CHAPTER 11

Half-time

To Rory’s great astonishment and relief, he had made it through the first half without being rumbled.

He had fully expected to make a howler of a touchline decision at some point, which would expose him as an impostor. He had also worried that forty-five minutes of the shimmer’s sickening side-effects might prove too much for him. Thankfully, neither of these fears had come true.

In fact, he had been rather fortunate so far in the way the match had unfolded. There had been little need for either linesman to get involved. West Germany’s early goal in the twelfth minute had been at Rory’s end of the pitch. Helmut Haller had fired in his shot after England’s usually rock-solid left-back Ray Wilson had failed to clear a German cross. But, as there was no suggestion of offside, the referee had awarded the goal without having to consult Rory. Hurst had equalised for England six minutes later, at the other end of the pitch, which was the other linesman’s area of responsibility. Apart from a handful of relatively straightforward throw-in decisions, when Rory had only needed to flag whose throw it was, he had had little to do.

The half-time score of 1–1 meant that so far, at least, the match was still on track, despite the real Bahramov’s absence. But Rory knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Not by a long way. He still had to survive another full hour of play – and nausea – before he could make the all-important goal-line decision. Only that would guarantee England’s victory and prevent history from unravelling.

Right now, though, he had a more immediate challenge. He had to get through the half-time interval without blowing his cover.

When the referee’s whistle blast signalled the end of the first forty-five minutes, Rory didn’t hang around. He made sure he was the first of the three match officials to leave the pitch and swiftly headed for their private changing rooms. Once there, he immediately locked himself in a toilet cubicle and deactivated his shimmer.

The relief was immediate and immense. For the first time in nearly an hour, Rory didn’t feel as though he was about to throw up.

He sat on the toilet with its lid down, enjoying a few minutes of normal-feeling insides, and hoping to stay well out of everyone’s way until he could return to the touchline for the second half.

Ten minutes or so passed. Rory didn’t hear anybody else enter the changing room. Perhaps the referee and Czech linesman wouldn’t need to use it during the interval. That would suit him just fine.

Hiding in the cubicle was giving Rory the slight creeps. After all, it was in the cubicle next door that he had found the dead man just over an hour ago. Rory had purposely not shut himself in there. He wondered if the Doctor and Amy had made any progress figuring out what had happened to the poor man. He wondered, too, where they had decided to hide the real Bahramov till he awoke … and whether they had managed to catch any of the first half of the match.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of studs on the concrete floor. The noise rose to a crescendo, then began to fade. The players had passed the changing room, heading back to the tunnel for the second half.

When he was confident that the last player had gone by, Rory emerged from the toilet cubicle and slipped out into the corridor, planning to follow the players back out on to the pitch at a discreet distance.

‘What are you doing down here, young man?’

Rory spun round guiltily. He found himself face-to-face with a middle-aged gentleman in a pale blue tracksuit with red, white and blue cuffs. Rory recognised the man’s stern face instantly; he had seen many photographs of it in football memorabilia and magazines. It belonged to Alf Ramsey, the England team manager.

Heart pounding, Rory groped hopelessly for a reply.

‘You’re not one of the match officials,’ growled Ramsey, before Rory could think of what to say. ‘What business have you got in their changing rooms?’

An alarm sounded somewhere in Rory’s brain. Why didn’t Ramsey recognise him as Bahramov the linesman?

His heart sank.

He had forgotten to turn the shimmer back on.

‘Ah! I … er …’ stammered Rory, now completely flustered. ‘I’m one of the reserve officials!’

‘Reserve officials?’ This role was clearly new to the English boss.

‘Uh-huh, yeah,’ Rory blundered on. ‘Er … you know … in case any of the original three need substituting,’ he suggested hopefully.

Ramsey continued to glare at him suspiciously.

‘New FOOFA rules,’ Rory explained. ‘To ensure fair play.’

Ramsey’s frown deepened. ‘FOOFA?’

‘That’s right!’ Rory was floundering. ‘Anyway … enough about me!’ He tried desperately to change the subject. ‘How do you feel the game is going so far, Mr Ramsey?’ He smiled innocently. ‘England Manager. Sir.’

Ramsey raised his eyebrows. ‘Could be worse,’ he growled. ‘Although we made a bad defensive error to allow their goal.’

‘Just a blip though, wasn’t it?’ said Rory encouragingly. ‘I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure your back four will play an absolute blinder for the rest of the match.’

‘You think so?’

‘I do, sir. I know so. Trust me.’

A crazy idea suddenly popped into Rory’s head. After the many hours he had spent playing FIFA and Football Manager, he liked to think he knew a thing or two about getting the best out of a team, and here was the only opportunity he was ever likely to have to influence a real soccer manager. And not just any manager. The most famous English coach in history.

‘I wonder, Mr Ramsey, sir … might I make a suggestion?’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s just … well, watching the first half, sir, it crossed my mind that we might give their centre-backs a bit more trouble if you told Ball to use that near-post cross of his more. He’s on fire today.’

Ramsey fixed Rory with a severe look for a few unnerving moments. Rory was beginning to realise that the English manager didn’t really do other kinds of looks.

‘Interesting suggestion,’ said Ramsey at last. ‘You might even have a point. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a World Cup team to coach. And as for you, young man, you’d best get out of here.’

Rory hastily stepped aside, with an awkward half bow. He watched Ramsey move away towards the players’ tunnel, and let out a huge sigh of relief. That had been a very close shave. And what was he thinking, giving the England manager tactical tips?

He ducked back inside the changing room and quickly twisted the dial casing on the shimmer to reactivate it. The now-familiar sickening ache gripped his stomach. He glanced across at the mirror above the sink – and saw Tofiq Bahramov staring palely back at him.

Daring to delay no further, Rory dived back out into the corridor and hurried after Ramsey, ready – or as ready as he would ever be – for the second half.