Fair Game (2 page)

“Pleased to meet you, Billy,” he said.

“And you,” I replied. He waved at me to sit down.

“It's a pleasure to meet a real sportsman,” he added with a smile. He was a stocky, middle-aged man with tanned, plague-pocked skin. He had neat, brown, lifeless hair that had to be a wig. He smiled like a crocodile. “I hear you know Danny Marconi?”

I nodded.

“He's a good man, is Danny,” Gull said. He opened his large, lined palms. “We go back a long way.”

“Did you know his grandad?” I asked.

Gull raised an eyebrow. “I saw him play a couple of times when I was a kid,” he said. “He was a great footballer, Billy. He had such skill. They called him The Wizard.”

I didn't say anything. We'd had our small talk. Now it was time for business.

“I guess you didn't call me in to talk about Danny and his grandad,” I said.

Gull smiled again. “Danny told me you were sharp, Billy boy.”

“You've spoken to Danny?” I said, amazed. I had no idea prisoners could have contact with people on Earth. I never had.

“Danny has a special arrangement,” Gull went on. “We chat now and then.” He leaned back in his chair. “He told me about you, Billy. He said you were a real football star. He was sad to lose you. And then I see this blogcast you've been sending out. I see you are looking for people to play football. And I get an idea.”

“Yeah?” I said, not sure this was going anywhere.

“Yeah,” he confirmed and he told me his idea.

Gull wanted me to form a football team to play against the prisoners on Penal Colony 156. He'd help with finding the players and pay all expenses, he said. I was puzzled.

“Why? What's in it for you?” I asked.

He smiled his toothy, crocodile smile. “Money, lots of it.”

Then it came out. Gull Reeves ran a betting syndicate. Or he had, before the state banned them. Now he was in charge of the state's betting system. The problem, he explained, was that people were bored of betting on virtual sport. They wanted something new, exciting. And my idea of real football could be just the thing. What could be more thrilling than a real football match between two top teams, broadcast live all over the world?

“Two top teams?” I queried.

“I hear Danny's boys are pretty hot,” Gull said. “And I'm sure you can put together a strong team.”

He may have been sure; I wasn't. But it didn't matter anyway. “I'm not interested,” I said.

Gull moved forwards in his chair with a look of shock. “Billy, Billy!” he pleaded. “Why would you turn this chance down?”

I told him my feelings about gambling – and why I'd been in prison.

“Things are different now,” Gull soothed. “The bad old days of gambling gangsters are over.” He said it with a kind of regret, it seemed to me. I guessed he'd been one of those gangsters himself.

“I won't have anything to do with gambling,” I insisted.

Gull threw up his hands. He stared at me like I was a very complex sum he couldn't work out.

“You love football, right, Billy?” he said at last. I nodded. “You want people to play the game, really play the game?” I nodded again. “So you need to show them what fun it is and what they're missing. Right?”

“I guess so,” I agreed.

“Well, you'll never get a better chance than this,” Gull stated. “Millions, no billions, of people are
going to watch this match. It'll put real, physical sport back on the map.” I could see he had a point. But I wasn't going to admit it.

“Look, don't decide now. Go away and think about it,” Gull told me.

“OK,” I said. “But don't expect me to change my mind.”

Gull gave me another of his toothy smiles. “We'll see, Billy,” he said. “We'll see.”

On the way home I stopped off at a Rest and Refresh lounge and ordered a chocshake. I'd just started drinking when a guy slipped into the pod next to me. He was wearing a dark suit and sunglasses.

“Billy Balentine?” he said. He spoke in a croaky whisper.

“Who wants to know?” I retorted.

“Someone with your best interests at heart,” he croaked.

“That's nice,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed. He took off his sunglasses. It didn't make much difference because his eyes were black as ebony. “I've been sent to warn you. Stop what you're doing. Physical contact is wrong. It causes injury and disease.”

“Says who?” I queried.

“We do,” the man replied. “The Protectors.”

“I don't need protection.”

His black eyes bored into me. “We all need protection, Mr Balentine. Physical contact with strangers is dangerous. That's how plagues start…”

I laughed. I'd never heard anything so stupid.

“This isn't a game, Mr Balantine,” he said darkly.

“But that's just what it is,” I argued.

His stare got harder. “This is your first and last warning. Stop your quest…”

“Or?” I prompted.

“Or we'll kill you.” He put his sunglasses on again. “Good day, Mr Balentine,” he croaked and he slid away. On the back of his neck was a black tattoo. It looked like a flower of some kind.

When I got back to my apartment, I called Gull Reeves up on the videobox.

“I'll do it,” I said.

“That was a quick change of heart,” he grinned.

“Yeah, well, something came up,” I said.

No one was going to stop me doing what I wanted to do. I was going to play proper football – even if it killed me.

Gull kept his word. He put out ads all over the net. ‘Want to be part of the biggest sport event EVER?' they said. He knew how to big things up all right. He sorted out a place for me to hold my team trials too. It was an old school playground on the edge of the city. It was a dump with holes in the concrete, but it did have a couple of old goals. Gull even gave me a few footballs. They were good too – round and hard and bouncy.

“Where did you get these?” I asked.

Gull smiled his crocodile smile. “I have my contacts,” he said.

There were three days of trials. The first day it rained … and rained. It was like someone had cut open the black sky and the water fell in a solid lump. No one showed up. I sat in an old metal hut and shivered.

“How did it go?” Gull asked that evening.

“Well, so far we have a team of one,” I said.

“Ah, well, Rome wasn't built in a day,” Gull said.

“Rome wasn't built in three days, either,” I reminded him.

“Tomorrow the sun will shine. Things will be better, you'll see,” said Gull.

I wasn't hopeful, but Gull was right. The next day the sun did shine. The playground was dry when I got there.

A tall, skinny kid was waiting. He looked even younger than me. “Are these the football trials?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “You want to play?”

“That's why I'm here,” the kid replied. He had an odd, stiff face, as if his skin had been pulled too tight. He didn't smile at all.

“Let's get started then,” I said.

The boy's name was Rob. He was a goalkeeper, he told me. “I'm very good,” he said. “I've got my own gloves.” Again, there was no smile.

I told him to get in goal. I picked up one of the balls and bounced it. Then I threw it high to Rob's right. He stuck out a big hand and caught it. I did the same the other side. Again, he caught the ball with ease. I threw some low balls and he gathered those too.

“Not bad,” I said.

“I told you I'm good,” he said.

“Now for the real test,” I said.

I started kicking balls at him. I shot from different sides. Once I hit the bar so hard it almost broke. But that was as near as I got to beating Rob. He wasn't just good; he was amazing. I told him so. He just shrugged.

“I know,” he said. I asked him how he had got so good.

“I play football every day on the simulator,” he said. “I'm always the keeper. Other kids try to beat me. They never can – like you.” He almost smiled. Almost.

“You mean you've never actually played football for real?” I said, amazed.

He shook his head. I laughed. “Well, you're on the team, Rob,” I said. I held out my hand. He frowned at it for a moment, then he shook it.

The rest of the day didn't go so well. A steady stream of would-be players came and went, but none was anything like as good as Rob. Most of them looked as if they hadn't left their room for years, never mind doing anything active. They were pale, fat, unfit and had the football skills of a drunk donkey. I did get three more players. They weren't very good but at least they could kick a ball.

“Sounds to me like you're being too fussy, Billy boy,” said Gull on the videobox that evening. “If they've got two legs, sign them up. You can teach them the rest.”

“Danny Marconi's lot will kill us,” I said. “If I can't get enough decent players, we may as well call the game off.”

Gull wasn't having that. “Ah, now, Billy boy, that isn't going to happen. There is too much at stake.” His pocked face creased in a frown. “You
will
get a team together and this game
will
go ahead. Do I make myself clear?”

It seemed like everyone was threatening me. “I want to play,” I said, “but you've got to get me some better players.”

“All right, Billy boy. I'll see what I can do,” Gull soothed. The crocodile smile was back.

The sun shone on the third day of the trials. There was already a queue when I arrived. Maybe Gull had done something, I thought. But my hopes soon dropped. By the end of the morning I'd added three more players to the team, but they were hardly stars. Then two brothers, Quincy and Carl, showed up. They were raw, but had real talent. They had a friend, Jackson, who was OK, too. He was a bit clumsy, but he was big and strong. He'd make a good centre back. At least now I had a full team, even if it wasn't amazing. But the best was still to come.

Lennox appeared right at the end of the day. He looked the part all right – well-toned, black, athletic – and he was a gem. He was fast, skilful
and had a powerful shot. He was a box of tricks. Like Rob, he was very good and he knew it. Unlike Rob, he was also very cocky.

“You left it late to show up,” I said.

“Well, you know what they say,” he grinned, “leave the best till last.”

Now, at last, I was starting to have real hope. The team had a strong core: keeper (Rob), centre back (Jackson), centre midfield (me) and striker (Lennox). Maybe we could give Danny's boys a game after all…

We spent the next two weeks training. It was tough. It had to be. We worked on football skills and tactics in the morning. That was the easy part. The afternoons were fitness training. We trotted, sprinted, jumped, pumped, stretched. We did sit-ups and press-ups. We strained and sweated. I found it hard going and I was quite fit. Most of the others groaned and moaned, puffed and panted. Jackson was the worst. He had a large gut from years of sitting and eating. He didn't need to be fit, he reckoned.

“I ain't gonna run, man,” he said. “Those prison guys are gonna have to run round me.”

He had a point, but I couldn't let him get away with it. We were all in this together. We all had to work hard. Jackson grumbled, but he knew I was right. By the end of the two weeks he'd lost twenty kilos. He wasn't as big but he was stronger – and he was fit. We all were. We were ready for our big test.

Last time I'd flown to Penal Colony 156 it had been in the state's prison shuttle. I'd been in chains. My fellow passengers had been convicts. It had been the most uncomfortable ride of my life. This time, thanks to Gull Reeves, we travelled in luxury on the media shuttle. We did have to put up with having cameras in our faces – and we had to answer lots of dumb questions – but we had beds and food and we were treated like stars.