Читать книгу Galactic Keegan - Scott Innes - Страница 6

PALANGONIA FC

I closed the door to the dressing room, the distant hum of the crowd extinguished with the click of the latch. I stared straight down, puffed out my cheeks and shook my head in dismay.

‘Just not good enough, is it?’ I said to my shoes. ‘Not good enough at all. You’ve bottled that. You’ve disappointed me today, boys.’

There were a few awkward coughs and the clacking of boot studs on the floor. I sized up my players in turn, each of them looking anywhere but in my direction (except for Little Dunc, my left-back, though he’s severely cross-eyed so it’s hard to tell either way). My midfield general, Wiggins, looked terribly out of shape and was blowing out of his arse, to be quite frank. I made a mental note to forbid him from going back for seconds during the next pre-match roast dinner. Gribble, central defender of giraffe-like proportions, was staring sullenly at his boots. My holding midfielder, Aidy Pain, a thorn in my side who stubbornly refused to ever do a damn thing I told him, had let us down badly after I shouted to him to keep the energy up midway through the second half – he had promptly sat down in the centre circle for a rest. It had been a shameful showing – from all of them. They weren’t fit to wear the shirt (Wiggins, quite literally).

‘We should have had the beating of that shower today,’ I huffed. ‘This Piscean side are punching well above their weight in this division and yet you let them walk over you and take away all three points. It’s disgraceful, actually.’

‘Ah, now, Kev, let’s be fair,’ said a voice beside me. ‘The ref gave them the rub of the green.’

I turned to look at my assistant, eyebrows raised in surprise at his interjection. For me, Gerry Francis is one in a million. No, let me dial that back a bit – one in a hundred, let’s say. A solid pair of hands. The funny thing is, although we got along fine and occasionally saw one another socially, Gerry and I never worked together at all back on Earth in the years before the L’zuhl invasion. He just so happened to be on the same evacuation shuttle as me when Earth went all to buggery and it’s always nice to see a familiar face. It’s actually quite a heart-warming story, if you look past the genocidal context.

‘Don’t forget that handball they got away with at 0–0,’ Gerry went on. ‘The fourth official told me the ref couldn’t give it on account of the Pisceans having flippers rather than hands. That old chestnut.’

There were a few murmurs of assent from the squad.

‘Okay, fine,’ I conceded the point. ‘But what about you, Gilly? You were clean through on goal in that second half and you produced the most timid shot I’ve ever seen in my life. The keeper didn’t even bother to catch it, he just leathered the shot right up the other end of the pitch!’

‘But, gaffer,’ Andy Gill said nervously, ‘I play right-back. That wasn’t a shot, it was a passback to our own keeper in our own box and then he cleared it upfield.’

‘Aye, well,’ I muttered, feeling some of the wind retreating from my sails. Gilly was a top-class player, no question, but the trouble was he knew it. I’d signed him on a tip-off from Glenn Hoddle, who’d seen him play for the team from the human colony on Flaxxu, a desert planet a couple of star systems over. Glenn had spent most of that day telling me about ‘Christian Values’ but when I couldn’t find any player on the Cross-Galaxy Database with that name, Andy Gill proved a decent second choice. And yet, here he was undermining my authority with, to be fair, a well-argued rebuttal.

‘The point is,’ I went on, determined not to let them off the hook, ‘we’re disappointing our fans week after week. There were almost thirty-seven people out there tonight and every one of them is going home disappointed.’ I sighed despondently and ran a hand through my hair. ‘Go on, get ready for your warm-down. I’ve said my bit. Think on.’

Wordlessly, my players began to peel off their kit, the smell of sweat, grass and that sticky translucent substance that coats the scales of the Piscean players leaving a sharp tang in the air. As the boys began to file out to the showers, I caught sight of Rodway, my star striker. He was yawning like it was going out of fashion, and in that moment my patience with him reached an end.

‘Everything okay, gaffer?’ he asked brightly on catching my eye. He had one foot out of the changing room door before I yanked him back in by the elbow.

‘Don’t “everything okay” me, son,’ I replied sternly. ‘Your performance today was abysmal. You’ve been out all night at bloody Misogynate again, haven’t you?’

He looked sheepish, though not particularly contrite.

‘I have, yeah,’ he said.

‘Don’t lie to me,’ I said.

‘I didn’t,’ he replied, baffled.

‘Oh...’ I said. To be honest, I’d expected him to put up a bit more of a fight. ‘There’s nothing between your ears at all, is there? Kid, I thought we had an understanding.’

‘I’m sorry, gaffer,’ he mumbled, still not sounding all that sorry. ‘It probably won’t happen again.’

‘You said that last time,’ I reprimanded him. ‘I just don’t get it – you’ve got everything going for you, the most talented footballer in the Compound, maybe even in this nebula, and yet you spend your nights on the razz in some seedy strip club. Which is especially galling given that the Compound library is right next door.’

‘You should give it a try some time,’ Gerry chipped in. ‘Expand your horizons. There are some cracking books in there.’

This was a bit of a stretch. I borrowed this one book, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea – what rubbish! I’ve been involved in the game my entire life and I know for a fact that you can’t play football under water, let alone implement any kind of league structure. Let’s get serious, please.

‘I promise it won’t affect me on Saturday when we play Groiku IV,’ Rodway said. ‘I’ll be raring to go.’

‘No, you won’t,’ I said. ‘I’m putting you on the bench. Now be on your way and think about what you’ve done. You’re on thin bloody ice, son.’

Rodway looked stunned but said nothing as he clomped off down the tunnel.

‘Crikey, Kev,’ Gerry said after a moment of tense silence. ‘Bit harsh on the lad, weren’t you?’

It’s true that I can be a bit of a disciplinarian as a manager. Back at Fulham, I regularly had the lads in for training three times a week. Even so, I know I’m prone to being a little sensitive whenever any manager’s methods are questioned. I remember back in ’76 I invited John Lennon to come and watch a Liverpool match – after our hard-fought victory I asked him what he thought of the gaffer’s game plan and he just said, ‘Imagine no possession.’ I mean, just woefully naïve tactics. Embarrassing, actually.

‘No, I don’t think I was harsh at all,’ I sniffed defiantly to Gerry. ‘Rodway has had it coming for a while – no player is bigger than the team. And I’ve always believed in tough love. Anyway, let’s go. The sooner they finish their warm-down, the sooner I can take them over for pizza and ice cream.’

I watched as Gerry jogged around the John Rudge Memorial Stadium pitch with the lads at the end of the warm-down session. The stadium had been named in honour of the former Port Vale stalwart, who had been the Compound Council’s first choice for manager once the settlement on Palangonia had been built. Sadly, poor John was reported killed during the L’zuhl invasion of Earth, and once I got the job I insisted on honouring his memory, one of so many lives we lost during that terrible episode and a fitting tribute to the great man. It later transpired that John was in fact alive and well and coaching an amateur side over on Pesquikta, a planet a couple of thousand light years away, but by then we’d already paid for the steel lettering above the stadium entrance so the name stuck.

I was lost in my thoughts – the match against Groiku IV was a big one; they were one of the real up-and-comers in Galactic League C. I still found it offensive that any human side should have to start off in the third division – we invented football, for heaven’s sake! We should have gone straight into the top flight. But nope, apparently alien communities can observe the beautiful game – unquestionably mankind’s greatest achievement – through long-distance super-powered telescopes and learn to play it for themselves and that’s enough to give them a higher ranking than us. I wrote to the top brass to complain but their reply came back in Besakrtapollian, which is a language I don’t speak and have no intention of learning. Probably just an attempt to intimidate me – everyone in the Compound knows that humans are a complete laughing stock within the Alliance because of how timidly we surrendered Earth to the L’zuhl.

I reflected on what Gerry had said. Had I been too harsh on Rodway? He was only twenty-two after all. But then, that was exactly my point – he had a glorious career in football ahead of him but only with the right guidance. I was forever exasperated back in the day by reports of my lads going out on the town and making prats of themselves – I just didn’t understand and I still don’t. Why would you want to go and get drunk when there are any number of National Trust properties you can visit? At every club I managed, that was always something I arranged on day one: annual passes for every player. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

Gerry has always been more of an arm-round-the-shoulder kind of coach. In many ways, Gerry and I are like John and Paul – two different styles, but together, it just works. Actually, that’s a bit strong. He’s probably more of a Ringo. I suppose I could compromise and say he was a George but that would be a monumental slap in the face for the actual George.

As the lads filed past me to go and get changed before we headed to Giuseppe’s, I approached Gerry, who was trying to explain something to Andy Gill.

‘It’s all in the arms,’ Gerry said. ‘You can’t just kick it into play like you did during the match today – that’s why it’s called a “throw-in”. Don’t worry, you’ll get there.’

‘But, Gerry, I wasn’t taking a throw-in, it was a free kick,’ Andy insisted, slightly impatiently.

‘Well, we’ll have to agree to differ on that,’ Gerry said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

‘Gerry,’ I interrupted. ‘Is Gillian in her office?’

His face darkened a little.

‘I haven’t seen her,’ he replied. ‘She’s been to several meetings of the Compound Council this week so I guess she’s been preoccupied.’

I snorted derisively.

‘Nice to know where her priorities lie, then,’ I said. ‘The club’s going to pot while she’s arsing about in meetings. Honestly, she’s the worst chair this club has ever had.’

‘Though I suppose she’s the only chair this club has ever had,’ Gerry replied.

‘Which just proves my point,’ I agreed. ‘I need to speak to her about signing a new striker. I won’t give up on Rodway, but the kid’s on the road to death and destruction so we need a plan B.’

‘Good call,’ said Gerry. ‘I’ll take the lads over to Giuseppe’s. See you there after?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ I replied and hurried down the tunnel to take the elevator up to the sixth floor and Gillian’s office.

Little did I know that what would happen next would put the very future of Palangonia FC in jeopardy – and change the course of all our lives.