Ark Angel - Anthony Horowitz [44]
“How are you, Niki?” She had a loud, school-girlish voice. “Sorry I’m late. I just popped into Harrods. It’s only down the road.”
“Was your husband with you?”
“No! Don’t worry!” She giggled. “Adam’s been concentrating on the big match. He never comes shopping when there’s a game coming up…”
More food was served. Alex was feeling increasingly out of place. He was sorry Paul hadn’t been able to come. It was half past two. He wished the game would begin.
Half an hour later it did. The smoked glass windows and doors were opened and everyone walked out. Alex went with them, emerging onto a stand with about a hundred seats, one tier up, exactly opposite the tunnel. And at that moment he was able to forget Drevin, Neverglade, go-karting and all the rest of it. The magic of the stadium, moments before kick-off, overwhelmed him.
Stamford Bridge has room for over forty-two thousand spectators and today, in the bright afternoon sunlight, every seat was full. Music was pounding out of the speakers, fighting with the fans, who were already chanting good-humouredly. Alex watched as a Mexican wave travelled in a huge circle in front of him. He had been given seat A10, perfectly placed between the two goals. There were no policemen in sight. Chelsea has its own army of stewards but it didn’t look as if anyone was in the mood for trouble.
Then there was a roar as the teams emerged and formed two lines, each one accompanied by a small child. The referee and the two linesmen joined them.
“You’re next to me,” Tamara Knight announced.
Alex sat down. He was determined to enjoy the next hour and a half.
But it was obvious, almost from kick-off, that it was going to be a hard, unfriendly game. After just ten minutes, one of the Chelsea players was brought down by a vicious tackle that immediately earned Stratford East a yellow card. It was to be the first of many. Chelsea dominated the first half, and but for the hard work of the Stratford East keeper, they would have soon taken the lead. Then, half an hour in, the right winger gathered the ball and sent it in a perfect cross to the penalty area and a second later it had been headed into the goal. The crowd roared; the speakers blared. It was one–nil to the home side, and just five minutes later the Chelsea captain beat two defenders and powered the ball into the back of the net.
Stratford East went into the break two goals down.
There were more drinks served in the dining room during the interval but Alex was careful to avoid Nikolei Drevin. He remembered how he’d behaved at the end of the kart race. This was a thousand times more humiliating. The game was being shown all over the country. Drevin had spent a sizeable fortune building up his team. And the fact that he was being beaten by Chelsea – owned by another Russian – somehow made it all the worse.
Cayenne James didn’t help. “Never mind, Niki,” she said in her silly, high-pitched voice. “It’s not over yet. I’m sure Adam will be talking to the boys in the dressing room.”
“It would be nice if your husband were to touch the ball,” Drevin replied. He had a glass of champagne but was holding it as though it were poison.
“He does seem a bit tired today. Maybe he’s saving his strength for the second half.”
In fact, Adam Wright was barely visible when the game began again, and Alex wondered why the manager didn’t pull him off. He was playing in the centre but never seemed to be anywhere near the ball, and when he did take possession he didn’t create a single opportunity. Alex knew that the Stratford East captain had been given a bad ride by the press. He should never have left Manchester United. He spent more time modelling clothes and advertising aftershave than playing football. His last outings for England had been dismal. Half the country had turned against him, and perhaps it was now affecting his game.
The next goal, when it came, was more of a fluke than anything