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

two men in suits who had started the applause earlier.

Danny made to go after them. Instinctively. Just to see what was happening. Why was it that England goalkeepers were always so interesting?

But suddenly he felt Holt pull him back.

‘Stick close to me,’ the reporter whispered.

Danny had forgotten Holt was even there. ‘I’m just going –’ he began.

‘Where?’

‘For a look round.’

‘Danny. Please, please stay close to me. This is a nice party. All very friendly. But don’t go snooping around. I know you. There’s nothing to see here. Nothing. You’ve seen his henchmen? The guys in suits? Please don’t cross them.’

‘I need to go to the loo,’ Danny said.

‘The loo’s that way.’ Holt pointed up the wide staircase that – like in the hotel foyer – swept up a wall on one side of the room.

‘Can I go, then?’ Danny asked in a truculent voice.

Holt eyed him, then nodded.

Danny climbed the stairs, skirted a corridor and headed left into the toilets. Amazing toilets. Polished wooden fittings. Huge mirrors. Soap and cream dispensers. A pile of flannels that Danny assumed were to dry your hands on.

But surrounded by all this luxury, Danny couldn’t get Holt out of his mind. He was sounding more and more like his mum. Don’t do that! Do this! Don’t gohere! Danny had thought it would be fun with Holt because he was younger than his parents. Closer to his own age, in fact. But he was still a bossy adult.

Danny didn’t really need the toilet, but Holt might be looking out for him if he went back to the main hall. Then he noticed the windows that ran along the top of the cubicles. Making sure that there was no one else around, Danny went into a cubicle, stood on the toilet seat and looked out of the window. He saw a large courtyard and a pitch-black sky filled with stars. And there, in the courtyard, he saw Matt McGee.

McGee was leaning against a doorway. Danny saw him exhale upwards, his breath like smoke coming out of his lungs on the cold night. But it couldn’t be smoke: no footballer would be stupid enough to smoke.

Then McGee looked at his watch. As he did, the two men in suits that Danny had seen in the main hall stood either side of him. Danny could tell who was talking from the vapour trails their breath left. The smaller of the men in black did most of the talking, with McGee sometimes chipping in. Danny tried to catch the expression on McGee’s face, to see what was going on. But all he could see was McGee nodding.

Eventually the conversation between the men in black and Matt McGee came to an end, and then – it seemed to Danny – the three men just stood in silence for at least ten seconds.

Then the smaller man stuck out his hand. For a moment McGee did not extend his: but then he did, shaking hands.

England’s keeper shaking hands with one of Tupolev’s private army: what was going on?

Now Danny had serious doubts about McGee. Although he’d met him and thought him nice, although he’d heard Alex Finn vouch for him, there was no plausible explanation for his talking to men from Dmitri Tupolev’s private army.

Danny needed to get to Holt. Holt knew things. So did Danny. They had to share their ideas. And fast.

GOING SOLO

‘Anton. Come on.’

Danny grabbed Holt’s arm and tried to pull him across the hall.

The speech was over. Tupolev had disappeared. Holt stopped and stared at Danny crossly. ‘What is it?’

Most of the guests were chatting and eating. Four musicians were playing gentle music.

‘McGee,’ Danny whispered. ‘He’s talking to these men outside. The ones in suits. I’m not sure what’s going on.’

Holt put his hand up. He looked like a teacher trying to silence a room.

Danny tried not to feel angry.

‘Danny. Stop this.’ Holt was talking in a low voice. ‘You’re running around looking for trouble. There’s no story here. Just leave it.’

Danny looked straight into Holt’s eyes. And, just as he thought he would, Holt looked away. Now Danny wanted to challenge the journalist. Say he knew there was something going on and that he wasn’t sure whose side Holt was on. But he didn’t know how to put it. How do you say something like that?

‘Danny,’ Holt said firmly, ‘your mum and dad put you in my care. Like it or not, you’re fourteen, and legally a child, and I’m the adult who’s been put in charge of you. I have to look out for you. If I let you go after a pair of armed men… well, it’s ridiculous.’

Danny nodded. He knew this was all true. ‘B-but –’ he stammered.

‘No buts, Danny.’

‘Let’s just go and look. See what’s going on. The men he was talking to are the ones from the black people-carriers. You know: the ones with guns.’

‘I’ll look,’ Holt said. ‘Will that satisfy you?’

Danny shook his head.

‘It’s either me or neither of us,’ Holt said.

Danny frowned, then nodded. ‘And what do I do?’ he asked.

‘Get another Coke. Look at the statues.’

‘Great,’ Danny said. ‘Statues.’

‘So, I’m going?’ Holt asked, ignoring his remark.

Danny nodded. ‘But you have to tell me everything.’ ‘Sure,’ Holt said. And he was off. Moving quickly to the same door McGee had left a few minutes before – and had yet to emerge from.

And Danny wondered why Holt was so quick across the room if he was convinced nothing was going on.

*

Above the hall there was a balcony where you could stand and watch everyone eating and drinking and talking. In the past it had been where the Russian secret police, the KGB, had watched people they thought were spying on Russia. But today an Englishman was standing there, watching. The Englishman Holt had seen in the hotel that belonged to Dmitri Tupolev.

Sir Richard Gawthorpe. Also known as Kenneth Francis.

Sir Richard’s face looked alert, a blush across his cheeks. He knew he could not attend the party. But