CHAPTER 5

The Russian Linesman

The man with the moustache let his kitbag drop to the floor. He stepped towards the three friends, scowling fiercely, and growled something accusingly at them in a language that neither Rory nor Amy understood.

The Doctor was on his feet in a flash. He hurried to greet the newcomer.

‘Hello there!’ he said, beaming amiably. ‘The name’s Lineker! We’re here from FOOFA. Having a spot of bother, as you can see!’

The man growled something else incomprehensible. It sounded equally hostile.

‘Yes, I can imagine this must look very bad from where you’re standing,’ said the Doctor, still smiling. ‘What dark thoughts must be running through that mind of yours, eh?’

As he said this, he gave the scowling stranger a harmless tap on the forehead with his rolled newspaper, which was still clutched in his left hand – at least, it was meant to be harmless.

What the Doctor had forgotten, for an absent-minded moment, was that the paper was now as hard as iron. The blow sent the moustached man staggering backwards. His heels hit his discarded kitbag and he toppled helplessly over it. As he fell, the back of his head hit one corner of the tiled wall. He slumped to the floor and lay still.

‘Oh, great!’ cried Amy. She and Rory jumped up and came to join the mortified Doctor. He was already bent over his unintended victim, hastily checking his vital signs.

‘Nice going, Doctor!’ said Amy. ‘Nothing keeps a murder mystery alive like another dead body. Forget CSI – this is getting more like an Agatha Christie plot. Or Cluedo. “It was the Doctor, in the changing room, with the iron newspaper.”’

‘I haven’t killed him, Amy!’ said the Doctor defensively. ‘He’s just unconscious.’ He continued to administer first aid, the sonic screwdriver buzzing.

Rory, meanwhile, was staring at the newcomer’s face. ‘That’s weird,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve seen this bloke before. I’m certain I have. I recognise that tash …’

He bent down to unzip the stranger’s kitbag, and began rummaging inside. The first thing he pulled out was a small orange flag on a short wooden stem. This he replaced, then lifted out an item of clothing. It was a black long-sleeved sports shirt with white cuffs and collars. Rory examined the name label stitched inside the collar.

The colour drained rapidly from Rory’s face. ‘Oh, no,’ he mumbled. ‘No, no, no …’

‘What’s the matter?’ Amy looked at the black shirt Rory was staring at with such obvious dismay. ‘That’s a referee’s kit, isn’t it?’

‘Not a referee’s,’ replied Rory miserably. ‘This bloke is a match official, all right, but not the ref – he’s a linesman. Tofiq Bahramov. The Russian linesman.’

‘Azerbaijani,’ said the Doctor, without looking up.

‘Bless you,’ said Amy.

‘No. This man – he’s from Azerbaijan, not Russia,’ explained the Doctor. ‘In Eastern Europe. It’s obvious from his accent.’

‘Yeah, right. Obvious,’ said Amy. ‘If you’re some sort of anorak-y accent spotter.’

‘The term is “linguist”, Pond.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Rory impatiently. ‘So maybe he’s from Azerbaijan, not Russia. Whatever. All I know is he’s famous as the “Russian Linesman”.’

‘Famous?’ Amy looked at Rory. ‘Famous how?’

‘I can’t believe you don’t know! I thought everyone English knew about th–’

Rory noticed the fiery glint behind Amy’s narrowing eyes just in time. Amy was Scottish, not English, and it didn’t pay to forget it.

‘He’s famous for helping England beat Germany in the sixty-six final,’ Rory stated simply.

‘What – you mean he cheated? The match was fixed?’

‘No, nothing as dodgy as that. He made a really tough call in England’s favour. The whole match was finely balanced – two goals apiece after ninety minutes. Then Hurst scored another in extra time to put England three–two up, only it wasn’t a definite goal. Hurst’s shot hit the crossbar and rebounded down on to the goal line. It only counted because the Russian linesman – Bahramov here – told the referee that the ball had crossed the line.’

‘Shame they didn’t have goal-line technology,’ observed Amy.

Rory stared at her. He was clearly stunned to hear her offer such an informed opinion.

‘What?’ said Amy. ‘I read about it somewhere. About some dodgy decision in the 2010 World Cup. When Frank Lampard scored, but the ref said the ball hadn’t crossed the line. And about how it wouldn’t have happened if they’d had goal-line technology – whatever that is.’

Rory stuffed the linesman’s shirt back into the kitbag.

‘It still makes me sick just thinking about that Lampard no-goal,’ he said bitterly. ‘That was against Germany too. It would have made it two–two. Instead we lost four–one.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A lot of England fans think that decision sealed the match.’

Rory pointed at the unconscious linesman – the Doctor was still bent over him, busy with his sonic screwdriver. ‘This bloke made a crucial decision just like that back in sixty-six. Only then, it was in the final and it went England’s way. He plays a vital part in England’s victory – and the Doctor has just knocked his lights out!’

At that moment the Doctor stood up, looking greatly relieved.

‘There, all done!’ He noticed Rory’s glum expression. ‘Don’t worry, Rory! He’ll make a full recovery. I’ve triggered the blood vessels around the point of impact to dilate, so there’s no danger of compression. And I’ve made sure he’ll stay under for a little while. Won’t wake for at least a couple of hours, I shouldn’t think. That’ll give the accelerated tissue repair I’ve set in motion more than enough time to take effect. When he comes round, he’ll be right as rain.’

If anything, Rory looked even more miserable. ‘You’re totally missing the point, Doctor! Didn’t you hear what I’ve been saying? England needs Bahramov at the match! He’s going to miss it now, isn’t he? When he doesn’t turn up, he’ll be replaced by someone else – someone who might not allow England’s third goal. Which means the result could go a different way. We might not win.’ He glared at the Doctor accusingly. ‘There’s a good chance you’ve just single-handedly lost us the World Cup!’