‘We win they cheer me, we lose they boo me and send me excrement, and worse mind, through my letterbox. It’s just the way it is.’
‘Doesn’t sound like much fun?’ said Erasmus.
‘Fun? What the hell has fun got to do with it? I do it because I have to. I’m the guardian of this club! It was here before I was and it will be here after I’m gone and that’s a fact. Tell me, when you were hunting Taliban, was it fun?’
Erasmus said nothing.
‘I know about you, Mr Jones. I make it my business to find out about who I’m going to be working with. Drummed out of the Military Legal Service for picking up a weapon, leaving base and killing two Taliban who had maimed a class of little girls. A rather unusual legal practice and frankly just the type of person who does things because they need to be done, and not because they are fun. Am I right?’
Erasmus breathed in long and hard. Finally, he let the air out. He felt some, but by no means all, of the tension go with it.
‘Pete told me you wanted to speak to me about something?’
There was another roar from the crowd. Ted’s head snapped round towards the pitch.
One of the Everton players had slipped through the mass of red defenders and was bringing his left foot back to strike the ball. A pulse of excitement shot around the ground, transmitting itself through the people around them and suddenly everyone jumped to their feet.
To Erasmus’s amazement he found that he too was standing. Never underestimate crowd dynamics, he thought.
‘Go on, Wayne!’ screamed Ted.
A furiously loud shout of ‘penalty’ broke and crashed all around him as one of the Arsenal defenders kicked the Everton player’s standing foot away from him.
The referee blew his whistle and pointed to the penalty spot. More cheers.
Ted turned to Erasmus.
‘Wayne Jennings, the best player this club has ever produced. You don’t follow football but I presume you have heard of him?’
Erasmus just shrugged but even Erasmus, a sports hater, had found it difficult to avoid the existence of Wayne Jennings, the Premierships youngest ever goalscorer and England’s new hope for glory. He wasn’t going to let Ted know this though. He wondered at the reasons for his own contrariness, maybe it was a reaction to the fact that he had jumped up with the rest of the fans seated around him, an assertion of grumpy individuality. He knew any number of his ex-girlfriends and colleagues would say he was just being a twat.
Ted shook his head.
‘Score this goal and we’ll win and then be off the bottom. Come on, Wayne.’
An almost funereal hush had gripped the fans, men held each other in ways they would consider cause for a fight and shame outside of the ground. The tension was palpable as the young striker, Wayne Jennings, picked the ball up and placed it on the penalty spot.
The opposition goalkeeper moved from side to side and bent his legs at his knees in an effort to distract Wayne. He seemed to ignore the keeper, looking at the ground beneath his feet, until the last second before he looked up briefly and then began to run towards the ball.
There was the crackling sound of forty thousand breaths being held in the cold, November air.
‘Come on, Wayne,’ whispered Ted.
Two things happened at once. First, Erasmus noticed that although the crowd were all looking at Wayne running up to take the penalty, there was one face to his right, maybe twenty yards away, that was turned away from the goal, and the action on the field, and was looking directly at him. It was a man, maybe late forties, jet-black hair greased back and a lined face that spoke of an upbringing nearer to the equator than Bootle. The second was Wayne Jennings lifting his left foot to strike the ball, seemed to freeze in mid air, his foot extended back to almost a horizontal plane, and then wobbling as his right foot collapsed under him, before he fell crashing to the ground, his weaker right foot catching the ball by accident and knocking it forward no more than twelve inches.
The groans were deafening as the opposition keeper raced out and picked up the ball.
Erasmus looked back from the action and towards the man who had undoubtedly been staring at him. He was gone, his seat now empty.
‘Jesus!’ cried Ted.
He bent over and held his right palm to his forehead. An unhealthy looking flush had appeared on his face breaking through the tan.
‘It’s not the end of the world,’ said Erasmus.
‘It just fucking well might be. Follow me. To business,’ said Ted.
Ted started walking back down the row, his girth forcing people back into their seats. He didn’t bother with any apologies. Erasmus followed him and supplied them to the pissed off people that Ted left in his wake.
Ted, moving faster than his size or age would suggest was possible or healthy, shot up the steps towards the exit. As he did so Erasmus realised why he moved so quickly. Boos and taunts rang out from what seemed like thousands of people in the stands. You wouldn’t want to hang around in this environment, thought Erasmus.
‘He’s a fucking wanker, drop him!’
Erasmus recognised the voice. It was Pete and he was pointing at the pitch. Erasmus tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Come on, Pete.’
Pete looked up and if he was embarrassed by his comments about Ted Wright’s star player he certainly didn’t show it.
‘Sure thing, he does need dropping though,’
Ted hadn’t stopped and showed no sign he heard the comment. He was now disappearing down the stairwell that led from the stands.
Erasmus and Pete followed.
The stairs led down into an empty lounge area full of set tables awaiting the post match influx of hungry and, by the sound of the groans coming from the stands above, disappointed spectators. The room reminded Erasmus of a shabby but once grand hotel, posters of ex-players covered the walls and there were lots of shiny plasma screens dotted around the room. But look a bit closer and you could see flaking paintwork and worn carpet.
Ted turned to check they were still there.
‘This way,’ he said and he pushed open a service door before stepping through.
Pete and Erasmus exchanged a bemused glance before following.
Beyond was a corridor dimly lit by industrial low wattage bulbs. Pipes and bundles of cable lined the walls. Some of the cabling had long streaks of copper wire that had burst through the perished rubber.
Ted was chuckling.
‘I know what you’re thinking! How do we get the Fire Safety certificate each year? Let’s just say the inspector is an Evertonian and the council leader brave enough to piss off half his constituents hasn’t been born yet.’
Ted didn’t look at them as he talked, he kept walking at his eerily fast pace, his little legs scuttling along the narrow corridor. They followed him along the corridor, which twisted and turned through the bowels of the stadium, for a couple of minutes. Finally, they came to another service door. Ted stopped, pulled out a key on a silver chain from under his shirt and used it to unlock the door.
‘Through here,’ he said with a flourish of his arms.
The door opened out into what looked like a large study more appropriate to a country home than a football stadium. The back wall was made up of bookshelves and a rich brown mahogany desk sat in front of them. But what was really impressive was the outer wall of the study. This was a floor to ceiling window that looked out onto the pitch.
Pete whistled.
‘Nice,’ he said.