‘Who are?’ I asked, sighing. He was toying with me and we both knew it. ‘The L’zuhl?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘At least, not yet. Our settlement here is small, that’s the only reason this place still stands. They don’t know about our increasing military presence, though our mysterious spy may very well rectify that, and soon. No, I’m talking about the Palangonians.’
We didn’t see the native tribespeople very often but when they mounted their doomed assaults on the chunky brick walls of the Compound with their elaborate war paint and orange-brown cloth outfits, armed with crudely fashioned spears, swords and bows and arrows, they were always swiftly rebuffed. Their archers occasionally managed to get a shot away at the Compound guards manning the machine-gun turrets but barely enough to pierce their thick armour. I didn’t blame them for having a pop at us – no one likes to see someone come strolling in and parking up on their territory as we had. It’s like Roy Evans at Liverpool in 1998 when they brought in Gérard Houllier as joint manager alongside him. Though I should stress that at no point did Roy resort to attacking the Shankly gates with any home-made weaponry. I want to go on the record about that.
‘Not just the tribesmen,’ Leigh continued, waving an arm across the expanse beyond the wall. ‘I’m talking about everything. There are multitudes of weird and not-so-wonderful beasts out there on this godforsaken planet. And a great number of those would love to feast on our sweet human flesh. The damned drelkor lizards and the flying falcon spiders for one thing – well, two – and of course, there are the Winged Terrors. They’re the hardest to keep at bay, but we’re working on our defences.’
‘Speaking of,’ I said in a slightly alarmed voice as my eyes quickly scanned the cloudy beige skies above our heads, ‘are we safe up here like this?’
‘Perfectly,’ he said. ‘We’re flanked by heavy artillery in the lookout posts on either side of us. Those bastards wouldn’t dare.’
Reassuring.
‘Why’d you bring me up here, General?’ I asked impatiently. Behind and below me, down in Fort Emmeline at the far north end of the Compound, life continued as normal. Guards patrolled the perimeter, engaged in training exercises; there was the constant rat-tat-tat of the shooting range. Further away within the Compound, beyond the gates of the army base, was the wider community – the square with its bustling shopping areas and restaurants, families out spending the day together – and way over on the far northern end I could see my home, the accommodation blocks, which were really nothing more than glorified high-rises. This was our life now. The L’zuhl had taken our planet from us but they couldn’t take everything. My eyes flicked over to the John Rudge Memorial Stadium at the west side of the Compound, squeezed in beside the school, which had class sizes barely in the double figures – not many children had made it out to Palangonia during the evacuation. It wasn’t exactly a great platform from which to repopulate the species and, more worryingly, it would have grave implications for the future of football as the few remaining human players began to grow older. Further beyond lay the shuttle bays, which currently looked empty and rather melancholy with the lockdown in place.
‘I brought you here, Coogan, because—’
‘Come on, you know my name’s Keegan,’ I snapped irritably. ‘Let’s have a bit of respect, please. I managed the national side, for goodness’ sake.’
Leigh glanced at me and to my surprise actually looked a little chastened. He was a fit man in his early-to-mid fifties, military to his core, supposedly signing up at sixteen and now responsible for the stewardship of one of the hundreds of human colonies trying to establish themselves in the far reaches of space. He had short greying hair under his black beret and even in his Alliance-issue black uniform (which personally I think made them look like the real baddies, not the L’zuhl – what’s wrong with a nice yellow or a pleasant mint-green type of thing?), the man looked absolutely ripped. His legs were like tree trunks and his arms were two hulking joints of meat. Fair play to the guy, he had looked after himself even into his later years. I knew of one or two former pros who could’ve taken a leaf out of his book rather than just letting themselves go – not least Razor Ruddock. Then again, you couldn’t expect much common sense from a man who slathered himself in Old Spice because he thought the Liverpool club slogan was ‘You Never Wore Cologne’.
‘You’re right,’ Leigh said – probably the first and only time he’d ever say such a thing to me. ‘You deserve my respect. Keegan.’
‘Aye,’ I said suspiciously. ‘Fine then. But you still haven’t told me what this is about, why you’re waffling on about the indigenous Palangonian races and all that. Everyone knows about them – we got handed the crib sheet on the shuttle out here last year. I got 76% on the “Test Your Knowledge” bit at the end. I won a key ring.’
‘I’m showing you this,’ the General said, ‘to emphasise the size of the task facing me here. Facing all of us. There are other dangers on our doorstep each day than merely the threat of L’zuhl annihilation, you know. I appreciate you don’t care much for me, Keegan, and – be assured – the feeling is more than mutual, but I have a job to do here and by God, I’m going to carry it out.’
‘What job’s that then?’ I asked defiantly. ‘Shutting down my football club? Cheers for that, by the way. Must have made you feel such a big man.’
Talking to the General like that ran the risk of my being shot on the spot but I was so riled by his anti-football agenda that in that moment I simply did not care.
‘Your silly little football team is a gross abuse of Council funds,’ Leigh said stuffily. ‘I’ve said that from the very beginning and I maintain as much today. But the Council voted in favour of its creation and I’ve abided by it. I don’t agree with it, and I’ve found your tiresome attempts to influence the Council to invest additional funding in your inconsequential project deeply distasteful, but I accepted it.’
‘What attempts?’ I asked, wounded. ‘I haven’t tried to influence the Council at all, I’d never do that.’
‘So you’re really going to look me in the eye and say that you didn’t send gift baskets to all five Council members six months ago, myself included, containing a box of cupcakes with little footballs on them, signed copies of Gary Neville’s memoir Right Back Atcha, mini bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale and a card signed “With love from an anonymous donor. All the best, Kevin Keegan”?’
‘Nowt to do with me,’ I shrugged. Though on the inside, I was panicking – if they brought in fingerprint forensics, I was buggered.
‘In any event,’ Leigh pressed on, ‘despite all of that, I’ve tolerated your football club. I respect the rule of democracy and you had, by that account, as much right to exist as these walls upon which we now stand.’
Pull the other one, I thought. Leigh’s sole objective was to see the club fail and by creating a daft spy story, he now had the perfect cover. It was so plainly obvious. Ask anyone. Well, ask Gerry.
‘So I hope we can clear the air about that, at least,’ he continued. ‘We can just agree to dislike each other without there having to be some grand conspiracy to undermine something which, as I hope I’ve now explained, is quite some way down my list of priorities during an intergalactic war.’
He must have had an even lower opinion of me than I’d previously thought if he expected I’d fall for this. I felt genuinely insulted.
‘I must say, however, that I was surprised to see you in such a hurry to leave Palangonia,’ Leigh added, his voice suddenly darkening. ‘I mean, given your dedication to your club and all.’
‘Well, there’s no club to dedicate myself to now, is there?’ I huffed. ‘Thanks to you and your spy flim-flam. It’s a competitive marketplace out there, you know. Any of the managers from Earth who survived the L’zuhl genocide are scrabbling about for every job going. If Gerry and I don’t get over to… wherever Dave Moyes’ team is