Dead Ball by Tom Palmer (snow like ashes series .txt) 📕

Danny looked away from her in disgust. He kept his attention on the screen, to see Alex Finn dive low, stretching his arm out as far as he could. And – impossibly – tipping the ball round the post.

‘What a save!’ Danny said, standing up himself now. ‘What a fantastic save! You should have seen it, Dad. He should never have got to it.’

Then he stared at his sister, who’d sat down scowling.

The commentator agreed with Danny: ‘The City and England keeper is playing as if his life depended on it!’

Moments later the ref’s whistle blew. Half-time. England 0 Russia 0.

But a draw wasn’t good enough: England needed to win this game. It was a World Cup qualifier. Everybody agreed that you had to win your home games to have a chance of qualifying for the finals.

‘We’re still going to win,’ Emily declared. ‘Then your precious England – and your even more precious Sam Roberts – won’t go to the World Cup.’

‘We?’ Mum said to Emily. ‘Since when were you Russian?’

Paul, who had said nothing up to this point, looked at Danny’s sister and said, ‘Vlady vorksvet?’

Emily stared at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s Russian,’ Paul said.

Danny grinned at his friend. ‘Don’t you understand? Being a Russia fan?’ he said.

Emily narrowed her eyes and stared at her brother. But she had nothing more to say.

The second half of the game was more open. End to end stuff. England and Russia equally matched.

There were two key points in the half that decided the result.

The first was a Russian attack, catching England on the break. Four attackers against two defenders.

The Russians moved so quickly there was nothing the defenders could do. Suddenly it was two strikers against Alex Finn. Again. The first striker lobbed Finn, but somehow Finn leapt and tipped the ball on to the bar. But, instead of going out for a corner, the ball bounced back into play, to the other Russian striker. The second striker took his time. He controlled the ball, then side-footed it past Finn.

‘GooooaaaAAALLL,’ shouted Emily, on her feet again.

Except the ball hadn’t gone past Finn. And it wasn’t a goal. As he was recovering from the lob, the England keeper managed to stick his foot out and deflect the ball wide for a corner.

A miraculous save.

Danny turned to smile at Emily.

His sister had the same look on her face as the Russian forwards. Disbelief.

‘Sit down, Emily,’ Danny’s dad said quietly.

Then, with just one minute to go, England attacked for what had to be the last time.

The ball was played wide to the speedy winger again. He had no time for fancy tricks. He had to get the ball into the penalty area. As soon as possible. So, without hesitating, he sent over a long and deep cross.

At first it looked like nobody could possibly reach it. But Sam Roberts was running. From the centre circle. Like an express train. So fast it seemed that everybody else had stopped to watch. Suddenly he was in the penalty area, with the ball flying towards the far post.

Roberts lunged at the ball. His leg stretched out as far as a leg can stretch.

His boot hit the ball.

The ball hit the back of the net.

And Danny and Paul stood, arms aloft, right in front of Emily, but saying nothing.

Emily folded her arms, crossed her legs and stared fiercely at the screen.

And, because of the wild celebrations in the stadium and in front rooms and pubs across England, few noticed Sam Roberts lying in agony, his leg bent in a way legs aren’t meant to bend, blood seeping through his white England sock.

MATCH FIXERS

The mobile rang seconds after the final whistle.

A man in his sixties stiffened. He was English. Sitting on the deck of his luxury yacht in St Katharine’s Dock, London.

The man used to be known by another name. A name well known in sporting circles. But, to the people who worked for him now, he was Kenneth Francis, a millionaire who had made his money in banking.

Francis had no option but to pick up. He knew who it was at the end of the line.

‘What shall we be doing with Alex Finn?’ a voice said. A Russian voice. There was no time for pleasantries. No hello, how are you, how’s the family.

‘Good evening, Dmitri,’ the Englishman said.

‘It is not a good evening. It is a bad evening.’

‘Yes,’ Francis said. ‘A bad evening indeed.’

He wasn’t quite sure how best to deal with this phone call. Because the man on the other end of the phone – Dmitri Tupolev – was one of the richest men in the world. He had more money than the Queen. Billions. More sports cars than you’d see at an F1 Grand Prix. And more planes than you could fit on a runway. He had made his money in Russia. Out of oil, gas, corruption. And murder.

Kenneth Francis gazed out of his yacht. The lights from nearby buildings reflected off the water. It was here – at this dock – that he had first met Dmitri Tupolev, when the Russian’s enormous yacht had eased in alongside his. The Englishman’s yacht had been the biggest in the dock. Until then.

‘I repeat. What shall we be doing with the England goalkeeper?’ Tupolev said. ‘He has disappointed me.’

‘Me too, Dmitri. Me too,’ Francis replied. ‘But we must be careful.’

‘My friend,’ Tupolev said. ‘Your Alex Finn may have cost my country a position in the World Cup Finals. I expect you to have spoken to him. Told him that it will be clever of him to let Russia score the goals.’

‘I did, Dmitri. I did. And Finn let us down. But I think we need to be careful. Not to do something rash that would upset the rest of our plans.’

Francis chose his words carefully. He needed to stay on good terms with Dmitri Tupolev. Because the Russian billionaire was the key to his future. Because together they were planning to