Wayne was prepared for this one. "Two things, and they''re both perfectly fair."


    "I will be the judge of that."


    "The first thing: Ronnie Vincent. I want him taken care of."


    "In what way?"


    "What I mean is, I want him finished. I want his career over the way mine was."


    "That might prove problematic."


    "Oh, I''m sure you''ll find a way round it." Wayne was indulging his malicious streak, and it felt good. Of course, Ronnie Vincent had all but abandoned the beautiful game in favour of the silver screen. But if Wayne had learned anything over the last few months, it was that the Popovs could get to you wherever you were.


    "Are you sure that revenge is the best policy?" Mikhail inquired benignly.


    "Yes," came Wayne¡¯s definitive answer.


    He could hear the smile in Mikhail''s voice when he said: "Well, alright,¡± as though he were indulging a spoilt child. ¡°And what is the second thing?"


    "I don''t care what happens to my father. But I do care what happens to me. So if you dismantle the Carter business, there needs to be something else in its place. Something that I can run, with your blessing."


    "I think I understand. You wish to be part of the Popov organization."


    "Call it whatever you like. But I want my independence. I want a level of control."


    Mikhail considered this. The boy had evidently been spurned by his father, though this conversation was certainly not a spur of the moment tantrum, the kind of thing Stanislaw might be capable of. This was a calculated manoeuvre. "Ah! It makes sense to me now. You wish to be director of Mile End Athletic, isn''t that so?"


    Wayne''s heart leapt. Hearing his ambition voiced so succinctly by a man like Mikhail Popov was a giddying sensation. It made him feel that his own personal rise to power was not merely possible, but inevitable. In that instant, he knew it was within his reach. "Yes," he answered, "that''s exactly what I want."


    "Good. I like a man who knows his mind. Very well. In theory, nothing you have proposed here is out of the question. But it will require a degree of organisation. It will not happen overnight. And first, you will have to deliver on dismantling Silvertown for your father."


    "I''m a patient man," Wayne said. "I¡¯m prepared for it to take as long as it takes."


    "Alright. Let''s meet. We will need to discuss this... project of ours in person."


    ¡°Name a time and place.¡±

 Chapter Fourteen

    He sat in his Porsche in the pitch black layby with the lights off, waiting. He was in the country, somewhere equidistant between his home and London. A quiet, meandering country road; a layby almost hidden between drystone walls. Exactly where Popov had told him to meet him. It was now roughly ten past eleven, and Mikhail was late. Just another power play¨C fashionable lateness as a display of dominance. Well, Wayne hadn¡¯t been lying; he was patient. And he wouldn¡¯t be spooked by Popov¡¯s lateness.


    As he sat there in that dreadful silence and darkness, Wayne thought about his dad.


    For the first time he began to ask questions of himself. He began to pick apart the long-held truths that were the cornerstone of his young life. For years, David Carter had been not just a hero but a god. And when the gods were toppled from their celestial thrones, what was left? Wayne was beginning to question everything, all the way back. He thought about his mum for the first time in years. The woman who had given him up ¨C who had surrendered him to this life. He had only ever thought of it in passing before, but what if his accepted version of events was not the way things had really played out? What if she hadn¡¯t actually abanndoned him? What if there was more to it?


    He thought of that infamous confrontation in the kitchen all those years ago, when his mum had brandished a knife in David''s face. David was not a man who liked to lose face in a confrontation. Not a man to be made a fool of. Had he really just stood there and taken such a fierce bollocking without cooking up some kind of revenge? No, David was not a man to take a knock to his pride lying down. He would lash out.


    Wayne felt a sudden, all-consuming fear, as he remembered his father holding the gun to his security officer¡¯s head. He knew instantly that his mum was dead. She would never have been allowed to walk out of his life like that. How had Wayne failed to see it before? Of course he knew David Carter was capable of violence. But never before had he considered the notion that those violent instincts could be trained on his own family.


    But now, Wayne had seen for himself what David was willing to do ¨C or allow to be done ¨C to a member of his own family. If he was capable of that, what else was he capable of?


    Wayne thought of his poor mum, who, after all, had only had his best interests at heart. Most likely David had had her driven out to the middle of nowhere; somewhere very similar to this country lane; then executed point blank and buried in a shallow grave. No one would ever find her. All these years, David had been guarding that secret. The bastard. And he''d played Wayne for a sucker.


    Wayne realised he was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were bone-white. He took a deep breath. He needed to be calm. Professional. Cool. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, but the sheer magnitude of it had not fully dawned on him until he was sitting there, alone in the darkness, his heart leaping at the slightest sound from the nearby road. A few cars passed ¨C not many, but with each throb of a moving engine, Wayne''s anxiety increased. How could he be sure that this meeting was truly secret? Because if David found out about it, there would be hell to pay.


    No. Wayne could not let himself be cowed by fear of his father. There came a time when a man had to stand up for himself, to make his own decisions. For Wayne, it had taken until he was a 22-year-old ex-footballer with a dodgy leg and an echoing, empty manor house in the country. Now was his time to emerge from the shadows.


    But there was danger here. It would mean stepping away from the comfortable existence he had established for himself. Stepping away from his father. It wasn¡¯t just his father¡¯s vengeance that scared him: it was the idea of facing the world alone. But then, he already was alone.


    A sleek black limousine coasted to a halt beside the Porsche, and for a moment nothing happened. Wayne¡¯s heart gave a quick jolt as he watched the limousine. The only comparable emotion was the feeling he got before a big game. Stepping out in front of all those people; people who were watching and waiting for him to fail.


    Somewhat laboriously, Mikhail Popov climbed out of the back seat of the limousine. He did not look like the killer that Wayne knew him to be. He was shorter in person; in fact, as Wayne stepped out of his own car, he towered over the Russian. The two men shook hands, as though this were all perfectly normal. As though neither of them had anything better to be doing with their evening than stand here in the countryside, in the dark, taking in the chilly night air.


    Wayne¡¯s breath hitched in his throat. He swallowed. He had never felt pressure like this before. Throughout his life, every challenge had been viewed through the lens of his father. He¡¯d never really understood just how momentous a presence David Carter was until now.


    Mikhail broke the silence. "I think, before we enter into any kind of agreement, it is important for you to understand the nature of both my operation and your father''s."


    And so it began. Wayne did his best to sound imperious. David would have been proud. "I understand well enough."


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    "You think you do, but you don''t. I''m sure you comprehend the practicalities, such as the frequent flights to and from South America, and the Mile End players shipped to the UK with a few crates of powder. But what you don''t understand is the philosophy. This is not so much a clash of wills as it is a clash of philosophy. Shakespeare wrote that some men are born great, some achieve greatness and others have greatness thrust upon them. Your father fits neatly into the second category. He is of what I believe you would call ''working-class stock.'' As such, all of his business achievements are hard-earned. That makes him fiercely protective of them. My situation is different. I am not the product of a class system as you would understand it. My business was given to me by my father. My greatness, if you like, was thrust upon me. But I was also instilled with a fierce, animalistic urge to protect. To guard what is mine. My family and my property are everything to me. That is where your father and I differ."


    Wayne reflected bitterly that what Popov was saying was true. David Carter cared about one thing and one thing only: the business.


    "Our methods are the same, but our reasoning is different. I take my business very personally, but at the end of the day, it is family that defines me. Your father''s personality is defined by his business. You see the distinction?"


    Wayne nodded, but he did not understand. He just wanted to get it over with. To sign on the dotted line.


    "There''s something else I want to ask you about,¡± Wayne said after a moment. ¡°Another favour."


    "Indeed? It seems that I am very generous this evening."


    "It''s a personal thing."


    "And the rest ¨C these other tasks ¨C they are not personal?"


    "This is different. It''s just something I need to know."


    "You had better tell me."


    "I want to know what happened to my mother."


    There was a silence, during which Wayne tried to make out Mikhail Popov''s expression in the darkness. Finally, Mikhail said: "Very well. Leave it with me. I will see what I can do. Now, is what can you tell me about Silvertown?"


    [STUFF HERE ABOUT THE SILVERTOWN DEAL, OR LEAVE IT AMBIGUOUS WHAT HE SAYS UNTIL LATER]


    "No. That''s everything."


    "Good. Thank you, Wayne. I think, like the man in the film says, this will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, no?"


    "If you like."


    Mikhail grinned, and Wayne saw for the first time how sharp the Russian''s teeth were. They sparkled like pearls in the moonlight.


    *


    And as he drove away from the meeting point in the middle of nowhere, Wayne¡¯s thoughts drifted back in time, to his childhood. There weren¡¯t many happy memories, especially if his father was part of them, but there were some.


    When he was a kid, he had lived with his parents in a fairly prosperous part of London. Fitting in with the posh knobs was never going to be easy for a lad like him, but there was one kid he had always got on with ¨C Rob Linley, Max''s son. They were the same age and used to play footy on the communal green. Wayne was always the better player. Even in those days he knew how to worm his way past a keeper and then pelt the ball right square into the back of the net. Rob was bigger and slower. Wayne was no stringbean himself, but Rob had a kind of cumbersome quality to him that meant he would never be a great athlete. He lacked the dexterity for the beautiful game.


    Of course, that didn''t matter. In many ways, Wayne thought, Rob had more in common with David than he himself did. It was as if Rob were David''s son, and Wayne just an accident of birth. A changeling. At school, Rob was the clever one. Not clever in an obvious way (he failed just about every exam he ever took, same as Wayne) but he had a kind of instinct that told everyone ¨C even the teachers who dished out the detentions ¨C that he was destined for great things. And they weren''t wrong. Rob was now a powerful businessman in David¡¯s empire, while Wayne was a broken, retired footballer with no prospects.


    While Wayne Carter managed to cut himself off from the real world by dedicating all his efforts to enhancing his football skills, constantly learning and refining, Rob Linley was more outgoing. Not that Wayne was shy or anything like that, but Rob had a way with people. Silver-tongued devil. More often than not, Wayne had found himself in his friend''s shadow. Not that there was ever any bitterness between them. Wayne was used to being in his father''s shadow. Throughout most of his adolescence, he had been accustomed to being the "sidekick." The butt of Rob''s jokes. Because Wayne had his football ¨C that was the one thing that he was good at while Rob was unequivocally not.


    In some ways, they were like brothers. They bickered like brothers, anyway. Wayne had his big sister, too, but he and her were never that close, especially since she married that twat that worked for his father, Jason Keller. But perhaps it was really because she was her mother''s daughter, while Wayne was ¨C in spite of his best efforts ¨C his father''s son. They just had nothing in common. So most of Wayne''s free time, whenever he was not on the football pitch, was spent with Rob Linley.


    Only later did Wayne realise that even this friendship had, to some degree, been choreographed by his dad. Max Linley was David''s confidant, after all. It was only natural for the two men''s sons to become best friends.


    Over time, the relationship between the two young men had cooled and, eventually, soured. Predictably enough, there was a woman at the bottom of it all.


    But nothing so transient as romance could come between Max and David. In the world of football, Max Linley was widely known as the power behind David Carter''s throne. David was the figurehead, but Max was his confidant and his most trusted advisor. And while David had forced Wayne into a career as a professional sportsman, Max seemed to have groomed his son to take over the much-vaunted position as the ¨¦minence grise in Carter''s criminal empire.


    During the days after his meeting with Mikhail Popov, Wayne spent a lot of time on his own, thinking. Brooding. Thinking about all the people who had done him wrong over the years. David Carter''s name was at the top of the list, that was for sure. But Rob Linley was up there too.

 Chapter Fifteen

    Mikhail Popov, once again at his chess board and ruminating over a particularly audacious offensive by his opponent (whom he had never met face to face), was somewhat startled by the ringing of the telephone at his elbow. He was not accustomed to receiving calls without prior warning. Everyone on his staff knew better than to put a call through to him directly, without screening it first. And this was a call to his direct office line. Most irregular. Mikhail picked up the receiver and said: "Yes?"


    "Guess who?"


    "Wayne. How are you?" Mikhail abhorred the English fascination with banal pleasantries, but at the same time, he knew it was a custom which was ultimately inescapable. And so he asked Wayne Carter how he was when really all he wanted was to demand who the fuck Wayne thought he was to be calling his direct number like this, without a prior arrangement.


    But Carter Junior could be a useful ally, if used correctly. It was important not to waste his potential. So Mikhail held his tongue.


    "I''ve had a thought," said Wayne.


    Mikhail resisted the urge to say something sarcastic about what a novelty that must have been. Instead he just took the bait and said: "About what?"


    "About a way in."


    "Where are you calling from?"


    "Home. Why?"


    "Is it a secure line?"


    "Yes."


    "Are you sure?"


    The sudden peppering of questions was enough to throw Wayne off-guard, but not to take away his resolve. "I''m completely sure. Do you want to hear about this, or not?"


    Mikhail admitted that he did. Unaccustomed to being spoken to in this manner, he would usually have sliced the balls off of anyone who dared to snap at him in this way. He would have done it himself with a straight-razor and a smile on his face. But, alas, this time it was not to be.


    "Two words: Rob Linley."


    "Max Linley¡¯s son, yes. I''m aware of him. What about him?"


    "My father''s got big plans for Rob Linley."


    "I see."


    "But Rob''s got weaknesses. You can get to him in a way that you could never be able to get to my dad."


    "I see. What do you have in mind?"


    "If you want to bring down Silvertown, you could do it through Rob."


    Mikhail sat in silence for a moment. He swapped the receiver over to his other ear and then said: "You have a lot of resentment, still."


    "What did you say?"


    "You heard me perfectly well, Wayne. You think you are the only one who is clever enough to find out people''s secrets? Did you really think I would not look into your background before I agreed to do business with you? I know about your history with Rob. I know about Chloe."


    Wayne''s sharp intake of breath made a serpentine hissing sound. He had not heard Chloe''s name spoken aloud in a long time. Subconsciously, he had been avoiding it. And now here she was again, back to occupy his thoughts and to wrench his heart from his chest. He tried to speak but couldn''t.


    She had been in Wayne''s physics class at secondary school. She was about the only thing that got him to show up to school in the first place. He conspired to sit with her, to chat to her, and, finally, to take her out on a date. She was his first love, and now he looked on their relationship as a kind of glorious beacon amid the haze. She was also his "first time," which was something no one would ever be able to take away.


    During their relationship, Rob had managed to keep himself to himself. He had plenty of girls flocking round him, so why should he be bothered by Wayne''s puppydog infatuation with Chloe? But it did not occur to Wayne until afterward that Rob had simply been biding his time. Chloe was the one who ended the relationship; it had lasted maybe six months. Six of the most important months in Wayne''s life. But she got sick of hearing about football; sick of Wayne missing dates because he had to attend extra training; sick of Wayne choosing his career over her. Because the whole thing was so new to Wayne, he never saw it coming. And when she broke the news to him, it hit him like a freight train. He took it badly, didn''t emerge from his bedroom for a couple of days, and starved himself. But soon enough he emerged from his hormonal stupour and carried on with his life. His dad would not have tolerated anything less.


    The final nail in the coffin of his friendship with Rob Linley came the following summer, when he found out via the grapevine that Rob and Chloe were now together. She had traded Wayne in for a more interesting model. Rob had business prospects, he was funny, he was clever. He was everything that Wayne was not. To make matters even worse, they were a perfect couple. Local celebrities, almost. Made for each other. To a casual observer, it would be impossible to imagine either of them with anybody else.


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    Wayne found this very humiliating, and it caused him to scrutinise the latter days of his relationship with Chloe more closely. Had she already set her sights on Rob at that point? Had she used Wayne to get to Rob, who, after all, had no shortage of prospective dates?


    They invited Wayne to the wedding, but he couldn''t bring himself to attend. He remained on cordial but somewhat frosty terms with Rob, whom he met sometimes at the stadium for parties and things like that. But he made a point of avoiding Chloe. He knew that if he laid eyes on her again, he''d be overwhelmed by the sense of loss; the pain of wondering what might have been.


    "She is a beautiful woman," Mikhail said. "A good wife for any man. And an excellent mother to those two children."


    Yet again, it occurred to Wayne how dangerous Mikhail Popov could be. And just how out of his depth he, Wayne, might be. Chloe was Rob Linley''s weakness, but she was also his. He regretted making this call. He should have just left things alone, rather than trying to orchestrate an elaborate revenge that would take down everybody who had ever wronged him. He ended the call with a prod from his index finger.


    Mikhail smiled as he replaced the receiver. Then he leaned forward and delicately moved a chess piece. After all, Wayne''s suggestion was not such a bad one. Rob Linley was shaping up to be quite a formidable figure in the Carter organisation, if the rumours were true and he was destined for the CEO position. Mikhail could certainly see the advantage in removing him from the equation. But he would need to let Wayne cool off for a while before pumping him for details about Rob Linley''s personal life. Mikhail had not been able to resist that little jibe about Chloe Linley.


    Naughty Mikhail! he smiled to himself. He would call back, he would apologise. He must try and remember that ¨C for now, at least ¨C he and Wayne Carter were allies.


    *


    Chloe Linley woke earlier than she had planned. One of the twins was crying again. The two-year-olds both had chicken pox and had been keeping each other (and her) awake for most of the night with their shrieks. Somehow, Rob managed to sleep through the whole thing, as per bloody usual. He¡¯d gotten up and headed off to work without troubling to make her a cup of coffee or anything else that might be construed as caring, husband-like behaviour. He just got dressed and fucked off, like every other day.


    He kept her fed and clothed, so really, she mustn''t complain. But these days, Chloe was finding married life to be much more of a strain than she¡¯d expected. Since the kids. It was inevitable that kids would change a relationship, but all the same, it had come as a shock to Chloe just how much had changed. Rob was finding more and more excuses to stay out late. A paranoid part of her brain even convinced her that he had another woman. Some tart in a flat that he was visiting on the side. But she knew that wasn''t Rob''s style. At least, she didn''t think it was Rob''s style. She thought he was more likely to sleep with call girls or one-night stands he picked up on exclusive dating apps, rather than go through the hassle of keeping a mistress, who would inevitably be almost as much work as a wife.


    But did she really know Rob as well as she thought she did?


    She finally managed to settle the twins down with a quick spritz of calamine lotion, then she hopped in the shower. Afterwards, she dressed and got the twins ready for their outing. The fresh air, she told herself, would do them good.


    They had a particular liking for Victoria Park, and they often demanded to go there to feed the ducks. Maybe being there would miraculously revive them.


    The twins burbled and chittered happily as she got them into their double pram, and she was pleased to see that the pox themselves were fading. It had been a difficult week.


    Chloe thought about Rob as she pushed the pram along the pavement. She tried to remember what it was about him that had attracted her in the first place. Whatever it was, it was now gone. He was as handsome and charming as ever, but those two things alone were not enough to sustain a marriage. She also began to wonder what he saw in her, if anything. She was his property, of course. As were the kids. But she was still young ¨C still in her early twenties, for God''s sake! Too young to be so jaded. There had to be more to life than this, didn''t there?


    She barely noticed the overcast day as she rolled the pram through the gates and into the park. It was always overcast in London. They headed straight for the duck pond, which was the twins'' favourite place, and sat on a bench for a minute or two.


    She didn''t see the man approach. He must have crept up, as if from nowhere. Or else sprung from the bushes.


    But he was friendly and polite as he came up to her. "Good morning," he said. He had an accent of some kind. Eastern European? Russian? Rob would have known, he was good with accents.


    "Morning," she said to him, a little surprised.


    "Lovely day," he said, in spite of the fact that clouds were now gathering overhead.


    "Yeah." The man was clean-shaven and wore a suit. He was perhaps a few years older than she was and had a professional air about him. He was also handsome, with blonde hair, sharp blue eyes and a chiselled jaw. If he weren¡¯t so good-looking she would have ignored him and simply walked away. She had learned long ago not to engage with strange men in the park. And yet this guy seemed perfectly harmless. Maybe he was some sort of religious character, who wanted to tell her about Jesus.


    But no, all he wanted was to ask for directions. "Excuse me," he said, his accent seeming to grow heavier, "but can you direct me to the... bagel shop?"


    Chloe could, and did. It was back along the path, the way she had come.


    "Ah! Thank you, thank you so much.¡± He then gave her an ostentatious (and highly incongruous) bow. He was gone before she could think about him in too much detail. She would most likely never see him again. All the same, this little encounter ignited the tiniest spark in her imagination. It got her thinking that there were other out there in the world. Rob, who kept her at arm''s length these days, was not the be-all and end-all.


    She was young. She had a lot to give. And why shouldn''t she enjoy herself a bit? After all, she did not doubt for one second that Rob would fuck anything that moved if he got the chance.


    But before she could pursue this train of thought much further, she was distracted by a sudden shriek from the pram. One of the twins had smacked the other, which had produced a sudden and startling cacophony of screams.


    Of course, while Chloe Linley''s attention had been caught by the mysterious (but not unappealing) Russian man in the suit, she had barely noticed the other man about a hundred yards away, who had been fiddling with his phone and generally looking innocuous. It did not even occur to her that he might have been using the phone camera to capture immaculately framed shots of her and her children.

 Chapter Sixteen

    A suspicious-looking jiffy bag was delivered to Rob Linley''s office the following morning. It was the kind of thing that might have contained an explosive device in an old movie. But when it landed on Rob''s desk he took it in his hands and shook it. It was surprisingly thin and light, evidently containing only a few papers. He glanced at the handwriting on the envelope. Handwriting? Who wrote addresses by hand these days?


    He ripped open the seal and tipped the envelope so that a few photographs fluttered out. He arranged them in a row in front of him and studied them carefully.


    Chloe? And the kids?


    The photos had obviously been taken without his wife''s knowledge. She was by a lake or pond of some kind, talking to a man in a black suit who looked like a funeral director. Must have been when she was out walking them yesterday. What did it mean?


    He peered into the envelope and saw a sheet of that which had not come spilling out with the rest. He fished it out between his fingers and examined it along with the photographs.


    Again, it was handwritten. It read:


    SEE HOW CLOSE WE GOT?


    UNLESS YOU WANT TO SEE THEM DEAD, YOU WILL DO AS WE SAY.


    INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.


    A chill ran down Rob¡¯s spine. He was a controlled man, not known for emotional outbursts, but as he read over these lines, he felt a sick fear settle in his stomach. He looked again at the photographs, and this time, it dawned on him who the man in the suit was. Yuri Popov. Son of Mikhail. A fucking ruthless bastard. A sociopath, in fact, who gloried in violence and excess. In other words, a chip off the old block.


    If Stanislaw¡¯s reputation was as a party animal, a waster who liked his sports cars and prostitutes, then Yuri¡¯s was the polar opposite. Yuri Popov was a man who lived and breathed to serve his father. He was almost robot-like. The only public appearances he made were those accompanying his father to high-profile events. He never spoke if he could avoid it. But he was distinguishable by his immaculately tailored suits, and by the chilly, soulless look in his pale eyes.


    So it had finally happened. Rob had been anticipating it for a while; ever since what had happened to Wayne. The Russians were making a play.


    He quickly destroyed the photos, note and envelope, igniting them with his lighter and watching them curl and then blacken to nothing in the bin by his desk. And while he watched the dancing orange flame, he thought.


    The way he saw it, he had a few different options. The first was the ¡°scorched earth¡± approach. He could take it straight to the top, to his dad and David Carter. That would be tantamount to declaring war on the Popovs, and needless to say he and his wife and kids would be fair game. His life wouldn¡¯t be worth much to anyone if he did that.


    The other option, the one he currently favoured, was to try and worm his way out of this situation for himself. He could look at this as a baptism of fire. A test of mettle. A chance to prove himself the leader he knew he could be.


    These ¡°instructions¡± from the Popovs ¨C what were they going to entail? Only one way to find out, of course. But that led to all kinds of other questions. Naturally they were blackmailing him because they wanted him to betray the Carter organisation in some way. But Rob liked to think of himself as a negotiator, someone who was good at striking an amicable deal between parties ¨C and pocketing a decent amount of cash for himself, in the bargain. But it was going to be risky. What they did to Wayne was evidently just a taster of the amount of destruction they could wreak if they wanted to.


    That gave Rob an idea. He and Wayne had always been mates, hadn¡¯t they? Old school pals, for fuck¡¯s sake. If he couldn¡¯t trust Wayne (who, let¡¯s not forget, had experienced his own run-in with the Russians) then who could he trust?


    He tried to think back to his last full conversation with Wayne. It must have been at some gala or other at the Mile End ground. They had bought each other drinks, hadn¡¯t they, and traded pleasantries? Just like old times. Well, not quite, but almost. Wayne might be worth talking to about this. He might be able to advise.


    Rob took his phone from the pocket of his suit and was surprised to find that he didn¡¯t actually have Wayne¡¯s number in it. It didn¡¯t take much effort to find it, though ¨C there was a pretty comprehensive database of contact info for all the Mile End personnel.


    Once he had the number, he headed out into the car park to pace around a bit as he made his call. He was at a rented office space not too far from Silvertown. It had been decided by his dad and by Mr. Carter that he should be on hand at the site, where preliminary excavations were already underway. Rob wasn¡¯t complaining ¨C it gave him the opportunity to slip away whenever he needed to. But all the same, he was a bit surprised to see that his hands were shaking as he inputted the number and hit ¡°CALL.¡±


    Fucking pull yourself together!


    He filled his lungs and then exhaled slowly, languorously. He listened to the dial tone. Shit! Where the hell is he? It isn¡¯t as if he has many pressing engagements these days¡­


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Rob ended the call, then hit ¡°REDIAL.¡± Finally, on about the third attempt, he managed to get through.


    ¡°Y-ello?¡±


    ¡°Wayne! That you, mate? It¡¯s Rob.¡±


    ¡°Rob mate, long time no speak.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, long time! Uh, did you get those flowers we sent? And the get well card?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so¡­¡±


    ¡°What, you didn¡¯t? Bloody hell, sorry about that mate. They weren¡¯t just from me, they were from Chloe and the kids too¡­¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it.¡± Wayne sounded very calm. Calmer than he ever had during their school days. Back then, Rob was the cool one, the one people actually liked, and Wayne was the quiet one ¨C the one who always seemed as if he had something to hide. How the turn tables, as they say.


    ¡°And I was really sorry about what happened. You know that, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°We all were. Chloe sends her love, by the way.¡±


    ¡°Nice of her.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­¡± Rob tailed off into uneasy silence. He knew he needed to advance the conversation, to change the subject, but he just couldn¡¯t find the words.


    ¡°It was the Russians.¡±


    ¡°What? What did you say?¡±


    ¡°It was the Russians, Rob. They¡¯re the ones who did it. They set Ronnie Vincent up to cripple me. Probably paid him a pretty penny, too.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s funny you should mention that. It¡¯s sort of the reason I¡¯m calling. I need to ask you something. Before you¡­ well, before your accident, you got a note handed to you. Isn¡¯t that right? I know your dad kept it pretty hush-hush what with Silvertown¡­¡±


    ¡°No, you¡¯re right. I got a note.¡± Wayne was perfectly matter-of-fact about it.


    Rob decided to return the favour: ¡°Well, I¡¯ve got one too.¡±


    Wayne whistled. ¡°Oh mate, bad luck. My sympathies.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s what I want to talk to you about. Mate to mate, you know. I need your advice.¡±


    ¡°Have you spoken to David about it?¡±


    ¡°No. I haven¡¯t spoken to anyone.¡±


    Wayne snorted. ¡°Probably a good thing. Look what good it did for me, talking to him.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well¡­¡± Rob trailed off again, hating himself for it. He was not used to being tongue-tied like this. He bit the bullet. ¡°I want your advice. I don¡¯t know what to do.¡±


    ¡°Alright. First things first ¨C we¡¯d better meet. Where are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m at work, but I can come round to your place¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright. Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯m on my way.¡±


    Wayne was as good as his word. He showed up at Rob¡¯s office in his Porsche. He had no trouble climbing out of the low-slung sports car, and he approached Rob with only the slightest limp. If you didn¡¯t know better, you would think he could take to the pitch again tomorrow.


    In fact, he was the one who suggested the two of them should take a walk.


    As they strolled side by side along the wide pavements on the fringe of the industrial estate, the two young men could not help but recall those long, wasted summer days when they got up to mischief in the old neighbourhood. The games and pranks and petty cruelties of childhood. But those days were gone. They were different people now.


    ¡°Tell me about this note,¡± Wayne prompted.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t just a note,¡± Rob said, ¡°there were photos too. Chloe and the kids. Obviously when she was out and about in the park.¡±


    Wayne didn¡¯t say anything to this.


    ¡°What should I do, Wayne?¡±


    Wayne sniffed. ¡°Just out of interest, why are you asking me? I can¡¯t do anything to help you, can I?¡±


    ¡°Come on, Wayne. I need a friend. I need someone to advise me. And like you said, I can¡¯t take this to my dad, or to Mr. Carter¡­¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Wayne with a hint of sarcasm, ¡°I don¡¯t think Mr. Carter would take the news too well. Particularly with Silvertown up shit creek.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure how much you knew about that.¡±


    ¡°I know about as much as my dad wants me to know. But it¡¯s enough.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re right. Things have been held up somewhat. Obviously your dad¡¯s not happy. And it looks as though the Popovs are taking advantage of that.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Wayne, ¡°it does, doesn¡¯t it? But you still haven¡¯t told me what you want me to do.¡±


    They reached a wooden memorial bench by the roadside, and Rob slumped down onto it. ¡°I need to know what to do.¡±


    ¡°What did the note say?¡±


    ¡°It said they could get to my family. And it said if I didn¡¯t do as they said, then my family was as good as dead.¡±


    ¡°And have you had any instructions from them?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. But I¡¯ve got a feeling they¡¯ll be coming soon.¡±


    Wayne sat down beside Rob. ¡°And you really want my opinion?¡±


    ¡°Course I do.¡±


    ¡°Well, my advice is to look what happened to me. I got a note from the Popovs. I went to my dad about it, I thought he¡¯d help me. Maybe throw the Russians a bone, something to keep the peace. But he didn¡¯t. He sold me up the river because of his precious Silvertown. And I¡¯m his son. See what I mean?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Rob nodded slowly.


    ¡°Now, it goes against the grain for me to tell you this, but I think you should do what they say.¡±


    Rob lit a cigarette and said nothing.


    Wayne pressed on. ¡°What harm can it do? Realistically? Isn¡¯t it better to try and keep everybody happy, than to make waves and ruin everything?¡±


    ¡°Everyone happy?¡± Rob raised a sceptical eyebrow. ¡°If your father finds out I¡¯m working with Popov, he¡¯ll have me killed.¡±


    Wayne pretended to consider this. ¡°Who are you more afraid of, David Carter, or Mikhail Popov?¡±


    Rob snorted. ¡°Honestly? David Carter.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I phrased this wrong. What I mean is, who would you rather see dead: yourself, or your wife and kids?¡±


    Rob took another drag on his cigarette. The hand holding the fag, he realised, was shaking. He hoped Wayne didn¡¯t notice.


    ¡°Perhaps you¡¯re right,¡± he said finally. ¡°But this is completely off the record, isn¡¯t it? I mean, you won¡¯t mention it to Mr. Carter?¡±


    ¡°My lips are sealed. Besides, he doesn¡¯t talk to me too much these days.¡±


    Rob tried to console him. ¡°He¡¯s very busy. You know, what with¡­¡±


    ¡°Silvertown,¡± Wayne finished his sentence for him.


    ¡°Yeah. Listen, thanks for this, Wayne. You¡¯re a good mate.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it,¡± Wayne grinned. ¡°What are friends for?¡±

 Chapter Seventeen

    Rob went back to work feeling a bit better about the situation. If he wasn¡¯t careful, things might get hairy, but Wayne had made all the right noises and told him more or less what he had wanted to hear. It was a ¡°get out of jail free¡± card; if Carter caught him, he could trade his life for the information that Wayne had encouraged the betrayal. At the end of the day, David Carter would rather know that Wayne had betrayed him than Rob.


    Now it was just a waiting game.


    Just as he was about to clock off for the day, the phone on Rob¡¯s desk began to ring. He swore under his breath and lunged for it.


    ¡°Mr. Linley?¡± The voice was unfamiliar, and spoke with a faintly discernible accent. Instantly, jets of icy dread shot through Rob¡¯s heart.


    ¡°Speaking.¡±


    ¡°There is a car waiting for you outside. A black Mercedes.¡±


    Rob peeked out between the window blinds and saw the waiting saloon. His first instinct was to run, but he quickly decided against it. They would only hunt him down. Instead he calmly hung up the phone and headed outside.


    A chauffeur in a grey uniform climbed out of the car and held open the rear passenger door. Without a word, Rob climbed in.


    He found himself sitting beside Yuri Popov, who was staring straight ahead, as though in a trance.


    The chauffeur got into the driver¡¯s seat and gunned the engine. They coasted away from the curb. Rob glanced sideways at the gangster¡¯s son, who was still staring straight ahead.


    Finally, Yuri spoke. ¡°You got my message.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And your answer?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Rob said without hesitation.


    Yuri Popov did not smile. ¡°Good,¡± he said.


    *


    Mikhail was pleasantly surprised by the speed at which things were progressing. He contemplated the situation over his morning coffee. Not only had Wayne Carter proved himself an able (and decidedly useful) ally, but he had also managed to recruit Rob Linley, who was evidently one of David''s ''chosen few.''


    The coffee was strong and black; thick enough to chew. Mikhail savoured it as he decided what to do next. Really, the answer was obvious. Targeting Silvertown was the right call. Perhaps naively, Mikhail had previously assumed that David''s weakness would be his son. But that was evidently not the case. No, David''s real weakness lay in his almost pathological need to see the Silvertown development through to its bitter conclusion.


    In a way, Mikhail could empathise with that. It was yet another area of concordance between the two men''s personalities. And if the roles were reversed, Mikhail knew all too well that David Carter would exploit every opportunity to its fullest extent. What choice did Mikhail have but to do likewise?


    It had been wise to send Yuri. Yuri had a kind of unspoken authority about him. People were reluctant to fuck with him, whereas Stanislaw seemed to give off an air of recklessness. And recklessness was weakness, as far as Mikhail was concerned. Yuri was remorseless and uncompromising. A perfect enforcer. Mikhail could not really say why his two sons had turned out so differently. They had received more or less identical upbringings. But all along, Yuri had been the one to whom Mikhail could entrust the most important tasks. Yuri was the one who would take over when he, Mikhail, was dead.


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    With another sip of coffee Mikhail washed away these thoughts of mortality. It did no one any good to ruminate on such matters; it only made him morbid. And his task was not yet finished. There was more work to be done.


    *


    The Mercedes was making a slow circuit round Battersea Park. Yuri sat upright in the back seat, his gaze fixed dead ahead as he spoke. "Thank you for meeting me," he said politely.


    Rob Linley, seated beside him, just nodded.


    This was the way they did things now. Rob Linley was determined not to make waves. He wanted the whole thing to remain hush-hush, and so he behaved with the utmost discretion. Whenever he received word from the Popovs, he simply dropped whatever he was doing and did as they asked. He had now met with Yuri three times, and each time in the back of the slick black Mercedes on an aimless course around London. While the chauffeur drove, the two men in the back seat simply talked.


    Rob felt safe as long as the tinted windows shielded him from the outside world. He was fine just as long as no one saw him. If even the tiniest hint of a rumour reached David Carter''s ears, there would be hell to pay.


    To begin with, Yuri had done most of the talking. It was bizarre; he so seldom spoke in his day-to-day life, or whenever he appeared beside his father, that Rob had wondered whether the man was, in fact, mute. But that was definitely not the case. He was just a man who only spoke when he had something to say.


    And now he was talking about Silvertown.


    "It must mean a great deal to your boss." He spoke softly, without much of an accent. The benefits of an English private school education.


    "It''s not just the money," said Rob. "It''s the... what''s the word? The prestige. He wants to make his mark."


    "Don''t we all," was Yuri''s riposte. Then, startlingly, he turned his head and stared at Rob. "Alright, we have exchanged pleasantries long enough. You have shown that you''re willing to help us; that''s good. But now the time has come to get things moving. What do you have for us?"


    This was exactly what Rob had been dreading ever since he had received that first message from the Popovs. He had been hoping he might be able to string them along for a little while with vague promises of information, before fobbing them off with something altogether innocuous. Evidently that was not going to be the case.


    "I need time," Rob said. "What you have to understand is that there''s so much about the Silvertown operation that even I don''t know."


    "You have been saying something similar for over a week now," Yuri countered, still not taking his eyes off Rob. Rob looked away, but he could still feel that merciless gaze boring into him like a dentist''s drill. "I think perhaps you are taking the piss."


    Rob didn''t like the sound of that. "I''m not! It''s just that..."


    "Please," Yuri held up a hand for silence. "I don''t want to hear any more excuses." He pressed an intercom button and spoke to the driver in Russian. Swiftly, the Mercedes changed course.


    "Where are we going?" Rob felt the sweat trickling down the back of his neck.


    Yuri did not answer.


    Soon enough, it became clear. The Mercedes coasted to a halt beside a children''s playground. "No," Rob whispered. Through the tinted window, he spotted Chloe and the twins. The little ones were on a see-saw on the far side of the playground while Chloe was sitting on a bench, watching them happily.


    Yuri had a pistol in one hand. In the other, he held a silencer. "You know," said Yuri, "I have been nothing but fair with you. I believe that''s the foundation of a successful partnership. So, I''m going to give you a chance to choose."


    "Ch-choose what?"


    "Which of them." Yuri looked at the children and Chloe. His gaze drifted coolly from one to the other. "The choice is yours."


    "No!" Rob yelled and reached for the gun. Yuri caught hold of his hand and gripped his little finger. With a deft, almost effortless twist, he snapped the bone. Rob''s yell became shrill, and Yuri smiled.


    Rob sobbed as the pain coursed up his arm.


    "Well?" said Yuri. "Which of them?" He pressed a button and the tinted window slid down. Then he rested the silencer on the edge of the window to steady his aim.


    "Please..." said Rob, clutching his injured hand.


    "You know what you have to do. I believe you have the information we require. The choice is yours. Give us what we want. Or face the consequences."


    "Alright," said Rob. "Alright." He wasn''t like David Carter. He couldn''t just stand by while a madman aimed a gun at his family. He took a moment to catch his breath. His broken finger continued to throb. "Have you ever heard of the Judas Fly?"


    Slowly, thoughtfully, Yuri withdrew the pistol, closed the window, and began to unscrew the silencer once again. "No," he said. "I think you had better tell me."

 Chapter Eighteen

    The so-called ¡°Judas Fly¡± (diptera acroceridae) was notable not just for its beauty but for its rarity. In fact, it was so rare that the UK government had a preservation order in place to mitigate against the growing risk of extinction. A Judas Fly was a veritable unicorn ¨C so scarce as to be almost non-existent. Climate change had been killing them off in record numbers for decades now, and the few that remained in the country were carefully cultivated by experts in laboratories.


    At least, that''s all anybody with a passing interest in the natural world knew of the elusive Judas Fly. But in fact, that was not the whole story.


    The whole story was that preliminary investigations of the Silvertown site had revealed not only evidence of Judas Fly habitation, but of a nest. Something about the soil made the area an ideal spot for them to thrive. Fortunately, David Carter managed to keep the story out of the hands of any do-gooder environmentalists, instead ensuring the information was known only by a handful of his own people.


    Of course, David had done his share of cursing when he heard about those fucking bastard flies, but he knew it would take more than an insect to bring the project screeching to a halt. He just needed a "friendly" environmentalist, someone who was a sensible capitalist.


    Fortunately, Norman Carnaby not only possessed a doctorate in lepidoptery, but he also had an ex-wife who sapped most of his earnings. Astonishingly, there was not as much money in the study of insects as he had naively thought in his student days. So, finding himself somewhat strapped for cash, he had been uniquely pliable.


    David Carter did things the old-fashioned way: the briefcase full of cash had been waiting on Dr. Carnaby''s desk one day when he got to work at the University of London. And so a mutually beneficial business relationship had been forged. It didn''t take much coaxing to get the good doctor out to Silvertown, where he undertook a cursory examination of the site (strategically ignoring the evidence of Judas Fly habitation), before signing a number of legally binding documents that indicated not only was the site free of Judas Flies, but that it was free of any notable insect habitation that might be harmed by the construction project. Simple as that. A done deal. One less thing for David Carter to worry about.


    By the time the Mercedes coasted to a halt once again outside Rob Linley''s office building, Yuri Popov knew all about the Judas Fly. He knew what it looked like, the sound of its call, and its comparative rarity and value. He also knew that there was a nest of Judas Flies somewhere on that patch of flatland which would soon see the construction of the vast and all-encompassing Silvertown development.


    "If I were you," Yuri told Rob, "I''d get somebody to look at that finger."


    Rob didn''t say a word ¨C just got out of the car and headed inside.


    *


    "Jesus, what happened?" Chloe wanted to know when he got home that night, a wooden splint strapped to his broken little finger, and a roll of white tape keeping it straight.


    "Just a stupid thing," he told her, feeling a little woozy from the painkillers. "Trapped it in a door, would you believe it?"


    "Come on," his wife told him, "let me get you something to drink."


    Rob slumped down on the sofa, his eyes not quite managing to focus on the TV. A minute later Chloe handed him a mug of tea. Her answer for everything. He looked down at the mug; at the steam rising from it. Two words echoed in his brain: Judas Fly.


    *


    Mikhail listened without comment as Yuri told him of the Judas Fly and how David Carter had tried and failed to keep its presence at Silvertown a secret. Yuri, as always, kept it brief. When he had finished, Mikhail said: "Good."


    In many ways, it was better than he ever could have hoped for. A neat method for shutting down the Silvertown business without shedding a single drop of blood. All the Popovs needed was an environmentalist of their own; somebody who could conduct a discreet study of the supposed habitat over at the Silvertown site and then issue a statement. That would be enough to put a stop to the construction, or at least delay it. A delay would spook investors, and the information that the Judas Flies had been covered up would have them wondering what else David Carter was lying about. It was enough to bring David Carter''s dreams crashing around his ears.


    The next step was easy ¨C almost too easy. David''s "expert" had been bought and paid for, but the one used by the Popovs would not even need a significant amount of cash to provide his verdict. Just the promise that there really were Judas Flies there, and the opportunity to study them at leisure.


    They ended up with a conservationist by the name of Judith Marsh, whose doctoral thesis had focused entirely on the mating habits of the Judas Fly. In scientific and academic circles, she was known as a puritan, with an almost pathological obsession with that rare, almost mythical insect.


    But of course they could not simply walk up to Dr. Marsh and tell her where the fly was to be found. They would need to provide evidence. She was a scientist and an empiricist; they would have to treat her as such.


    ¡°But why me, pop?¡± Stanislaw wanted to know.


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    ¡°Because your brother is too busy.¡±


    As a feeble show of defiance, Stanislaw had lit a cigarette and plumed smoke into his father¡¯s office. But with one look from Mikhail, he quickly and somewhat sheepishly stubbed out the cigarette. ¡°What you want me to do?¡±


    ¡°Simple enough,¡± Mikhail smiled, ¡°even you should be able to handle it.¡±


    And he explained the plan.


    ¡°Butterfly hunting?¡± Stanislaw protested petulantly.


    ¡°You will go to Silvertown,¡± Mikhail reiterated, ¡°and you will take photographs. Simple.¡±


    But Stanislaw still was not convinced. ¡°This Silvertown is Carter territory, no?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And you want me to go there alone and take photographs of insects?¡±


    Mikhail got to his feet and ambled over to the window. He peered out at the idyllic garden beyond. ¡°Like I say, even you should be able to handle it.¡±


    ¡°What if there¡¯s trouble?¡±


    ¡°Do not permit there to be trouble.¡±


    ¡°I need a gun.¡±


    Mikhail turned back to Stanislaw and snapped, ¡°No guns. If anything happens on your visit to Silvertown, I will hold you responsible.¡±


    ¡°Then I want a bodyguard. In case of Carter¡¯s men.¡±


    Grudgingly, Mikhail consented.


    The following day, Stanislaw Popov and a seven-foot, square-shouldered bodyguard named Piotr climbed into Stanislaw¡¯s slick black Range Rover and set off. Piotr was a man of few words, but he could say a lot with just a look, such as the sideways glance he gave Stanislaw while the boss¡¯s son sang along loudly and obnoxiously to Europe¡¯s The Final Countdown on the car stereo. It was a look that said, ¡°If you were not a Popov, I would take pleasure in puncturing your eyeballs.¡±


    They got to Silvertown, and Stanislaw referred to the co-ordinates he had recorded in his phone. He kept glancing around somewhat uneasily, as though a carload of Carters might suddenly appear to beat the shit out of him. But the only people around were the homeless, and they had other things to worry about.


    The two men found the spot quickly enough. It was far from any buildings or landmarks ¨C in fact, it looked like some sort of battle-scarred farmland which had been levelled by enemy forces ¨C but the coordinates Mikhail had provided were accurate. Stanislaw stood by idly while Piotr took the photographs. Stanislaw did not see what all the fuss was about; it was just an ugly little fly. The sort of thing he would squash with his boot if he saw it indoors. Once he had snapped a few shots, Piotr got back to his feet. The shins of his trousers were now covered with mud, but again, he resisted the urge to complain. He would remember who to blame for this unpleasant excursion: Stanislaw Popov. The boss¡¯s playboy son led the way back across the barren land toward the Range Rover, and Piotr took great pleasure in picturing the various gruesome punishments he would inflict on him if only he were not the boss¡¯s son.


    ¡°Jesus Christ!¡± Stanislaw spat. It took Piotr a moment to realise what it was that had provoked this outburst, but when he saw it he almost permitted himself a smile. Stanislaw¡¯s beautiful, slick black Range Rover ¨C which was, after all, a jewel of his collection of automobiles ¨C had proved too good to resist for one of the drug addicts and layabouts that populated the area. With some sort of sharpened object ¨C likely a stone or a bit of glass ¨C the word cunt had been carved into the bonnet in large, wavering letters.


    ¡°Fucking bastards,¡± Stanislaw roared. He stomped back and forth impotently a few times, while Piotr looked on. Eventually, with no one in the vicinity whom he could blame, he climbed into the driver¡¯s seat and gunned the engine, ike a toddler whose tantrum has finally run out of steam. Piotr climbed in beside him, and Stanislaw slammed down the accelerator, sending a great spray of mud arcing across the barren remnants of Silvertown.


    But they had got what they came for.


    *


    Stanislaw had fulfilled his part of the operation, and Yuri¡¯s part came next. He created several fake profiles on Reddit, disguised his IP address, and posted the pictures to a thread dedicated to discussion of the Judas Fly. He pretended to be an amateur lepidotrist who had been wandering the construction site looking for anything interesting who wanted confirmation that this really was the Judas Fly.


    I heard they¡¯re going to bulldoze the place, he wrote under a different name on the forum. Seems too bad, if it really is a Judas Fly nest.


    Across town, Doctor March ¨C who was a certified expert on the forum ¨C was having lunch when she saw the post. When she did, the fork she had just raised to her lips clattered to the ground, salad spilling her the floor and her lap. But the shock didn¡¯t last long. Quickly, she was on her feet, yelling for her assistant to call the Mayor and asking if she¡¯d ever heard of this place Silvertown.


    Twenty minutes later, Doctor March, her assistant, and a representative from the Mayor¡¯s office were pulling up to Silvertown. The entire site was in an eerie kind of stasis. The hollowed-out husk of the old factory loomed over them like a slumbering giant. Doctor Marsh was reminded of Ozymandias and the ruined temple. The ground was slushy and patched with grass. No sooner had they emerged from the Renault than a glass bottle shattered at Doctor Marsh''s feet. She jumped and let out a little squeal.


    The bottle had evidently contained whisky and had been hurled by someone lurking in the shadow of one of the many abandoned outbuildings. The place was haunted by wandering vagabonds ¨C those imported by David Carter to discourage other investors. Now they had positively overrun the place.


    "Stay close to me," the Mayor¡¯s representative said, importantly. "This is not a nice place."


    Dr. Marsh gritted her teeth. "Just think about the Judas Fly," she murmured to herself. "Just remember the Judas Fly..."


    The small group encountered a few more druggies en route, but they were able to steer clear of them. The assistant, meanwhile, was examining a printed out screenshot of the forum post, trying to decide where exactly the pictures had been taken.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s over there,¡± she said, pointing towards a fire escape that was now so covered in rust it looked as if it were about to fall.


    As they got closer, Dr. Marsh peered frantically, desperate to get even so much as a glimpse of the glorious little beasts.


    Near the fire escape was a wheelie bin, which now lay on its side, half-buried in the ruined earth. The soil and air conditions were perfect. The temperature was perfect. The damp was perfect. Around the yawning maw of the wheelie bin hovered a few little black dots.


    As the three people approached, Doctor Marsh spotted the distinctive blue-green markings on these tiny insects. She smiled. The man at the Mayor¡¯s office let out a long sigh.


    ¡°This is going to derail things,¡± he muttered to the assistant.

 Chapter Nineteen

    Predictably, Rob Linley was one of the first to hear about the immediate injunction preventing any further operation on the Silvertown site. The news reached him via phone; a frantic call from one of the contractors. For an hour or so, Rob wondered what to do with the information. Of course he knew what he should do with the information ¨C he should call David Carter immediately to discuss damage limitation. But, though he hated to admit it to himself, he was scared. David Carter had a nasty habit of shooting the messenger ¨C sometimes literally ¨C and Rob didn''t feel like being on the receiving end of his temperamental boss''s wrath. But in reality he knew he was just postponing the inevitable. Sitting at his desk, sweating profusely, he grabbed the phone and dialled.


    David was eerily calm when he heard the news. He spoke in a flat monotone, thanked Rob for letting him know, and reassured him that it would be okay. They would sort it out. In a way, Rob found this more disturbing than one of David''s meltdowns. When the call was over, Rob sat back in his chair and sighed. He had known it would be something like this, but all along he had been hoping he would be able to worm his way out of it somehow. That he might be able to achieve the best of both worlds, with neither party knowing that he was really playing for both teams. He looked down at the little finger of his right hand, which was still bound to a splint. He was taking painkillers regularly, as the finger still hurt a lot, and the drugs were making him drowsy. In spite of that, he was only too aware that the collapse of the Silvertown development was irrevocable. There was nothing he could do to stop it.


    *


    When David Carter heard that the deal which had cost him months of his life and most of his sanity had hit another roadblock ¨C at what seemed like the last possible moment ¨C his whole body coursed with a fury that enveloped him like a plume of white flame. He had bitten his tongue while he was talking to Rob on the phone, but even while he heard himself spout idle platitudes, the rage was building. He didn''t know what to do with himself. As soon as he hung up on Rob, he hurled the telephone against the wall and watched it splinter into several pieces that clattered pathetically to the floor. Then he put his fist through the glass door of his office, which caused a spurt of blood, but he felt no pain. The adrenaline rush was too powerful. Rochelle did her best to calm him; she swathed his bloodied hand in a tea towel and told him she would do whatever she could to help. He just told her to fuck off, that she was fired and he never wanted to see her face again. She merely raised her eyebrows at him and left his office. She¡¯d put up with enough of his tantrums.


    After about fifteen minutes ¨C fifteen of the darkest minutes of his life ¨C David Carter finally managed to regain control of himself. He knew it was bad to let the anger take him over like that. It was important to remain in control at all times. He could not let the mask slip. That would put him on the road to ruin.


    Breathing in and out deeply, he assessed the situation. The deal which had cost himself and his associates a grand total of five billion pounds had still not yielded anything. It was falling away from him. Now he was lumbered with a five billion pound insect reserve, packed with drug addicts and derelict buildings. There might be a way to save this, but he didn¡¯t know what that was.


    But there was an aspect of the situation which he had not yet considered. The news had not yet been made public. That was something, at least.


    The phone at Rochelle¡¯s desk rang, and after a moment, the intercom in his office blared. "It''s a Mr. McMinn for you, sir," she said, her cool professional demeanour uncracked.


    ¡°Put him through,¡± David said, a little brusquely. Then he paused. ¡°And why don¡¯t you bunk off early? Get yourself a spa day? On the company card of course. My way of apology for¡­ you know.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, sir,¡± she said, and he was satisfied to hear a note of pleasure in her voice.


    Before David picked up the line, he gritted his teeth. George "The Fucker" McMinn. One of the money men who had sunk several million into Silvertown. Bad news travels fast.


    McMinn had begun his long career as a stick-up man, before graduating to more sophisticated endeavours. Somewhere along the way he had recruited a young David Carter as his ambitious and bloodthirsty lieutenant, and that was when the organisation really began to make money. Over the years, McMinn had become reckless. He had begun to delegate more and more to David until the younger man was doing the job virtually single-handed. The natural solution would have been to ¡°retire¡± McMinn with a bullet to the back of the head and take control permanently. But McMinn still had a lot of men in the organisation loyal to him. And killing him would have created warring factions in the organisation. So in this regard, McMinn was the only man David Carter truly feared. Instead, David had a quiet word with the aging gangster, paid him off, and George McMinn discreetly retired to Buenos Aires to run a resort for British expats.


    But as the old saying went: once you''re in the game, you never really retire. David Carter had approached him with the proposition of Silvertown, and not only had he leapt at the chance to invest, he had opted to double his initial stake.


    McMinn was a perfectly ordinary-seeming, affable kind of guy. But they didn''t call him The Fucker for nothing. And now he was on the other end of the phone.


    "George, how are you?" David said, as he answered the phone.


    "Funny you should ask." McMinn¡¯s voice had a low, baritone throb to it ¨C like an engine chugging itself slowly toward entropy. "I was alright when I woke up this morning. Nice weather an'' that. But now, all of a sudden, out of fucking nowhere, I find myself really fucking angry."


    "I don''t know what you''ve heard," David said quickly, "but whatever it is, it''s not the whole story..."


    "No? Well, I''ve heard that Silvertown is up shit creek. In other words, all my lovely money has bought me a patch of mud that nobody can build on. Am I wrong, David?"


    "No," said David. "You''re not wrong. But there''s still time. We might be able to turn this around."


    "How?"


    "The story hasn''t broken yet. We will put a cap on it before it goes public. It¡¯s a fucking fly, George. Who¡¯s ever heard of a city council voting to torpedo a billion-pound project over a fly?"


    "Alright.¡± Truthfully, McMinn did sound mollified. ¡°So what? We buy off the right people, rouse public opinion with word that the environmentalists are standing in the way of good jobs, higher real estate prices and community betterment?¡±


    ¡°That sounds about right.¡±


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    ¡°Hmm. Sounds like a plan.¡± McMinn paused. ¡°So where did the leak come from?"


    "There''s only one person I can think of."


    "And who''s that?"


    "Carnaby."


    "I saw his name in the paperwork. He''s the environmentalist bloke, isn''t he?"


    "Right. And if my hunch is on the money, he''s had a sudden attack of conscience about annihilating the Judas Fly. I might just be able to put a stop to it before he signs his name to anything. Before it''s too late to go back."


    "Well what are you waiting for?" McMinn growled.


    "I''ll call you later," said David, before hanging up the phone.


    *


    Rob Linley''s mobile made him jump. A lump rose in his throat when he saw it was David Carter calling him. "David! Listen, I..."


    "Shut it, Rob. I need you to bring your car around. We''ve got to pay a mutual friend of ours a visit."


    Rob drove. David sat in the back seat with a couple of bodyguards. By this point, the afternoon was turning gradually to evening, and they surmised that Doctor Carnaby would most likely be at home.


    *


    The doctor had just finished brewing himself a soothing green tea (he was prone to anxiety, what with his mounting debts and his ex-wife who wouldn''t leave him alone) when the doorbell rang. He swore to himself and went out into the hall of his terraced north London home.


    When he saw who had come calling, he could scarcely conceal his surprise. "Mr. Carter! I..."


    The bodyguards flanking David reached in through the doorway and seized hold of the doctor as though he were little more than a rag doll. They hoisted him out onto the pavement, then into the boot of Rob''s car. The mug of green tea shattered on the pavement, sending its contents spilling out in a messy, sad-looking puddle.


    Rob sat behind the wheel, struggling to keep his cool.


    *


    "Where am I?" Doctor Carnaby asked when he woke up. David Carter had heard this question so many times before, and he never quite knew how to answer. So he just stood there, looking down at the feeble academic, who was now tied to a wooden chair.


    Carnaby tried to fidget in his seat, but when he realised his hands were tied he began to panic. He moaned. Blood dribbled from his nose where one of the guards had punched him.


    "We''re friends, aren''t we doc?" David said quietly.


    "What? I, I don''t understand..."


    "I said, we''re friends, aren''t we? I mean, I''ve never done anything to offend you, have I? In fact, I''ve done you a favour or two in my time. I''ve given you a hefty wod of green, haven''t I? If anything, I''d say you owed me a good turn."


    Carnaby burbled something. His panic was taking over. He looked around frantically. They seemed to be in some kind of dark cellar. A single lightbulb hung overhead, casting long and moody shadows. Plastic sheets rustled beneath their feet. You didn''t need to be a doctor to know this was bad news.


    "David, have I done something to offend you?" Carnaby asked. He spoke in slow, measured tones, as though he were trying to reason with a petulant child.


    "Yes," David answered, "you have, but I''m a fair man. I''m going to give you the chance to make things right."


    "Please, you must tell me what it is I''ve done..."


    "Alright. The Judas Fly. Ring a bell?"


    Carnaby looked up at him in utter bemusement. "This is about Silvertown?"


    "Bingo. You''re good at guessing games."


    "But I thought that was a done deal? The Judas Fly didn''t even enter the equation."


    "Well, now it has. Somebody posted photos online of the Judas Fly, and now the Mayor is trying to put the kibosh on the whole development. Everything I''ve worked for. Five billion pounds."


    "What!" Carnaby was horrified. "My God, that''s monstrous. And you think it was me? David, I swear to you I would never. I mean, you can check online! I never posted anything.¡±


    ¡°The account is clearly a fake,¡± David spat. ¡°It would have been easy for even a man like you to create.¡±


    Carnaby¡¯s eyes bulged. ¡°But I didn¡¯t do it! It wasn¡¯t me!¡±


    "It seems to me I made a mistake bringing you into the operation," David said. "I make it a rule never to trust outsiders, but we needed someone with the credentials to sign off on the site. Otherwise our paths would never have crossed. Just a quirk of fate." David studied the doctor for a moment. "How much are they paying you?"


    "No one is paying me."


    "Wrong answer." David swung his fist at the doctor ¨C it connected with his chin and knocked his head back. But it was just a light punch. An hors d''oeuvre, before the main course.


    Carnaby grunted, more blood spouting from his nose. "Please, David," he said, his voice an almost comical whine on account of his blocked nostrils.


    ¡°Okay Mike,¡± David said. One of the bodyguards approached carrying a long, heavy metal object. An industrial power-drill. With a flip of a switch, the tool began to emit a horrendous shriek. David gave his bodyguard a nod, and Mike inched the drill closer and closer to Doctor Carnaby.


    Carnaby¡¯s scream would haunt Rob Linley¡¯s nightmares. Rob had to look away as the drill reached the academic¡¯s left kneecap. The squelch and tear of flesh were truly horrific.


    Then, all at once, the drill ceased.


    Carnaby was sobbing and twitching as blood pooled around him. His left leg was a ruined, twisted husk of flesh. He would never walk on it again.


    ¡°Last chance,¡± said David. But the doctor had nothing to say. David turned to the bodyguard. ¡°What are you waiting for, Mike? He¡¯s got one good leg left hasn¡¯t he?¡±


    Mike nodded and flipped the switch.


    Rob could not bear it. He had to duck into the adjoining bathroom, his guts heaving, whereupon he puked into the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror as the shrill sound of the power drill commingled with Doctor Carnaby¡¯s screams.


    When Rob Linley went back out to join the others, Doctor Carnaby was still sobbing and sniffling, staring down in disbelief at what was left of his bloodied legs, with slivers of bone and chunks of flesh protruding through the tattered remains of his suit trousers.


    David had a gun in his hand. ¡°Alright,¡± he said softly, as though trying to comfort the academic. He rested the muzzle of the weapon against the bound man¡¯s temple.


    ¡°Please¡­¡± Carnaby managed to say.


    David pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a pop and Doctor Carnaby slumped forward. David dropped the gun to the floor and headed toward Rob.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here,¡± he said. ¡°These two can clear everything up.¡±


    The bodyguards immediately got to work rolling up the plastic sheeting and readying the corpse for removal.


    Rob could not stop shaking as he ascended the stairs. When he was outside the building, gratefully breathing the fresh air once more, he tried to light a cigarette but the lighter kept going out.


    All the same, he could not help but feel somewhat relieved. With the doctor dead, maybe this meant David would stop asking questions. Perhaps he was safe.


    ¡°You drive, Rob,¡± said David.


    They clambered into the car and Rob fired up the engine. ¡°It¡¯s a shame,¡± David continued, ¡°but I couldn¡¯t leave him like that. An act of mercy, really.¡±


    Rob nodded without a word.


    ¡°You¡¯d better take me back to the office,¡± David instructed. ¡°I¡¯ve got more work to do.¡±


    Rob finally dared to venture a question: ¡°Who do you think hired him?¡±


    ¡°Him? No one. He wasn¡¯t the source.¡±


    ¡°What? But¡­¡±


    ¡°If he¡¯d known anything, he would have told me,¡± David said. ¡°No man could live through that and keep his mouth shut. Especially not the poor old doc.¡±


    Rob felt as if he were about to have a heart attack. ¡°Then who was it?¡±


    David shrugged. ¡°Remains to be seen. But like I say, I¡¯ve got more work to do.¡±


    They drove in silence for a minute or two, before David spoke once again. ¡°By the way, Rob, what happened to your finger?¡±

 Chapter Twenty

    Wayne Carter was lazing by the pool when he spotted a figure approaching across the garden. For a brief moment, he was terrified, but then he made out the familiar shape of Rob Linley.


    The weather was improving, and Wayne was finding himself spending more and more time outdoors. He was learning to enjoy his new lifestyle. He could even see himself as a man of leisure. He had his sports car, he had his millions of pounds and ¨C most important of all ¨C he still had his youth. He could do whatever he wanted.


    Rob, however, looked to have aged a decade or two in the few days since Wayne last saw him. He came traipsing across the grass like a battle-scarred soldier returning from war. His tie hung limply around his neck like a noose, and there were sweat stains on the armpits of his crisp, white shirt. He hadn''t shaved, and he appeared to have some sort of bandage around the little finger of his right hand.


    Wayne sat up to greet him. "Rob! What brings you here?"


    "Alright Wayne," said Rob, slumping into the seat beside his old school friend. "Sorry to bother you."


    "Don''t worry about it. You want a beer?" Wayne reached down and prised open the chiller cabinet at his feet, revealing a few green glass bottles protruding from a heap of ice cubes.


    "I''d love one, but I''m driving, so better not."


    Wayne knew what this meant: Rob had already been drinking. "Jesus," Wayne said, peering over the top of his sunglasses, "you look like shit, mate."


    "Cheers. I feel like shit, too."


    "What''s up?"


    "What do you mean, what''s up? Haven''t you heard?"


    "I''m trying not to get too involved in stuff these days. I''m guessing it''s something to do with Mile End?"


    Rob shrugged. "Sort of. Wayne, I think I''ve fucked everything."


    "Go on."


    "It''s Silvertown," Rob whispered. "I wish I''d never heard the fucking word. It''s all gone tits up. The development has fallen through."


    "Hmm," Wayne said. "I thought it was funny I hadn''t heard from dad for a bit."


    "It was the bug. The bloody Judas Fly. The Popovs got some environmentalist to issue a statement about the Judas Fly habitat, and now there''s an injunction in place to stop construction."


    Wayne gave a sardonic bark of laughter. "Ohhh shit. So what does that mean? Greasing a few more palms? It''s going to cost him more than five billion quid?"


    "That five billion''s gone, Wayne," Rob said, shaking his head sadly. "The Popovs really did a number on him this time. But not just him ¨C the investors, too. It''s going to turn ugly, I think. Basically, he''s spent five billion quid of other people''s money on a worthless patch of wasteland."


    "That''s a real shitter alright," Wayne said, "but my dad''s not the type of person to roll over when things get iffy."


    "I don''t know." Rob looked utterly dejected. "I think he may be up against it this time."


    "So why have you come to me?"


    "Because you''re the only one I can talk to.¡± For the first time, Wayne realised how desperate his old friend was. "You''re the only one who knows what happened. About the Popovs. About that note, and the photos..."


    "I''m guessing one of them is responsible for that?" Wayne nodded at Rob''s broken finger.


    "Yes. And I''m getting fucking paranoid over here, Wayne. I wasn''t built to play these kinds of games. I''m a businessman, that''s all. I''m not a gangster."


    "I think," Wayne said, "some people turn into gangsters without even realising it."


    Rob didn''t even pause to wonder what his friend meant by that remark. Instead, he continued: "I''m worried your dad''s going to do something silly."


    "Such as?"


    "Such as taking out a loan. Using the club as collateral. That would ruin everything."


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    "I thought everything was already ruined?"


    "Things can always get worse," Rob muttered darkly. It was the wisest and truest thing he had said for a long time.


    *


    David Carter did not surface from his office at the Mile End stadium for a long time. All morning, he¡¯d been engaged in a series of increasingly frantic phone calls, occasional snippets of which drifted out toward a shell-shocked Rochelle, who was back at her desk doing her best to act as though nothing had happened.


    Now, a cabal of financial advisers had arrived and filed into David¡¯s office, looking grave. Rochelle pictured them all sitting across the long conference table from Mr. Carter, all waiting to give their verdict. She¡¯d made a note of each and every one of them when they came in. Mr. Carter had files on all of them: their weaknesses; their strengths; the best way to bride them. She wondered if he would have to use any of the information he had compiled on them today. Rochelle had never seen Mr. Carter so nervous. He wasn¡¯t a man who usually felt nervous. And she was sure that he had a miracule up his sleeve.


    The financiers were also hoping David Carter had a miracle.


    "I''m not sure this is such a good idea, Mr. Carter," said Hugh Greeley, whose six-figure salary usually guaranteed his compliance with whatever his boss wanted to do.


    David had spun his swivel chair to face the window. He was looking out at the grey London cityscape, melancholically. The rage was gone, and in its place a kind of bitter acceptance of this "new normal."


    "No," said David, "me neither. But I''ve got to do it. It''s the only way."


    "The fans won''t take it kindly, you know."


    David sighed. "They put up with a lot, our fans. But I''m sure they''ll understand. And if they don''t, our PR people will make them understand."


    "Alright," Greeley nodded, "if that''s what you want, sir, I can have the papers drawn up this afternoon. All they will require is your signature."


    "Yes," said David absently. He had not taken his eyes off the window.


    It was indeed going to be a highly controversial move. The fans would hate him for it. The media would crucify him for it. But it was necessary. There was no other way out.


    That morning, David Carter had received the brutalised corpse of a bird ¨C subsequently identified as a duck ¨C at his London apartment. In fact, Felicia had been the one to open the package, and her screams had shaken the building to its foundations. The message was clear enough: you''re a dead duck, Carter.


    A year ago, even six months ago, something like this would have been unthinkable. But it was a different world now, a world where Silvertown was bringing the Carter organisation to its knees. David had been trying to suss his way out of it, but the only option that presented itself to him was the one he was now pursuing. The one that would turn him into Public Enemy Number One to all the rabid footie fans.


    He was in the process of arranging a loan which, in itself, was not all that controversial. But the circumstances made it so. It was a complex legal arrangement whereby the club, Mile End Athletic, would be liable for the loan as opposed to David himself. Something only a man in his position of power could have pulled off. But of course, the fans would loathe the idea of six hundred million quid coming out of their pockets in order to pay off the club owner''s debts. David was past caring.


    When the papers were delivered to him by motorcycle courier that afternoon, he signed them without so much as a second glance. And then he waited quietly for the media fallout.


    The phone on his desk began to ring at two minutes to five that afternoon. He did not bother wondering who had managed to bypass the office switchboard with his direct line number. Whoever it was, it was somebody he did not wish to talk to. And yet he knew he was going to anyway.


    He grabbed the receiver. "David Carter."


    "Alright, Dave?" It was a gruff voice made fuzzier and throatier by distance.


    "George."


    George "The Fucker" McMinn. For a retiree living it up in sunny climes, he was surprisingly on-the-ball when it came to bad news. "A little bird tells me you''re in even deeper shit than you were this morning."


    A little bird. David had been wondering which of his silent partners in the Silvertown deal had been responsible for that ugly message with the morning mail. Now he knew. "Had to be done, George. No way round it."


    But McMinn was surprisingly conciliatory. "Listen, I know it''s the last thing you would have wanted to do. But you done it anyway. I respect that. Like tearing off a sticking plaster, you got it done regardless. That''s alright. That''s well and good. I''ve been speaking to a few of my fellow investors and we''re all in agreement."


    So McMinn was the ringleader. David supposed that he was the natural choice; he''d been around a while, he''d seen and done his share of dirty jobs, and he used to be the boss.


    "And?" David asked.


    "We''ve decided to give you one last chance. Aren''t you a lucky boy?"


    David sighed. He was indeed a lucky boy. A lesser man than he would likely have been found slumped over his steering wheel with a couple of bullets in the brain by now. It was nice to see that the Carter name still carried a bit of gravitas. His word meant something. "You won''t regret it, George. Please pass on my thanks to the rest of the shareholders."


    "Oh, I will.¡±


    The conversation ended on amicable terms, and David laughed to himself, a little hysterically. He felt like a kid who has stolen a fiver from his mum''s purse and got away with it. That adrenaline-fuelled elation of realising he was off the hook.


    But it didn''t last long.


    David never bothered with social media, but it was part of Rochelle''s remit to ensure the club maintained a robust online presence. And when she noticed that the phrases #mileend, #scam, #conman and #ripoff were trending at roughly the same rate across various platforms, she knew the word was out.


    She had two options, now that her volatile boss had gone home for the day. She could call him on his personal mobile to break the news, or else she could let it simmer until tomorrow morning. Quietly, she shut down her computer and went home.

 Chapter Twenty-One

    When David Carter arrived at the stadium the following morning, he found that his path was blocked by a number of men in Mile End scarves and hats, milling around and looking generally disgruntled. When they spotted his car approaching, a kind of collective surge of anger ran through them and they began to advance at a lumbering pace, like the living dead.


    "Give us back our club!" was the chant. With a few fuck you, Carters thrown in for good measure. David instructed his driver to take him round the back.


    Once he was in the building, David lit a cigarette and smoked in the foyer for a moment or two. He would weather the storm. He knew he would. He had done it before. And when it was over, he would find out who was responsible. There was a reckoning on the way; a reckoning of almost biblical proportions. Because David was, in spite of the recent hiccup, a shrewd man. But he was also a vengeful one. Some things could not be swept under the rug and forgotten about.


    Rochelle stepped out of the lift to meet him. "Mr. Carter," she began, "I don''t know if you''ve heard, but..."


    "I''ve heard," he said gently. "Don''t worry about it, Rochelle. Everything is going to be alright."


    When David got up to his office, he found Max Linley waiting for him. "Max! Never really thought of you as a morning person. What are you doing here? The pubs aren''t even open yet."


    Max smiled diffidently. "You can probably guess why I''m here, Dave old pal."


    "I think I can. Come on through."


    Rochelle looked on in amazement as her boss ushered his long-time confidant through to his office with his habitual panache. It was as if the man who had tried to fire her yesterday was a different person altogether. She smiled to herself, a strange sense of pride coursing through her. No one could best David Carter. He always had a plan, and he always won. She returned to her desk feeling slightly happier and commenced drafting another press release to try and contain the shit storm.


    "Whisky?" David offered, indicating a cut glass decanter.


    "David," Max chuckled, "it''s half-eight in the morning."


    "Suit yourself," David shrugged, "but never let it be said I''m not an obliging host."


    "You seem oddly chipper for a bloke who''s just royally fucked his own club."


    David cocked his head to one side and studied his old friend carefully. He seemed to be weighing up a decision, wondering what the best option might be. Eventually, he reached a resolution: "Max, what I''m about to tell you doesn''t leave this room."


    "That goes without saying."


    "Okay. It¡¯s Silvertown."


    Of course it was. The bane of Max¡¯s life. He had been cynical about it to begin with; after all, he was a cautious man, not inclined to ambition. That was what separated him from David. It was why David Carter was the boss and he, Max, was the ¨¦minence grise. "Right," he said.


    "I thought I had it sewn up, I really did. I was sure it was in the bag. But it¡¯s all gone, Max. The whole five billion. The fucking Popovs have screwed it up good and proper."


    Max listened to this in silence. Then he said: ¡°But that wasn¡¯t your five billion.¡±


    ¡°You think I don¡¯t know that? I mean, a chunk of it was, but most came from outside investors."


    ¡°Remind me who these investors are,¡± said Max through gritted teeth. He knew every little detail of the deal, of course, but he wanted to hear David repeat the information aloud. It would make the problem more tangible, more real somehow.


    "There are a few. A syndicate in Central America, some Lithuanians, a handful across the US. Several others. And George McMinn."


    "Well we know the Fucker is going to be an issue. No one ever retires in this game."


    "No," David agreed, "they don''t. Anyway, you heard about that fucking Judas Fly business. I know you didn''t take much of an interest, but you probably guessed it was going to be trouble for Silvertown. First, there was what happened to Wayne, which froze everything, and then that bastard insect shut the whole thing down. So I''ve got a crowd of pissed-off investors baying for my blood."


    Stolen novel; please report.


    Max knew that this was not an exaggeration. All the same, he felt obliged to comment: "You say ''what happened to Wayne'' as though it was something you couldn''t have prevented. But you could, couldn''t you?"


    "You didn''t come here to lecture me, did you?"


    "Somebody has to, Dave. The Popovs warned you, didn''t they? Far as I''m concerned, they played fair. And yes, it was unfortunate that it meant Wayne had to suffer. I remember him and Rob playing together when they were little kids. I''ve known him all his life. But it could have been prevented, couldn''t it? If you''d pulled him out of the Mile End-Chiswick match, the deal would have gone through and it would have been too late for the Russians to do anything about it. Your son would still be in the first team, and your investors would be rolling in lovely, lovely cash."


    David studied his old friend coldly. "What are you trying to say, Max?"


    "I''m trying to say that this is your fault, Dave. Nobody else''s. And I know it''s hard to hear, but this is your mess and you''ve got to clear it up."


    "That''s what I''m doing."


    "No, you''re not. You''re making the club your scapegoat. You''re letting the fans bear the brunt of your bad decision-making. They''re going to hate you for it, Dave."


    David got up and began pacing back and forth in front of the window. He could see that crowds were gathering outside the ground. Some with placards he couldn''t be bothered to read. Not to mention TV crews. He would be all over the rolling news already.


    "I know they are, Max. You''re preaching to the converted, mate. I already know I fucked up. I know this is my mess. But think about it like this ¨C what happens if I don¡¯t take out this loan? Huh? What happens then? The Fucker and his cronies have my head blown off and I''m dumped in a ditch somewhere. Nobody gets their money back. The Russians take over. And before long, it''s as if we were never here. And that''s not an exaggeration, mate. That''s what will happen if we''re not careful. I took my eye off the ball, and the Popovs swept in and seized their chance. That''s fine, they played fair, I''m not saying they didn''t. But now it''s up to me to make things right."


    "And you''re going to do that by screwing the fans?"


    ¡°Jesus, Max, you sound like you care more about the fans than you do my son. You weren¡¯t this angry when Wayne got fucked up.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t pretend don¡¯t care more about your business and your reputation than you do your family,¡± Max said coolly. ¡°We both know that isn¡¯t true.¡±


    "I''ll make it up to the fans!" David snapped. "This is all part of a process. I''ll make them understand. It''ll be alright. But listen to me, Max, answer me honestly now: what would you do if you were in my shoes?"


    Max smiled a little sadly. "I''m not in your shoes, David. And not likely to be, either."


    "But just answer the hypothetical."


    "Alright. But even if I were in your shoes, I wouldn''t be in your shoes. Because I wouldn''t have gone near Silvertown. And when I got that message from the Russians, I would have listened."


    ¡°So I was supposed to give in to threats? Is that what a strong leader does?¡±


    ¡°A strong leader doesn¡¯t sacrifice his own.¡±


    David stood with his back to his old friend for a moment, peering out the window. "Alright, Max," he eventually said, "point made. Now do me a favour and fuck off, would you?"


    Max got up and left the office without a word. He said a polite goodbye to Rochelle, who smiled at him, then descended in the lift once more. His head was spinning, but not with anxieties and threats, as David''s was. Max''s brain was brimming with ideas. He should have seen something like this coming a mile off, but that couldn''t be helped. Max was ultimately a problem-solver, not a predictor of problems, which was why he was such an invaluable asset to the club. It was a trait he had done his best to instill in his son, and now Rob was proving himself an adept businessman in his own right.


    Max was clever, and he was loyal. But he had something that his old friend David did not: integrity. He stuck to his guns. And he could see the bigger picture. He was able to assess things in the long term. Wherever David Carter went, he brought with him a sense of immediacy; he made you sit up and take notice. It was how he had been able to establish control, how he was able to win over high-profile investors with his boundless charisma. David was the face of the organisation, and deservedly so.


    But Max had always thought of himself as the brains.


    Maybe all of this was a blessing in disguise. Maybe Mile End was long overdue for a shakeup. He, Max, was a firm favourite with the fans because of his loyalty to the players and to the fans themselves. He was plain, lovable old Max.


    By the time the lift reached the ground floor and Max Linley stepped out into the plush, carpeted foyer once more, a plan was already beginning to form in his mind. He decided not to scuttle out the back way like a coward, but to face the assembled protestors head-on.


    He greeted the fans with a smile, and many of the yells and chants died down to a murmur. A reporter and cameraman approached him. "Mr. Linley, have you got a minute to talk to Sky News about the latest controversy?"


    "I''m a bit busy actually. Lots to do, as you can imagine."


    "Can I at least get a statement for the fans?"


    Max weighed up his options carefully. Should he plunge in head-first? Or should he test the waters a bit beforehand? As usual, he opted to play it cautious. "Of course. I want to say on a personal note how grateful I am to the fans for their endless support over the years. It means the world to me."


    "Many of the fans here today feel betrayed. What do you have to say about that?"


    "I say that I can understand it. I''m not too happy about the situation myself. But I want to reassure everyone that it will turn out alright in the end, they just need to have a little bit of faith."


    "And what about David Carter? Is it time for him to go?"


    Max smiled. ¡°Absolutely not. You can count on me, everything will work itself out.¡±


    And he headed off through the crowd.

 Chapter Twenty-Two

    Business as usual. That was the mantra throughout the Mile End stadium. All the staff ¨C and there were several hundred of them ¨C carried on with their day to day activities as though the rapidly growing crowd of protestors at the gate was not there at all. David Carter was good at sweeping things under the rug, but he had his work cut out for him this time. Some of his staff were getting a look about them that made him think of the band playing on deck as the Titanic went down. A sort of desperate good humour. Something had to be done about it. Drastic measures must be taken. And David Carter was the man to take them.


    He decided to bypass the usual channels ¨C which would have meant going through Max Linley and several others ¨C to make the call himself. It was now a few months since their last acquisition, and he was proving to be somewhat better than anticipated, actually. Scored a handful of goals (three, to be exact). So it couldn''t hurt to add another name to the roster. It was a classic technique used by governments and others with dirty secrets to hide ¨C the dead cat manoeuvre. As opposed to the dead duck manoeuvre favoured by the likes of George McMinn. A new player might be enough to monopolise the headlines for a bit, and before long the loan would be chip-paper fodder. A largely forgotten (albeit somewhat embarrassing) episode in the club''s storied past. And if what David had in mind came together, he might even be able to redeem himself in the eyes of the fans. Maybe.


    The loan would give him about 600 million to play with. Enough to keep his shareholders from losing all faith in him, but also enough to invest in another player. A biggish name, someone with news-making capabilities. And, as usual, he would arrive in the country with a shipment. Business as usual, business as usual.


    David put in another call to George McMinn. "George."


    "Funny," said The Fucker, with a smile in his voice, "I had a feeling you might be calling back."


    "I''m strategising," said David good-humouredly. "And I''m starting to think a new acquisition might be the way to go."


    "Are you, now?"


    "Things are falling into place," David assured the old gangster. "It''ll all come together. Just you wait."


    "Let''s hope for your sake that it does."


    Next, David put in a call to his chief scout, a guy named Joey Adams, a sound bloke who''d been with the organisation forever. He was the one who got most of the free holidays to South America, and who spent an inordinate amount of time by the pool at various drug barons'' villas, sunning himself with a cocktail.


    "Joey, how are you?"


    "A bit better than you are, me old mucker," said Joey. He''d been around long enough that he could talk to the boss like that.


    "Yeah, tell me about it," sighed David. "I''ve got something that might interest you, though." Of course Joey could never say no to another excursion. It was money for nothing. He had the cushiest job on the planet.


    "Tell me more."


    So David told him. The club was planning to acquire a new player ¨C but not just any player. Someone good. Someone world class. Someone with a track record to be envied. Someone who scored goals, someone who looked good on TV, someone who put on a show. Ronnie Vincent, only with more talent and less of a bloodlust.


    "The dead cat manoeuvre," Joey chuckled. "Well, I''ve heard whispers about Enrico Brigante. Seems he''s unhappy with his current situation."


    David could hardly blame him. Brigante was indeed a good player, whose talents were currently wasted on a second-rate Brazilian team. Well, now they could be wasted for a second-rate English team. "When''s the next flight out there?" said David.


    "This evening. Nine, I think." Joey had the schedule for flights to South America more or less committed to memory.


    "Alright. Be on it, Joey. I''ll have the shipment arranged for when you get there."


    "I''ll check my schedule.¡± A joke, of course; he would be on the flight no matter what.


    Next, David set about sorting the shipment. This took a bit more work, and a few more calls. The procedure was the same, but everything needed to be done at double-quick speed. When David told his contacts that Adams was already on his way, they were not pleased. Nonetheless, they assured him things would be in place. In many ways, the actual acquisition of the player was the least troublesome aspect of the whole scheme. Brigante would do whatever he was told. He wasn''t being paid to think. And of course, David had agreed to pay over the odds for him. That was the kind of thing that the fans wouldn''t mind ¨C after all, a player is only worth what a club is willing to pay for him. A necessary expenditure. "You have to spend money to make money," David frequently said. More often than not, this was a means of justifying an apparently spurious investment which was really a part of his clandestine smuggling operation.


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    Not only that, but he had also agreed to double the shipment, bringing twice as much cocaine into the UK. Really, it was a win-win. A new player to take the heat off David, and a sweet profit to be made from all that lovely "stuff."


    Next, David got things in motion on the most vital component of his import scheme: the decoy. They had been doing it for as long as anyone could remember; in fact, it had started out as Max Linley''s bright idea. What was the best way to prevent the authorities from latching onto an illegal shipment, hidden in plain sight in a high-profile private jet? By giving them another, smaller illegal shipment. Throwing the dogs a bone. A couple of washed-up drug runners could always be procured for these purposes, and a few bricks of cocaine were a necessary expenditure. Spend money, make money.


    Then came the tip off to the authorities, placed via the usual channels. And again, Max Linley''s famous caution came into play. He was not willing to rely on the Metropolitan Police to figure anything out for themselves, and so he¡¯d dug up a bit of dirt on a handful of vice officers and now they were effectively in his pocket. And he had his go-to man, a bent cop called Edwards.


    No one in this business was trustworthy, but Inspector Edwards was at least reliable. He had been working for the Carters on and off for nearly a decade, and in that time he had helped them to secure the acquisition of many millions of pounds¡¯ worth of merchandise. Edwards was an unusual beast ¨C part jack-the-lad, part corporate climber. He knew how to brown-nose the bosses, but at the same time he had an approachable air about him that meant he was one of Scotland Yard¡¯s most popular men. His colleagues respected him, and his superiors trusted him. In other words, he was the perfect criminal.


    Procuring the services of a bent copper can be tricky. Fortunately for David Carter, Inspector Edwards was a huge football fan. He lived and breathed Mile End. To him, the fact that he was involved at all, even to the minutest degree, in the workings of the club was not just an honour ¨C it was a pleasure. And like the professor who had assisted with the Judas Fly, he had another weakness ¨C his kids. Edwards was divorced, but he had two young sons who worshipped the ground he walked on. Thanks to his friendship with David Carter, he was able to get his kids the best tickets to every game and special VIP treatment. And all he had to do to keep the gravy train rolling was to collar a few druggie scumbags at certain times, in specified locations. It was a win-win.


    Usually this transaction was unknown to the player ¨C they did not know they were multimillion-pound drug mules. That was the case with Brigante. He came from a humble background in a small village in Bolivia, where football had been his gateway out of poverty.


    So the idea that the one good thing in his life, the one source of hope and unity in his battlescarred homeland, was really just another means of shipping that cursed white powder, was unthinkable. If he had known, he would have wept, he would have raged. But he didn¡¯t know. In his heart, he was still just a good, na?ve Catholic boy. He said please and thank you. He did what others told him. And now he was coming to England.


    The next person David called was Max.


    "Hiya Max, I need you to do something for me."


    "What''s the damage this time?" Max inquired.


    "Oh, the usual. I''m arranging another acquisition. But this time I need things to move pretty sharpish. Understand?"


    "I see. You''ve spoken to Joey?"


    "Just come off the phone with him. He''s taking a flight out tonight."


    "Tonight?" Max sounded surprised.


    "Well, I told you I need a lot of things to happen in a short space of time."


    "How long are you thinking to complete the acquisition?"


    "No more than a week."


    "Bloody hell, you don''t want much, do you?"


    "I know you won''t let me down, mate."


    "No," said Max. "I won''t."


    Max Linley was used to accommodating unreasonable demands from his old friend and boss. Really, there was nothing especially out-of-the-ordinary about this. But the circumstances changed his perception of the operation. He had been wondering about David ever since Silvertown had first appeared on his radar, and now he was pretty sure of his conviction that the boss no longer had what it took to keep the business afloat.


    David''s instincts for self-preservation tended to supersede his loyalty to his people. It was a harsh truth, but one which had become inescapable in recent weeks. And Max was still bitter about what happened to Wayne. He couldn''t help but think about how he would have handled things if it had been his own son. Fortunately, Rob was unlikely to find himself on the wrong side of the Popovs. Max had gone to great pains to ensure that was the case. He had lobbied David to get his son that nice management job and had been pleasantly surprised to find his son had a natural aptitude for it. Now he was the runner-up for CEO. Rob, in other words, was everything that Wayne was not.


    All the same, Max liked Wayne. He felt shitty about the way the lad had been treated. Cast aside by the club like a piece of rubbish. Made to feel worthless.


    So Max did as he was told, but the whole time there were other, darker thoughts lingering at the back of his mind. Thoughts about what his criminal enterprise might look like if David Carter was no longer at the helm. It could be done. It would take a bit of effort, but Max might just be able to pull it off.

 Chapter Twenty-Three

    As David predicted, the deal was done within the week. An agreement was made, the contracts were signed, and Enrico Brigante was now officially the property of Mile End Athletic. He was indeed a good player ¨C better than Mile End was accustomed to ¨C and the news of the signing broke sharply. This caused a bit of a stir ¨C and silenced some of David¡¯s more vocal critics ¨C because the fact was that Brigante had quite a reputation as a player. He operated at a skill level that was highly sought after and would make a big difference to Mile End¡¯s chances. At long last, the team would be a force to be reckoned with. Even Wayne Carter would have struggled to keep up with Brigante. This new signing might make all the difference. It might make up for all the years of ill-advised signings of mediocre players that had held Mile End back.


    This was the way the pundits and the fans assessed the news, with the help of David Carter¡¯s PR team. Brigante might just be a game-changer. So the media coverage underwent a subtle shift, and over the ensuing days David was pleased to see that his name was beginning to drop from the headlines and Brigante¡¯s was taking its place. He would ride out the scandal. He would recoup his losses. Soon, he would be back on top.


    Getting the stuff into the country was only half the battle. Once the coke was on terra firma, there was the thorny business of distributing it. Again, David had come up with a neat and practical solution. Mile End played matches up and down the country, with the team piling into a long luxury coach. Usually one of David¡¯s people ¨C frequently Max ¨C would travel with the team. He would then oversee the distribution, with the match serving as another handy smokescreen.


    As a scheme, it was more or less detection-proof. David had thought of everything. Even when it came to the rivalry with the Popovs, he had taken no risks. When the team bus was journeying up and down the country, it never travelled without a police escort, so there was no chance of the Russians intercepting a shipment. David had taken McMinn¡¯s principle and refined it, turning it into the well-oiled machine that it was today.


    This was the way things should have gone. It¡¯s the way they would have been done in ordinary circumstances, but David was keen to expedite the process. He was more than keen; he was desperate. So he opted to forego the patsy. Instead, when he made his call to Edwards at Scotland Yard, he passed him a false lead ¨C a tip that he knew would come to nothing. He told him a shipment was coming in at Gatwick, he gave the details of the flight, he even gave a (fictional) description of the mules. He knew he was stabbing the old bastard in the back, but what did he care? When Brigante was in the country, when that huge shipment was in his hands, he would be able to reassess the situation. He might even be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. And besides, one bent copper was very much like another. If Edwards was pissed off about the false lead, he was disposable. There were plenty more where he came from.


    Mile End was not only an ideal cover for David¡¯s business operations, but also a perfect resource for laundering profits: merchandise, t-shirts, even match day hotdogs ¨C every single penny raked in from the fans was a means of balancing the books. Of making the whole operation appear squeaky clean.


    That¡¯s the way things usually worked. But these were unusual times. David knew the most important thing was to act and act fast. He could worry about the consequences later. He knew that his plan was far from flawless, but it was the best he could do with the time he had. He needed money ¨C fine, so he would bring in a double shipment. He needed to distract the fans and the press from his own recent indiscretions ¨C fine, he would bring in a high profile new player. On paper, it was fine.


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    But Max Linley was concerned. ¡°David, can I have a word?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t like the sound of that,¡± David grinned. ¡°Am I in for a bollocking?¡±


    They went into a vacant conference room on one of the upper floors of the stadium¡¯s business suite. Once inside, with the door safely closed, Max looked David in the eye and said: ¡°I hope you know what you¡¯re doing.¡± It was about as close as he ever got to a rebuke of his friend and partner in crime.


    David blinked back at him like a kid acting innocent. ¡°How long have we known each other, Max? You can trust me.¡±


    ¡°I know, I know,¡± said Max, ¡°I do trust you, David. But that doesn¡¯t make me any less worried about the way things are going. It¡¯s moving too fast.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s your problem, Max. Everything¡¯s always moving too fast. Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches. You have to improvise. You have to be decisive.¡±


    ¡°And this is you being decisive, is it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, as a matter of fact it fucking is.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the shipment that¡¯s worrying me.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s such a big one, and I don¡¯t think you¡¯re taking the right precautions.¡±


    David nodded, letting this sink in. ¡°Well, I can appreciate that. It¡¯s true that we¡¯re just about keeping our heads above water financially. Needs must when the devil drives. I¡¯ve had to take one or two calculated risks. But it¡¯s all in the interest of the club.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure about that?¡±


    David narrowed his eyes. ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±


    ¡°It means I think you¡¯re being rash. You¡¯re not taking the right precautions. You spoke to Edwards earlier, didn¡¯t you? You gave him a tipoff?¡±


    ¡°How did you know that?¡±


    ¡°Never mind how I know. The point is I know. And there¡¯s no decoy in place, is there?¡±


    ¡°Like I say, I¡¯ve had to take some calculated risks.¡±


    ¡°But this shipment is double the regular size!¡±


    ¡°Calculated risks,¡± David repeated. It was evidently going to be his final word on the subject.


    Max sighed. ¡°Fucking Silvertown,¡± he said to no one in particular.


    David didn¡¯t reply. He strode out of the meeting room and headed back toward his office. Once inside, he gave a wastepaper bin a petulant kick, sending detritus flying across the room. Then he slumped into his chair and lit a cigarette. He wanted a drink, but he had been trying to limit himself during working hours. At home, Felicia had been getting on his tits by keeping track of how much he drank. She said he was putting on weight. She was worried about his heart; worried that he was turning into a lush. So what if he was? He had every reason to.


    He closed his eyes and tried to centre himself. He took a deep breath.


    It was a roll of the dice. Things might work out in his favour, or they might not. If they didn¡¯t, then he¡¯d just have to come up with something else. Simple as that. He¡¯d been in scrapes like this before. It was the nature of the game.


    He thought about that little telling-off Max had just given him. Was there more to it than had met the eye? Was Max really as stressed as he appeared? David tried to put himself in his second-in-command¡¯s shoes. If he were Max, what would he be thinking right now?


    The answer was simple: he would be wondering whether he was betting on the right horse. He might even be contemplating some kind of hostile takeover.


    David sucked on his cigarette and pondered. Was Max Linley capable of something like that? The answer, obviously, was an emphatic no.


    But still, David pondered.

 Chapter Twenty-Four

    When Wayne Carter heard that Enrico Brigante had been signed by Mile End, he knew something was up. His dad usually made a point of only going for mediocre, middle-of-the-road players who wouldn¡¯t make too much of a splash. Brigante was different; he had a sterling reputation. He wasn¡¯t a party animal like the others. He might actually make a difference to the club.


    This made Wayne suspicious. What was his old man up to?


    That evening, Rob Linley came by Wayne¡¯s place. The two young men now treated one another like old friends ¨C which, as far as Rob was concerned, they were. They drank a few beers in front of the TV, and Rob managed to forget for a little while what a dangerous game he was playing. Wayne knew it was a bad idea to let Rob get too close to him, but all the same he couldn¡¯t resist. After all these years he thought he had finally got her out of his system. But he hadn¡¯t.


    Chloe.


    It was the only reason he listened to Rob prattling about this and that. The occasional mentions of Chloe. Wayne was no poet, he didn¡¯t know much about love and feelings and all that. But all the same, he knew deep in his heart that Chloe was the love of his life. She was everything he had ever wanted. He had loved her and lost her.


    But now things were changing. He no longer felt as though he were a mere puppet, doing whatever his dad wanted him to. He was his own man at long last, and he could make his own decisions. Already, these decisions were producing results. If he could just keep stringing Rob along for a while, he might be able to worm his way back into Chloe¡¯s affections. He might even be able to¡­


    No. He was getting ahead of himself. After all, he hadn¡¯t even laid eyes on Chloe for years. In the interim, she¡¯d had two kids! She was no longer the girl he had loved, and he was no longer the na?ve kid whose heart she had broken. But it was something to think about. It was an idea.


    ¡°One good thing about this fucking mess,¡± said Rob, ¡°Is that it¡¯s put us back in touch, Wayne. You¡¯re a good mate. I¡¯m sorry I wasn¡¯t always much of a mate to you.¡±


    Wayne smiled. ¡°You know, I was just thinking the same thing. About us getting back in touch, I mean. We had some laughs back in the day, didn¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. We did. Did you ever imagine things would turn out the way they did?¡±


    ¡°No way. Me a cripple and you a bloody suit? Never in a million years.¡±


    Rob laughed. ¡°I meant about¡­ you know.¡±


    ¡°What? The Russians?¡± Wayne shook his head. He tried to look solemn. It was all he could do not to burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.


    ¡°We should do something sometime,¡± Rob suggested. ¡°Something to take our minds off it. Why don¡¯t you come round mine, I¡¯ll do us a barbecue? Be like old times ¨C sort of. Chloe¡¯s been asking about you a lot lately.¡±


    Wayne¡¯s ears pricked up at this. ¡°Has she?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. When I told her I was coming over here she said, ¡®Wayne¡¯s so sweet. I miss him.¡¯ I know she¡¯d love to see you.¡±


    Wayne felt as though his heart was going to burst out of his chest. He struggled to keep his cool. ¡°That sounds like a great idea, Rob. I¡¯d love that.¡±


    *


    To begin with, Wayne convinced himself that he was just going for a leisurely drive. He did not have a destination in mind; he simply set out in the Porsche. It was a nice day; things were falling into place; he was going to enjoy himself for a change.


    But as he coasted along the country lanes near his home, he suddenly found that an idea was formulating in his head. Curiosity began to get the better of him. He began to wonder.


    He had not seen Chloe for many years. But of course he had not stopped thinking about her. He had tried his best to forget about her; he knew it wouldn¡¯t do any good. Particularly as she was now married to Rob Linley ¨C the mother of his children. But she haunted his dreams. His subconscious played snippets of their brief relationship on a seemingly endless loop behind his eyes. Now that he had more time on his hands, it had only gotten worse. He pictured her face, he felt the softness of her smooth skin against his fingers. He heard her voice. Rattling around that empty mansion of his, Wayne realised he was becoming obsessed. It wasn¡¯t healthy. It was toxic. It was only going to make him depressed.


    But Rob Linley ¨C the fucking traitorous bastard ¨C he was back on the scene. He thought they were friends once again. And now Rob had told him that Chloe was asking about him. He had invited him to a barbecue, for fuck¡¯s sake.


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    Wayne was conflicted. He knew he should hate Chloe because she had left him. But he couldn¡¯t bring himself to do it. He still clung to those fleeting moments of affection they had shared in the past. He fantasised about what might have been.


    But as he drove, he thought about how everything had changed over the last few weeks and months. He had been convinced that his life would follow a preordained and predictable path, but now it had diverged completely. Nothing was the same any more. He would never have predicted that his own father would hang him out to dry, but it had happened. He would not have predicted that he would end up working for the Russians ¨C but they treated him with more consideration and respect than David Carter ever had. And now, this latest development: he had Rob Linley by the short and curlies ¨C he could make that fucker do whatever he wanted, and Rob thought they were just good buddies.


    Wayne had been underestimated by everyone, every step of the way. He had underestimated himself. But now he was beginning to realise just what he was really capable of.


    Anything was possible. Nothing was off the table.


    He knew Rob would be at work. Chloe would be at home with the kids, or else taking them for a walk in the local park. Wayne knew the address.


    He rolled the Porsche to a halt at the end of Rob¡¯s street. The house was a nice Victorian pile; distinctly middle-class. The sort of place Wayne could picture himself living if things had turned out differently; somewhere to raise a family.


    He had thought the Porsche might look out of place in an ordinary domestic street, but when he parked up he noticed that just about every vehicle parked along the pavement was some sort of luxury auto. Jaguars, BMWs. Even a Rolls Royce. This was the place where hedge fund managers and other corporate dickheads came to live. No doubt Rob fit right in.


    Wayne turned off the engine and stared at the house. It had wide, white-framed windows, and he scrutinised them carefully for some hint of movement within.


    Then he saw her. Just a silhouette in an upstairs window, but it was her. He would have known Chloe anywhere.


    He knew he should leave it at that. Nothing good would come from hanging around. But it was too much to resist. So near and yet so far. He got out of the car and, after a moment¡¯s deliberation, headed up the garden path to the front door.


    He moistened his lips nervously and pressed the doorbell. As he stood there, he realised what a terrible mistake this had been. He should have left well enough alone.


    Then the door was opened, and there she was.


    But it wasn¡¯t Chloe. It was a young blonde woman who, he supposed, looked a little like Chloe.


    ¡°Yes?¡± she said, with a slight Eastern European accent.


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for Rob Linley,¡± said Wayne, improvising. ¡°Is he around?¡±


    ¡°He is at work. May I take your name?¡±


    ¡°Who is it, Paola?¡± said another feminine voice from somewhere in one of the downstairs rooms. And then she came striding out into the hall.


    ¡°Gentlemen for Mr. Linley.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m his wife, can I¡­?¡± she looked at Wayne and a strange expression crossed her face.


    She hadn¡¯t changed. I mean, yes, she had aged, Wayne could see that. But she was still as beautiful as she had been the day they¡¯d met. Wayne¡¯s breath caught in his throat. ¡°Oh,¡± he said. ¡°Hi.¡±


    ¡°Wayne!¡± It took her a few seconds, but then she smiled at him. What was she thinking? What was going on in that head of hers? He wanted desperately to know.


    Then she stepped forward and hugged him. It was a quick, unaffectionate hug, but it brought everything rushing back; all the memories that Wayne had done his best to forget.


    All at once the hug was over. She was still smiling, but it was a false, faintly plastic-looking smile. ¡°Good to see you, Wayne. How are you? I was sorry to hear about what happened with the¡­ you know¡­¡± she gestured vaguely toward his injured leg. He felt a sudden sense of shame. Had she seen him that day? Had she been watching when the fateful blow was struck?


    ¡°Oh hiya Chloe,¡± he heard himself say. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m not too bad thanks. I came to see Rob. He about?¡±


    ¡°Um no actually, he¡¯s out at work¡­¡± She seemed to be weighing up a difficult decision. ¡°Did you want to come in for a coffee or something?¡±


    There was nothing on Earth Wayne wanted more than to go into that house to drink coffee with Chloe.


    ¡°No thanks,¡± he said. ¡°But maybe you could let Rob know I stopped by?¡±


    He felt her eyes on him as he walked back down the path and clambered into his car. The road blurred in front of him as he roared away, and he realised that he was crying.


    *


    That evening, Max went round to Rob¡¯s place. He had been invited to dinner, and it was a welcome opportunity to spend some time with the grandkids and to take his mind off all the business troubles which were weighing him down. Not to mention the very difficult decision he knew he would soon have to make.


    Unfortunately, the evening proved less than delightful. Rob was distracted and kept checking his phone. He seemed to be waiting for a call or a message or something. The lad doesn¡¯t know he¡¯s born, thought Max, he doesn¡¯t know what real fear is.


    Chloe, usually a chirpy, cheerful presence at the dinner table, was also uncharacteristically distracted. She played with her food and made little effort to keep the conversation going. Like her husband, she seemed lost in thought. What did she have to worry about?


    Max did his best to keep the atmosphere light, for the sake of the little ones. But they didn¡¯t seem to care. Max ate heartily and downed a couple of glasses of wine. It wasn¡¯t going to be easy, it would take a lot of work, and he would need to be very fucking careful about how he approached the problem. But he was convinced that David Carter was finished. It was only a matter of time. And the organisation needed someone to seize the reins.


    After dinner, Chloe went to put the kids to bed. Max looked at Rob, who was still messing about with his phone, and said: ¡°I want a word with you, son.¡±


    Rob¡¯s gaze snapped anxiously toward him. ¡°What about?¡±


    ¡°Mile End.¡±


    Rob gave a nervous little chuckle. ¡°What about it?¡±


    Max smiled. ¡°I think you¡¯re going to like what I have to say.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Five

    Rob called Yuri and asked to meet. This wasn''t the sort of thing he felt comfortable discussing over the phone. Yuri agreed tersely, and they settled on a local supermarket, which was usually quite busy at this time of day. They met within the hour, both men looking somewhat incongruous as they strode the chilled aisles in their business suits. To add verisimilitude, Yuri pushed a large shopping trolley which contained only a single bag of apples. They walked slowly, in perfect step.


    "You have something to discuss?" said Yuri, his gaze fixed dead ahead.


    "I think you''ll like what I''m going to tell you."


    "Then proceed."


    "Last night my dad came over for dinner. He told me there''s going to be a coup. The board is planning to oust David Carter. He''ll be gone by the end of the month. He''s made one too many mistakes, lost too much money. He''s no longer sustainable."


    Yuri Popov''s features did not register even the slightest change of expression. To an onlooker, it was as if Rob had not spoken at all. His only remark was: "Please continue."


    "Well, you know what that means. They need a replacement. Someone who knows what they''re doing. Someone who''s not embarrassed themselves in the past, somebody with a bit of nous. Someone who can bring back a bit of what''s been lost."


    "You''re talking about yourself," said Yuri, eyeing a tin of peaches.


    "My dad doesn''t want the job," said Rob. "He likes being the power behind the throne. But he''s asked me if I''d consider it."


    "And what was your answer?"


    "I told him I''d think about it."


    "And?"


    "It depends on what you have to say about it. I''d need assurances."


    Yuri paused, and for the first time in a few minutes, he glanced sideways at Rob. "What sort of assurances?"


    "You back off. You leave me and my family alone. For good. I''ll take the job, I won''t make waves. It''ll be a simple, peaceful transition of power. You put a stop to your operations in East London, and I¡¯ll put a stop to ours in West London. Our paths won¡¯t cross."


    Yuri was silent for another moment. He seemed to be digesting the proposition, but whether or not he found it palatable was impossible to tell. Eventually, he remarked: "You think David Carter will give up so easily?"


    "He won''t have a choice. He''s just one man. At the end of the day, that''s all he is. One man."


    "And what about his son?"


    "Who, Wayne?" Rob gave an involuntary bark of laughter. "I know Wayne. We grew up together. Best mates, we were, back in the old days. Wayne''s a good lad, but he''s not the brightest bulb in the box. All he was ever good for was kicking a ball about. Now he can''t even manage that. It''s sad, but in a war there''s always casualties. I think Wayne will take whatever we offer him and be grateful."


    "He seems to be in love with your wife."


    "He... what?" Rob stopped. He looked at Yuri, who remained frustratingly expressionless.


    "You know he visited your house yesterday?"


    "Who told you that?"


    "Nobody. I have seen the photographs for myself." Yuri paused, then said, "I can tell by your silence that you were not aware of this."


    "They had a thing when we were kids," said Rob. "That''s all. They haven''t seen each other for years."


    "Until yesterday."


    Rob struggled to compute this new information. He had assumed that he was in the know, and that he would have the upper hand throughout this meeting. And here was fucking Yuri dropping a fresh bombshell out of nowhere. If it was true, of course. It might simply be a power play by the Popovs. Rob would talk to Chloe about it. He could trust her. She would never lie to him.


    "Don''t worry about Wayne," Rob said, trying to regain lost ground. "If need be, we''ll get rid of him. There won''t be any problems."


    "Very well. In theory, your proposal is a good one. But how do I know we can trust you? My father will want more than the word of a slack-jawed middle manager."


    "I¡¯m not a middle-manager. I¡¯m the next CEO.¡±


    ¡°Still.¡±


    ¡°There''s something else,¡± Rob continued bitterly. ¡°You''ve heard about Enrico Brigante?"


    "I heard. Mile End''s newest signing, isn''t that so?"


    "Right. And you know how David Carter brings his merchandise into the country?"


    "I don''t know precisely, but I would imagine it''s a similar method to that used by my father."


    "He brings it in on the flights with the new players."


    "Ah. I thought as much. So presumably a shipment will be arriving with Brigante?"


    "Correct. But not just any shipment. A huge shipment; the biggest we''ve ever had. He''s trying to make a bit of easy money, to cover his Silvertown debts."


    Yuri''s expression darkened as he considered the packets of pasta that lined this set of shelves. "And why are you telling me this, Rob?"


    "Consider this a show of good faith. David Carter''s relying on this shipment to rebuild his name. He''s got people like George McMinn watching his every move, just waiting for him to fuck up. They''re like vultures circling round his head. If anything were to happen to that shipment, it might be just what we need to jumpstart our transition of power."


    "I see. So you consider it a win-win situation? If we hijack the shipment, David Carter is made to look a fool and is swiftly ousted. A hijack ¨C that is what you''re talking about, isn''t it?"


    Rob thought very carefully before he answered. He couldn''t help but suspect some kind of trap. In the end, he said: "Yes. That''s what I''m talking about."


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    Yuri cocked his head thoughtfully. "In principle, it is not an idea to which my family would be opposed. But the details of Carter''s shipments are shrouded in secrecy, are they not? He is careful to ensure that any information is shared on a purely need-to-know basis. So where exactly do you fit into the deal?"


    "Simple," said Rob, idly grabbing a deluxe Galaxy bar. "I''m the driver."


    "I beg your pardon?"


    "I¡¯ll be the one picking up Brigante from the airport. I''ll oversee the unloading of the shipment, and it''ll be packed into the limo with the luggage. Then I''ll just drive away."


    Yuri frowned. "You have done something like this before?"


    "What, been the bagman? No, but I know the ropes. My dad pulled some strings to get me the gig. I didn''t tell him why, of course. Just said I wanted to understand the workings of the business a bit better."


    "And you will be willing to share the details of this shipment?"


    "Yes ¨C for a price."


    "Which is?"


    "My family. I want an assurance from your father that you''ll leave them alone. No more park photoshoots. No more watching my house. No more following my wife around, or threatening my kids, or anything like that."


    "I think I can guarantee that. But you realise, if we seize this shipment, that you will immediately fall under suspicion? David Carter will know that somebody leaked the information. And he will naturally focus on you. With that in mind, getting rid of him might not be as easy as you think. He''ll be on his guard. He will know there is a traitor in his midst."


    Rob didn''t like the use of that word, ''traitor,'' but he didn''t comment. Instead he continued: "So you''ll make it look realistic. I don''t mind getting a black eye or two for the sake of authenticity. I''ll even take another broken finger. But I want to know that my family is going to be safe."


    Yuri smiled. "I''ll see what I can do. You have the details of the shipment with you? Date, time?"


    "I¡¯m not that stupid, Yuri. Of course I don''t. But the information''s safe. I''ll hand it over once I get an assurance from your father that my family and I will be safe when you take over."


    Yuri''s smile widened. He gave the shopping trolley a shove and let it roll away, whereupon it clattered against a display stand. The gangster no longer cared. "Expect a call," he said to Rob, and then strode out of the supermarket and into the daylight.


    *


    Mikhail Popov sat in patient silence, contemplating another chess move whilst Yuri explained the situation later that day. When the disquisition was over, he said: "This Rob Linley is an ambitious fellow."


    "Yes. He believes he is being pragmatic, which is always a dangerous thing to believe. In fact he is merely being greedy. If we help to install him at the head of the table, he''ll let us buy him out. We will have a monopoly in London. Mile End will be nothing more than a second rate football club."


    "And David Carter?" asked Stanislaw. It was the first time he had spoken in several minutes. He had been listening carefully to his brother, doing his best to keep up with the apparently shifting loyalties within the rival club. "He won''t go quietly."


    "He won''t have a choice," Yuri answered. "It appears that ''envious Casca'' is gathering support."


    "What?"


    "Julius Caesar," said Mikhail, leaning forward to move his rook to a fresh and dangerous position on the board. The chess set was as splendid as ever, and Mikhail loomed over it from the leather chair behind his desk like the malevolent puppet master he was. "Envious Casca, unless I am mistaken, refers to Max Linley. Is that correct, Yuri?"


    Yuri smiled. "Correct. Meanwhile, Cassius ¨C with his lean and hungry look ¨C is Rob Linley. Vultures are circling. The Ides of March approaches."


    "What the hell are you talking about?" Stanislaw spat.


    "Soon David Carter is going to lose everything," Mikhail said thoughtfully. He was still staring at the board, planning several moves ahead. But he was also thinking about a meeting he¡¯d had with Wayne Carter earlier that day. A meeting of the utmost secrecy; even more so than the one between Yuri and Rob Linley. It had taken place in the sunny countryside, in their habitual layby on a winding lane.


    "And Rob Linley wants my word that he and his family will be safe?" he said. "That is his price for the details of the shipment?"


    "Yes. Naturally, he must be beaten and bloodied, or else it will be obvious that he is the traitor."


    "Naturally," Mikhail said with a little smirk. Then he reached for the phone on his desk. "Well boys, if you will excuse me, I believe I have a call to make."


    Yuri smiled and withdrew, while Stanislaw ¨C somewhat sullen about being kept out of the loop with all this ¨C shuffled out wordlessly.


    Mikhail dialled a number, and listened patiently to the ringing on the line. Eventually, his call was answered, and a female voice said: "Yes? Who''s this?"


    "Ah. Mrs. Linley, I presume. Chloe, is that right?"


    "Um, yes, who''s this?"


    "Please let me speak to your husband." There was something in his voice ¨C a quiet authority ¨C which silenced any further protests.


    He heard Chloe call out: "Rob!"


    When Rob Linley came on the line, Mikhail Popov spoke softly, yet with an undeniable crispness and clarity. "Mr. Linley," he said, "my name is Mikhail Popov. I believe you were expecting a call."


    "Yes," Rob spluttered eagerly.


    "You wished to obtain an assurance from me. And in return, you will provide certain information."


    "Yes, uh... yes, that''s right..."


    "Well, you have my assurance. I pledge to you that your wife, your children, and yourself will be left alone. My son Yuri will be by your house within the hour to collect the information. Once the shipment is in our hands, I will consider our transaction concluded."


    And he hung up the phone.


    *


    Yuri Popov rolled up outside the Linley townhouse in his limousine. He swaggered up the path and hammered on the door, not troubling to press the bell. Rob Linley must have been hovering in the hall, for he answered the door in less than five seconds. "Here," he said, handing over a brown manila envelope. "It''s all there."


    Yuri considered the envelope, then he considered the man who had given it to him. Rob Linley was just the sort of man he despised. A sleazy corporate climber. A man who would throw any of his friends or colleagues under the bus in order to succeed. No loyalty. No class.


    He smiled politely. "Pleasure doing business with you, Rob."


    Rob Linley slammed the door in his face.


    *


    Enrico Brigante peered sleepily through the window of the private jet as England came into view through the morning mist. He had been travelling for a long time, and at long last he had reached his new home. He heard a squeal as the wheels touched tarmac, and before long the jet had reached a halt on solid ground for the first time in several hours. He got to his feet, stretched his aching muscles, and descended the narrow staircase onto English soil.


    A man in a suit came over to meet him. Enrico spotted a crowd of what he assumed to be reporters approaching from a distance. "Welcome to England, Mr. Brigante," said the suit. "My name is Robert Linley, but you can call me Rob. I''m here to take you to Mile End."


    "Thank you," Enrico said.


    Rob led him towards a waiting car. "Your luggage has already been unloaded," he explained. "The trunk is packed. We''re ready to go whenever you are."


    Enrico glanced over at the reporters, who were gaining ground and drawing inexorably nearer. "Should I perhaps wait a moment and...?"


    "Hmm? Oh!" Rob seemed to notice the reporters for the first time. "No, no. Ignore them. There''ll be plenty of time for that later. Believe me, you''ll be sick of the sight of them before long."


    He was talking too much, this Englishman. He seemed a little jittery. Enrico was used to people being starstruck in his presence, and he couldn¡¯t help but wonder if that was the case here. It was a pleasant feeling; it reminded him of home, where he was an undisputed superstar. It soothed his ego.


    He slithered into the back of the car and waited while Rob clambered into the driver''s seat. Without another word, Rob revved the engine and the car coasted away.


    *


    If Stanislaw Popov had been somewhat resentful of the way in which his brother Yuri had seized the reins of this particular situation, that resentment had since been utterly dispelled. This morning was Stanislaw''s opportunity to shine. Unlike Yuri, he was not a subtle man. Sometimes this irked him, and he wished he had the capacity for diplomacy and the kind of suave menace that Yuri purveyed. But this morning, there was no time for subtlety. It was, to borrow his brother''s phrase, the ''Ides of March.'' He¡¯d had to Google what that meant, but now that he understood, he enjoyed the sinister promise of the phrase: betrayal was coming. He grinned at himself in the mirror as he zipped his combat jacket up to his chin.

 Chapter Twenty-Six

    Chloe Linley woke up that morning thinking about Wayne Carter. His face lingered in her memory, the residue of a forgotten dream. She sat at the kitchen table, staring into her coffee mug while the au pair bathed and fed the kids. She could hear them splashing cheerfully in the bath upstairs, but the sound scarcely registered in her mind. She was picturing Wayne as he had appeared on her doorstep the other day. Like a ghost from the past. He looked good. That accident ¨C or whatever it was ¨C had not left him in such a bad state as she had imagined. He still had that sort of clumsy, boyish charm which had beguiled her when she was younger.


    Did he have a girlfriend, she wondered?


    Wait a minute, what was she thinking? She was a married woman! And not only that: she had two kids. Two little Linleys, splashing and laughing upstairs. But all the same, she couldn¡¯t help but wonder. Wonder about her life, and Wayne''s life, and speculate about what might have been.


    She was snapped from her reverie by the doorbell.


    As she got up and went out into the hall, something deep in the back of her mind ¨C woman''s intuition? ¨C told her that it was Wayne. He was out there on the doorstep, just like the other day, on some other vague errand that was obviously just an excuse to see her again. She glanced in the large, gilt-framed hall mirror and smoothed back her long hair. She felt like a teenager again, waiting for her date to ring the doorbell and pick her up. And here he was ¨C her date. She smiled to herself. So what if she was married? She would be lying if she said she believed that Rob was faithful to her. There was a secretary she had met at some gala function once (what was her name? Rochelle?) with whom Rob had had palpable chemistry.


    The question was: how far was she willing to go? She could easily see herself falling back in love with Wayne. The fact that he had begun to haunt her dreams once again was a testament to that. And had she ever really been in love with Rob? At the time, he had seemed like the best option. He was exciting, what with his business prospects. But now ¨C even though he was only in his twenties ¨C he seemed painfully middle-aged. Her life was stifling her. Her kids were stifling her. Her husband was stifling her.


    She reached for the door handle and a smile spread across her face. She was picturing Wayne standing there, grinning back at her. Maybe he would bring her flowers...


    It was not Wayne.


    Standing on the doorstep was a man in a suit. Tall, quite handsome, and strangely familiar... where had she seen him before? Of course! He was at the park wasn''t he? Hadn''t he asked her for directions at some point?


    "Good morning," he said with a polite smile. "May I come in?"


    *


    Traffic was heavy that morning. Rob swore under his breath as a people-carrier swerved in front of him, cutting him off. Funny, he thought. When he was a kid, he had dreamed of being a taxi driver. It had looked like so much fun. And now here he was, fucking doing it. He glanced at Enrico Brigante in the rear view mirror. The South American was gazing out at the road with a kind of childlike wonderment. Rob wished he could get that excited about anything any more. But no, his life was nothing but misery, from his job to his wife.


    So Chloe was fucking Wayne Carter. It shouldn''t have surprised him really. But it had.


    Then again, could he really be sure the information Yuri had given him was accurate? Chloe had told him no one had called at the house, when he¡¯d asked her the night before. And he trusted her¡­ as much as he could trust anyone.


    He chewed his bottom lip and changed lanes. Not far to go now. The plan was simple: he would discreetly pull over when he reached a specified point. He had studied the detour so many times now that it was programmed into his brain like a GPS. The Popovs'' men would be there, ready and waiting. They would pounce, seize the car, and give Brigante a beating. They would give Rob a few slaps too, for the sake of authenticity, and prevent awkward questions. Simple as that.


    He glanced again at Brigante. It might be best, after all, if the young player was not permitted to walk away from this little fracas. His command of English might not be the best, but he could still make trouble for Rob if he was so inclined. And if he were dead, that would be yet another blow to David Carter''s crumbling empire...


    Rob''s mobile began to ring. "Shit," he said, fumbling for it in his pocket. Yuri, maybe? Some kind of change to the plan?


    He looked at the caller ID. Chloe. Fucking Chloe.


    He declined the call, shaking his head. What the hell did she want? She knew he was working. She knew today was an important day.


    Wayne could fucking have her, he thought bitterly. It was only a matter of time, anyway.


    *


    "You shouldn''t have done that," said Yuri Popov, crushing her phone beneath the heel of his polished leather shoe. He kicked her again.


    Chloe rolled over onto her side, blood dribbling from both nostrils, sobbing. This was a nightmare. It couldn''t be real. It was something out of a bad movie...


    The two bodyguards looming behind Yuri watched in indulgent silence as he battered the young woman within an inch of her life. They did not know exactly what she had done to deserve such treatment, but of course it was not their job to know.


    Yuri had dragged her through to the spacious living room by her hair and now stood over her as she bled all over the cream carpet. It was days like this that he really loved his job.


    He turned to one of the bodyguards: "You. Take the upstairs." Then the other: "You. Watch the door."


    The guards did as they were told.


    Chloe''s head was swimming, and her vision was blurred, but she heard the thumping footsteps heading up the stairs. "No..." she heard herself say, scarcely above a whisper. "Please..."


    "Too late for please," said Yuri.


    There were screams from the bathroom, then a rapid succession of thumps. Then silence. Awful, wretched silence.


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    "Not the babies..." she said.


    "Yes," Yuri said coldly. "The babies."


    The henchman descended. "Upstairs is clear, boss."


    "Good. Then it looks as though this-" he nodded at Chloe, weeping and bleeding on the floor, "is the last one."


    He dropped to his haunches, studying her carefully. She hawked a gobbet of blood-streaked spit in his direction, but it coasted past his head and splattered into the fireplace. He laughed.


    "Give me your gun," he said to the bodyguard.


    The hulking figure did as instructed, and handed over a pistol with an elongated muzzle ¨C some kind of silencer.


    "Please..." said Chloe, as blood spilled from her mouth and down her chin. "Why are you doing this?"


    "It''s nothing personal," said Yuri. "Only business." And he levelled the pistol against the side of her head.


    *


    Rob''s phone buzzed again. "Fucking hell," he said aloud, which prompted a look from Brigante.


    This time, though, it wasn''t a call. It was a text. Rob fished the phone out once again and looked at the screen. To his surprise, it was from Yuri, and consisted of only three words:


    CHANGE OF PLAN.


    At that moment, a black Range Rover seemed to rear up behind the limo, engine roaring. Its windows were tinted, but Rob did not need to guess who was behind the wheel: Stanislaw. He did not think it would be Yuri; Yuri was too sophisticated for this sort of thing. But Stanislaw was a petrolhead, and this was just his kind of operation.


    Alright, so they were launching their attack a little early, were they? Well, that was just fine with him. But did they have to do it in public like this? They were still on the dual carriageway, for fuck''s sake!


    Then the Rover advanced and, with a quick twitch of the wheel, slammed into the rear bumper of the limo.


    "Jesus Christ!" Rob Linley heard himself yell as he jerked in his seat, cricking his neck.


    Enrico Brigante was peering anxiously over his shoulder, trying to get a look at what was going on through the rear window. This was just the sort of trick the cartels might pull in his homeland, right the way down to the nondescript jeep they were using. But here? In England? On a busy road? It was the last thing he had anticipated. He leaned forward and said something in his native tongue.


    "What the fuck are you on about?" Rob bellowed, but then he realised. The young player was praying.


    *


    Stanislaw Popov roared with animalistic glee and turned up the volume on his dashboard stereo. He was a sucker for old school hard rock ¨C he needed to have it pumping into his ears as the adrenaline pumped through his veins. It really got him going. In fact, he could feel the beginnings of an erection in his bulky, multi-pocketed camo combat trousers. What better soundtrack for this orgy of violence and destruction than AC/DC?


    He eased his foot down on the accelerator and listened to the engine and music throbbing in his ears as the Range Rover lunged forward once more, like a shark closing in on its prey. The limo''s rear bumper crumpled inward, as Rob Linley was clearly struggled to keep the car under control.


    Stanislaw grinned and pulled the mask down over his face. Then he drew the Desert Eagle from the waistband of his combat trousers and lowered the driver-side window with a jab of a button. Keeping his foot firmly on the accelerator, he leaned out of the window and aimed. He did not care who saw him. He WANTED them to see. Cocking the Desert Eagle''s hammer, he gave the trigger a playful squeeze and pumped a couple of bullets into the back of the limo.


    Terrified, Rob spotted a traffic snarl-up ahead and knew he had to think of a way out of this. Stanislaw was clearly insane ¨C he was going to get them all killed! Rob swung the steering wheel and bumped the limo up onto the kerb. Pedestrians scattered as the limo skidded past. Enrico Brigante screwed shut his eyes and continued to pray.


    They were not too far from the city now, and Rob could only imagine what kind of terror Stanislaw would wreak if he reached London.


    Meanwhile, Stanislaw sang along loudly to the music in his heavy accent, continuing to pepper the limo with bullets as the Range Rover drew closer for a fresh onslaught.


    Rob was beginning to wish he had taken that call from Chloe. He had left the house that morning in a somewhat fractious and combative mood. He did not want those to be the last few moments he spent with his beloved wife, his darling, the love of his short life...


    Tears streaked down his face as he fought to maintain control. The limo skidded a little, which allowed the Range Rover to gain ground and crunch into the bumper once again. Stanislaw fired. He was not aiming at anything in particular ¨C just having a good time ¨C but he got lucky. A stray bullet shattered the limo''s rear window and entered Enrico Brigante''s body at the base of the skull.


    The last words to leave the young footballer''s mouth were a hushed prayer.


    Rob glanced in the rear view at just the wrong moment, and he saw the lad''s head pop like a honeydew melon decked with firecrackers. Blood, brain and other grisly bits splattered all over the limo''s exquisite leather upholstery, and Rob screamed.


    "Please!" he yelled at no one in particular. "This isn''t funny any more!"


    He couldn''t hold on much longer. This was supposed to be an easy operation. It should have been so, so easy... and didn''t they care that the limo was loaded with merchandise? The way things were going, it was all going to go up in smoke.


    Then, all of a sudden, the Range Rover seemed to withdraw. It slowed, and all but disappeared from view. "Thank Christ," Rob whispered. "Thank fucking Christ for that."


    That''s when he saw the grass verge. A second earlier, and he might have been able to swing the wheel. He might have managed to save himself.


    Instead, the road reached an unexpected chicane, rising into a high grassy verge. The limo hit the verge at full speed, sailing up and arcing across the sky in a black metal rainbow, with bits of debris dropping from it like petals from a wilting flower.


    They say that when you are about to die your life flashes before your eyes. Nothing of the kind happened for Rob Linley. All he could think was this isn¡¯t the way it¡¯s supposed to be. The words echoed in his brain like the refrain of an old song. His final thoughts before the wrecked husk of the limo hit the ground was that there had been a mistake somewhere along the line, things had gone wrong but he wasn''t sure how. Then all he felt was heat, then nothing.


    There were plenty of eyewitnesses, some with their phones out. But funnily enough, not one of them managed to catch a proper glimpse of the other car, or its driver. Not so much as a single second of footage. But even if they had, they wouldn¡¯t have been much use to investigators. After all, with its fake plates and tinted windows it was virtually anonymous. Instead, all eyes were fixed on the limo as it pulled off the kind of manoeuvre you usually saw in action movies, with all four of its wheels leaving terra firma. Then the sickening crunch and tinkle of shattered glass. Then the fireball, pluming up devilishly against the bleak, overcast sky.


    Nobody could have survived that.


    Stanislaw wrenched off his mask and coasted the Range Rover to a halt in an isolated alleyway. He cackled gleefully as he switched off the stereo, closed his eyes, and came in his pants. It was the greatest thrill he could ever have hoped for. He was a happy man indeed.


    *


    At almost exactly the same moment on the other side of London, Rob Linley''s neighbours began to smell smoke. Of course they could not have known that affable, white-collar Rob had just been burned alive in an apocalyptic conflagration. As far as they were concerned, it might simply have been his pretty, but sad-looking wife burning the brunch bacon on the grill.


    But when they ventured outside, they saw what it really was. The townhouse had a kind of satanic glow inside it, as though the building itself were inhabited by an amorphous orange demon. Fire! Quick! Get help!


    "There''s kids in there!" somebody screamed. "I can see them! For God''s sake, there''s kids in there." As if to punctuate this observation, all the front windows buckled outwards and shattered, sprinkling the assembled neighbourhood watch with shards of glass. Smoke and flame twisted up and out in an evil-looking plume.

 Chapter Twenty-Seven

    Edwards shouldered a path through the crowd of morbid onlookers who stood zombie-like at the perimeter of the police cordon. He ducked beneath the incident tape and approached the burnt-out car. It was now blackened away to nothing, and an unanticipated spatter of drizzle had extinguished the last semblance of the blaze. Much as he resented the presence of the bystanders, he could not bring himself to blame them. It was a gruesome sight alright. Enough to beguile even the most incurious soul. Two corpses, their outlines clearly visible in the ruined car; the driver, and his passenger in the back seat. The passenger was missing a large chunk of his skull, which, if the report Edwards had received was accurate, had been blasted away to nothing by a runaway bullet.


    "Witnesses?" he demanded.


    "Oh plenty," a uniformed constable informed him. "Unfortunately none of them saw anything." This was the kind of gibberish constables came out with all the time. But it made a kind of sense when you thought about it. The incident had taken place in public, but it had been a highly confusing set of circumstances. It had all happened so quickly. Any eyewitnesses would be utterly useless in a court of law.


    Of course, Edwards knew all too well that there was not a chance in hell of anything related to this incident ever being presented in court. He recognised the car, even in its ruined state.


    He had come straight from Gatwick, where he had just finished making a tit of himself after that dodgy tip-off from Carter. For the first time, David Carter had let him down. It was embarrassing, but he could forgive it because after all he''d had a pretty high success rate lately. Edwards wasn¡¯t a stupid man, in spite of appearances ¨C he knew the tip-offs he got from Carter were designed to distract from the real shipments that were being brought into the country. Edwards would have bet that if he could be bothered to check up on all his recent busts that each had coincided perfectly with the arrival of a new Mile End player from overseas. But Edwards was a capitalist at heart, and Carter was paying him to look the other way.


    Approaching the ruined car, gently inhaling the aroma of charred flesh, he peered in at the dead man in the back seat. So that was Enrico Brigante. And the driver was obviously one of Carter''s men. No doubt forensics would find traces of a shipment concealed in the car itself ¨C likely a large one. Heroin, cocaine, whatever. Whoever was responsible for this, they were not interested in the merchandise. This was more about making a statement. Edwards would not have wanted to be in David Carter''s shoes that day.


    "No registration number?" Edwards asked. He was just going through the motions. He knew that an anonymous Range Rover had been seen in pursuit of this vehicle, and that its registration plates had been removed or disguised somehow. This was a gangland killing, pure and simple. And for the first time in a very long time, Edwards was ahead of the game. He knew more than David Carter wanted him to know. He was in a position to turn the situation to his advantage.


    "I''m guessing that''s Brigante in the back seat," he observed to no one in particular.


    "Right, sir," said the constable. "And the driver''s Rob Linley."


    "Linley? Well, well." Edwards had met Linley a couple of times at Mile End events. Once or twice he had managed to bag himself tickets to charity galas, that sort of thing, as a reward for his loyalty to David Carter. And on those occasions, Rob Linley had been there to shake his hand and make all the right noises. He was Max Linley''s son, and therefore right at the heart of the organisation. Last Edwards had heard, Rob was being groomed for CEO. Well, not anymore. This attack ¨C whoever was responsible ¨C was tantamount to a declaration of war.


    Edwards took his mobile phone from the pocket of his overcoat and found Carter''s contact details. He pressed the call button, but it didn''t connect. David Carter was incommunicado.


    Edwards got an address for Rob Linley and decided to head over there. If he was lucky, he might be able to catch Max Linley. It would be an unpleasant scene, but it had to be done. And he might be able to glean some more information about who was responsible.


    Cameras flashed all around him as he headed away from the crime scene and back towards his car. Inevitably, the paparazzi vultures had descended to feast on the carrion. "Inspector!" they chorused. "Is it true that Enrico Brigante was one of the passengers?" "Sir, what can you tell us?" "Was this an accident, Inspector, or was it deliberate?"


    Edwards ignored them all, clambered into his own car and roared away from the scene.


    *


    Rochelle was feeling fretful. She didn¡¯t look it, of course. She was always the picture of professionalism. But she was antsy. David Carter had been in a conference call for the last hour, making arrangements with George McMinn and a few others. But this was an emergency. She got up from her desk and headed over to the boss''s door. She rapped a couple of times and entered the room.


    She caught David mid-sentence. "...And of course we''d have to up our distribution rate..." he trailed off when he saw her, arching his eyebrows.


    "Sorry to bother you, sir, but it''s an emergency."


    "Just a minute, gents," said David, "my secretary wants a word with me." He clicked his computer mouse, evidently muting the conference call. "What is it, Rochelle?" he said.


    "I''m afraid there''s been a road accident, sir, involving the car carrying Enrico Brigante."


    "What sort of accident?" David asked in a disturbing monotone.


    "A bad one, sir. I don''t have all the details, but early reports are indicating that Mr. Brigante has been killed."


    Before she had even finished speaking, David was on his feet and heading for the door. "Shit, shit, shit," he kept muttering under his breath.


    *


    Inspector Edwards surveyed the ruins of the Linley home with a look of bemusement. He had arrived in that quiet, middle-class street to find two fire engines tackling an intense conflagration.


    "Oh, it was just so awful," one of the elderly neighbours was crying, "oh, I swear I could hear the little ones screaming..."


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    This was no accident. Something was going on. Edwards knew full well that David Carter was a kingpin, and that Rob Linley had been pretty high up in the organisation that used Mile End as a front. Now, a pretender to the throne had appeared on the scene. And if Edwards played his cards right, he might just be able to get in on the ground floor.


    He approached one of the firefighters ¨C an older man who looked to be in charge of the operation. "Edwards, Scotland Yard," he announced, presenting his ID card for inspection. "What happened here?"


    "Arson," said the firefighter, mopping his brow. "And in broad daylight. One of the worst cases I''ve ever seen. If we hadn''t got here so fast, the whole street could have gone up."


    "Anyone inside?"


    The firefighter nodded. He was not looking at Edwards; instead, his eyes were glued to the house, as though he expected the survivors to come spilling out of the front door. "Four," he said. "Two adult women, and two kids."


    "Oh shit," said Edwards. "Did you get them out?"


    "We tried," was the answer. "But we were too late."


    Edwards nodded solemnly. "Any witnesses?"


    "Neighbours. They say there was a car in the street that disappeared around the time they first began smelling the smoke. I''ll bet my pension they were the ones behind it."


    *


    Wayne Carter straightened his tie and practiced his grin in the mirror. He was about to step onto a stage in the gym hall of a brand new sports academy in the East End of London. This was the sort of thing he did these days: cut the ribbon at cushy media events. He didn''t mind it ¨C most of the kids still looked up to him as a hero, even though they knew he would never kick a ball again. And in their round, youthful faces, he perceived the same sense of hope that he himself had known not too long ago. That optimism; that naive certainty that everything would work out alright in the end.


    There was a tap on the door. "Two minutes, Mr. Carter."


    "No problem," Wayne answered. "On my way."


    He stepped out and the PR person for the academy was waiting for him, all smiles. "We''ve got a lovely crowd," he said, "plenty of press, and a few of the local kids have come down for the photo opportunity."


    "How do I look?" asked Wayne.


    "Perfect. Very smart. Right this way, sir."


    Wayne was led along a corridor towards the main hall, his footsteps echoing. The double doors were held opened for him, and a cheer rose from the crowd as he entered the room. He flashed that grin of his and stepped up onto the stage, waving at the kids.


    "Without further ado," the announcer said into the microphone, "here''s Wayne Carter!"


    Cue more cheering. Wayne stepped up to the mike. "It gives me great pleasure to declare the Tower Hamlets Institute for Wellness and Physical Training open!"


    Riotous applause. Cameras. Cheers. Wayne grinned and waved.


    In many ways, it was just a textbook personal appearance. Wayne posed for photos, he signed autographs. He looked the part in his tailored suit. He stayed for a cup of weak tea and a sausage roll, and then he made his excuses. His driver was waiting for him in the freshly tarmacked car park, but as he approached the car he became conscious that the reporters were gathering once again. This was unusual ¨C as a rule, the press beat a hasty retreat. These kind of events were deadly dull, after all.


    "Mr. Carter!" someone called out. Wayne paused.


    Then another voice: "Mr. Carter, can we get a reaction from you?"


    Wayne was curious. "Reaction? To what? I''m very happy to be here..."


    "About Enrico Brigante!"


    "Ah, yeah, well, I''m delighted he''s here, I''m sure he''ll be a great addition to the team..."


    "What, you mean you haven''t heard?"


    "Heard what?"


    So they told him.


    Once the whole story had been laid out for him, Wayne tried to mask his shock by repeating "No comment," again and again as he dived into the back of his car.


    "Get me out of here," he told the driver.


    As the car coasted away, he dialled the number Mikhail Popov had given him, but there was no answer. "Fuck," was all he could say when an automated voice prompted him to leave a message. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."


    *


    Max Linley stood with his hands buried in the pockets of his tracksuit, gnawing on his chewing gum as he watched the Mile End first team go through their training exercises. He was a little distracted this morning. He felt like a schoolkid again, with a whole world of opportunity opening up in front of him. He had checked in with Rob first thing to ensure that everything was going according to plan. The last he had heard, Brigante''s plane had just touched down at Heathrow. Which meant of course that David''s colossally oversized shipment had also arrived.


    Max fidgeted a little, shifting his weight from foot to foot and back again. It dawned on him that he was excited. He smiled to himself. It was a long time since anything had made him feel like this. He checked his watch. If everything had gone according to plan (and why wouldn''t it?) the shipment should already have changed hands. They''d have to blacken Rob''s eye for him, but it was all in a good cause. You can''t break an omelette, et cetera.


    He was only a little bit bothered that he had not yet received a call. After all, Rob would have to talk to both police and to David ¨C he probably just hadn''t had the chance to ring his dad yet. It wouldn''t be long. And who knew what would happen next? By the end of the day, the balance of power would have shifted inexorably. They might even manage to oust David in the next twenty-four hours.


    Max had been resisting the urge to keep checking his phone ¨C Rob wouldn''t text him; he had promised to call. So, when he felt it begin to vibrate inside his jacket, he fumbled a little while getting it out. The anticipation! It wasn''t good for a man of his age.


    But when he looked at the screen he saw that it was not Rob on the phone at all. Maybe that was to be expected; maybe his phone had been damaged in the melee and he''d had to borrow somebody else''s.


    "Hello?" he said.


    "Hello. Is that Max?¡±


    "Edwards? What do you want?¡±


    It seemed an unfortunate coincidence that Edwards should be the one looking into the stolen shipment. But it couldn''t be helped.


    "Mr. Linley, I''m afraid I''ve got some bad news for you."


    "Oh no, what is it...?"


    "It''s about your son..."


    Max tried not to overdo the "shock," but couldn''t resist a quick gasp.


    "...And your daughter-in-law. And your grandchildren."


    Max''s heart stopped. This wasn''t right. What did Chloe and the kids have to do with any of it? "I''m not sure what you mean," he heard himself say, "has there been some sort of accident?"


    "I''m sorry to do this over the phone, Max, but I thought it would be best if I told you before you heard about it in the news. I''m afraid your son, your daughter-in-law and your grandchildren have been killed."


    The phone dropped from his hand. He didn''t even hear the soft thump as it hit the turf. His chest was tight. He couldn''t breathe.


    The players carried on playing.


    Max felt a kind of heaviness in his limbs. Was he having a heart attack?


    But no. That would have been too merciful.


    Instead, he turned and saw David Carter approaching him across the field.


    The players spotted that something was afoot, and so they stopped what they were doing so they could watch. It wasn''t every day that the big boss man came to watch them train.


    ¡°Max,¡± said David.


    Max looked at his old friend, his head swimming with terrible thoughts. He wanted to lash out. He wanted to kill David Carter with his bare hands. He didn¡¯t say a word; just stood there and let David give him a hug. He heard his old friend saying ¡°I¡¯m sorry, mate. I¡¯m so sorry.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Eight

    Mikhail Popov closed his eyes and enjoyed the silence. Everything had gone perfectly; his pincer movement had proceeded without a hitch and his two sons had conducted themselves admirably. He could not have been prouder of them both. There was something uniquely satisfying about seeing a battle plan put into action successfully. It was one of the many reasons he loved chess; not merely the strategy, but the fact that a single move could shift the balance entirely. Everything could change in a matter of moments. It gave him a rush. It made him feel young again.


    Rob Linley had been poisoned by his ambition. He had been heading for a fall, and the Popovs had simply given him a little push. But the stroke of genius ¨C the part of the whole scheme which filled Mikhail with joy ¨C was the fact that the shipment had been destroyed. If they had seized it, the Carter organisation might simply seize it back again. It would become a tedious game of pass-the-parcel, with five million pounds¡¯ worth of cocaine as the grand prize. But with the drugs up in smoke, it was simply a question of power. There would always be more merchandise but power, once lost, was seldom regained.


    Mikhail was indulging in these philosophical ruminations when he heard a hammering sound out in the hall. A loud, insistent thump. One of his men came to the door of his study and informed him that there was someone to see him, a man who seemed quite upset.


    ¡°Show him in,¡± said Mikhail with a smile.


    Wayne Carter swept into Mikhail¡¯s study like a hurricane. ¡°What the fuck have you done?¡± he demanded.


    ¡°Nice to see you too, Wayne,¡± said Mikhail. ¡°What can I do for you?¡±


    ¡°You killed Rob Linley. And Chloe. And the kids.¡±


    ¡°And the au pair,¡± Mikhail supplied. ¡°What of it?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t tell you to do that. I didn¡¯t want you to do that. So why the fuck did you do it?¡±


    ¡°Forgive me if I am under a misapprehension, but I did not realise that you were in charge of my organisation.¡±


    ¡°But it doesn¡¯t make sense¡­¡±


    ¡°It makes perfect sense. Rob Linley had designs on your father¡¯s job. He was planning to seize control immediately, install himself as the head of the organisation and recruit his father Max as the ¡®power behind the throne.¡¯ I put a stop to that. A more reasonable man might be thanking me.¡±


    ¡°But what about Chloe? What about the kids?¡±


    Mikhail shrugged. He had not got up from his seat, so Wayne was towering over him. All the same, there could be little doubt as to which of them was in control of the situation. ¡°A necessary sacrifice,¡± said Mikhail. ¡°They were loose ends. And besides, a definitive action like this one sends a stronger message.¡±


    Wayne was blinded by the image of Chloe as she had been just the other day, when she had come out to meet him in the hallway of her home. He had briefly entertained the idea that he might be able to reignite their relationship. Even steal her back from Rob one day. What a fool he had been. All along, she and her kids were just a bargaining tool in a grand game. And now they were collateral damage. ¡°You¡¯re fucking insane,¡± he said softly.


    ¡°I disagree. In many ways, my actions were the only sane option. Now your father has lost his shipment and his five million pounds. He does not even have a new player to show for it. I presume that he is desperately attempting to bargain his way out of even deeper debt as we speak. He has become a liability. His position within the club is untenable. Soon he will be out of the game permanently. A new CEO will need to be found, and the pool of potential successors has depleted by one. Really, you should be thanking me. Isn¡¯t this exactly what you wanted?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Wayne said slowly and dangerously, ¡°it¡¯s not what I wanted. It¡¯s not what I wanted.¡± He marched up and down in front of Mikhail¡¯s desk like a caged animal. He was trying to puzzle the whole mess out. It had all gone so far out of control.


    Mikhail fixed him with a glare. ¡°It is what you wanted,¡± he told him. ¡°You just didn¡¯t know it yourself. Take a seat. Let¡¯s discuss this.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to discuss anything with you.¡±


    ¡°No? Then what are you going to do? Go back to your father? I doubt he will take kindly to the revelation of your treachery. And besides, there is nothing you can do to save him now.¡±


    Wayne stopped. He stared off into space. He felt as if all his wrongdoings were unfurling in front of him on a wretched film reel. He could see them all. He was responsible for them all. Every single one. Rob¡¯s death. Chloe¡¯s death. Soon, his father¡¯s death.


    ¡°Wayne,¡± Mikhail said severely. ¡°Sit down. I will not tell you again.¡±


    Sheepishly, Wayne sat in a leather chair.


    ¡°I know what¡¯s going through your mind,¡± Mikhail told him. ¡°You are feeling trapped. You are wondering if there is a way out. I¡¯m here to tell you that there is not. You are in this just as deep as I am. But I hope that you will soon realise that this might not be such a bad thing after all. I look after my own, Wayne. You know that.¡±


    Wayne nodded slowly, as if he had slipped into a trance.


    ¡°You have done me a number of favours,¡± Mikhail continued, ¡°for which I am grateful. You¡¯ve earned your reward.¡± With that, he opened the top drawer of his desk and produced a manila envelope, which he slid across the surface of the desk in Wayne¡¯s direction.


    Wayne picked it up. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°A token of my gratitude.¡±


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    Wayne wrenched open the envelope and removed a few sheets of paper and some photographs. The photographs showed a middle-aged woman going about her daily life ¨C buying shopping, driving her car, sitting in a small suburban garden taking in the sun. The papers consisted of a lengthy written report, culminating in an address.


    ¡°How did you get this?¡± said Wayne.


    ¡°I have my ways. And I told you I would help you, didn¡¯t I? That is the way the business works. I am a man of my word.¡±


    Wayne¡¯s eyes welled up with tears as he stared down at the photographs of his mother which lay in his lap. She hadn¡¯t changed much. She was still his mum, in spite of having aged over the last decade.


    ¡°You know, your father treated her very badly. He drove her to a mental breakdown that necessitated many years of psychiatric treatment. She remains on antidepressants to this day. She has never remarried. It¡¯s fair to say she lives a quiet life these days.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ why didn¡¯t she come back? Why didn¡¯t we hear from her?¡±


    ¡°She tried. But your father managed to subvert any attempt she made to re-establish contact. He blocked her out at every turn. He threatened to hurt you and your sister. He did whatever it took to stay in control.¡±


    Wayne let the tears flow freely. All these years he had listened to his father demonise his mother, blaming her for everything. The bastard.


    ¡°But there is still a chance,¡± said Mikhail. ¡°Here is your opportunity to make things right. You have her telephone number. You know where she lives. Perhaps you can still regain some of what has been lost.¡±


    Wayne looked at Mikhail, who grinned like the benevolent dictator he perceived himself to be. ¡°Thank you,¡± he said.


    ¡°You are welcome. But that¡¯s not all. You wanted revenge, didn¡¯t you? Revenge on the ones responsible for your¡­ fall from grace. I can tell you now that this revenge of yours is just about to be enacted. Within the next twenty-four hours.¡±


    It took Wayne a moment to realise what Mikhail was referring to. ¡°You mean Ronnie Vincent?¡±


    ¡°Precisely.¡±


    Wayne hadn¡¯t thought about Ronnie Vincent in a while. As far as he knew, the man who busted his leg so spectacularly was still overseas shooting one of his shitty action films. ¡°What are you going to do with him?¡±


    Mikhail smiled knowingly and did not answer.


    *


    The Fucker was not answering his phone. David had been trying to reach him for over an hour. It was now two days since the horrific dual-attack which had wiped out the Linley family, and David Carter was only too aware that his empire was crumbling around him.


    Things had run out of control so fast. Already, the press was painting him as the villain. There was even speculation that he was the one responsible for the attack that killed Enrico Brigante. The reason? Insurance. The popular interpretation was that he killed both Rob Linley and Brigante so he could claim the insurance dividend. Complete bullshit, but the sort of bullshit that sticks. Nobody knew about the merchandise which had gone up in flames ¨C or at least, if they did they had not made their knowledge public.


    Truth be told, David didn¡¯t really care who it was that was responsible for the attack. His main suspect was the Popovs, of course, but he wasn¡¯t too sure about The Fucker either. It was just the sort of thing George McMinn might do to try and reassert himself in the business. Maybe he had grown bored with his retirement and decided to take back control.


    Feeling somewhat desperate, David had been trying to reach the other silent partners whose debt he had incurred in the Silvertown fiasco. He needed to buy some time. His last great gamble had failed to pay off. He sat at his desk, listening to the chorus of protests and jeers from outside the stadium. The twats who had come to throw eggs at him before were back again in full force.


    But he was not a man to accept defeat lightly. He had to turn this around somehow. He needed to think.


    The door to his office opened and a man in a suit came in. It took David a moment to recognise Max Linley ¨C after all, he was so used to seeing him in a tracksuit. In fact, he could not remember the last time he had seen Max not wearing a tracksuit. It was such an indelible part of his public persona, he even wore it to business meetings, galas and other events.


    But here he was in an immaculate Savile Row creation, complete with a handkerchief protruding artfully from his top pocket. He looked like a different man.


    ¡°Max, I¡¯m sorry,¡± David began, ¡°but I really don¡¯t have time¡­¡±


    ¡°I came to say something to you, David.¡± Max¡¯s expression was steely. He had evidently come striding through the foyer and the outer office like a man on a mission, attracting all manner of attention. David only hoped the protestors had not seen him dressed like that.


    ¡°Max, seriously, I¡¯m sorry but I have to make another phone call. Rochelle should have told you¡­¡±


    ¡°Rochelle¡¯s gone to fetch me a coffee.¡±


    ¡°Oh. I didn¡¯t know you drank coffee. Thought all you drank was single malt. Anyway, listen, I know we¡¯ve both got a lot to say to each other about what¡¯s happened. And believe me when I say I¡¯m so sorry, alright? So fucking sorry. Rob was a fucking great guy, and Chloe and the kids, well¡­ it just breaks my heart. But I¡¯m trying to do something about it. Alright? I¡¯m trying to find out who¡¯s responsible, so we can put an end to this whole mess once and for all. You understand what I¡¯m saying?¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± said Max. ¡°I know you¡¯ve always done your best, David. And we were riding high for a few years there. But I think it¡¯s best if you listen to me now.¡± He had been approaching slowly, and now he was facing David from across the desk.


    ¡°All I need is a bit more time,¡± David was saying, half to Max and half to himself. He leaned over and grabbed the phone.


    With a deft flick of his foot, Max unhooked the phone cable from the wall.


    ¡°What the hell did you do that for?¡± said David, getting to his feet.


    ¡°We¡¯ve been watching things get worse and worse,¡± Max said. ¡°We thought you might finally manage to turn things around. But you haven¡¯t. So I¡¯m afraid the party¡¯s over. You leave us no choice but to step in.¡±


    David narrowed his eyes. ¡°Who¡¯s ¡®we¡¯?¡± he wanted to know.


    Max gave an expansive gesture with his arm. ¡°Mile End. The club. I¡¯ve come here to tell you that it¡¯s not good enough any more. I can see now I should have done something sooner. Then maybe Rob and Chloe and the little ones would still be here today¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh, so you¡¯re saying it¡¯s my fault?¡± David exploded. ¡°Listen, Max ¨C you don¡¯t know the first thing about my job. About what I do. You wouldn¡¯t know how to run this fucking club. You¡¯re too much of a coward. It takes balls, you see. Balls which you don¡¯t have.¡±


    This was the kind of withering riposte that would have sent a lesser man scuttling for cover. But Max Linley had nothing to lose.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, David. But it¡¯s all over.¡±


    ¡°No! No, it¡¯s not. They¡¯re all out to get me, Max. You¡¯re not gonna throw me to the wolves, are you? McMinn¡¯s been waiting for me to fuck up ever since I took over. And the Popovs are circling like vultures. The fans are throwing stuff at me whenever I put my head outside the door. Even my own son won¡¯t return my calls.¡±


    Max shrugged. ¡°Not my problem. I just came here to tell you that it¡¯s over. You¡¯re finished. You can¡¯t possibly survive this.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯ve survived everything else.¡±


    ¡°True,¡± said Max. ¡°But this is different.¡± The death of his son and his grandchildren had obviously done something to him. He was now ruthless and uncompromising in a way that he had never been before. He gave David a chilling, joyless smile. ¡°Must make you wonder if it was all worth it.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Nine

    If Pete Morgan had been a different kind of man, he would have wept. But he wasn¡¯t a crier. Not a man to wallow in self-pity when there was work to be done. So he channelled all of that hatred and disgust into a profound, new sense of purpose.


    He thought about his dad and wondered what he would make of the current state of affairs at his beloved Mile End. No doubt he would be spinning cartwheels in his grave.


    It was a fucking diabolical situation, and one that couldn¡¯t be allowed to go on much longer. Pete had been well-behaved for a while now (the club had quietly offered to lift his ban on the stadium if he stayed out of trouble), but he could feel himself being drawn back into all those ugly feelings which he had worked so hard to fight. Over the years, Pete Morgan had amassed quite a following. Thanks to social media, it was now easier than ever to spread the good word. He was a new kind of hooligan; he was all about strategy and co-ordination.


    He had an uneasy relationship with the club itself. They didn¡¯t seem to know what to do with him. After all, he brought them publicity. But when some footage got leaked via social media of him indulging in what was described as ¡°racist abuse¡± at a recent match, they¡¯d been forced to ban him. The media circus had a great time smearing him. A few tabloids dug up some dirt, printing old photos of him doing a Nazi salute, things like that. They reckoned he had ¡°far-right connections.¡± But Pete didn¡¯t believe in politics. He believed in stuff that was real; stuff that really existed. Like football. That was something he could pour his heart and soul into. He knew Mile End couldn¡¯t ban him from matches forever. But at the same time, he had been following their rapidly declining fortunes with a heavy heart. People were sending him messages saying things like ¡°what are we gonna DO about this, Pete?¡± and he had no answer for them. He simply didn¡¯t know.


    Now this useless fucker, this David Carter, had let a lad who might just have been the best thing to happen to the club in decades die in a fiery car explosion. Just brilliant. Yet another disappointment. For a while there it had seemed as though signing Brigante might just be the change in their fortunes the club had been waiting for. But it was not to be.


    Nowadays, Pete Morgan lived alone in a flat in East London. He couldn¡¯t work because of his bad back. His benefits kept him in fags, beers and takeaways. He would never admit this to anyone, but he was lonely. Without the football, there was nothing to think about. Nothing to look forward to. More and more, he found himself trawling endlessly through social media, painfully aware that he was running out of things to live for.


    But that morning things were different. There was the familiar, unwelcome sound of his doorbell, dragging him from the best night¡¯s sleep he¡¯d had in ages. He staggered out into the hall of his poky flat and unlocked the door. He kept it on the chain though: you couldn¡¯t be too careful.


    ¡°Fucking hell,¡± he said, ¡°what are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°Mr. Morgan,¡± said Wayne, ¡°or can I call you Pete? I¡¯ve heard a lot about you. Funny we¡¯ve never met before now.¡±


    Wayne Carter was wearing his best business suit. He felt decidedly out-of-place, even on the short walk from his limousine outside to this upstairs flat. But he was a man on a mission; he knew his script; he was in total control.


    ¡°You¡¯d better come in,¡± said Pete Morgan, playing it cool.


    You might call it a surreal sight: the aging hooligan making tea in his grubby kitchen for the handsome, young, former footballer. But there was a method in Wayne¡¯s madness. He thought of himself as an avenging angel, sweeping in to wreak destruction.


    *


    Inspector Edwards spent most of his morning thinking of ways in which he could make life difficult for David Carter. He sat at the desk in his corner office and stared at the wall with a vague smile on his face. You didn¡¯t need to be Sherlock Holmes to suss out the way things were going. David Carter was a cornered animal; he was bound to get desperate. His scheme had come crashing down around his ears.


    Edwards, who had made a decent living out of pocketing kickbacks from the football mogul, could now see the beginnings of a very healthy payday indeed. There was only one thing for it ¨C he would need to pay Carter a visit.


    Fortunately, none of his colleagues ever paid much attention to what Edwards got up to during the working day, otherwise they might have wondered why a drugs officer was heading out to Mile End Stadium when the deaths of the Linley family and Enrico Brigante were being handled by other, more capable investigators. If it had occurred to them to scrutinise his activities more closely, they would have seen that he¡¯d done everything in his power to paint the whole sorry sequence of events as just an unfortunate coincidence. For instance, he managed to destroy the traces of cocaine which were found in the burnt-out car. He also stole the bullet that had punctured Enrico Brigante¡¯s skull before embedding itself in the dashboard ¨C it was just a matter of retrieving it from its evidence locker and then chucking it in the Thames. Soon, the rest of them would have no choice but to write the whole thing off. There was no conspiracy. And while the connection between and Brigante and David Carter might make some suspect an organised crime element, there was no proof, and the brass didn¡¯t want a length, expensive investigation without evidence.


    ¡°I¡¯ve done you a favour, you know,¡± Edwards said to David Carter when he was ushered into the director¡¯s office.


    ¡°Have you?¡± David asked flatly, not taking his eyes off the computer monitor on his desk.


    ¡°Oh yes,¡± Edwards beamed, pulling up a chair. ¡°You¡¯ll thank me later. But right now, I want to talk to you about something.¡±


    ¡°Bit busy at the minute,¡± David said, still not looking at the Inspector.


    Edwards did not let it faze him. ¡°What if I told you,¡± he commenced, ¡°that I was in a position to do you another favour?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d tell you I¡¯m busy at the minute,¡± David snapped, getting suddenly to his feet. Edwards watched him march over to the window and peek out between the blinds. ¡°Jesus Christ,¡± he said to no one in particular ¨C certainly not to Edwards.


    Edwards got a look over the director¡¯s shoulder at the crowds that were gathering in the street below the window. Hundreds of them now. Worse even than the protests of a few weeks ago. This time, it was a carefully orchestrated social media campaign that had ignited the vengeful sentiment among the fans ¨C not to mention the mercurial presence of Pete Morgan.


    He was out there now, megaphone in hand, preaching his garbled gospel, flanked by hearses. The hearses were a symbolic touch ¨C they represented not only the deaths of Rob Linley and Enrico Brigante, but the death of the club. Virtually everything Morgan said was met with raucous cheers. Uniformed police were there to keep order, but were doing nothing to disperse the crowds. If anything, the numbers seemed to be growing even as David watched.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    ¡°You know what he¡¯s done?¡± Pete Morgan demanded. ¡°This David Carter? This man we trusted, who pockets heaps of our hard-earned cash every single week? He¡¯s killed this club. Our beloved Mile End. We¡¯ve been there for this club through thick and thin. Haven¡¯t we?¡±


    More cheers.


    ¡°And how do the men in suits repay us for our loyalty? They bleed our club dry. This isn¡¯t about the beautiful game anymore. It¡¯s about business. Big business, and money men who don¡¯t know the first thing about football! And just when we thought there was light at the end of the tunnel, they managed to pull the rug out from under us yet again! Enrico Brigante was a good lad. A great player. He was just what the club needed. But this is Mile End ¨C and we¡¯re not allowed nice things, are we? So we lost Enrico Brigante. And who do we have to thank for that? Two words: DAVID CARTER!¡±


    A roar surged from the crowd. It sent a chill down David¡¯s spine. He could see TV trucks assembling in the car park. The gutter press was on the case again.


    Pete Morgan held up a hand and the crowd obediently fell silent. ¡°Now, what I want is for us all to have a minute¡¯s silence to honour the memory of Enrico Brigante and everything he would have brought to our Mile End.¡±


    The TV cameras started rolling just in time for the minute of silence. It would be all over every sporting news outlet in the country by this evening.


    David skulked away from the window and returned to his desk.


    ¡°Oh mate,¡± said Edwards with another of his insufferable grins, ¡°it looks to me like you need all the help you can get.¡±


    *


    Across London, another memorial was taking place. Max Linley stood like a mannequin, listening to the silence. His hands were folded respectfully in front of him as he surveyed the four coffins: two adult-size and two small. This was all that remained of his family. His world. His hatred for David Carter was now a white flame in his chest, burning with a heat so intense that he could scarcely think or breathe.


    He was taking a few ¡°personal days.¡± This had been suggested by one or two of his allies in the club. It was an opportunity to not only gather his strength, but to formulate a plan of attack. Because one thing was for sure: David Carter was a dead man. His lies and failures and finagling had cost Max everything he had. Max had put up with a lot throughout their friendship, but he had finally reached his limit.


    *


    That morning, Wayne received an unexpected package with the post. It was a brown jiffy bag, the sort of thing you might expect to contain a nail bomb or a heap of dog shit. Instead, it had a DVD in a plastic see-through case. It was neatly labelled: ¡°R.V.¡±


    Only mildly curious, Wayne fired up his old DVD player ¨C which didn¡¯t get much use these days ¨C and slid the disc into the slot.


    It was good quality footage.


    *


    Wayne Carter was out for a walk in the countryside, ostensibly taking the air in the vicinity of his rural home. After all, it was good for his wounded leg (which would never fully heal) to take as much exercise as he could manage. But he had an ulterior motive.


    The sun beamed down on him as he reached the layby in that meandering country lane where Mikhail Popov¡¯s limousine was waiting for him. He opened a rear door and climbed inside. Mikhail sat opposite him, his eyes shielded by tinted spectacles. His face was expressionless. He spoke softly:


    ¡°Did you receive my gift?¡±


    Wayne nodded, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. He would never be able to un-see what was on that disc.


    ¡°Everything seems to be proceeding according to plan. And your idea of recruiting Peter Morgan has certainly paid off. Tell me, have you managed to re-establish contact with your mother?¡±


    There was a pause before Wayne replied. ¡°Not yet.¡± Then, after another increasingly awkward silence, he said, ¡°Why did they take so long?¡±


    ¡°Hmm? What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Ronnie Vincent. The disc. That video was over three hours long.¡±


    Mikhail smiled now. ¡°I like to know I am getting my money¡¯s worth. Didn¡¯t you enjoy it?¡±


    Wayne¡¯s gaze snapped toward the Russian, but he didn¡¯t say anything.


    Mikhail persisted: ¡°Isn¡¯t that what you wanted, Wayne? Your revenge?¡±


    ¡°Not like that,¡± said Wayne quietly. ¡°Not like that.¡±


    ¡°Well, ¡®you can¡¯t always get what you want.¡¯ Isn¡¯t that the way the old song goes? But you have nothing to worry about. I understand the Spanish police have no leads whatsoever.¡±


    Ronnie Vincent, footballer turned actor, had been drinking with a few of his friends in the bar of the hotel where he was staying in Alicante. He was there to film scenes for the gangster film in which he was playing the second-lead. The role was that of a brutal assassin and torturer known as ¡°Thumbscrew.¡± It was a fun role that would likely have cemented Ronnie¡¯s reputation as the go-to character actor for this type of mid-budget venture. The director knew it; Ronnie knew it; everyone knew it. So he was in good spirits that night when he eventually sloped back to his suite.


    That was the last time he was seen alive.


    The hotel CCTV caught sight of a couple of unidentified and decidedly shifty looking men striding through the corridors. Nobody was able to ascertain how they got past hotel security, but it was obvious from the few bits of grainy footage that they knew exactly where they were going. Wayne, of course, had watched the whole evening¡¯s work from their point of view; one of them had been carrying a small camera which he used to record every last second of their midnight rendezvous.


    The following morning Ronnie Vincent failed to show up on set. The driver that had been sent to pick him up reported that Ronnie was not answering his door. Eventually, a maid was dispatched with a master key to see what the fuck was going on. Her screams echoed around the hotel corridors, and before long the details of her discovery were public knowledge.


    It was the sort of murder that was designed to make headlines; to send a message. What the message was, nobody knew. But the fact remained that there would be no open-casket wake for Ronnie Vincent.


    The carpets were awash with blood, and the walls lashed with bucketloads of the dark, sticky stuff. Ronnie''s limbs were in the bath, four ruined appendages criss-crossing one another like twigs. His torso was on the bed, his head glowered down from the top of the wardrobe with a look of horror on its twisted features, and his cock was slammed in the window. There were various broken bones, bruises, contusions, abrasions and hideous flaps of flesh. Disturbingly, investigators were unwilling to speculate publicly as to how much of the mutilation and dismemberment had taken place while Ronnie Vincent was still alive. Add to that the fact that none of the guests in nearby rooms had heard as much as a squeak that night, and you were left with a pair of truly diabolical assassins who were professional and left no trace. A murder that was destined to remain unsolved and provide plenty of fodder for true crime documentaries in the decades to come.


    "Perhaps you were a little shocked by the footage?" said Mikhail, taking evident pleasure in Wayne''s discomfiture. "Perhaps you thought it was overkill? That the nature of his transgression did not merit such a response?"


    Wayne was silent. He stared out of the window at the countryside. On any other day, the clear skies and rolling hills would have been a soothing sight. But now the images from that video were rolling backwards and forwards in front of his eyes.


    Mikhail spoke in soft yet strangely cajoling tones. "You got what you asked for, Wayne. I honoured that part of the bargain. When are you going to call your mother, Wayne? I''m sure she will be glad to hear from you."


    Wayne snapped his gaze back toward the Russian, but still resisted the urge to say anything.


    "After all," Mikhail persisted, "that address and telephone number cost you a great deal. It would be a shame to waste them."


    "When Pete Morgan has finished with the protests, I think you should get rid of him." Wayne spoke slowly and carefully. It was not an impulsive statement, but a carefully considered one. Mikhail could respect that.


    "Yes," said the Russian, "I was thinking the same thing. No loose ends. You are getting good at this, Wayne."


    Wayne did not reply.

 Chapter Thirty

    Being a man of action, this rapidly escalating feeling of powerlessness was particularly frustrating for David Carter. Over the next fortnight, he saw his already precarious position at his club deteriorate further. Home matches swiftly devolved into anti-David Carter rallies, with protests, chants and banners all denouncing him vocally. He was all over the TV, papers and social media. Everything had spiralled out of control faster than he could do anything about it. Before too long, he had turned into a kind of Howard Hughesesque recluse, surveying the chaos from his director''s box. His business was crippled. He owed money to everyone. The Russians wanted him dead. George McMinn and the cabal of investors wanted him dead. Even Max Linley, his closest friend, wanted him out. He was a pariah. Persona non grata in his own club. During the ensuing fortnight, he grew increasingly isolated. Some nights he slept in his office, because he could not face the pitying looks he got from Felicia. Mind you, the pitying looks from Rochelle were just as troubling.


    Walking the corridors of the business suite at the Mile End stadium was like striding through the corridors of a ruined palace in the midst of the downfall of some tin-pot dictator. The various bodyguards and security people had begun to look decidedly shifty, to the point where David had a feeling that any one of them might stab him unceremoniously in the back at any given moment. And the admin people were putting in plenty of overtime, but accomplishing very little. David''s own meagre efforts to restore his standing in the eyes of the fans were met with widespread indifference. He gave occasional telephone interviews, but found himself losing patience and slamming the phone down in most cases.


    Soon there would be no way out. The writing was on the wall. McMinn had stopped taking his calls, so any attempt at getting an extension for his loans was doomed to inevitable failure. Max Linley was gathering media support and had started giving press conferences wearing that suit of his rather than his famous tracksuit. He was dressing like a statesman and conducting himself like one too. The loss of his family in one fell swoop had garnered him the sympathy vote as well.


    David Carter was running out of options. The point at which he might reasonably have given up directorship of the club had unfortunately passed. The club itself was worthless; in debt up to the eyeballs. The loss of a shipment worth five million pounds had left him in bad standing as a supplier. And besides, if he gave up the club he would lose any semblance of legitimacy as a businessman. He would be just another drug runner ¨C and a failing one at that. He hadn''t heard from Wayne in close to a month, but he couldn''t honestly say he missed the lad. Wayne lacked the can-do attitude that had taken David to the top of the tree.


    But there was one thing that all these scumbags had failed to reckon with. Namely, the fact that David Carter''s greatest ideas and innovations came when his back was against the wall.


    *


    Pete Morgan was a popular guy these days. It seemed as though all his transgressions had at long last been forgotten. He thought of himself as a kind of guru ¨C someone who had rallied the Mile End fans behind a common cause. It was a glorious feeling. He had almost permitted himself to forget about the visit from Wayne Carter that had set the ball rolling, so to speak. All kinds of media outlets were clamouring to speak with him. So he wasn''t altogether surprised when a knock at the door woke him from a welcome slumber. He shuffled out in his dressing gown, swearing under his breath the whole time, and opened the door. He was so drowsy and lazy that he even neglected to put the chain on.


    When he saw who was standing out there in the hallway, he immediately regretted this mistake.


    "Morning," said David Carter. "Can I come in?"


    Without a word, Pete Morgan stepped back to admit the director into his flat. The two men sat in Pete''s living room, eyes fixed on each other with undisguised hostility. But on the face of it, David was polite. He was on a peacekeeping mission.


    "Well," Pete Morgan eventually said, "this is a surprise."


    David smiled. "Thought it might be. But don''t worry. I''m not going to sue you or break your legs or anything. No, no. I''m here on a mission of mercy."


    "Oh you are, are you?"


    "You''ve certainly been making a name for yourself with all these protests and publicity stunts. I admire you for it, actually. I''m a bit of a self-publicist myself."


    "It''s not about me," said Pete, "it''s about the club."


    "''Course it is. Anyway, people tell me you''re planning a really massive event for this coming weekend. You''re going to picket the match and make all kinds of trouble. Is that right?"


    Pete Morgan looked David up and down. The club director was looking a little haggard these days, with bags under his eyes and his hair slightly unkempt, but apart from that he was the same suave smooth-talker who had won over the fans decades ago. A formidable opponent, even now.


    "Do you want some tea, Mr. Carter?"


    "Call me David. And yeah, I''ll have some tea."


    Pete had been living alone ever since his bitch of an ex took the kids, and he could never be arsed with things like washing up. So when he found a mug he simply tipped what remained of its contents down the sink and dropped a fresh teabag in. While the kettle boiled, he speculated what the purpose of this visit might be. Best to play it cool for now ¨C say nothing.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    "Ah. Lovely stuff," said David as Pete handed him the piping hot brew. "Now, I think I''d better be honest with you. It would be best for me if this weekend''s protest didn¡¯t take place."


    Pete laughed. "Oh, I''m sure it would. So that''s what you''ve come for, is it? To try and talk me out of it?"


    "Oh, no, I know better than to try anything stupid like that. No, no. I''m here to buy you off."


    "Not sure you can afford it, mate."


    "Ha! Well, yes. I know that my financial affairs are more or less public property these days. Everyone knows the club has lost a lot of money. All the same... how does a quarter of a mill sound?"


    "Two-hundred-and-fifty grand? Where the hell have you got hold of that kind of money?"


    "That''s my business. The point is, it''s my offer to you, Pete Morgan. So how''s about it?"


    "To cancel this weekend''s protest?"


    "Yes. Well, not just that. There are one or two other conditions. But am I right in thinking that you''re not entirely opposed to the idea?"


    "Keep talking, David."


    David grinned. "Atta boy. I knew we''d be able to do business. But I want to make sure I get my money''s worth. Cancelling the protest is all well and good, but there''s a bit more to it than that. The club''s in a mess, you and I both know it. But what the press and social media have got wrong is the notion that I''m the one behind all this so-called financial mismanagement."


    "Oh yeah? Well, if you''re not then who is?"


    "This is where the business gets a bit complicated. Of course I don''t expect the public to understand it, but you''ve got to bear in mind that I''m the director of the club, but I''m not the CEO. I''m the face of the club, and I make all the big decisions, but I''m not the one who oversees the running of all the club''s financial affairs. That''s the CEO''s role. That''s what he''s there for. It''s what he gets paid an exorbitant salary for."


    "So he''s the scapegoat then, is he?"


    "Hardly. After all, it''s not his face plastered all over the papers, is it? He''s not the one they''re burning effigies of in the car park, is he? No, he''s been very clever about it, but really this whole thing is his cock-up and nobody else''s. And he''s got to go. He''s going to go. I''ll see to it myself. But I need the fans to understand that this restructure is going to save the club. The comeback starts here. And I¡¯m the one who''s on the side of the angels."


    Pete considered this. He had never been very good at understanding complex business type things, but he could just about get his head around this. And it made sense. Sort of. "So it''s the CEO," he said, more to himself than to David.


    "Right. But I''ve got a good man lined up to take over. Somebody who''ll help to steer the ship back on course."


    "Yeah? Who''s that?"


    David smiled. "It seems to me like I''m telling you an awful lot when you''ve not even agreed to my generous offer. So how about it?"


    Pete got to his feet and started pacing. ¡°All this is a bit beyond me, David. I¡¯ve never got on with men in suits. What I¡¯m interested in is the football.¡±


    ¡°Same here. And I agree with you completely ¨C it¡¯ll be a sad day when the money men and not the fans are the ones who call the shots at Mile End. But believe me, the shakeup I¡¯m planning will work wonders for the team. And it will take back control for the fans. You see what I¡¯m driving at?¡±


    ¡°I think I do. Alright then.¡± He tried to make it seem as though it were a grudging acceptance, but of course there was no way he was going to turn down that sort of money ¨C no matter where it came from.


    "But I want to know something," said David.


    "Yeah? What''s that?"


    "I want to know who organised all this. Who got you involved. Because ¨C and don''t get me wrong ¨C this whole set-up doesn''t exactly scream ''Pete Morgan'' to me."


    Pete laughed. "You know, you''re alright David. You''re not as much of a twat as I thought you''d be. Still a bit of a twat, obviously, but you''re a man in a suit, after all. First, tell me who you''re getting in to take over as CEO."


    "My son-in-law, Jason Keller. I''ve decided it''s best to keep things in the family from now on. Bringing in outsiders is always a mistake. I''m sure you can see the sense in that, Pete. After all, it''s fair to say you went into your father''s line of work, didn''t you?"


    "You''re right there. Well, alright. I''ll take you at your word, David. But it''s funny you mention keeping it in the family. Your son didn''t seem too keen on the idea when he brought me on board."


    David Carter''s stomach lurched, but he made a concerted effort to keep the inevitable look of shock from crossing his face. He remained stony, and simply said: "I had a feeling it might have been Wayne."


    "Yeah. Sorry to be the one to tell you."


    "It''s alright, Pete," said David, forcing a smile. "I already knew."


    As he lumbered down the stairs from Pete''s flat, David Carter maintained the same look of calm composure, even while his innards boiled. Out in the street, he dived into the back of his waiting car and told the driver to get him back to the stadium.


    So Wayne was the one behind the protests. And David had been so sure it was the Popovs. But the idea of his son being in league with the Russians was just too hard to swallow. Hadn¡¯t David always taken care of him in the past, made sure he never wanted for anything? Wayne would have to be a fucking moron to jeopardise his own future by taking down his father''s business.


    As he reclined in the back seat of his car, David tried his best to fathom the ins and outs of this fresh revelation. Wayne was bitter. Of course he was. David knew that his son had been bitter ever since Ronnie Vincent crippled him. That''s all this was ¨C Wayne had been looking around for someone to blame and he had settled on his old man. Simple as that. But it didn''t make the situation any less awkward. Without knowing it, Wayne was putting the whole Carter empire in jeopardy.


    But it would be alright. The whole thing was over with now. The protest was off, Pete Morgan was calling off the bloodhounds. It would be alright, David did his best to reassure himself as the car coasted across London. This was a minor blip. Nothing he and Wayne could not sort out among themselves. It was good that he had found out; now he could start to put things right. But it left questions. Awkward questions.


    By the time he got to the stadium, Pete Morgan had already been spreading the word. The hashtag "#SaveMileEnd" was doing the rounds, and the news was out there that the corrupt CEO of the club was finally being ousted, to be replaced by someone who knew what they were doing. Someone with the seal of approval of the great David Carter. The swiftness of this about-face was not lost on the media, but the fans were quick to retweet their support for the manoeuvre and so the various sports news outlets had little choice but to go along for the ride. David''s mobile phone was abuzz as he re-entered the stadium, but this time he knew the news was good. His luck had turned at last.

 Chapter Thirty-One

    Wayne sat on the chromium stool at his marble kitchen island, staring down at the mobile phone in front of him. Beside it was a crumpled sheaf of paper with a phone number on it. Ever since Mikhail had handed him the envelope, he had been trying to make the call. But he kept finding he was too much of a coward. What exactly was he afraid of?


    It was a tricky question to answer. But as soon as he reached for the phone, or let his eyes focus on the sheet of paper for too long, he felt the same all-conquering dread he had been feeling throughout his life, in one form or another. Sitting alone in the mansion that was really his father''s property, it just seemed too good to be true. That the very thing he had been pining for all these years might finally be within his grasp.


    He thought about Chloe. He had carried a torch for her for most of his life, and now she was dead. And not just dead ¨C obliterated. Wiped from the face of the earth. No matter how he tried to rationalize it, he couldn''t bring himself to accept Mikhail''s assertion that slaughtering the Linleys was the best and only option. Rob, yes. But the others, no. Wayne closed his eyes and replayed in his head that final brief meeting with Chloe on the doorstep of the home that would soon become the scene of her savage murder. He couldn''t stop thinking about how differently things might have turned out if only he''d shown a bit of backbone. But he had let her slip away. And now there was no going back.


    Then of course there was what happened to Ronnie Vincent. Ronnie was a cunt; a fucking useless waste of space who''d ruined his career and his life for the sake of a payout from the Popovs. But had he really deserved the prolonged torture and gruesome death that had befallen him in Spain? When Wayne had received the news, he had initially felt a rush of elation. But it had quickly passed, like the ecstasy of an orgasm. Before long he was left feeling hollow and depressed. Like himself, Ronnie Vincent had been little more than a pawn in a larger and more complicated game. His death was meaningless.


    Wayne couldn''t bear the thought of anything like this happening to his mother. He was afraid to lose her, as well. If he picked up that phone and dialled, he knew it was irrevocable. He was putting his mother and himself in terrible danger. Particularly if his dad found out. Now there was a worst case scenario. If David got wind of the fact that Wayne was in touch with his mother, he would know that he''d been engaged in a bit of double-dealing with his father''s enemies. After all, who else would have dared to give him the information that David had gone to such extraordinary lengths to hide?


    Wayne thought about the Linley wake. He had waited until Max wasn''t around and then bribed his way past security into the chapel. Standing there alone with those four coffins, the reality of this sordid business ¨C this wicked, wicked life ¨C was inescapable. He was responsible for those deaths as surely as if he had pulled the trigger himself. And worst of all, he couldn''t even convince himself that he hadn''t known what was going to happen. He knew what the Popovs were capable of. He''d always known. But in his frustration and rage, he had ceased to care.


    It was getting dark outside, but he made no effort to turn on the lights. As the dusk enveloped him, he merely sat there and stared at the outlines of the phone and the paper on the counter. Earlier, he had managed to coax himself into picking up the phone and keying in the first couple of digits, but then a wave of panic had swept over him. This was getting ridiculous. He was supposed to be a man, wasn''t he? He gritted his teeth and grabbed the phone, but at that moment it began to ring in his hand. He looked at the screen. Dad.


    With a quick, distressed sigh, Wayne jabbed the ''answer'' button.


    "Hi, Dad."


    "Alright, Wayne?" David was evidently in a matey sort of mood. He spoke in that jocular way he had when he was keen to mask what he was really feeling. "How are you? Haven''t spoken to you for a bit."


    "Yeah, I know, I''ve been busy... media stuff, you know."


    "Ah. Well, I''m sorry. Thought I''d put that right."


    Silence on the line. Wayne began to get nervous. Eventually, he felt obliged to say: "I saw the protests on the news. It''s getting a bit ridiculous, isn''t it?"


    David laughed a little louder than his son''s derisive comment deserved. "Yeah, it''s ridiculous alright. But it''s made me think. And I know that I did wrong by you, Wayne. And I want to say I''m sorry."


    "That''s alright, Dad."


    "No, I mean it. I really and truly mean it. I''m sorry for all of it. I''m sorry I let you get hurt. Sorry I didn''t stand up for you when it would have made a difference. Sorry I never gave you a chance to do something with your life."


    Was Wayne imagining things, or were there tears in his father''s voice? Were they having a ''moment''? He opened his mouth but no words came out.


    "Anyway," David continued, "that''s why I''m calling. I want to make you an offer. I think you''ll like it. At least, I hope you will."


    "Go on."


    "I want you to be CEO."


    Wayne almost dropped the phone. "What are you talking about?"


    "I''m not kidding, son. I think you''ve got it in you to do a damn good job. And after all, it''s best to keep these things in the family. I had thought Jason, but I¡¯d rather it be you."


    Wayne could only imagine how furious his sister''s husband would be when he found out. After all, David had been grooming him for a position high within the organisation for a long time now.


    "What about him? It''s not Jason''s decision to make. It''s mine. And I''ve seen what a mess things can turn out to be when you''re forced to rely on outsiders. I mean, just take that cock-up with Silvertown. So I want somebody I know I can trust. And that''s you, Wayne."


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    "Well, I... I don''t know what to say..."


    "You can say yes, Wayne. That''s all I need to hear. And besides, I know I''m getting on a bit. I won''t be around forever. And I need somebody who''ll be able to take the reins when I''m gone. Somebody who''ll be able to walk the walk, as well as talk the talk."


    Wayne''s head was spinning. It was what he had wanted all along. Could it really be as easy as this? Was the top job simply going to fall into his lap, after all the machinations and conspiracy? All the backstabbing and bloodshed?


    "I''ll do it, Dad," he heard himself say. "I''ll do whatever it takes."


    He could hear the grin in David Carter''s voice as he said: "I know you will."


    But there was more. "Before I give you the job, Wayne, there''s a couple of other things I need to know."


    Wayne''s skin prickled. "Such as?"


    "I need to be sure I can trust you, Wayne. I need to know we''re on the same side."


    "What''s that supposed to mean?"


    "It means no more pissing about with guys like Pete Morgan."


    Wayne could not quite mask his sharp intake of breath.


    "Oh, you didn''t think I''d find out, did you? Well, I did. But don''t worry. I''m not angry any more. I''m impressed."


    Impressed? Wayne''s brain performed several quick computations. So David knew that his son had been involved in orchestrating the protests that had almost cost him his job. But he clearly didn¡¯t know the extent of Wayne''s involvement with the Popovs. He didn''t know about the information Wayne had been passing to the Russians. He did not know the full extent of his son''s treachery. So where was the weak link? It had to be Pete Morgan himself. He must have spilled the beans to David. But, fortunately for Wayne, Morgan did not know that Wayne''s idea had been funded and co-ordinated by the Russians. So as far as David was concerned, Wayne''s only transgression was the (largely justified) protest about mismanagement at Mile End. No murders, no destruction of merchandise, no ruining Silvertown. With that in mind, Wayne might just be able to turn this into a win.


    "I hoped you wouldn''t find out," he said.


    "You should have known me better than that," said his Dad. "I always find everything out."


    In spite of himself, Wayne laughed. David Carter, playing the big man once again. "Well, I''m sorry, Dad."


    "Nothing to apologise for," David reassured him, "so long as we''re both on the same page going forward. We''ve both got to pull together if we''re going to turn this thing around. This is bigger than just you and me, you know. It''s about the club itself. We''ve got to save Mile End."


    "What do you mean?"


    "Well, the club''s in debt up to its eyeballs, for a start. And what do you think happened to Rob Linley? He didn''t fucking die of natural causes, I can tell you that much. Then there''s Silvertown ¨C what a clusterfuck that turned out to be. My fault, of course. Nobody to blame but myself. But we need to put a stop to the decline before it gets out of control."


    "You mean it isn''t already out of control?"


    David laughed again. "Oh, you''re a good lad but you''ve got a lot to learn about business! It''s alright. That''s what I''m going to teach you. Lesson number one: it isn''t over till it''s over. You can always turn things around. But first you have to plug any leaks. And I reckon we''ve got a mole in the organisation. Somebody who''s passing info to the Russians. First order of business, I want to know who it is."


    "Okay," said Wayne, buoyed by his dad''s enthusiasm, "it''s got to be someone close to you. Someone who knows the ins and outs of the business. Maybe someone in your private office? Have you thought about Rochelle?"


    "It''s not Rochelle," said David.


    "How do you know?"


    "Because I just do."


    "Alright. Well, how about..." then Wayne had a flash of inspiration. "I''ve got it. There''s only one person it could be."


    "Yeah? Who''s that?"


    "Max Linley."


    "Max?" A lengthy silence. Wayne could picture his Dad chewing over the notion. "What makes you think it''s Max?"


    "Look, I know it doesn''t make much sense on the surface, but when you think about it you''ll see what I mean. He wants it all ¨C control of the club, the business... everything."


    "And you think he''d sacrifice his son to get it?"


    Another brief but heavy silence. "Not on purpose. But you know what the Russians are like. Anything can happen. What if Rob was meant to hand over the merchandise in a fake hold-up. The whole thing was a set-up. But it got out of hand, the car went out of control... and Rob was killed."


    "And how about his wife?"


    "Chloe?" Wayne spoke her name without thinking. The feel of it on his tongue was like a shard of ice. "She was a loose end. Maybe she knew something. Either way, I don''t think it rules Max out."


    "You''re talking a lot of sense, Wayne," said David. "Right little Sherlock Holmes, aren''t you? So, if you were in my shoes, Wayne, what would you do?"


    This was a test alright. Wayne''s answer to this question could make or break not only his relationship with his father, but also his future at Mile End. Maybe even his life. He needed to choose his words very carefully.


    "Only one thing to do," he said.


    "Which is?"


    "You want me to say it over the phone?"


    "Very good," said David, and Wayne knew he had passed the test.


    But did he really mean what he had just said? Was he willing to let Max Linley take the fall for his betrayal? And all to save his own skin?


    Who was he kidding? Of course he was.


    "It''s a shame about Max," David was saying. "He was a good bloke. We had some laughs, and I couldn''t have done everything I did without him. But everything comes to an end."


    "He thinks he can take your place," Wayne observed.


    "Yes he does," David said with a sigh, "but he''s wrong. I''ve got to go now, Wayne. But we''ll talk later."


    "Talk later."


    David hung up the phone and lit a cigarette. The hard part was over with. Now all he had to do was break the news to Jason. And Jason wouldn''t give a fuck, so long as he continued to pocket a hefty wage for doing next to fuck-all. In that respect, he was like any other son-in-law.


    And as for Wayne, he had pleasantly surprised David. The lad had shown an unanticipated amount of backbone when he roped Pete Morgan into his scheme. It was a shrewd manoeuvre that could have caused a lot of trouble for David. But all the same, David admired it as a strategy. It was the sort of thing he could have seen himself doing when he was a younger man. The sort of move that he might have employed to oust George McMinn.


    So maybe ¨C just maybe ¨C Wayne had more about him than his father had first thought. Maybe they could make this work. Maybe.


    And then there was Max Linley. Another problem to be taken care of. It was an uphill struggle these days, but for the first time in a long time, David could sense that he was moving in the right direction. Rallying the troops. And it made a kind of perverse sense that Max should be the mole. After all, who was closer to David than he? Who else had such an intimate knowledge of the workings of the business? Nobody. He''d always known Max the father, Max the friend, Max the confidant. And now at long last he had come face to face with the final shade of Max''s complex personality: the backstabbing cunt.


    At that moment, Rochelle came in with some contracts for David to sign. "Better put some coffee on, love," he told her. "It''s going to be a long night."

 Chapter Thirty-Two

    "Fuck me. This fucking place is as fucking miserable as ever."


    Max Linley smiled. Same old George. They didn''t call him The Fucker for nothing. The two men were sitting in the discreet, low-lit bar of a moderately priced hotel in central London. An ideal hiding place for a man who did not wish to encounter old friends of enemies. George McMinn had arrived at Heathrow a few hours ago, but his arrival had been kept on a need-to-know basis. The others would be arriving at various times throughout the next twenty-four hours. All the partners. The entire consortium, converging on London.


    "It''s good to see you, George," said Max.


    "Good to see you too, pal. Though I''ve got to tell you, you look like fucking shit, mate."


    "Yeah. Well. I think I''ve got an excuse, don''t you?"


    "''Course you have," said George, sipping his whisky from the cut glass tumbler. "And I want you to know how sorry I am about what happened. If it was up to me, I''d find the cunts that done it and I''d fucking-"


    "I don¡¯t want to talk about it," Max said, cutting him off. "I just want my due. I want what I''m owed."


    George exhaled thoughtfully. "David seems to have lost the plot."


    "There''s the understatement of the century."


    "Well, yeah. I mean, I told myself it would take a real shitstorm to bring me back to this fucking godforsaken little country. But I think it''s fair to say the shitstorm is upon us, eh?"


    "I tried to talk him out of Silvertown."


    "I know you did," said George. "But there''s no talking David Carter out of anything. He''s got an iron will and a fucking porridge brain. It''s not done him any harm so far, but it was never going to last forever."


    Max took a sip of his whisky. It was genuinely good to see George McMinn again. With David Carter, there was a tendency to get swept up by his charisma and find yourself saying and doing things you did not necessarily agree with. But George McMinn was gloriously, gleefully uncharismatic. He didn''t give a fucking shit if you agreed with him or not. That was refreshing. It was like the old days, when Max was a younger man. When there was still so much out there to achieve. So many prizes to be won.


    "David''s got this kind of cult of personality around him," Max said. "He has his yes-men and yes-women, and they''re the only ones he listens to. You can''t disagree with him. You can''t tell him not to do something."


    "You''ve hit the nail on the head there," said George, jabbing the air with a stubby, nicotine-stained forefinger. "It''s done him a lot of favours in the past, but it was always going to be his downfall."


    Retirement had been kind to George McMinn. Sure, he had put on a bit of weight from all that glorious food he was getting over there, but his hair was rich and silvery, and his skin bore a deep, even tan. Why would anyone in his position come back to this shitty little island?


    "I want to ask you something," said Max, "and I didn''t want to do it over the phone or fucking Skype or whatever."


    "Go on then. Ask."


    "I want your backing."


    "For what?"


    "For a takeover. The rest of the partners will be getting into London tomorrow. And if I''ve got your blessing, I know the rest of them will fall into line."


    George stroked his chin. "I''m not against the idea in principle. But all this cloak-and-dagger stuff isn''t really your style, is it?"


    "He''s forced me into it. I''ve tried confronting him face to face, but he''s deluded. Like you said, he''s lost the plot."


    "That''s a real shame. A real shame. But even if I give you my ''blessing,'' what makes you think that''s going to hold any sway with the rest of the partners? I''m just an old cunt now. I haven''t had an active interest in the business for a long time."


    "People respect you, George. That''s what counts. And just look at all the shit that David''s done in the last year. First there''s the Silvertown debacle. How much of your money did he spunk up the wall?"


    "Too much," George answered between sips.


    "But you gave him another chance. That''s fair enough; these things happen. But then there''s this Enrico Brigante thing. And my... my family. That was a tragedy, and it''s even worse because it could have been avoided. Now it''s all so public. These are the kinds of things that should have been done behind closed doors, in a quiet place like this. Not with fucking mass murders and burned-up shipments and everything else. It can''t go on like this. It just can''t." Max spoke softly, but with undeniable passion. The deaths of his family had given him a kind of primal, adrenal fury that coursed through him and directed his every action. He may have looked like the same old Max ¨C albeit in a suit these days ¨C but there was nothing ordinary about him now. He was a shadow of the man he had once been, now fuelled only by the lust for revenge.


    "I agree," said George. "But that''s only part of the question. What I''m really asking is why you and not somebody else? Why not Wayne Carter, for instance? I mean, there''s no love lost between him and his dad, is there? Not since he got nobbled by that actor berk. I heard it was the Russians, but of course it was obvious that his dad could have put a stop to it and didn''t. He was too busy worrying about the Silvertown development when he should have been looking out for his son. And if Wayne takes over, don''t you think he''ll be a bit more... pliable¡­ than somebody like you?"


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    Max spoke through gritted teeth: "Wayne Carter takes over the club over my dead body."


    George laughed. "You want to be careful when you say stuff like that," he observed. "Somebody might take it literally."


    "I mean it, George. We need to purge the organisation of the Carter influence. Do you really think if Wayne took over from his dad that David Carter would lose any of the control he has at the moment? It would be a different name on the door, but the set-up would be just the same."


    "You want a clean sweep."


    "That''s just what I want," said Max. "A clean sweep."


    "Then it sounds like you and me want the same thing. Come on ¨C let''s drink to it." George McMinn raised his glass.


    "A clean sweep," said Max, raising his own.


    "A clean sweep."


    *


    David Carter got back to his apartment to find Felicia passed out naked on the sofa. A vodka bottle lay on its side, spilling its guts across the carpet. David ignored this embarrassing spectacle and went into his office. It was getting on for three in the morning, but there was still work to be done.


    But no sooner had he sat down at his desk than the doorbell rang. Whoever it was must have been hot on his heels as he made his way up. Surprising that he hadn''t spotted them. Almost as if they did not want to be seen.


    David got to his feet again, the back of his neck prickling with alarm. He reached into his pocket for a key and unlocked the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk. It squealed as he eased it open ¨C this drawer was very seldom used. Staring up at him from the bottom of the drawer was a 9mm pistol. David grasped it and tucked it into the back of his waistband. Then he tiptoed back out towards the door, past the slumbering Felicia. He leaned forward and pressed his eye to the peephole in the door.


    "Fucking hell," he said aloud.


    He threw open the door.


    "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.


    "And here I thought you''d be pleased to see me," said George McMinn.


    The two men sat in luxury leather armchairs, face-to-face for the first time in years. Felicia was still sleeping ¨C still naked ¨C face down on the sofa, but neither man so much as cast an eye in her direction.


    "You''re looking good," said George. "Better than I thought you''d look. Those fucking webcams only tell half the story, don''t they?"


    "True enough. But you haven''t told me what you''re doing here."


    "Do you really need to ask? I''ve come for my money."


    David sighed. "That''s a bit of a tricky one, George."


    "I thought you might say something like that. So I''d better tell you that I''m just the first. The rest of the partners will be coming to London tomorrow. It''ll be a reunion. Won''t that be fun?"


    "The partners? Coming here?"


    "Hard of hearing, are you? Never thought you''d turn into one of them deaf cunts in your old age. The fact is, David, things can''t go on the way they''ve been going on. We''ve given you our money, and you lost it. We''re waiting for you to repay the debts you owe. But in the meantime, you''re still fucking things up with the club. And all because of this petty pissing contest with the Russians. It''s embarrassing. It makes everyone look bad."


    David surveyed George McMinn coldly. "So what are you saying?"


    "I''m saying it''s time for a clean sweep."


    There was a heavy silence. "Clean sweep," David repeated. "That''s one of Max''s sayings. Have you been talking to Max?"


    "Maybe I have. But I''m a fair man. I wanted to talk to you as well. I wanted to hear both sides of the story."


    "You know Max is so fucking desperate for my job that he killed his entire family and still hasn''t managed to get it?"


    "You think he was behind what happened? Interesting. He thinks you¡¯re behind it. Quite a fucking mystery."


    "Well..." said David, getting slowly to his feet, "I suppose it becomes a question of who exactly you believe."


    "Tell you the truth, I couldn''t give a shit. What I care about is my money."


    "And you think Max Linley would get your money back? He''s got no fucking backbone. He''s a nobody and he''ll always be a nobody."


    "Much as I hate to admit it," George said, "I agree with you. Max Linley will never be man enough to take over Mile End. He hasn''t got the balls for it."


    David stopped in his tracks. "Then what''s the plan?"


    "Truth be told, I''m starting to regret ever leaving dear old Blighty. And all these cock-ups make me wonder if it might be best for me to come back. To take over again. To go back to the circus. The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd."


    David was ambling slowly toward Felicia, taking in George''s suggestion in silence. He knelt beside Felicia to give her a kiss on the top of her head and a pat on the arse. She didn¡¯t stir. When he stood upright, he was holding the discarded vodka bottle.


    "I thought you might say something like that," he said softly. Now he was approaching George.


    This was the problem with George McMinn. For all his bluster and bravado, he could not help but buy into his own hype. For years he had been untouchable, tucked away in South America. And so he believed he was untouchable. That was a dangerous way to be. After all, David reflected as he swung the bottle, no one is untouchable.


    The vodka bottle shattered on impact with George''s forehead. The Fucker had a look of almost childlike confusion as blood coursed down into his eyes. Gripping the neck of the shattered bottle, David plunged its jagged edge deep into George''s throat. And George just sat there and took it. He had grown fat and lazy in his old age. The look of bewilderment did not leave his face as David plunged the broken bottle into him again and again, until both men were coated in blood.


    Eventually, David took a step back to survey his work. George McMinn lay slumped in the armchair with his head cocked back and his throat gashed open. His face was wide-eyed and ugly. His silver hair was now dark brown and matted. His designer clothes were now... decidedly un-designer.


    He was just a dead lump of fat old gangster. David gave a bark of cynical laughter and dropped the bottle. The gun was still down the back of his waistband, but like with everything else, he preferred the personal touch. A bullet was no match for the feel of a man''s life spilling out of him. It was moments like these that made him feel well and truly alive.


    Felicia stirred at last, looking around in hazy confusion. "Careful, sweetheart," said David, "there''s broken glass."


    He escorted her into the bedroom and put her to bed, all while still dripping with George McMinn''s blood. Then he went back into his office and made a phone call.

 Chapter Thirty-Three

    Wayne was startled from uneasy slumber by the buzz of the mobile phone at his bedside. He grabbed it and answered. "Dad? What you want? It''s fucking four in the morning..."


    "Shut up and listen," said David. "Got a little job for you. Consider it a test. Yeah? I need you to get over here now."


    "Where?" said Wayne, sitting up in bed. "Stadium?"


    "No. The apartment. Get over here, and don''t let anyone see you."


    Wayne was uneasy. "Why? What''s going on?"


    "Just do what I tell you. Got a mess over here that needs cleaning up."


    Clearly David was not going to get any more specific over the phone. Wayne ended the call and heaved himself out of bed. He got dressed in the dark and lumbered down the stairs. As he stepped out into the murky dawn, he had no idea what was waiting for him.


    He decided to take the Mercedes, knowing it was the most discreet of all his cars. He looked and felt like shit, but he was awake enough to drive. As he eased the Mercedes out of the gated driveway and onto the road, however, he wasn''t at his most observant. Otherwise, he would have spotted the small Fiat lurking in a shadowed driveway farther along the street. He would have seen the Fiat''s lights suddenly flare in the darkness. He would have seen it in his rearview mirror as it followed him.


    Inspector Edwards was not a "good cop" by any stretch of the imagination, but he possessed a certain skill for surveillance. Perhaps it was his nondescript appearance that made him oddly prone to going unnoticed. He had been keeping an eye on Wayne Carter for the last few days, watching the house from the farmland opposite.


    He did not know precisely what he expected to witness, but what little investigative instinct he had was telling him that there was something a little off about Wayne Carter. And Edwards knew that if he was in a position to tell Carter Senior who the mole in his organisation was, he might just be able to buy his way into the bossman''s affections. Wayne was his prime suspect. He didn''t have a line on the lad''s phone, but he''d been shadowing him for the last few days, and there was certainly something secretive about his behaviour. A cause for concern.


    Now he followed Wayne into central London and was somewhat nonplussed to find himself outside David Carter''s illustrious apartment building. He parked the Fiat and lit himself a cig as Wayne loped towards the foyer.


    *


    "Jesus Christ!"


    "Keep your bloody voice down, will you? Felicia''s trying to sleep next door."


    "But Jesus Christ, Dad! What have you done?"


    "Just taking care of business. Had to be done. You''ll learn that when the time comes. But here''s a test for you. Bit of father-son bonding, if you like. There''s a tarpaulin in the other room. Fetch it, will you?"


    "Haven''t you got anyone else who can clean this mess up for you?"


    "Oh, plenty of people. But this is a bit of a ''sensitive'' one. George had friends in high places. So I don''t want to run the risk of the story getting out. That''s why I''m keeping it in the family. Because this stays between you and me, understand? You never breathe a word of what you see here, okay?"


    And all at once, Wayne realised that this was a means of proving his loyalty. Because if anyone got even so much as an inkling of what had happened to George McMinn, David would know who had told them. Wayne nodded and obediently went to fetch the tarp.


    *


    Wayne wanted to puke. He had seen this kind of stuff plenty of times before, but had never gotten so up close and personal with a fresh corpse. The smell of it. The feel of it as he heaved it out of the chair and dragged it across the carpet. He''d never had the stomach for this kind of stuff. But he couldn''t let his dad know just how repulsive he found this aspect of the job. So he swallowed his pride ¨C and a mouthful of bile ¨C and got on with it.


    The worst part was that he had known George McMinn ever since he was a little kid. In the early days, before David Carter was top dog, McMinn had been a kind of benevolent uncle; rather like Max Linley. Uncle George always gave him a five-pound note when he popped round to talk business with Dad. That''s what Wayne was thinking about as he hauled the old man''s corpse into the bathroom, bundled it headfirst into the bath and got to work.


    Time was of the essence, so he would have to make do without the ideal tools for this particular task. Instead of a power saw, he had an electric steak knife. It took him all night, but he got it done. His dad supplied him with a roll of brown paper and some string, which he put to good use. Soon George McMinn was just a bundle of parcels that you might find under a Christmas tree.


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    When it was done, the bathroom was awash with blood ¨C and so was Wayne himself. Coated in it like a baby fresh from the womb. "Almost a shame to clean it off," said David, playfully slapping his son on the back. "You know, pink is Felicia''s favourite colour." Wayne couldn''t bring himself to laugh. The work was not yet done. Next he scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom, scouring every surface till the blood began to fade. "Don''t worry too much," David reassured him. "I''ll get some lads with chemicals to give the place a going-over tomorrow."


    Next, Wayne showered. He stood naked under the torrent of water, and turned the heat all the way up. He wanted to scour the very flesh from his bones. Not just to erase every trace of what he had done, but to erase himself, as well. He felt both sickness and shame. He scrubbed himself with soap until he was raw and (on the surface, at least) clean. David had left a fresh set of clothes for him, and he slipped them on and stepped out of the room, still towelling his hair.


    David was waiting at the kitchen island with a pot of black coffee. "You did good, kid," he said. The sun was rising behind him, giving him a kind of halo. "Drink some of the black stuff, then we can take the bits down to your car."


    "What? You mean I''ve got to get rid of him, too?"


    "Well, what did you think? That I was going to say a few magic words and make him vanish?"


    Wayne sighed and took the mug of steaming coffee. He downed it, letting it scorch his palate and throat. The pain felt good. Almost like expiation.


    When the last of George McMinn had been loaded into the boot of Wayne''s car, David waved him off with a cheery smile, like a sick parody of a parent sending his kid off to school. Wayne lit a cigarette and puffed thoughtfully as he drove. He didn''t notice the Fiat in his rear view mirror.


    He drove aimlessly for an hour or two, trying to forget about the grotesque cargo weighing down the back of his car. It was early morning ¨C not yet rush hour ¨C when he decided he''d better do something about it. His first thought was the river. Good old Father Thames swallowed mealier stuff than this all the time. But it was too easy. Too traceable. If someone caught him in the act, it would not be too easy to explain.


    Before long, he came up with an idea. He headed back out towards his home, but stopped off at a garden centre en route. There he bought himself a shovel, attracting a few amused glances from football fans. Wayne Carter, taking up landscape gardening! Then he drove out into the countryside and made the first of several stops in a layby. Marching out to the centre of an isolated field, swinging the shovel with one hand and clutching a parcel under the other arm, he knew this was going to take a while.


    *


    Inspector Edwards hung back, making sure that the Fiat was tucked behind a hedge, out of Wayne''s line of sight. Of course he didn''t need to be a genius to work out what was in those parcels Wayne was burying at intervals throughout the countryside. All Edwards wondered was who the poor bastard was.


    So, Wayne was fully entrenched in the family business. He was his father''s son after all. Did that mean that he wasn''t the traitor? Of course not. Wayne Carter could quite easily be playing both sides off against each other. But was he really clever enough for that? Maybe not. Or maybe so. Edwards couldn''t decide. He needed more data. He needed to watch, and to wait a little longer.


    *


    Meanwhile, across town, Max Linley woke early in his pleasant, utilitarian townhouse and studied himself in the mirror. He looked and felt ancient. His tracksuit days were over. But he found himself infused with a fresh sense of purpose. Until now, all his energy and effort had gone into providing for his son and his grandchildren. Now they were gone ¨C all taken from him in a single swoop. So what did he have left? Only one thing: Mile End. The club was his life. It was his reason for living. And after last night''s rendezvous with George McMinn, he realised with a kind of dreamlike elation that in fact the club had been his one true love all along. The way he had nurtured his family, his frugality ¨C it had all been in service of the club. Maybe it was his grief that had done this to his brain, but he found that he had tunnel vision. The club, the club, the club. There was nothing else.


    As he dressed in his finest Savile Row business suit, he felt as though things were at long last falling into place. It was almost as if the directorship of Mile End was a sort of ancient rite that was finally being enacted. The harmony of the universe was about to be restored. He had been gathering momentum for a long, long time and now he was finally ready to claim what was rightfully his.


    The partners were converging on Mile End stadium. Various men in suits, stepping from taxis and striding toward the main entrance of the business suite with an air of palpable authority. They had come from all over the world: the US, South America (of course), Australia, Asia...


    These were the men whose money David Carter had "spunked up the wall" on Silvertown. He was in their debt, and their patience was wearing thin. It took a seismic shift to drag these men away from their quiet, anonymous lives, so the fact that they had all arrived in the UK in the last few hours was a key indicator of how seriously they were taking these latest events. There were arms dealers, cartel kingpins, and all manner of traffickers, pornographers, murderers.


    Each one of these men had built a career on the bones and bodies of other people. They were all ruthless, cold-blooded killers. But their interest in Mile End had been primarily "hands-off" until now. The meeting had been set up by Max ¨C it was a coup d''etat. A sweeping gesture to seize power.


    The partners exchanged muted greetings and filed into the boardroom. Rochelle was on hand to provide refreshments. To the untrained eye, it might have been any other ordinary business meeting. But each man here had blood on his hands. The seat at the head of the table ¨C that which was typically occupied by the director of the club ¨C was vacant. But the seat at the other end of the table ¨C the one which had been reserved for George McMinn ¨C was also vacant. The partners murmured among themselves. The whole thing was most irregular, and they did not like having their time wasted. But George McMinn was their ringleader; their senior partner. He was the one who had convinced them to invest their time and money in David Carter to begin with, all those years ago. And if George McMinn wanted a change in leadership, they were ready to listen.

 Chapter Thirty-Four

    David Carter had not been to bed. The adrenaline had made it impossible to unwind after the night''s travails. But he had been pleasantly surprised by Wayne''s savvy in disposing of his little problem. They made a good team.


    David showered and dressed and headed downstairs. Felicia was still asleep and would no doubt be nursing a monstrous hangover when she did eventually surface. Maybe last night''s events would seem like a bad dream. David quite honestly did not give a fuck. Today he was all about the business.


    His encounter with George McMinn last night had taught him a few things, first and foremost that Max Linley''s "takeover" was now in full swing. The partners would now be in the country, and their first port of call would be the stadium. They were probably in the boardroom right now, waiting for Max to greet them like the conquering hero he perceived himself to be. And George McMinn, of course, who would not be joining them. But everything was going to be alright. David was convinced of it. Like a goal in the ninetieth minute, a paradigm shift was coming, and he was all set to emerge triumphant once again. The phoenix from the ashes.


    He got his driver to pick him up from the kerb outside his apartment building, and while he coasted calmly across London toward the stadium, he called Rochelle on his mobile.


    "Rochelle darling, how are you?"


    "I''m alright, Mr. Carter," Rochelle said, her voice as taut as piano wire, "but I think you should know that something''s going on here ¨C it''s all happened very suddenly, Mr. Linley''s just arrived and he''s in the boardroom with a number of gentlemen..."


    "Nothing to worry your pretty head about. But I want you to do something for me, if you would. Just a little favour. I''m in the car now, heading your way. Could you let them know I''ll be with them in about five minutes?"


    "Of course!"


    "And there''s something else, too. Go into my office and take a look in my desk. Third drawer down on the left-hand side. You''ll find a small, velvet box. Like a ring box. But don''t worry, sweetheart. I''m not proposing to you. There''s something else in there."


    *


    "Good morning, gentlemen," said Max Linley, striding into the boardroom. He spoke and carried himself with such authority that the partners almost failed to recognise him. They had not seen him for several years, of course, but during that time he seemed to have transformed from a scruffy yes-man into a natural leader. But they did not yet know if they could trust him. David Carter ¨C for all his faults ¨C was a known quantity. And he had done good work for them in the past. The partners were waiting to be convinced.


    Max took a seat at the head of the table. "It looks as though we''re still waiting for George," he observed.


    "And Mr. Carter," said Jorge Lazar, cartel leader, mass-murderer and domestic terrorist. He was on various wanted lists around the world and had been living under an assumed name for the past seven years. He was the very embodiment of "dark money." But today, in this somewhat clinical setting, dressed in a fine suit, he might have been an oil magnate, an entrepreneur, or any other species of harmless investor.


    "Ah yes," said Max. "Well, I have a confession to make. You see, the fact is, I am the one who called this meeting. I was the one who brought you all here."


    "You mean you did it without David Carter''s knowledge?" said Hu Lin, erstwhile "pirate king" of the South China Seas. He had now found a decidedly lucrative line in organ harvesting and ran a ring of corrupt surgeons throughout Asia.


    But Max Linley was not about to be intimidated. "Yes," he admitted, "and I''ll tell you why. This club cannot continue the way it has been. David Carter''s directorship is no longer sustainable. That''s why I''ve brought you all here. And when George McMinn gets here, he''ll agree with me."


    "There''s no question," said Lazar, "that David Carter has made mistakes. He''s lost our money and he must repay it, or else there will be repercussions. But was this theatrical gesture really necessary?"


    "Yes," Max told him, "it was. You see, David has lost whatever grip he once had on his own organisation. It has run away from him. Several lives have been lost already, and if we don''t stop the rot soon then the situation will only escalate. What does one do when a limb turns gangrenous? Cut it off, before the disease spreads."


    "Then David Carter had become a disease on his own enterprise? And you are the scalpel, come to slice the ruined flesh?" asked Hu Lin. He took a strange pleasure in medical analogies.


    "If you like. When George McMinn gets here, I''ll make my case to you. And I have a feeling that David Carter will be aware of this meeting by now, and I don''t doubt he''ll put in an appearance. But the financial future of this club is out of his hands. Only you gentlemen can decide what happens next. It''s not a question of office politics any more. It''s about survival."


    The partners glanced at each other and there were a few uncertain murmurings. The football club was a perfect front, which had been yielding many millions of pounds, dollars, or whatever currency, for the last few decades. But it was only a viable enterprise as long as there was a steady hand on the wheel. All this unpredictability and violent bloodshed ¨C the blazing car and the lost five million, for instance ¨C did not bode well.


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    Rochelle sidled discreetly into the room with a pot of fresh coffee. She topped up a few waiting cups and approached Max. "Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Linley?"


    "Drop of water please, Rochelle."


    "Of course."


    "And can you call the front desk at the De Vere Hotel? I want to know if George McMinn is on his way yet."


    "Certainly."


    Meanwhile, the partners were evidently getting used to the idea of Max being in charge. He had presented himself well, and it would be a simple enough matter to transition him into David''s long-held role. The press would lap it up ¨C after all, Max was widely considered to be a reliable (if dull) presence at the club. But it would be a human interest story too, what with his grief at the sudden and shocking loss of his family. His takeover would be excellent PR and would send their stocks rising.


    Max sensed the shift in the atmosphere. He knew he was winning them over. He smiled to himself as Rochelle reappeared with a glass water bottle and twisted off the cap. She poured its contents into a tumbler at his side and he thanked her.


    "McMinn," he reminded her. "I want an update."


    "Yes, of course," she answered. He had never spoken to her like this before. He had always been a sort of benign, fatherly figure in the past. But now he wore a suit and spoke with curt authority; it was almost as if he were turning into David Carter. She went out of the room and made the call.


    Max raised his tumbler of water and said: "Before we commence, gentlemen, I''d like to propose a toast."


    One by one they raised their steaming coffee cups.


    "Sorry I''m late," said a voice from the doorway, "traffic was a nightmare."


    David Carter beamed as he strode into the room. He began making his way around the conference table, shaking hands with each of the partners in turn. They greeted him politely, if a little frostily, while Max frowned. Here was David, stealing his thunder once again.


    "Nice of you to join us, David," he said, "but you needn''t have bothered. I''m afraid it''s out of your hands now."


    "That may be the case, Max, but you''re forgetting that I''ve been running this club successfully for decades now. Don''t you think it''s common courtesy to keep me in the loop?"


    "Frankly, no," said Max, getting to his feet. "You''ve become increasingly secretive and unreliable. And you''re running this club into the ground."


    "I appreciate your honesty.¡±


    "Look here," said Hu Lin, "if I wanted a cabaret I''d go to Soho. I didn''t come here to watch two men bicker. I came to discuss the future of my investment in Mile End."


    "Right you are," said David. "Why don''t we get this show on the road, Max?"


    Max''s feathers were decidedly ruffled. His face grew red, and he looked on the verge of cardiac arrest. Rochelle reappeared briefly and said: "I spoke to the receptionist at the De Vere Hotel, sir. He says that George McMinn checked out last night."


    Max narrowed his eyes at her. "What the fuck are you talking about?"


    "He''s gone, sir. And they don''t have a forwarding address for him."


    "This is ridiculous," said Jorge Lazar, getting to his feet. "Mr. Linley, you''re wasting our time."


    Meanwhile, David took a seat at the other end of the table ¨C the space reserved for George McMinn. "Gentlemen, it''s a pleasure to see you all face-to-face again. To be honest, I never thought this day would come. I''m sorry it''s under such awkward circumstances. What you''re witnessing here is, I believe, what''s known as a hostile takeover."


    Max sensed that he was losing them. And what the fuck had happened to McMinn? His throat felt dry. He took a sip of water and got to his feet. "Gentlemen, George McMinn''s absence is unfortunate. But I think it''s fair to say that we are quorate, and therefore in a position to decide the future of Mile End Athletic here and now."


    "Right you are," said David with a smile. "Right you are. Now, I think you were about to propose a toast, is that right?¡±


    Max just stared at him.


    ¡°Well,¡± David continued, ¡°don¡¯t let me interrupt. What would you like to drink to? To Mile End?¡±


    As though in an act of juvenile defiance, Max downed the glass of water. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have come here, David. The club doesn¡¯t want you any more.¡± No sooner had he spoken these cutting words than an unpleasant expression crossed his face. His eyes became pinkish globes and his skin paled. He swallowed noisily. His jaw flapped open and he tried unsuccessfully to draw another breath.


    None of the other men seated around that table said a single word. They simply watched.


    Max Linley stared at them all as the realisation dawned on him. Lastly, his gaze settled on David Carter at the other end of the conference table. The director was looking back at him with that same old smile and a chilly blackness in his eyes.


    After an eternity that was in fact just three minutes, Max Linley kicked out spasmodically, the sole of his right foot connecting with the table and sending him keeling ¨C chair and all ¨C onto the floor. He lay there, bucking and arching his aged body in a sequence of grotesque convulsions, froth fizzing from his mouth.


    It took him a full five minutes to die.


    When it was finally over, his body seemed to cave in on itself. Every muscle slackened and he became as limp as a sock puppet. Then his limbs began twitching once again, but he was now beyond saving.


    At last, David Carter got to his feet. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯m sorry you had to witness this. But it was necessary. For a long time now Max Linley has been undermining my authority in the club and elsewhere. He was obsessed with taking control of both Mile End and the distribution enterprise, and he was willing to do anything to facilitate that goal ¨C including orchestrating the murder of his own family. I have reason to believe he deliberately caused the collapse of the Silvertown deal that cost all of us so much collateral. This has been a long time coming, but now that it¡¯s over we can finally begin to rebuild.¡±


    ¡°What,¡± Hu Lin commenced slowly, ¡°about our money?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll have your money by the end of the month, gentlemen,¡± David assured them. He was bullshitting, of course, but his confidence was considerably boosted by the death of Max Linley. With the body still twitching on the carpet at the other end of the room, it felt like some kind of ancient sacrificial ritual ¨C an offering to the gods for their appeasement.


    Whether the partners bought David¡¯s version of events, he was in no position to tell. But he didn¡¯t care. He was David Carter, after all, and he was on top once again.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry you were brought here under false pretences,¡± he went on. ¡°It wasn¡¯t my doing. But I think you¡¯ll agree that the matter has been dealt with in the most efficient manner possible.¡± He beamed at them all as Max Linley¡¯s spasms finally began to subside. ¡°Meeting adjourned.¡±

 Chapter Thirty-Five

    When it was finally done, Wayne headed home, where he hunched over the toilet bowl for a few minutes, trying to puke up the broiling nastiness in the pit of his belly. But it wouldn''t come. It was almost as if his own body were punishing him for what he had done. Eventually he gave up and went into the kitchen. There, the crumpled sheet of paper with the address and phone number on it was still staring at him from the counter.


    Without thinking, Wayne grabbed it and fished his phone out of his pocket. He began to dial.


    But before he could hit the ''call'' button, the phone began to vibrate in his hand. An incoming call.


    "Fucking hell," he said. Then he answered.


    "Wayne?"


    "What is it, Yuri?"


    "My father wishes to meet with you. It is a matter of some delicacy."


    "What, now?"


    "If not now, when?"


    "It''s just... I''m a bit busy at the moment."


    Yuri''s voice grew disconcertingly soft and icy. "Wayne, I would advise you to attend this meeting."


    "Alright. Where?"


    "Blackfriars Railway Bridge."


    The answer surprised Wayne. Typically, whenever the old Russian wanted to see him, he was summoned out to the countryside under cover of darkness. A daylight meeting, in a public place? This was unusual. Troublingly so. Wayne would need to keep his wits about him.


    He decided to swap cars ¨C the Range Rover was still muggy with the stench of dried blood. Instead he opted for the Porsche. With the top down, he drove back into London. He let the cool breeze wash over him and tried to clear his head. He parked in a little tucked-away spot he knew about not far from the bridge. Then he headed along the riverside and mounted the steps which led into Blackfriars Station. He bought a ticket ¨C which was the only way he could get through the turnstiles ¨C and headed along the platform.


    *


    Edwards puffed as he clambered up the steps into the station. He was getting old and fat, he knew it. But he wasn''t done just yet. He still had his brain, which was all he needed. Throughout the morning, he had been getting increasingly suspicious of Wayne Carter. But he couldn''t just go to David with suspicions. That was the way to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. After all, David Carter had a bad habit of shooting messengers. But if he found proof, then he''d be able to do the boss man a favour. And that could prove very valuable indeed. Maybe he''d even be able to contemplate retirement a few years earlier than anticipated.


    He bought himself a ticket and made his way through the midday crowds along the platform. Wayne Carter slowed his pace, so Edwards did, too. Wayne appeared to be looking for someone. Was this a clandestine meeting with his contact in the Popov organisation? Edwards felt a flutter of excitement. He''d long ago lost any real sense of enjoyment in his day job, but for the first time in many years, he felt it creeping back. He was making headway. Getting things done.


    Wayne scanned the crowd carefully. A train had just rolled in, so people were beginning to disperse. Wayne kept his eyes peeled. The hiss of the train''s automatic doors and the fuzzy burble of the PA system seemed to echo around him. What was he doing here? What was it all about? If he''d been in his right mind, he might have stopped to ask himself some of these questions. But he was in that manic fugue state that had taken over him in the aftermath of his injury. He was in limbo. He didn''t know what to do for the best. And so he went along with the ebb and flow of the crowd.


    That''s when he spotted a familiar face at the other end of the platform. It was not Mikhail ¨C in fact it was Yuri. The suave psychopath who had butchered Chloe and the others. Wayne slowed his pace. Mikhail was nowhere in sight.


    Wayne felt a pang of fear. Why had they brought him here, out into the open? Here, of all places?


    By now the crowd was beginning to thin out as travellers continued to board the waiting train. Soon they would all be on board and being borne across London to God knows where. The platform continued to empty as Wayne drew nearer to Yuri.


    Yuri was gazing in his direction with a faint smile. But he was not looking directly at Wayne. In fact, he seemed to be staring at something over his shoulder. Something approaching behind him.


    With another hiss and another burble from the PA system, the train doors slithered shut, leaving only a handful of people on the platform. All men. All in black leather jackets, in spite of the warmth of the station. The train rumbled lazily away and Wayne finally realised he had walked into a trap.


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    "What''s this about?" He snapped.


    "I''m sorry, Wayne," said Yuri, "I had to bring you here under false pretences. My father doesn''t know about this meeting. And I know you''re not going to tell him."


    "If you hurt me," Wayne said, "you''ll fucking regret it. All of you." He cast his gaze around at the other men, who were all beginning to form a semi-circle to block his escape.


    "Nothing to be frightened of, Wayne," Yuri said. He spoke in a chillingly reasonable tone of voice that was also horrifyingly unconvincing. "This was simply an experiment. I had a suspicion that I wished to confirm. Tell me, Wayne, were you aware that a man by the name of Edwards has been following you for the last few days?"


    "What?"


    Yuri stepped close to him, so they were almost nose to nose. "I would advise you to keep your voice down, my friend. He is on a bench just over there."


    *


    What was going on now? Edwards slumped on a bench and grabbed a free Metro newspaper. They were all converging on Wayne. Was this going to turn ugly? Edwards looked up and down the platform and noticed for the first time just how empty it was. What exactly had he wandered into? What was going to happen now?


    And did it really matter? Edwards had all the proof he needed now. He had seen Wayne Carter engaging in a secret meeting with Yuri Popov. Slowly, subtly, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket and emerged with his mobile phone. With a flick of his thumb, he activated the camera and angled the lens towards the group at the other end of the platform. They weren''t looking. No one had noticed him. He was perfectly safe.


    *


    "You should look over your shoulder from time to time, Wayne," Yuri advised. He spoke like an elder passing on his wisdom to a young initiate. "You might be surprised at what is creeping up behind you."


    Wayne didn''t say anything. He was rooted to the spot.


    "He works for your father, of course. But it appears that he has grown suspicious of you and has been gathering information to present to Mr. Carter. I presume you had no idea of any of this?"


    Wayne shook his head.


    "Good. That was my suspicion, but I wished to confirm it. Hence the cloak and dagger nature of this meeting. The next train arrives in six minutes. Feel free to get on it, or not get on it. That''s up to you. But there is an interesting fact about that particular bench on which Inspector Edwards is sitting. Due to a technical failure, it is in a CCTV black spot. Whatever happens to him now, there will be no record of it."


    Wayne couldn''t bring himself to meet the Russian''s eye. "Just get on with it," he said.


    Yuri grinned. "I''m glad we have your blessing. Not that we needed it, of course. But it''s nice to have. After all, I value you as a friend, Wayne."


    A chill ran down Wayne''s spine. This man was like a shop mannequin. Just a shape in a suit, devoid of humanity. The idea of him valuing anyone as a friend was absurd.


    Things happened very quickly after that. Wayne simply stood and watched as the semicircle of assailants converged on Edwards, who seemed to realise a moment too late that it was him and not Wayne who was their target. Then they were on him.


    One of the men emerged with a phone that Wayne assumed belonged to Edwards. He dropped it onto the platform and crushed it beneath his boot. Then he patiently and meticulously scooped the fragments into a clear plastic bag.


    Yuri slipped an arm through Wayne''s in a kind of parody of affection. He leaned close and almost whispered: "There are two ways we can do this. Either we proceed quietly, or else we send a message. Just like the Linleys. Which do you suggest?"


    Wayne stood, petrified at the very mention of the Linleys.


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to worry about witnesses,¡± Yuri continued. ¡°They¡¯re already taken care of. The poor man committed suicide ¨C everyone saw it. The question is, how did he do it? Did he step off the platform in front of the train? Or did he do something a little more¡­ ostentatious?¡±


    Still, Wayne did not answer.


    "Yes," said Yuri, "I agree. It''s always best to send a message." He gave the men a nod and they heaved the bucking and kicking Edwards off the bench and carried him to the edge of the bridge. Looping a length of cord around his throat and tethering the other end of it to the handrail, they swiftly heaved him over the side.


    Wayne did not see the man fall, but all the same he convinced himself that he heard the sickening crack of bone as Inspector Edwards''s neck snapped.


    Then all at once the men scattered in all directions, as though this were some kind of well-rehearsed dance. The conclave dispersed just as swiftly as it had convened. Wayne looked and saw that Yuri was heading at a leisurely pace towards the exit. A train lumbered to a halt beside the platform and the next clutch of commuters began spilling out, chatting and grumbling and fiddling with their phones. It was as if that brief flash of violence had been a figment of Wayne''s imagination.


    And yet the cord, tethered to the handrail, was still in his line of sight. He was almost tempted to sidle over and check whether there really was a corpse hanging from the other end of it. But he knew he had to get out of there. The corpse of a police inspector swinging from Blackfriars Rail Bridge was not exactly something you could sweep under the rug.


    Immediately conscious of just how shifty he looked, Wayne ducked onto the train and found himself a seat. He kept his eyes focused dead ahead as he counted the seconds until it carried him away from the scene of this new atrocity. Things had gone so far out of control. It was terrifying. Monstrous. Without thinking, he fished a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. Murmurs and disapproving looks from the other passengers eventually reached his ears and he hastily stubbed it out. This was all wrong. All wrong.


    Burying his hands in his pockets, his fingers curled around the sheaf of paper. He must have brought it with him without realising. He took it out and unfolded it. The familiar name and the unfamiliar address. His mother was out there somewhere. She had been for all these years.


    That''s when Wayne realised that the train was heading in the vague direction of her home. If he stayed on it long enough, he would arrive within two miles of the address. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

 Chapter Thirty-Six

    An ambulance was called, but it arrived at the stadium too late to do anything for Max Linley. He made an undignified corpse, with his back arched and his eyes wide in an expression of horror ¨C not to mention the foam around his gaping mouth. An ugly death.


    Rochelle swiftly shepherded the partners into an adjoining room. It had not even occurred to her that David''s instruction about the vial in his desk might have been a direct cause of poor, sweet Max''s death. She was in shock, of course. Her hands were shaking.


    But David ¨C old-fashioned, loyal David ¨C stayed with his friend and confidant until the bitter end. He watched as Max Linley ¨C along with all his dreams and ambitions ¨C slowly died.


    When it was finally over, and the paramedics had covered Max with a sheet, David re-joined the partners in the other room.


    "I''m sorry you had to see that, gentlemen. But hopefully it provides you with an idea of our set-up here. Mile End is mine. And it always will be. I hope you understand." He spoke calmly, but all the same there was an inescapable edge to his voice that defied them to disagree with him. Individually, each one of these men could annihilate him from the face of the earth. But he knew they would never dare. From that moment onward, he was invincible. He could pin the whole mess on Max ¨C maybe even make out he''d colluded with George McMinn. Which, for all he knew, might be the fucking truth. None of it mattered. With this sweeping display of power, he had convinced them all that he was back on top.


    After all, you''re only the boss as long as people believe you''re the boss.


    "Incidentally," he went on, "this unfortunate incident means that Max Linley will need to be replaced. I''d like to propose my son, Wayne, as a candidate."


    The partners exchanged more glances and hushed murmurs.


    "And who are the other candidates?" somebody asked.


    "There are no other candidates."


    "In that case, the motion is approved."


    Far from casting a pall over the meeting, the death of Max Linley had in fact created a sense of jubilation among the partners. It had been a long time since some of them had scented blood, and they missed it.


    "Good," said David. "And I hope you''ll continue to bear with me while the debt owed to you by the club is settled. I''m afraid that was the result of certain activities with which I was not directly involved. I don''t suppose I need to tell you who was responsible for the financial mismanagement which has left you out of pocket. But you can rely on me."


    "We know that, David."


    And from that point onward, the meeting was like a convivial reunion between old friends. They reminisced about old times, mutual acquaintances now long-dead, and long-ago trials and triumphs. David Carter had them in the palm of his hand.


    "There''s something else I ought to mention," David said. All eyes were on him, and a hush fell. "It''s a proposal I''d like to make. We all know that this business with the Popovs has become embarrassing and messy. It''s caused a lot of unnecessary deaths and violence. So I''m proposing we put an end to it once and for all. A truce, a bargain, a compromise ¨C whatever you want to call it."


    "The Russians have deep pockets," Hu Lin observed. "A truce may be the answer here. Have you broached it with Popov?"


    "Not yet." David Carter smiled. "I wouldn''t do something like that without the approval of the partners."


    "Then you have it. But I hope you know what you''re doing."


    "I do," David assured them. "And of course ¨C I know I don''t need to tell any of you this ¨C I''m willing to do whatever it takes to guarantee a positive outcome. Failure is unacceptable, and anyone who gets in my way... well, let''s just say that what happened to Max could very easily happen again."


    If this was intended as a veiled threat, it was not taken as such by the partners. They saw it as good old David Carter proving himself first among equals once again.


    *


    As he stood across the street peering at his mother''s house, Wayne could not help but remember the opportunity he had missed at the Linley house. How he could have told Chloe everything then and there, and maybe even saved her life. He couldn''t let anything like that happen again. Which was why ¨C maybe ¨C the murder of Inspector Edwards was a blessing in disguise. If Edwards had followed him to his mother''s place, there was no way he could have kept it a secret from his father. And then who knew what kind of mayhem would have been unleashed?


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    Once again, the Popovs had saved his skin. This couldn''t go on forever, could it?


    Chewing his lip, he crossed over the road and rang the doorbell.


    *


    One of Yuri Popov''s hobbies was cooking. He was quite the gourmet, in fact. In the kitchen of Mikhail Popov''s luxury home, he was in the process of grilling some veal cutlets when Mikhail himself appeared in the doorway. Mikhail was an old-fashioned sort of patriarch who did not venture into the kitchen if he could help it, so his presence was a surprise. He was wearing a silk smoking jacket ¨C another concession to his inimitably old-school approach to life.


    "Yuri," he said sharply. It was not often that he spoke to his favourite son that way, so Yuri knew he was in trouble.


    "Yes, pa?"


    "The television news is saying that a man has been killed at a railway station. A policeman. A suspected suicide. His body hung from a bridge across the Thames."


    "Terrible," answered Yuri.


    "They found a suicide note in his pocket. Edwards is the dead man''s name. One of Carter''s. Why did you do this, Yuri? I thought you were smarter than that."


    Yuri did not bother to deny it. "Edwards was planning to blackmail Wayne Carter. He had been following him for some time, keeping him under surveillance. He was going to threaten to expose Wayne''s betrayal of his father."


    "And what concern is that of yours?"


    Yuri''s brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"


    "I mean, what do we owe Wayne Carter?"


    "I don''t understand."


    That was the moment Stanislaw came into the kitchen from the sprawling green garden. He had been enjoying a kickabout with his nephews, but all the sex, drugs and rock & roll over the years had sapped his energy. He needed to sit down. He came in and slumped at the table, grinning broadly. He did not care that had just walked into the middle of a highly sensitive conversation.


    "What I am saying," Mikhail continued, "is that as an asset Wayne Carter has outlasted his usefulness. He served a purpose for a while. But now he has nothing new to offer."


    Yuri hung his head. "I''m sorry, pa. I didn''t know."


    Mikhail came over and hugged him. "It''s alright. I forgive you."


    Stanislaw watched all this and reflected that if he had fucked up like that, forgiveness would not have been so forthcoming.


    *


    She was just as Wayne remembered her. It was as if the intervening years had melted away all at once, and he was just a kid again. They both cried and hugged each other tight. She ushered him into her living room, as though afraid that they might be spotted by an interloper.


    "Oh Wayne," she said, "my lovely boy. Just as handsome as ever."


    "I missed you," Wayne said.


    "I missed you too, darling. I tried everything I could to come and see you, but he wouldn''t have it. Same with your sister. How is she?"


    "She''s alright. She married that Jason bloke."


    "I¡¯ve heard about him. Read about him online, you know. He sounds like your father. And you know how I feel about your father."


    "Yeah," Wayne agreed, "he wants the top job. That''s the only reason he sticks around."


    His mother made them tea, which she served on the glass coffee table. "How did you find me? I always assumed your dad poisoned you against me. Made you think I was some kind of monster."


    "He tried. But I always knew at the back of my mind the way things really were. It just took me a while to acknowledge it. It doesn''t matter how I found you. What matters is that I did."


    "True enough," she said and kissed him on the forehead.


    "It''s all falling apart, mum," he said. "I don''t know what to do."


    "Oh, sweetheart. Tell me all about it."


    So he did. From beginning to end, he gave her the story. Commencing with the rift between the Carter and Popov organisations, his injury, Silvertown, the murders of Rob Linley, Chloe Linley, Ronnie Vincent, George McMinn...


    She listened with an impassive expression, but he could tell that she was utterly horrified by each new revelation. And rightly so. It had all gone so wrong. Whatever moral compass he had once had, his father had done everything in his power to corrupt and compromise it. Wayne was his father''s son; there was no getting away from it.


    But it wasn''t too late.


    "There''s still a chance, Wayne,¡± his mother began once he was done. ¡°You could always go to the police. Face up to what your father''s done ¨C and your part in it. Come clean. You might have to do a little time, but I doubt it. If you helped them to bring down your father then I reckon you could get immunity for yourself. You''ve got the money for a good lawyer, haven''t you?"


    Wayne, however, shook his head. "I¡¯m not good with money. Never had to be, did I?"


    "Well..." his mother sighed. "In that case, maybe it''s for the best. Sever all ties, give it all up. So you''ll go to prison for a short while. But a jury will take into account the fact you came forward in the end. Your father was the one in control. He bullied you, threatened you. Made you take part in all those awful things."


    "Dad would kill me if I even thought about it."


    "Don¡¯t say stuff like that. You''re mine again now, aren''t you? And you''ve always been my son. I''ll do anything for you."


    There was something in her eyes that made Wayne believe it. That was the only part of her which had changed: her eyes. They seemed colder now. Harder. They were a reflection of the hardships she had gone through since David Carter kicked her to the kerb. After all, he had turned her into an invisible woman. He had erased her.


    There was a long silence, but it was not an uncomfortable one. Rather, it was a moment of tranquillity after all the turmoil. Wayne felt as though a fog was clearing. There might just be a way out after all.

 Chapter Thirty-Seven

    It was Mikhail Popov''s custom to remain in his study long after the rest of his household had gone to bed. His wife had a tendency to snore, which bothered him. He liked to spend as little time as possible in her company while she slept. So he remained at his desk, poring over his chess board. Plotting moves.


    That night, he was somewhat distracted. An awkward misstep in his correspondence game had put his Queen in jeopardy. He needed to get back on track. He was concentrating hard, which is likely why he did not hear the door opening, or the soft footsteps on the plush carpet.


    "Evening."


    If Mikhail was startled, he didn''t show it. He just looked up at the man in the doorway and smiled. "Well. What an unexpected pleasure."


    David Carter held up his hands. "I come in peace."


    "I assumed as much. We are both adults, after all. But I''m intrigued to know how you got past my security?"


    David tapped the side of his nose. "Trade secret." He slumped gratefully into one of Mikhail''s leather easy chairs.


    "Would you care for a drink?"


    "Not for me. I know what you Russians are like. This is just a flying visit. I have a proposal I want to run by you."


    Mikhail studied his rival thoughtfully. "Do you play chess, Mr. Carter?"


    "No. I don''t have the patience."


    "It''s a shame. I think you would make a most able tactician ¨C if you wanted to."


    "So... are you ready to hear my proposal?"


    *


    When Wayne finally got home, he headed straight up to bed. His head was spinning, and he needed to get some sleep. All the things he had seen ¨C all the murders and violence ¨C were playing and replaying in his mind''s eye. But for the first time in a long time, there was a hint of hope, too.


    "Nice to see the place hasn''t changed much."


    Wayne sat bolt upright in bed. Was he dreaming?


    "Dad? What the fuck are you doing here?"


    "I know, I know," said David, approaching and sitting down at the foot of his son''s bed. "I should have knocked. Sorry about that. I just thought it was about time I paid my son a visit. Been a few months since you had me over, isn''t it?"


    Wayne cleared his throat and tried to play it cool. "A lot''s happened since."


    "Certainly has. But there''s something I wanted to talk to you about, and I thought I could do it better face to face. You know me, I like the personal touch."


    Wayne felt a surge of hatred for his father. David Carter, the psychopath who would do anything to satisfy his own insurmountable lust for power. But he could not let the mask slip. That would be fatal.


    "What''s it about, Dad? I was just going to bed."


    "Couple of things. You heard about Max Linley?"


    "What about him?"


    "He''s dead. Heart attack, poor old sausage. Massive coronary in the board room. Really it had just been a matter of time, what with everything he''s been through in the last fortnight."


    Wayne took this news with stoicism.


    David continued: "We haven''t told the press about it yet. The news will go out tomorrow. But you know what this means, don''t you?"


    Wayne shook his head.


    "It means I''ll need you to step into Max''s shoes a bit earlier than anticipated. We''re planning an emergency meeting tomorrow morning, first thing. Crisis talks, you know. I need you to be there."


    "Right. Who else will be there?"


    "A few of the partners. Bigwigs. Men in suits. You don''t need to worry about it. But I think you should know ¨C I''ve invited the Popovs."


    "You fucking what?"


    David grinned. "Yeah, I thought you''d say something like that. But there''s a method to my madness. You''re just going to have to trust me, Wayne."


    Wayne couldn''t believe it. Was this another part of the test? Was David trying to push his son''s loyalty to breaking point? It was the only explanation Wayne could think of.


    "You know, Wayne, there''s an old saying about ''keep your friends close and your enemies closer.'' You heard that one? And I told you before, didn''t I, it ain''t over till it''s over. There''s always a way out. It just so happens that this time I''m going to have to get into bed with some people I don''t really like."


    "Dad... what are you talking about?"


    "Mikhail Popov likes chess. Me and him have been in stalemate for a long time now. Neither of us knew what to do next ¨C he''s rich and powerful, but I''m scrappy. I''m a fighter. He could buy and sell me, but I''d fucking rip his guts out as soon as look at him. And the way things are at the moment... what with Silvertown..." he spoke the last word as though it were a curse. "I''ve made a decision. Power is relative. That''s something you''ll learn when you start getting into the nitty gritty of the business. Sometimes it''s better to compromise, for the sake of the bigger picture."


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    "Dad, you''re talking round in circles. Tell me what you mean."


    David''s grin widened. "My son, you have a nice way of cutting through the bullshit. It''ll take you far. I''m talking about a truce. If we put an end to this war that''s been going on, the Popovs will settle Mile End''s debts, and there''ll be no more violence. No more deaths. It''s the best solution. Everything¡¯s going to be alright. Now, you get some sleep. I want you at the stadium first thing in the morning. Boardroom C.¡±


    *


    When David was gone, Wayne spent an hour or so pacing up and down the empty, echoing halls of his home. All along he had thought that the choice was between David Carter and the Popovs. Now he realised he had been wrong ¨C it was actually a choice between David Carter and himself.


    He tried to parse the whole thing out. David was going to try and make peace with the Russians. That meant the Russians would have no further use for Wayne, since Wayne¡¯s sole function had been to provide inside information on David¡¯s activities. If the Russians and David were on the same side, then Wayne was worthless. Disposable. Even if he wound up in the top job at Mile End, his betrayal of David would hang over him like the Sword of Damocles. David would hear about it, and he would do everything in his power to make Wayne pay.


    Wayne had got used to being the one in control. The puppetmaster, pulling strings from behind the scenes. Playing all sides off against one another. Now at long last he¡¯d come up against an insurmountable obstacle. He¡¯d lost whatever leverage he had previously had. Whereas he¡¯d previously enjoyed a dominant role in this complex power dynamic, now the power was with the Popovs and ¨C though it pained Wayne to admit it ¨C with David. If tomorrow¡¯s meeting went ahead as planned, there was nothing to stop the Popovs from telling David what Wayne had done. It would be a show of good faith on their part. And Wayne had nothing more to offer them. They would look on it as a worthwhile sacrifice for the sake of the truce. And David¡­ well, Wayne didn¡¯t want to dwell too long on what his father might do when he found out the truth.


    Wayne headed out and dived into his Porsche. He needed to clear his head. It was a cool, clear night and he navigated the country lanes with one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel.


    He thought about his mother. That afternoon¡¯s meeting had opened his eyes in a number of ways. There might still be a chance to start again.


    David Carter was a world-class bullshitter, but there was at least one thing he was right about: there¡¯s always a way out.


    Wayne found himself at the isolated rural layby where he¡¯d first met with Mikhail Popov. He coasted the car to a halt and turned off the engine. There was a way out, alright. He knew exactly what it was. Sitting there in the layby, he pulled his phone from his pocket and called Yuri Popov.


    ¡°Wayne. What a surprise to hear from you. I had thought after this afternoon¡¯s meeting you would not want to see me for a while.¡±


    ¡°Yuri, I need to talk to you. But I can¡¯t do it over the phone. Can you come out and meet me?¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    When Yuri got to the layby, Wayne was sitting on the bonnet of his Porsche, smoking a cigarette. Yuri got out of his car and approached. ¡°Nice night,¡± he said, gazing at the sky.


    ¡°Your father and my father are going to have a meeting tomorrow,¡± Wayne said without preamble.


    ¡°Yes, I had gathered as much. My father telephoned to inform me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m the one who pulled it together,¡± said Wayne. It was a brazen lie, but he was flying by the seat of his pants. He had no choice but to take the risk.


    Yuri eyed him quizzically. ¡°You?¡±


    ¡°I talked my father into it. It¡¯ll be a private meeting with just me, him, your father and his representatives.¡±


    ¡°Now just why would you do a thing like that?¡±


    ¡°Because this is my shot,¡± Wayne answered. ¡°This is the chance we¡¯ve been waiting for.¡±


    ¡°We?¡±


    ¡°Yes, we. My father¡¯s more vulnerable now than ever. He thinks he¡¯s got rid of the traitor ¨C I managed to convince him it was Max Linley.¡±


    Yuri¡¯s dark eyes caught the moonlight, giving him a faintly demonic look. ¡°That was very clever of you. And you did not feel anything?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I mean,¡± Yuri said, ¡°that you did not feel anything resembling guilt when you placed the blame for your treachery on an innocent man?¡±


    This hit Wayne like a punch in the gut. He had to take a breath. ¡°What the fuck do you mean?¡±


    Yuri was beaming. His teeth were unnaturally white. ¡°I am sorry. It appears I¡¯ve hit a nerve. But I¡¯m right, am I not? That Max Linley was an innocent man whose goals were by-and-large similar to your own? In fact, you and he might even have been allies, mightn¡¯t you?¡±


    Wayne clenched his teeth. ¡°What¡¯s your point?¡±


    ¡°I have no point. Except, perhaps, to observe that you¡¯ve changed, haven¡¯t you Wayne?¡±


    ¡°What are you doing? Is this fucking mind games or something?¡±


    Yuri shrugged. ¡°Not at all. It¡¯s good to be ruthless in the world of business.¡±


    ¡°This was never about business,¡± Wayne told him. ¡°This was about revenge.¡±


    ¡°And yet the object of your revenge ¨C presumably your father ¨C remains alive and kicking, while so many others have perished.¡±


    Wayne blinked a few times, stupefied. Yuri was right, of course. Wayne had been so utterly consumed by hatred that he had been willing to let all those people fall by the wayside.


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± said Wayne, ¡°don¡¯t you play fucking Mister Moral High Ground with me. You¡¯re a fucking psychopath, Yuri. I¡¯m just an ordinary guy.¡±


    Yuri was still grinning. ¡°That¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong. It¡¯s why we get on so well, don¡¯t you see? We are both psychopaths. We do what we need to do whether it is right or wrong. Why did you become a footballer, Wayne? After all, you had no particular aptitude for it when you were young. And yet you trained and trained. You punished yourself endlessly until eventually you proved yourself. It was determination and not skill that got you where you are. That¡¯s the hallmark of a psychopath. Somebody who does not stop until they get what they want.¡±


    The Russian took a deep lungful of country air. ¡°It¡¯s such a lovely night. What do you say we take a walk?¡±


    Slowly, they began to amble across the adjacent field. Yuri had his hands folded behind his back, while Wayne¡¯s were buried deep in his pockets as he continued to puff on his cigarette. ¡°This isn¡¯t why I brought you here,¡± Wayne said sullenly.


    ¡°No? They why did you bring me here?¡±


    ¡°Because I wanted to tell you that something¡¯s going to happen tomorrow. I¡¯m going to kill David Carter.¡±


    Yuri stopped abruptly. ¡°You¡¯re going to kill your father?¡±


    ¡°Why else do you think I put this meeting together? I want your father to see that I¡¯m not pussyfooting around. I¡¯m taking this seriously. When I pledged my loyalty to him, I meant it. But then that¡¯s an end to it, understand? No more bloodshed. From tomorrow, it stops.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a very noble aim. I¡¯m sure my father will be pleased to hear it. But is it really necessary to kill David Carter?¡±


    ¡°Was it ¡®necessary¡¯ for you to kill Chloe Linley and her two children, and the au pair?¡± Wayne countered.


    ¡°No it wasn¡¯t,¡± Yuri said. ¡°It was a pleasure.¡±


    Wayne could have murdered him then and there. They were alone in the dead of night, in the middle of nowhere. He could have leapt on him and strangled the life out of him, then buried him in a shallow grave. He might even get away with it, provided Yuri had not told anyone where he was going when he left home that night. It would have been satisfying. Maybe even a semblance of justice.


    But then Wayne thought about his mother and father. His mother, who had reassured him that there was a way out of this life, and his father, who had forced him into this life in the first place. The end and the beginning.


    ¡°You can fuck off home now, Yuri,¡± Wayne said. ¡°I¡¯ve said my piece. You know what to expect tomorrow morning.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I do,¡± said Yuri.


    Without another word, he turned and marched back toward his car. Wayne stood and watched him go. Then he finished his cigarette and looked up at that clear, cool sky. This time tomorrow, David Carter would be dead.

 Chapter Thirty-Eight

    Some days, it''s just your lucky day. Some days, everything falls into place. That''s what David Carter was thinking as he climbed out of bed the following morning. He had slept alone ¨C Felicia was away wherever it was she went ¨C and he''d welcomed the opportunity to get a little peace. A little room to breathe. Maybe once this whole mess was over with ¨C well and truly over with ¨C he''d take a break somewhere by the sea. Somewhere hot. All work and no play, as they say.


    He was usually smart and well turned-out, but today he took extra special pains to look his best. He spent a little longer combing his hair in the bathroom mirror and added an ornamental, diamond encrusted tie clip, plus a monogrammed pocket square to his double-breasted Savile Row suit. He couldn''t afford to let his standards drop ¨C not today of all days.


    The apartment buzzer sounded at around eight-thirty; it was David''s driver. The limo was waiting for him at the kerb. David took a deep breath, and one last look at himself in the floor-length mirror, before heading down.


    Wasn''t it always the way, he thought as the elevator descended, that the answer was usually in plain sight all along? That Russian money could put an end to the club''s worries ¨C once it had been filtered through a number of shell companies, of course. And their friends in high places might even be able to get the Silvertown deal back on track. This would enable David to play the conquering hero, pleasing the fans and the partners in the Silvertown deal. Of course it meant handing over a pound of flesh to the Russians, but that was a worthwhile sacrifice. And after all, Mikhail Popov wasn''t a bad ally to have.


    Really, it was the perfect solution.


    *


    Wayne had spent a bit of time wondering what the best method would be. A gun? He didn''t own one and didn''t know where he could get hold of one at such short notice without arousing suspicion. So, a knife? He went into the kitchen and grabbed the largest, sharpest kitchen knife he could find. He gripped the handle and practiced a few stabbing motions. It was no good. The knife was too big, it would be easily spotted. His plan would be over before it had even started. Replacing the kitchen knife, he grabbed another, shorter, thinner, mean-looking serrated steak knife. That was just what he needed. He tightened his grip around the handle and swung it out a few times. It made a satisfying swishing sound as the blade sliced the air. This was the one.


    He headed outside, pausing as he took in that first lungful of fresh, morning air. Some days, he thought, it''s just your lucky day.


    *


    David Carter arrived at the stadium early for the meeting, but of course the Russians were already there. He would not have expected anything less. Mikhail Popov sat in the luxury corporate suite foyer, sipping black coffee from a tiny cup. He was flanked by his sons, Yuri and Stanislaw, who greeted David politely. It might have been just another ordinary tete-a-tete between corporate bigwigs.


    "David," said Mikhail, when he had finished his coffee, "there''s something I''d like to discuss with you."


    "Excellent. That''s what we''re here for."


    "I don''t think you understand me, David. Something I''d like to discuss with you now."


    David glanced at Yuri and Stanislaw, both of whom stood stony-faced. They weren''t giving anything away. "Alright," David relented. "Whatever you say. Rochelle, bring us some more coffee, would you?"


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    *


    "Morning Rochelle."


    "Wayne! Long time no see. You''re looking well."


    "Thanks. So are you." Wayne was indeed looking well, and he knew it. He was clean-shaven for the first time in a while, and his hair was slick and professional-looking. Like his father, he had decided to make an effort for this special occasion. "Where are the others?"


    The foyer was empty, and yet there were now only ten minutes until the meeting''s allotted start time. Wayne had expected the partners to be milling around. He would certainly have expected David to be making his presence known.


    "The partners are in boardroom A," Rochelle told him. "All ready and waiting."


    Of course they were.


    "What about Dad?"


    "He''s... I''m not sure where he is, actually. But he''s around."


    This was good. A chance for Wayne to start making inroads with the partners. They were going to have to get used to him.


    He headed for the boardroom and found various men in suits ¨C a familiar sight these days. All of them exuded a certain ambiance of power. Any one of them could have had him killed if they''d wanted to. He began to introduce himself around, and felt for the first time like the sort of corporate bastard he had always dreaded becoming. So this was ''networking.'' Of course it was a somewhat atypical experience, as Wayne was all-too-aware of the steakknife tucked in the pocket of his suit jacket. Soon these men would witness a gruesome, ugly crime. A crime that he himself would commit.


    *


    "Consider it a show of good faith," said Mikhail Popov.


    "Yes. Thank you." David spoke in a monotone, not taking his eyes off the Russian. The two men were in a small side office, with Yuri and Stanislaw standing guard outside. Their conversation was brief, and neither man would ever divulge what they had discussed.


    "We had better go," said Mikhail. "We''re late for the board meeting."


    "You go," said David. "I have a couple of things to sort out. I''ll be there shortly."


    *


    Wayne was beginning to get nervous. There was a kind of dry scratchiness in his throat. That same apprehension he used to feel before an important match. A sort of restlessness, a need to pace around. Where was David? Why hadn''t he shown his face yet?


    The door at the far end of the room eased open. Yuri and Stanislaw came in, followed by Mikhail. They began to work the room, shaking hands with the partners like visiting dignitaries. Yuri gave Wayne a grin, but Wayne could not bring himself to make eye contact. Instead he kept his eyes on Mikhail, who favoured him with a quick nod. So Mikhail knew what was about to happen. Wayne took the nod as a tacit approval. Slowly, he tucked his hand into his jacket pocket and gripped the blade by the handle. It was almost like a comfort blanket ¨C he wanted to reassure himself that it was still there.


    Typical of David Carter to be fashionably late. It was now nine-seventeen. Wayne swallowed. His throat was scratchier still. He needed a drink. He headed for the door and poked his head out into the corridor. Rochelle was at her desk, typing away at an email. He beckoned her over.


    "Everything alright, Wayne?"


    "Any sign of Dad?"


    "He''s on his way. Just popped to the loo, I think."


    Wayne nodded. "Alright. Do you think you could get me a drink?"


    "Of course. Coffee?"


    "No, just water. That''d be fine."


    "Alright."


    *


    David studied his face in the mirror. He was alone in the gents¡¯, taking a moment to gather himself. It''s funny how you get more introspective as you get older. He''d never taken much time to consider his face. It was still pretty handsome, even though he was getting on in years. The lines added character, he told himself. And his hair was nice and thick. He looked the part. If he''d learned anything over the years, it was the importance of looking and acting the part. But sometimes that wasn''t enough. Sometimes you had to act.


    He sniffed and straightened his tie. Then he stared himself straight in the eye. Those dark eyes of his. What did other people see when they looked in them, he wondered? What had Mikhail seen? Felicia? What about George McMinn? There was a saying about eyes being a window. But his eyes were more like a funhouse mirror ¨C when you looked in them, all you saw was a distortion. You could never really know what was behind it.


    He practiced a smile. It was a little thin and pinched-looking, but it would do.

 Chapter Thirty-Nine

    Rochelle brought Wayne a glass water bottle, which he unscrewed and guzzled gratefully. He noticed the others watching him drink and wondered if he''d committed some kind of boardroom faux pas. He didn''t know the etiquette, but he was ready and willing to learn.


    That''s when David Carter made his entrance. "Morning all," he said, working his way around the room, shaking hands. When he got to Wayne, he took his hand warmly and gave him a friendly wink. "All ready, son?"


    "Ready when you are, Dad," Wayne grinned. The blade in his pocket had never felt heavier. It might have been made of lead. He could do it now. It would be so easy. All he had to do was slip his left hand into the pocket, draw the knife in a single swift motion and plunge it deep into his father''s heart.


    "You sure? You''re looking a bit nervous."


    "Just excited," Wayne said. Which, in a way, was the truth.


    He could do it now. Now, when David would least expect it. None of them would expect it. With the exception of the Popovs, who were studying the Carters with chilly eyes.


    All at once, David withdrew his hand. Wayne had missed his moment. He took his seat, his shoulders beginning to heave up and down with increasingly agitated breaths.


    "Well, good morning everybody," said David. "Thank you all for coming. I''d like to extend a particular thanks to Mikhail Popov and his sons, Yuri and Stanislaw. Welcome to Mile End."


    The three Russians smiled around politely.


    "I wanted you all to be here," David continued, "because I''ve got something important to share with you all. Over the last few weeks and months, Mile End has gone through a streak of bad luck that is unrivalled in the history of football. But not only that, we''ve experienced a great deal of personal loss. Enrico Brigante, one of the most brilliant players of his generation. Rob Linley and his family in not one but two senseless accidents. And most recently, our own beloved Max Linley, who suffered a catastrophic heart attack in this very building. It''s times like these that you find out who your friends are. That''s why it''s such a great pleasure to announce to you all that the Popov organisation and the Carter organisation will at long last put aside our differences and continue as allies."


    There was a round of spontaneous applause from the partners. Mikhail inclined his head.


    "But that''s not all," said David, holding up a hand for silence. "This new ''friendly agreement'' between rivals is a great cause for celebration. It marks the end of a lengthy and heated conflict. But it also means that the Silvertown deal ¨C which had seemed like such a costly disaster ¨C might at long last be able to proceed."


    More applause.


    "Having said all that, there''s another announcement I want to make."


    David was obviously drawing to the close of his remarks. If Wayne was going to strike, he would need to do it soon. While his father was standing at the head of the conference table, all eyes on him. That would be the most perfect and impactful moment.


    "All the turmoil of the last few weeks has taken a considerable toll on me personally. I''ve reached a point where I no longer feel I can run the club to the high standard that you all expect. That''s why, when the deal between the Carters and the Popovs has successfully gone through, I''ll be announcing my retirement as director of the club."


    Stunned silence. Whatever the partners had been expecting, it wasn''t this.


    "That means of course that my son Wayne, whom some of you know already, will not only be joining the family firm but stepping straight into the role of director. I think that''s going to be a popular move. What do you reckon, Wayne?"


    Wayne was speechless. It was the job he would have killed for. In another life, it was everything he could have wanted. If only he had waited.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    "Of course you''ll be able to shadow me during the next few weeks, to learn the tricks of the trade. But I''m confident that you''ll be a quick learner. Gentlemen, I''m incredibly proud of my son Wayne. To me, Wayne embodies the spirit of hard graft and tenacity that''s made Mile End such a force to be reckoned with. As a footballer, I know Wayne won''t mind me telling you that he never had what could be called a natural instinct for the game, but that he nonetheless rose to the top through sheer bloody hard work. He managed to stand out from a team of professionals and earn his place in the hearts of the fans. And then, as you all know, Wayne suffered a terrible, career-ending injury. What a tragedy that was for the club. But also, that tells you a lot about Wayne as a person. How he was able to take one for the team and keep going with his head held high. A lot of players would have been devastated by an injury like that ¨C but not Wayne. Wayne was already looking for the next big thing, the next opportunity to succeed. I admire you for that, Wayne."


    "Thanks, Dad," Wayne stammered. The words sounded a bit feeble, but he thought he''d better say something, or else risk looking like a bloody idiot. His grip on the knife handle in his pocket had slackened. He was confused.


    "How does that old song go? ''Regrets, I''ve had a few...'' but if there''s one thing I''ve ever truly regretted, it''s that I wasn''t a better father to you, Wayne. I think that the mistakes you''ve made can all be traced back to that. I should have done better. In fact, if I had one wish it''s that I could turn the clock back and start over from scratch. But you have to play the hand you''re dealt, don''t you? The important thing is that you''ve grown up into a fine man, and I couldn''t be prouder of you. Ah, Rochelle! Right on cue."


    Rochelle had just entered the boardroom with an ice bucket containing a magnum of champagne. She was accompanied by one of her subordinates carrying a tray of champagne flutes. These were swiftly distributed, and David grabbed the bottle and carried over to his son. He poured the first glass for him, and Wayne watched it fizz. It was still early in the morning, but Wayne couldn''t resist. His throat was still dry, even after the water. He took the flute and sipped.


    He realised that this was the moment. The chance he''d been waiting for. David was standing over him with that insufferable smirk of his. He''d given a pretty speech, but Wayne knew it was meaningless. Just lip service. All at once, Wayne felt a sudden wave of hatred wash over him all over again. He wrapped his fingers around the knife handle. He gripped it tight.


    At least, he tried to. To his surprise, his fingers wouldn''t do his bidding. They remained slack and weak. What was happening?


    Wayne began to sweat. He felt a kind of hellish heat down in his belly, spreading upward to his throat. He opened his mouth. "I..." he said. It came out as little more than a crackle.


    "Shh," said David softly. "No need to say anything, mate. I know. I know everything."


    The heat became a stabbing pain. With his free hand, Wayne gripped his throat. It was as if he were trying to claw it open. He gasped.


    David, the partners and the three Popovs all watched as Wayne bucked and kicked. He tipped the chair over sideways, landing prone at his father''s feet. He was gagging now, and he spewed a mouthful of bloody foam onto the carpet.


    "Sorry, Wayne," David said as his son continued to twitch and moan. "I meant what I said, though. I''m proud of you. You came as close as anyone ever has. But this is my club, and I¡¯ll do whatever I have to to keep it that way. If anyone gets in my way, this is what''s going to happen to them." He looked down at Wayne, who had stopped moving but was still breathing shallowly. "No matter who they are. Self-preservation, and all that."


    Wayne gave a dramatic lurch, arching his back and flinging out his arms. This caused the steakknife to fly from his pocket and scud uselessly across the floor. David looked at Mikhail, who gave him the same nod he had given to Wayne minutes earlier. There was a bond of trust between them now. David dropped to his knees and picked up the knife. He tutted. "Very nasty," he observed. "You could make a mess of someone with this."


    As if in reply, Wayne gave a guttural groan, spitting more foam onto the floor.


    David proceeded around the conference table, filling each champagne flute as Wayne emitted his last few gurgles. Lastly, David filled his own glass and raised it high in a toast. "To Wayne," he said, "the best son a man could ask for. I''m sorry I couldn''t do better by you, mate. I tried, but you can''t win ''em all."


    When the others did not raise their glasses, David prompted them: "Well? Aren''t you going to help me toast my son?"


    "To Wayne," said Mikhail.


    "To Wayne," said Yuri.


    And the others joined in, somewhat reluctantly. They waited for David to take a sip, which he did.


    When everyone had sipped the champagne, David stood over Wayne once more. Wayne had stopped moving now. He was disturbingly silent. "But this is what happens," David said with an air of finality, "when people get in my way."


    He strolled away from the conference table over to the floor-length window. He had a peaceful, contemplative little smile on his face as he gazed out. Below him, the damp pitch gleamed like emeralds.