Striker Boy Kicks Out (6 page)

“Dad?”

“Hey Nat, how was training?”

Nat edged away from his teammates and spoke in a low whisper.

“It wasn't great.”

“Why not?”

Nat thought about mentioning the man in the stands but again thought better of it. Why freak his dad out when he knew nothing about the guy and might be being ridiculous?

“I was just a bit off the pace.”

“Surely most people were?”

“Yeah, I suppose so. Anyway I'm just about to get on the team bus. I'll give you a bell later or tomorrow.”

“Are you alright?”

“I'm fine, but I've got to go.”

“OK, but don't worry too much about training, you've only just got there.”

The call ended and Nat stepped onto the coach, thinking about his tête-à-tête with Fox. He was put out by the manager's words, but having gone over them
several times in his head, he had to reluctantly admit that they were true – he
had
lost concentration during training. It was all connected to the man in the stands. While deciding to keep an eye out for the man, Nat also resolved to act on Fox's promise that the following day's training would represent a new start. He would give absolutely everything tomorrow and try and forget about the man – who would probably turn out to be no one important, anyway.

Spirits on the bus were high. Adilson sung a Portuguese song very badly, but gained a massive cheer for his efforts. The driver then flicked on the radio and blasted several ‘golden oldies' out of the speakers, which the older players joined in with, while Nat, Emi, Kelvin and the other younger players shouted at them for being ‘past it'.

When the bus arrived at the hotel, Nat's own spirits rose. It was a large white building, with several brown and gold domes, reflecting the Moorish influences in Andalusia. Its lobby was cavernous, with a huge chrome reception desk taking up almost the entire left side of the space. Large round glass windows in the ceiling made it extremely light.

“This is definitely more chilled out than where I'm staying!” laughed Kelvin.

Outside, guests were dotted round the edges of the pool, lying on sunloungers, soaking up rays, reading books or snoozing.

“Top class!” grinned Emi.

Nat, Emi and Kelvin strolled to some loungers and flopped down onto them. A minute later, a waiter approached and asked if they'd like anything to drink. They all ordered cokes.

After twenty minutes of chatting, Nat and Emi went to get changed into their trunks and hit the pool. Nat had been to plenty of swimming pools around the world but none of them had been this luxurious. An intricate pattern of light blue tiles covered the pool floor, the water shimmered in the sunshine.

After an hour in the pool, Nat dried off and sat for a while on his lounger, reading a John Grisham novel. He loved thrillers – the plot twists, the action scenes, the biting dialogue – and always got drawn into the worlds where the action took place.

After a while Kelvin announced, “It's table tennis time!”

The table tennis table was situated outside, under a huge awning so it was shady. Kelvin was a decent player but Nat was his equal. After an hour, Nat was four games to three up and they called it a day.

It was close to six o'clock when Stan Evans came round announcing it was time to eat, after which the team bus would be taking them all to watch the opening match in their group – Celtic v Lazio – back at the El Mar Stadium.

The hotel dining room was empty, as the majority of guests were Spanish and would therefore be eating supper much later. The meal consisted of
gazpacho Andaluz
, a cold
tomato soup with garlic, peppers and olive oil, followed by generous helpings of fish and chicken, accompanied by spinach and chickpea salad and baby asparagus stewed with onions, coriander and lemon juice. It was all excellent and Nat washed his food down with a large glass of still lemonade that was tasty, but nowhere near as good as Inés's. With such delights on offer, some of the players – particularly Dean Jobson – slightly overdid it, a fact that gained a disapproving look from Ian Fox, who'd had to talk to Jobson about his post-summer-holiday weight a couple of times in the past.

When they'd eaten their fill, the players were served portions of thin apple cake and bowls of dried fruit and nuts.

“I'm stuffed,” said Nat, patting his stomach.

“Me too!” agreed Emi. “It's a good thing we haven't got a game tonight!”

On the team bus, Nat played cards with Emi, Kelvin and Adilson and felt very relaxed. The afternoon of leisure had been good for him after the intensity of training and the anxiety relating to the man in the stands. After all, he told himself, he was in Spain with the Hatton Rangers first team squad – it was an experience to relish.

Carlos shivered, desperate for it to get dark. The sunlight was fading but the last rays seemed to be stubbornly battling to stay in the sky. He'd spent hours lying in this ditch in soaking wet clothes, checking his watch every few minutes. As soon as it was fully dark, he would emerge and find a phone. He'd had the mobile Bellos gave him in his prison trousers, but it had fallen out some time during the previous night. Going back to look for it was an impossibility. He had to stay completely out of sight. If anyone saw him and reported him to the police, he'd be back in prison like a thunderbolt. The lost phone had been pay-as-you-go and he was certain it wouldn't be traceable back to Bellos.

He had to phone Rudy as soon as possible. They were on an extremely tight schedule and any unnecessary waiting would leave them without time to complete the task they had set themselves. He knew Rudy would come and get him, it was just a question of when he'd be able to make a call. Carlos thought back for the hundredth time about the drama of the night before.

A feeling of elation had coursed through his veins in the minutes after he'd escaped from the prison, but he was well aware that his disappearance would be discovered very soon. He'd only been running for a few minutes when he heard the screech of sirens and saw the frantic flash of blue and red lights behind him. Sprinting to the end of the main street, he'd vaulted over a small wall and down onto a path running alongside a river.

The sirens and lights had quickly moved in and he heard voices in the street above. A minute later, a torch beam shone down onto the river and the bank. In panic, Carlos had silently lowered himself in, the chilly water seeping into his bones. So much for the fresh set of clothes Bellos had provided for him. He'd held his breath for as long as he could and then surfaced. To his horror, a policeman had jumped over the wall and was now walking at the side of the river, throwing large arcs of yellow light across the water with his torch.

Carlos's heart sank. Was this going to be it? Would he be discovered less than ten minutes after his break-out? He'd be the laughing stock, not just in his prison, but in every police station throughout the country.

Knowing he had to put space between himself and the policeman on the bank, he started swimming underwater. He swam as far as he could before he needed to take in some air. Thankfully he was a strong swimmer.

He went underwater again, but this time when he rose, he saw to his horror that the police officer had been
joined by a colleague and they were striding up the bank in his direction.

Feeling panic grip him, Carlos increased his pace, using strong arm and leg strokes, while making minimal noise. Up the river he swam, but every time he looked back, it seemed that the officers were getting nearer. After another minute of swimming, Carlos made a snap decision – if he stayed in the water he was bound to be found sooner or later. So as quickly as he could, he swam to the opposite bank and, with stiff arms, pulled himself out of the water.

“Hey! What was that?” yelled the first officer, shining his torch across at the opposite bank. The beam missed Carlos's right foot by a couple of millimetres. Carlos almost yelped in desperation and flung himself into a large bush beside the bank.

“Did you hear something?” shouted the first officer.

“No,” replied his colleague.

“I swear I heard something!”

“There's a bridge up ahead. Let's go check it out.”

Carlos didn't need any further warning. He fought his way through the dense bush and emerged on the other side by a stone archway. He hurried through it and found himself on a building site. It was a half-built new development with several apartments and the outline of a large car park. In his cold, exhausted state he was tempted to run inside the section that was finished and at least spend the night there, but he rejected this option quickly. Firstly, it was far too near the prison and secondly, he'd probably be discovered by builders
turning up early the next morning. No, he needed to strike out much further.

So, with shaking bones, he skirted round the development and picked up a decent stride, running for several miles at the edge of a narrow road, through hedges until he finally stopped at 4.30 a.m., dog-tired, wet and terribly cold. When he'd seen the ditch, he'd pretty much fallen headfirst into it, sleeping fitfully until the first rays of morning sunlight prodded him awake.

On waking, he discovered that the ditch was near a small village. Over the next twelve hours he'd only seen five people pass and no one had come anywhere near his hiding place. But he hadn't dared to emerge in the light, even though he was desperate to locate a phone booth.

Carlos shivered again and his mind snapped out of last night's escape and jumped back to the present. The sun continued on its agonisingly slow downward movement and, at that moment, he heard a snuffling sound in the distance. He raised his head a couple of centimetres and saw an elderly man walking a small but vicious-looking, brown, slavering dog. Carlos gulped and lowered himself back down, hoping the two of them would just pass.

But in mounting fear, he listened as their footsteps got closer and the dog started making yowling sounds. The man shouted something at him. The dog's snarling suddenly got much louder and Carlos heard its feet trying to drag the man in the direction of the ditch. Carlos considered running down the ditch to avoid possible discovery, but this would make
noise and would alert the dog even further to his presence. He stayed put and closed his eyes, willing them to leave.

The dog was now barking ferociously and Carlos heard the two of them almost upon him. He'd be spotted any second now. His whole body tensed, ready to spring when they looked down at him. If he attacked the man, the dog would probably go crazy. It was probably better to attack the dog, or to just run. But the man snapped loudly and gave the chain a mighty yank. The dog growled bitterly but the man was resolute and dragged his pet with scraping footsteps away from the ditch.

Three minutes later, their progress was almost out of earshot. Carlos wiped his clammy hands on the back of his damp shirt. That had been an incredibly close shave. What if the man and his dog returned shortly and this time the man let the dog off the leash? It wasn't dark yet, but Carlos felt he had no choice but to move. He waited another ten minutes, then pulled himself out of the ditch.

He checked there was no one else around and ran as fast as he could towards the village, praying he'd find a phone box.

Nat was excited about watching the Celtic v Lazio game live. He'd seen Lazio on TV a few times in the previous season and they were a strong outfit with several excellent players. Among their ranks was one genuinely world-class footballer – the home-grown playmaker Arturo Tassi. At eighteen years old, he'd already played for the senior Italian side and was talked of as the new ‘Zidane' by the Italian press. Mind you, lots of players had been called the new Zidane over the years, and none of them had ever lived up to the name.