him that the club was toast and yet all he was interested in was what the L’zuhl might or might not be doing.
‘You need to get your priorities straight,’ I said. ‘In fact, everyone does. They’ve never valued what we do. What we bring to Compound life.’
‘Um… what do we bring?’
I was aghast.
‘What do…? Come on, get your head on. We bring what the beautiful game always brings: joy. Excitement. A reason to get up in the morning. Hope, Rodway. We bring hope. And I’ll tell you… the galaxy needs that right now, more than ever.’
‘So… what can we do? Make them change their minds somehow?’
‘Fat chance of that,’ I scoffed dismissively. ‘Not with Leigh calling the shots.’
‘So we just give up?’ Rodway asked, sounding genuinely startled. ‘That hardly sounds like you. Last year when we lost that cup game in the ninetieth minute, you had us play on for hours after the final whistle until we equalised, even though the other team had gone home.’
‘Another couple of hours and I really think we’d have nicked a winner,’ I said, cursing the memory. I’d written to the league to have the result officially acknowledged as a draw but I never heard back. Up to them.
‘I can’t believe this is really the end,’ Rodway said, wistfully looking out of the window. I had a horrid realisation that with no football club to occupy his time, Rodway would doubtless slide back into his wayward lifestyle. I couldn’t see that happen.
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ I said. ‘The end, I mean. Not for us. Gerry and I… we’ve had another offer.’
‘You have?’ Rodway replied, intrigued. ‘From another team?’
‘Yep. Well, no. Not exactly. But Dave Moyes is right on the brink, apparently. They lost 5–0 yesterday. The man’s dead on his feet. Once he’s gone, they’ll fall over themselves to get me and Gerry.’
‘So they’ll sack their manager for losing 5–0 and then hire a replacement whose team has just lost 6–0?’ he asked carefully. I bristled.
‘Yeah, well, that was extenuating circumstances,’ I said. ‘Our striker had let us down badly, so we were demoralised. Shame, that.’
That shut him up.
‘The point is,’ I went on, after a long pause to let him stew in his own juices, ‘we can make a fresh start, a new beginning. Me, Gerry… and you.’
‘Me?’
‘That’s right. You’re my Les Ferdinand, and I don’t say that lightly.’
‘I don’t know who that is.’
‘I want you to come with us to… wherever the hell it is,’ I went on. ‘It’s Galactic League D, I appreciate that, but I really think we could mount a serious promotion push once I clear out all the dead wood that Moyesie has inevitably signed.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Rodway replied, sounding stunned.
‘Say yes, son,’ I said. ‘It’s either that or you get left here on Palangonia, the galaxy’s rancid arsehole, for the rest of your life. Stuck here with Gillian and General Leigh lording it over everyone, acting like they own the place. And football? Forget it – within a generation it’ll be forgotten in this nebula. It’s up to you.’
‘Yes!’ Rodway beamed. ‘Let’s do it!’
‘Attaboy,’ I said, shaking his hand. He could be a bit of a one sometimes but the kid had the guts of a damn lion.
‘I’d better get home and start packing,’ Rodway mumbled excitedly, getting up from the table.
‘Mind you don’t say anything to the other lads,’ I warned him. ‘The likelihood is that I won’t be able to take most of them with us.’
As I said these words I felt sick. The last thing I wanted to do was abandon these boys, but I was powerless to help them here. By taking Moyesie’s job over on… wherever the hell it was, I could build a team around which the galaxy could unite and provide a glimmer of hope to the runts I had to leave behind on Palangonia (which would be the vast majority of the squad, in all honesty – my holding midfielder, Rooker, had arrived at our first training session carrying a tennis racket, and Caines, my left-winger, was, well, a bit of a left-winger who refused to play unless there were guarantees that all players would have an equal share of possession during a match.)
‘I won’t,’ Rodway said, heading for the door. ‘You, me and Gerry. The dream team. I’m sorry I let you both down this week. It won’t happen ever again.’
I nodded.
‘Good on you, son,’ I said. ‘Remember: you’re my Ferdinand.’
‘I still don’t know who that—’
‘Don’t spoil it,’ I muttered.
I felt a strong pang of guilt at letting Rodway get so carried away by the idea of our moving on to a new club. It was far from in the bag – and I knew that Alan Curbishley was also making noises about being interested in Moyesie’s job if he got the chop (but then again, Al was the first on the scene at every vacancy – I remember he put his name forward for the new host of Blind Date on Channel 5 when they brought it back, despite his shameful lack of light entertainment experience. Pathetic, really.)
And then, as though like clockwork, General Leigh rode roughshod over my plans once more. His clipped tones came blaring out of the speakers dotted throughout the Compound Square outside Mr O’s Place, which were normally only utilised to indicate an imminent Winged Terror attack or to announce the winner of the Saturday raffle (Gerry won a cracking four-slice toaster a month earlier).
‘This is General Lawrence Leigh, commander of the Palangonian Compound,’ he said, sounding so far up his own backside that his head was practically coming up through his throat. ‘This is an important notice for all residents. A Section Z order has been put in place on an indefinite basis. No one can leave this Compound without my personal written authorisation. As of this moment… we are in total lockdown. Thank you for your compliance.’
Rodway, who was standing in the doorway, ready to leave as the announcement was made, turned to look at me slowly.
‘Gaffer?’ he asked timidly. ‘What does this mean?’
‘It means,’ I said, standing up with a heavy sigh, ‘that we’re not going anywhere.’
At least, not immediately. But I knew full well what this was all about. And I knew that the only way to resolve this mess was for Kevin Keegan to get his hands dirty.
No more Mr Nice Guy.
LOCKED DOWN
On
