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

Eventually the ninety minutes were up. Only injury time.

The tension in the ground was hard to bear. The noise of the crowd less intense. Sudden pauses before a group of fans would try to start a chant going.

The Russian fans were booing. They could see their dream of going to the World Cup disappearing.

The England fans, on the other hand, were jubilant. A draw was enough. If the score stayed this way it meant England would very possibly be going to the finals. At Russia’s expense.

Then Danny noticed something: a group of four men coming around the edge of the pitch. Dressed in black, head to foot. He couldn’t make out any of them, to see if he recognized their faces. But he was worried. Very worried. His whole trip had been dogged by these sinister men. Tupolev’s men, there was no question.

The fourth official put his board up: three minutes of injury time.

The Russians took heart from this, upping their game. They were playing the long ball now. No neat passing through midfield any more. Now it was: get the ball, hoof it into the penalty area, head it down to a striker.

But the England centre backs would just head it away. There was no joy for Russia. The ball just wouldn’t come down for one of their players to control it.

Until the last minute. The last attack.

Another Russian missile came flying into the box from the halfway line. The giant striker leapt and headed it back across the penalty area. Right to a small Russian who’d only just come on to the pitch.

He pulled his leg back and volleyed the ball towards the bottom right corner of the net.

McGee was wrong-footed when the ball hit an English defender, ricocheting instead to the bottom left corner of the net. He could only watch and shift his feet as it rolled towards the line.

And then he dived.

Dived the length of the goal.

It was impossible that a man could change the direction of his body like that; but McGee was doing it.

His large hand closed over the ball as two Russian players lunged at it, kicking McGee hard in the back.

But McGee had his body curled up, the ball close to his chest.

As he stood to release the ball, the whole stadium applauded his save – including the Russians.

Danny noticed the four men in black had stopped at the back of McGee’s goal. He saw McGee glance back at them, just as the referee put the whistle to his lips and blew.

That was it.

Full time.

A massive cheer. From the England fans.

Then Danny noticed that McGee was trying to signal to the bench. But the England players mobbed him. He’d saved the game. England were one step closer to going to the World Cup finals.

And then, to everyone’s shock, the floodlights – and every light in the stadium – went out.

Nobody could see a thing.

THE ABDUCTION

Danny knew immediately that something was very wrong.

The game over.

The lights out.

The men in black.

He called out to Holt. But Holt must have gone back inside to file his match report. So Danny acted. He couldn’t stop himself. McGee had got him out of trouble; now he wanted to reciprocate.

He ran to the foot of the stand. There was just enough light to see the steps and the pitch. But not across it.

He vaulted the advertisement hoardings – and was on the pitch. He could see the players just standing there. Unsure if the game had ended or not.

But not McGee. McGee had disappeared.

Danny ran to the goal mouth. He could make out no lights except from under the stands. Emergency lighting. And there – silhouettes against the only light in the stadium – he saw a scrum of people, close together, struggling towards the exit.

He set off after them. They had McGee. Danny knew it.

He ran at medium speed. He didn’t want to be exhausted when he reached them. And he knew they were moving slowly. Slower than him.

Danny heard the English fans chanting as he dived under the stadium into the plastic tunnel where the players had emerged for each half of the match.

Now that he knew McGee was straight, he wanted to do everything he could to rescue him. He had doubted him, thought he was going to throw the game. And he felt guilty.

He heard voices. McGee calling.

‘Help! Someone! They’re going to –’

Then McGee’s voice was muffled.

Under the stands, a strip of emergency lights ran along the ceiling. Danny spotted McGee being led away; but now he looked as if he was happy to be going.

A gun, Danny thought. They must have a gun on him.

What on earth could he do? Where would they take McGee? What would they do with him?

There were other people under the stand. Dozens of Russia fans, some with children, leaving in disgust immediately after the final whistle and the darkness. Even though it was dangerously dark to leave.

Danny followed McGee and his abductors. But not too close. He wanted surprise on his side. That was his one advantage.

Then he had an idea. From a book again. One he’d read to his dad. Cause a distraction. Shout something to change everybody’s behaviour. Create a stampede. Or at least a blockage.

He shouted, ‘Avtograf!’ Then again: ‘Avtograf!’

Several people – especially those with children – looked at him.

Danny waved his arm. And jogged towards McGee and his abductors, holding out his notebook and a pencil.

‘Avtograf!’ he shouted again.

And it worked. Several children were following him. He felt like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

‘Avtograf!’ he shouted once more.

McGee and the four men in black were suddenly surrounded by fans, mostly children, holding scraps of paper and pens out to McGee. Even though this man had probably stopped their team from qualifying for the World Cup, they wanted to meet him. He was an English Premier League player: one of the elite of footballers.

Danny watched as McGee began signing autographs, while trying to push away from his captors.

All the