CHAPTER 5

 

My muscles were aching with the strain of carrying around several pounds of plaster of Paris on my left leg. The tendons in the small of my back twinged as the lift came to a halt at the second floor. Lennie, the club’s full time commissionaire, held open the doors as I struggled with the still unfamiliar crutches. Being careful not to place any weight on my damaged leg I swung down the corridor to the boardroom inexpertly. I found that it was difficult to get an easy rhythm going, even when I repeated in my mind the physiotherapist’s dictum, step with the leg - swing with the sticks.

The door to the boardroom was ajar and I could see the club solicitor scribbling away on a blue covered legal pad that looked to all intents and purposes like an oversized school exercise book. As I made my clumsy entrance he stood up and walked towards me, offering his arm to assist me as I lowered myself into the sumptuous leather chair at the head of the walnut boardroom table.

Even as team captain I made only infrequent visits to the boardroom, but every time I did I was filled with awe. There was a quiet, almost reverent atmosphere about the room. As I looked at the walls there were photographs, paintings and framed team shirts that harked back as far as the last century. Pride of place was given to an 1885 photograph of the gentlemen’s team that eventually gave up its cumbersome name to become the United that was now recognised, and even revered, around the world. Sitting in the middle of his blurry moustache laden teammates was a handsome looking clean shaven man with dark and piercing eyes. His name was Andrew Carter, the club captain. Whilst he was no relation, I always felt an affinity with him and I had developed a quiet respect for his historic decision to turn professional at a time when soccer was only just beginning to burgeon into the game we know today.

Simon Moreton had been the club lawyer for as long as I had been at the club. He was a friend to most of the players, having arranged houses, mortgages, loans and even counselling, when needed. Simon was a difficult man to age. I guessed he was an old looking forty. His manner was proper and always gentlemanly. He reminded me of the old headmaster I had at school. As he spoke he brushed imaginary fluff from his immaculate, but dated, suit.

“Well Alex, it seems that you want to make Dean Butler pay for his latest act of footballing barbarism.” He looked at me, his gaze cool and steady.

“I certainly do, Mr Moreton.” Somehow calling him by his Christian name seemed disrespectful.

“Please, call me Simon,” he responded, sensing my dilemma. “You realise of course that this type of action will demand a long and laborious court case, without any great certainty as to success?”

I gathered from his raised eyebrows that he intended it as a question.

“Yes, I understand. I also imagine that it will be expensive?” I replied with a question of my own. Simon looked down at a green cardboard file which lay open on the table and he studied its contents.

“To be perfectly frank with you, Alex, money isn’t the problem. You see, you are covered by legal protection insurance and they will foot the legal bills, my own and counsel’s.” He paused and closed the folder before continuing.

“The real problem is the burden of proof.” He saw that I didn’t understand and so explained. “You see it is for us to prove, on the balance of probabilities, that the tackle that caused the injury was a reckless or negligent tackle. In essence, we must demonstrate that it was an illegal tackle in terms of the FIFA rules.”

“But that animal broke my leg and ripped my knee ligaments apart,” I countered.

“That may be so, but the referee obviously didn’t feel that the tackle was any worse than could be expected in a normal competitive match. He says so in the report he made to the FA.”

“How can he say that?” I bridled at the suggestion that my career had been jeopardised by a legitimate tackle. The lawyer simply shrugged his shoulders and I seethed.

“It is up to us to show that Dean Butler failed to exercise the required standard of duty and care. Or, in other words we must demonstrate that he made a tackle no reasonable footballer of his standing would have made. There is no escaping the reality, we will have our work cut out. If we proceed.” Simon fell silent.

“So you’re saying that we should forget it, then?” I was angry and I didn’t attempt to conceal the fact.

“The decision is yours, Alex.” he responded calmly.

“What would you do in my position?” I asked more soberly.

“Are you asking me as your solicitor or as a friend?”

“As a friend, I suppose.” I was a little puzzled by the question.

“In that case, I would screw the filthy little bastard to the floor.” There was venom behind the lawyerly smile.

“Then let’s do it,” I said, and we parted on a handshake.

I was going to court and, more importantly, so was Dean Butler.

 

************

 

Aaron Morgensen was leaning against the reception desk talking to two giggling girls when I stepped out of the lift. As I crossed the shiny marbled floor he turned towards me and smiled. Aaron raised his great frame from the desk and excused himself before walking to join me as I swung and shuffled towards the door.

“I will give you a lift home,” he said.

“No need, Big man,” I replied. “The girls can get me a taxi. But thanks anyway.”

“We are not debating this, Alex, it was a statement. I will give you a lift home.”

“Well, as you are so keen…” I was secretly grateful as I would be much more comfortable stretched out in Aaron’s Range Rover.

“I need to talk to you.” The Icelander’s expression was earnest.

I eased my way into the leather seat and relaxed as Aaron fastened me in. Within a few minutes we were travelling along the Chester Road and heading towards the suburbs and home. For a man who felt an urgent need to talk, my companion was remarkably subdued. I decided to leave him to his silence and allow him to speak in his own good time.

We were outside my house before he was able to spit out the words, “Alex, I have been paid to throw a match.” I was shocked and unbelieving, but mostly I was disappointed. Nevertheless, it had taken some courage for him to confess and so I tried to stay unemotional and calm. I put my hand on his quaking shoulder and asked him to come inside.

The hiss of the beer cans depressurising as I pulled the rings broke the morbid silence. Aaron sat looking straight at the wall. He was as sad as I had ever seen him. I knew that I had to speak first.

“Aaron, we have been friends for a long time.” I paused, looking for the words that I needed. “Whatever you have done I know you will have done it for a good reason.” He looked at me and I saw tears welling in his ice blue eyes.

“So why don’t you tell me all about it?” I relaxed back into my chair. I guessed that this would take some time. I needn’t have worried. Almost as soon as my words were out my best friend exploded into a long, tortured explanation, as is the way of those who have kept a secret for too long.

I listened carefully as he explained how, on a visit to Angeline’s, a local nightclub, he was sought out by Roy Bennett. Roy had introduced himself as my friend and had engaged Aaron in a shouted conversation, both men trying to speak above the loud music. As usual Roy had been charming and amusing, until he took Aaron outside into the quiet of the hallway.

In the quiet solitude of the rear passageway Roy had asked Aaron to ensure that Brackley Town, a non league club, put two goals past United in our third round tie. He didn’t want United to be beaten, just to allow two unexpected goals in.

“Alex, I was confused,” Aaron said quietly. “I thought to myself why would a friend ask such a thing? Surely he hadn’t asked you to deliberately throw matches for money? For a moment I didn’t know what to say but then I said ‘No way’. But he wouldn’t listen. He said he was desperate and that I had to help him. He even said that he could end up having a nasty accident if I refused to go along with his plan. All I wanted to do was to get away and avoid the awful pleading in his eyes and so I agreed, without ever having an intention to follow it through.

Alex, you should have seen his face. It lit up with relief and he grinned, telling me that his friends would see me ‘all right’. I was going to get you to ring him later and tell him it was all off but time passed and I hoped that he had forgotten all about it.” The big man paused.

“Alex, I just convinced myself that I had drunk too much and that he wasn’t serious. But now. Well, now I remember the look in his eyes and I just know he was serious, deadly serious.”

My brain was in turmoil as thoughts raced into my head and fought for precedence. The possibilities were almost endless, but one idea seemed to go beyond simple theory and as I considered it more deeply I became convinced that it must be a fact. Roy’s match rigging exploits had somehow led to his horrible death.

 

************

 

Eventually Aaron’s words sunk in and I tried to recall the Brackley match. We had been drawn at home and no-one would have imagined that a non league club would score against us on our own turf when top Premiership teams had failed to find the net for three months. I replayed the match in my mind. Brackley came at us like lions for the first twenty minutes and there was no time to settle on the ball before a tackle came in. We were overrun for a while and only magnificent goalkeeping maintained our record on clean sheets. Eventually against the run of play I scrambled one into their net after thirty minutes and their heads went down. Before the end of the ninety minutes another five went in from all angles and distances, without us conceding. The Marshmen, as Brackley were known, had half a dozen good efforts, but in each case the Icelander proved to be too big an obstacle to overcome. Finally, in the eighty ninth minute, we got sloppy at the back and a good corner kick skittered through a gaggle of players to barely trickle across the line. Brackley celebrated as if they had won the cup and Aaron blasted the back four with an ear-searing array of obscenities.

Clearly Aaron had not complied with Roy’s request. Quite the opposite, in fact, he had played out of his skin to keep a clean sheet. It had taken a miss hit shot with a series of wicked deflections to beat him.

“Aaron” I said. “You will have to go to the police.”

“I can’t,” he replied, handing me a well folded sheet of paper. I opened it up and noted that it was a statement from the Royal Bank. On the credit side was a single entry £30,000.00. The deposit was made the day before the match and the statement was issued on the day of Roy’s death.

“If I go to the police there will be an investigation and it will look as though I let in a soft goal for Thirty thousand pounds.”

“Nonsense,” I replied with certainty. “They won’t believe it.” Aaron looked at me and shook his head.

“Tell that to Bruce Grobelaar,” he countered.

 

************

 

I was reclining in my easy chair with my cast resting on the footrest when the doorbell rang. Tanya was in the shower and so I laid down my copy of Ninety Minutes and struggled to my feet. Leaning on the chair I grabbed hold of one of my crutches and hopped towards the lounge door. The bell rang again.

“I’m on my way,” I shouted to my unexpected guest.

A few seconds later I was at the front door. With some difficulty I manoeuvred the crutch so that it would not stop the door opening and I unlatched the door. When I opened the door I got a big surprise. Standing before me was a tall and thin woman whose beauty had always entranced me. She removed oversized dark glasses to reveal bright blue eyes that were sparkling like a teenager’s might. The short dark hair framed an exquisitely boned face.

“Oh, Alex daaarling. I have only just heard.” Her manner was theatrical but sincere. “You must think so badly of me. My beautiful Alex is hurt and I don’t even come and see him.” She placed long fingered hands on either side of my face and kissed me full on the lips. I tried to pull away.

“Stella, really!” I said by way of reproach.

“Oh , Alex you are so bashful.” She hugged me and I almost fell over. Stella stepped back to take a look at me.

“Well, everything else looks to be in working order.” She smiled wickedly and I blushed as I always did. I had first seen Stella in the West End of London when she played Peter Pan. That was over twenty years ago and she genuinely didn’t look any older. Of course I didn’t know her then, I was just a child enjoying his first theatre trip. Stella Martin- model, singer, dancer, actress and my mother in law.

“Well, are you going to ask me in?”

I smiled and took her hand.

“Only if you leave the showbusiness, luvvy talk at the door.” She grinned and little lines appeared at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

“You are so cruel to me," she mocked. “You know I should never have let you marry Vicki. I should have kept you for myself. You would have kept my feet on the ground.” Linking my arm she led me slowly back into the living room. Once I was comfortably ensconced in my recliner Stella folded her long legs underneath her and sat on the floor beside me. She took my right hand and absent-mindedly stroked the back of it as she spoke.

“Seriously, Alex,” she asked. “How bad is it?” Her voice was soft but filled with concern. Her accent was elocuted stage school English, which after all these years was as natural to her as any regional dialect would have been.

“Stella, I’m not going to lie to you. It’s pretty bad.” She looked tearful.

We spoke for a while about me and my career, I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I may never play again but I think she knew anyway. She held me and laid her head against my chest so that I would not see her tears flowing. I ruffled her urchin styled hair and silently thanked God for my mother in law. To protect herself in the heady world of showbusiness Stella had long pretended to be an airheaded actress, carefree and ageless. But in truth she was a sensitive and compassionate woman who had been more of a mother to me than my own mother ever had been. We sat there in companionable silence for a long time before we were interrupted.

“Gran!” Tanya shrieked at the top of her voice. Stella jumped to her feet and swept Tanya off hers and the two swirled around the room giggling and shrieking.

“Don’t you ever call me Gran outside these four walls,” Stella said by way of smiling reprimand. Secretly she adored being Grandmother and surrogate mother to the fifteen year old whirlwind of a girl she was now embracing in the tightest of hugs.

“What are you doing here?” Tanya asked. “I thought you were in Florida working.” I suddenly realised that I hadn’t even thought to ask why Stella had returned to England.

“I took a few days off to come and see you and your dad and.....” The actress in her paused for effect. “I was doing the publicity photos for the Pantomime in December. I am doing Peter Pan again.”

Tanya and I were both pleased that she would be with us for Christmas.

“And guess what?...... I am doing panto at the Playhouse this year.” Tanya whooped for joy. Stella would be performing in Manchester only six miles away.

“Stella, you must stay here,” I insisted. “We have lots of room.”

“We’ll see,” she replied, despite repeated pleadings from her grand-daughter.

“I don’t want to get in the way of your love life,” she joked, tweaking my cheek.

“Haven’t got a love life,” I answered quickly.

“Well, perhaps its about time you did have one,” she parried. I saw the look of sadness deep in her eyes and knew that she meant it.

Tanya looked out of the window at the gleaming pink convertible car in the driveway and plans quickly developed in her fertile teenaged mind.

“Gran, if you are here for a few days and have the car we can...” Stella chipped in before she had a chance to finish the sentence and they both shouted in unison.

“Go shopping!”

I groaned and began to formulate a list of imaginary appointments that would prevent me from joining them.

 

************

 

Whilst I had never felt any great affection for Arsenal Football Club in my youth, my Dad had always admired Charlie George. As I grew up I too shared his admiration even now I have video footage of his best matches. His long hair and his overly thin frame belied the fact that he was one of the best strikers England has ever produced. His casual strides seemed to eat up the ground as in half a dozen giant steps he went from the halfway line to the eighteen yard box leaving defenders in his wake. Charlie scored some of the most memorable goals I have ever seen and his celebrations were always exuberant and original. For years a large colourful poster adorned my bedroom wall, much to the distress of my mother. It depicted Charlie George lying flat on his back with his arms outstretched and head raised waiting for his team-mates to lift him up and salute his glorious winning goal.

I pondered on these memories and the many Saturday nights I spent watching my heroes on Match of the Day on a portable TV as I waited for the doctor to finish his sketch. The girls had gone shopping and I was sitting in the living room with my long time GP. He spoke as he drew.

“Alex, Charlie George was just one of a long line of players to leave the game after damaging their cruciate ligaments. You see ligaments are collagenous fibres and they are found in the flexible joints of our bodies, the shoulders, wrists, ankles and of course, the knee.”

“These ligaments connect the bones from one part of the joint to another.” He laid out a neatly drawn diagram. “It was once thought that they actually held the bones together, but that isn’t strictly true.” He pointed to the centre of the diagram. “In the knee joint the ligaments are firmly attached to the bone here and here.” I looked and pretended to understand.

“Those particular ligaments are the cruciate ligaments. The name is derived from the Latin, simply because they form a cross of sorts. The thigh bone above the knee,” he pointed and I began to comprehend, “is called the femur and it is connected by two cruciate ligaments to the bones of the lower leg.” The doctor highlighted the ligaments in a fluorescent yellow. “As you well know, the bones in your lower leg are the tibia and fibula, they’re the ones that are currently on the mend.”

“There is one ligament on the inside and one on the outside. If for some reason the knee is twisted with immense pressure and at the same time the foot is prevented from turning to compensate, then these ligaments can tear.”

My mind wandered and loose word associations began to form. Cross. Cruciate. Crucifixion. Excruciating pain. I shuddered at the memory of my agony and drew myself back to the present.

“Usually of course the weakest point gives way first, often the muscle tissue in the ankle. A sprain of that kind will heal in just a few days or weeks. Unfortunately a torn ligament can take many months to heal, and then only if it is kept immobile.”

The doctor looked directly at me and deliberately softened his tone.

“Alex, I have been your GP for nearly ten years and we have been friends for most of that time. As a friend I have to tell you that this will be a long haul.” He paused and looked away at his chart, gathering his thoughts.

“The truth is you may never play Premiership football again.”

There it was. Out in the open at last. My career might be over at twenty nine. Lawrence waited for my response. I tried to be upbeat.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to rest it and let it get better.” He smiled at my bravado.

“Unfortunately your surgeon doesn’t think that rest alone will be enough. You see the ligament is torn here.” He pointed at the thigh bone, the femur. “You will need surgical intervention.”

“An operation?” I asked for clarification.

“Yes” he replied bluntly. “But the good news is that if all goes well it may regain its full strength. Of course this means weeks of keeping the knee joint immobile and more months of physiotherapy before you can even think of light training.”

Enforced immobility is scary for anyone, especially a sportsman, and I could feel panic welling up inside me. I forced myself to ask the worst question of all.

“What are the chances of me making a full recovery and playing again?”

“Very good, if you do as you are told and don’t try to do things too quickly. Your knee will be almost as good as new and shouldn’t give you any more trouble as long as it is not so horribly mistreated again.”

I sighed. My broken leg was healing quickly, the plaster would be off in a week or two. But then what? An operation and another cast for weeks or even months. The thought of it was very depressing.

“Will I be able to walk about on my new plaster?” I asked. Lawrence was pleased to be giving some good news.

“Yes. They will be giving you a lightweight ‘Sportsmen’s’ cast. But you will have to be careful.”

It seemed to me that I was bound to be careful. How careless can you be with a cast on your leg? I thought of Charlie George and Paul Gascoigne and promised myself that I would get back to full fitness and perhaps play again.

Lawrence folded his diagram and slipped it into his black pilot case. Standing up he extended his hand and shook mine firmly.

“Take care, Alex,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.” He smiled wanly and was gone.

 

***********

 

I woke with a start as the phone by my bed chirped into life. The handset allowed me to carry the phone with me, a godsend in the current circumstances. I picked up the hand set and extended the aerial.

“Hello,” I said, noticing that the clock on my bedside table read ten minutes to midnight.

“Alex Carter?”

“Yes. Who is this.”

“Never mind that just now, I need to see you.” I was still dull from sleep and decided to let my first question ride for the time being.

“About what, exactly?” I asked.

“ I don’t want to say over the phone.”

“ You’re not giving me much to go on, are you?”

“All right, all right.” The gruff male voice sounded agitated. “Let’s just say it involves an ex striker of your acquaintance and a very current goalkeeper.”

“You’re not trying to blackmail me or anything, are you, because I’ll go straight to the police.”

The distant voice on the other end of the line exploded.

“You stupid berk, I’m trying to help you. If you go to the police you’ll get us both killed.” The comment seemed to me to be over the top until I remembered what had happened to Roy Bennett.

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“I want a meet.”

“Where? And please remember I’m a bit restricted at present. With my leg and all.”

“No problem. Take a taxi to the MGM multiscreen cinema at the quayside and stand by the ticket collection point. I’ll find you.”

“When?” I asked, wondering whether all of this cloak and dagger stuff was necessary.

“Seven o’ clock tomorrow.”

“ Can’t you come here?”

“Don’t be stupid. They’ll be watching your house for sure.” The line went dead and I was left listening to the dialling tone.