FALLEN IDOLS. Neil White

and then he said, ‘Is this because of the Dumas shooting?’

      ‘It’s Johnny Nixon as well now.’

      He looked surprised and went to sit down.

      ‘There’s been another one, in Manchester.’

      He reached for the remote and I watched him as he flicked around the channels, looking for the news.

      ‘What are they saying?’ I asked, even though I could hear.

      He watched for a while and then said, ‘They’re filling. Nothing to say, so they say it over and over, hoping it might turn into something.’

      I went and stood behind him. He smelt familiar, like warm sleep. I couldn’t place it at first, but then I realised it was the smell of Sunday mornings, when I’d creep into my parents’ bed and watch television with my mother until my dad brought her breakfast.

      My eyes flicked to the screen and I thought about Johnny Nixon. Thinking aloud, I asked, ‘What have they got in common?’ When my dad looked round, I pointed at the television. ‘Dumas and Nixon? What’s the connection?’

      He scratched his head. ‘Does there have to be one?’

      I shrugged. ‘You’d expect one. Must be a reason why they both got shot.’

      He pointed at the television. ‘These things take planning, and two days running, that’s a quest for attention. But what if Nixon had stayed at home today? My guess is that he knew they had a routine, somewhere they would always be. Maybe that’s the connection.’

      I nodded. It was a possible. ‘Maybe, but why go all the way to Manchester?’

      ‘Why not? He couldn’t stay in London. Too much heat.’

      ‘Okay, that’s fine, but why risk making a trail?’

      He smiled. ‘A ransom.’

      I looked at him curiously. ‘Ransom? What’s the demand?’

      He looked back at me shrewdly. ‘Whoever he is, however little he thinks his life is worth, he’ll shut down football. That’s a lot of money. He could just about name his price right now.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And this is a spree. So it will keep going until either he is caught or he kills himself.’

      ‘Does it have to be that way?’

      He nodded. ‘With a spree, it’s always that way.’

      Then we heard something that took us both by surprise. They suspected the perpetrator was a woman.

      ‘He’s a she,’ I said, my eyes wide. ‘Shit.’

      My dad shook his head, ruffling his hair. ‘This is one weird dream. Firstly, you’re here, and now this. A woman doing all of this.’

      I smiled. ‘No, you’re awake.’

      He tugged on his lip, and then said, ‘Changes nothing, though.’

      Then something occurred to me. ‘She’s still making a trail,’ I said. ‘She started in the south but came up north. Surprise might work at first, but it will be harder the more this thing goes on, so she will want somewhere she knows, so she can get away quickly if it goes wrong. So maybe she’s from the north?’

      My dad smiled. ‘If she wanted a two-day shooting streak, she had to come up north once she’d been through London. A northern player would see it as a London problem and carry on as normal. In London, footballers’ routines will have changed immediately.’

      That made me quiet. As did the thought that we’d spoken more in the last five minutes than we had in the preceding six months. It had been comfortable, and I found myself wanting to hear more from him, just so I could hear him think.