was crucial that I look depressed. I tried to focus on sad memories to contain my exuberant mood, like the death of my childhood hamster, or the time Rob Lee told me that he didn’t like Auf Wiedersehen, Pet.
‘Hiya,’ I said in a solemn voice. ‘I assume you saw what just happened out there. Now, I want to say, we did our best but at the end of the day—’
‘Close the door, please,’ Gillian said ominously. Slightly perturbed, I did so and took a seat opposite her desk. She looked quite pale. It had been a dismal performance, sure, but she seemed to have taken it quite badly. Well, so much the better. I reached over her desk and extended a hand and, as ever, failed to prepare myself for her iron grip. My eyes were almost watering by the time she released me, entirely oblivious to her own strength. She’d have given that Arthur Schwarzenegger a run for his money, I can tell you that much.
‘Now you can see what I’m up against,’ I continued. ‘But the important news is that it’s a problem that can be remedied. There are thirty-six more games and plenty of time to mount a promotion push. I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a list of potential signings…’
‘No, Kevin, be quiet for a minute,’ Gillian said as I unfolded the sheet of paper from my pocket and placed it in front of her.
‘I’m not asking for every name on this list,’ I explained to reassure her. ‘We already have the spine of a good team, we just need to add a few limbs. A good six or seven of these players and we’ll be well on the way.’
To my astonishment, Gillian screwed up the piece of paper and tossed it towards her waste paper bin (missing by a fair distance, which just about summed up the day really).
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, folding my arms across my chest. ‘You want to play hardball. You’re killing this club, you know.’
‘Kevin, there is no football club. It’s over!’ she said, voice cracking with emotion. I was taken aback.
‘Bloody hell, Gillian,’ I said. ‘Steady on. It’s only one defeat – you realise we have another match in midweek, yeah? A few of those new signings that you just dismissed out of hand and we’d get some points on the board for sure.’
‘Kevin, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s done. The plug has been pulled. Palangonia FC is no more. The Council voted on it this afternoon. I’m… sorry.’
My stomach was in knots – surely it couldn’t be true? Had my decision to leave Rodway on the bench and consign us to inevitable defeat really had such devastating repercussions?
‘I voted against it,’ Gillian went on as I just sat there, frozen, ‘of course I did, as did Dr Pebble-Mill, but it was a 3–2 majority. Something has happened and, well, all but the essential Council expenditure is to be redirected to General Leigh.’
‘Oh, I might have bloody well known!’ I snapped, breaking out of my trance. ‘Leigh’s been waiting to bring me down all year – you know full well he thinks Palangonia FC is a waste of time and money. And now he’s got his wish. Brilliant. Well done! Happy now?’
‘Kevin, if you knew what I know, you’d understand—’
‘And if you knew what I know, about how important football is to the morale of the people in this Compound, people who’ve been displaced by a bunch of bad alien sods without so much as a by-your-leave, you’d realise that this is the worst possible decision!’
‘Kevin, it’s not like that at all – yes, Leigh is opposed to the football club, but we still enjoy broad support on the Council—’
‘Do we?’ I huffed. ‘Funny way of showing it!’
‘It’s not a personal attack on you or the club,’ she insisted, adopting a calmer tone in an attempt to defuse the palpable tension in the room. ‘It’s a matter of necessity.’
I was flabbergasted.
‘What could be more necessary than this?’ I asked, waving my arms at the room and the wider stadium beyond. The fire had gone out of my voice now. I sounded helpless. An immovable object had met with an irresistible force, and the irresistible force had won. The dream had died.
‘So, that’s that then?’ I asked, getting to my feet and trying not to pout. ‘After all you and I have been through?’
‘Well,’ she said, sounding a little surprised, ‘I mean, we’ve only worked together for a year.’
I gestured to the framed photos on her desk – happy scenes of a man and two young children, taken years ago on Earth. The bloke was, by any estimation, quite the looker. Ordinarily I’d have assumed these were pictures of family or friends but Gillian didn’t have any of those. Although she was a confident, gregarious person in her working life I had noticed that she was a solitary, closed-book of a person with few apparent friends beyond her professional capacities – it was entirely likely that the pictures in the frames were the placeholder templates and she hadn’t got around to putting anything in them yet. (Pride of place on my own desk at the stadium is a photo of the 2003 Man City youth team squad, signed by Ronan Keating. I forget how that came about.)
‘Your family must be so proud of you – I hope you tell them all tonight what you’ve done today,’ I said bitterly, knowing it was a low blow. Gillian looked like she’d been punched in the gut and I instantly regretted what I’d said. She didn’t respond and, stubbornly, I pressed on. ‘I really did think you were better than this, you know. Gerry said you were a tight-fisted penny-pincher but I always stuck up for you. And yet here we are.’
I reached for the door handle to leave Gillian’s office for surely the final time. Maybe Gerry was right – a fresh start was the best way. My hand stopped in mid-air at what Gillian said next.
‘There’s a L’zuhl spy in the Compound, Kevin. And by hook or by crook, Leigh is going to flush them out. Until that happens… everyone on Palangonia is a suspect.’
THE SPY
I stepped into Mr O’s Place, feeling tired and dejected. The café owner was the enigmatically named Andy O – he was sitting in his usual spot on a stool by the side of the counter, reading the Compound Chronicle and muttering to himself about the recent increase in overheads for businesses in the square. He was always fairly hands-off as an owner, delegating the day-to-day running of the place to a man with an enormous head whose name I’d never managed to catch. I had a lot of time for Andy; he was a regular at our games (well, I’d seen him there once – though thinking about it, it might have been a pile of training cones) and he had even once generously provided emergency catering on a match day after Gerry’s sleepwalking flared up again the night before and he wolfed down the contents of four chest freezers before dawn.
‘Morning, Pete,’ Andy said to me as I approached the counter. I rolled my eyes and sighed heavily.
‘Aye, morning, Andy, lad,’ I replied. ‘Though as I said yesterday, and the day before, and basically every morning for the past year, my name is Kev.’
‘Right you are,’ Andy said, winking as though I’d just let him in on some elaborate joke. ‘What’s new with
