and Northern Ireland goalkeeper, Danny Malone, is fighting for his life in a North London emergency ward after a brutal home invasion yesterday.
I’d heard the name Danny Malone so many times in the last couple of days, and as I played back the tape, I remembered the skinheads in the Qantas Club. When they kicked open the toilet door, one of them had said, “‘Ullo, Danny.”
The United legend sustained multiple fractures and internal injuries after being set upon by several masked men. CCTV footage shows the cowardly scum beating Malone to within a whisker of death and then turning his Hampstead home upside down in an apparent search for cash and other valuables.
Despite it seeming an inconceivably long bow, I knew, without question, that I’d been mistaken for Danny Malone, and that the bashing he’d received was meant for me.
In a last ditch effort to save the former goalkeeper’s life, doctors have him in a medically-induced coma until his condition stabilises.
Last night a vigil was set up outside the Mercy Hospital in West Hampstead and also at Old Trafford, where hundreds of well-wishers lit candles and deposited scarves and posters of Danny in his heyday. Eleven year old Micah Wilding from Ladbroke Grove expressed the feelings of all when he said, “I was too young to ever see Danny play. I don’t know who he was really, but I follow United and I just hope he pulls through.”
My duty was clear.
* * *
The young Australian nurse was thin-lipped and tired - at the end of both her double shift and her tether. She didn’t believe I was Danny Malone’s brother when I was unable to produce appropriate ID.
“Look at this!” I said, brandishing the paper and holding it up against my own face. That’s a picture of Danny. Need I say more?”
She still looked skeptical, and then she cornered me with a slightly tricky question: “If you’re Danny Malone’s brother, how come you talk with an Aussie accent? Aren’t you from Belfast?”
“Erm … did I say brother? He’s my cousin, but he’s been like a brother. We’re very close.”
“Sorry mate, immediate family only.”
Another rejection! But as I turned away I was face-to-face with a wiry little man who looked at me like he’d seen a ghost.
“Jayzus fock! An’ who’s this lookin’ loik the spit outta moy Danny’s mouth?”
The nurse replied: “He claims to be one of your Australian relatives, Mr Malone. He’s been trying to see Danny but I wouldn’t let him in. Tabloids, you know.”
The little man stood very close and squinted at me through thick spectacles.
“Australian relatives? Didn’ know we ‘ad none.”
“Are you Danny’s father?” I asked him, ignoring the nurse.
“Oy ‘ave that honour,” he replied.
“Look, can we talk privately? I think I have some information which Danny needs.”
* * *
We sat in the cafeteria. Bernie Malone was initially suspicious, then skeptical, then downright amazed as I told my story (commencing with the attack in the Qantas Club).
“The Blue Fury,” he muttered. “What would dem bastards want with the loiks o’ you?”
“Don’t know. Revenge, I guess.”
I hadn’t told him about the ringleader’s face in the unflushed toilet. It had happened so quickly, and it wasn’t my fault. But on reflection, it seemed that the incident, coupled with the bashing I’d handed out, was more than requisite provocation to hunt me down.
“Revenge on moy Danny,” considered Bernie. “I’d not believe such a tall story if’n I’d not seen the uncanny resemblance. Yer do look loik ‘im, it can’t be denied. An’ he telt me this morn that the attackers had said to ‘im: “Danny, have a nice time in Ozzieland? We thought ‘e wuz delirious.”
“So he’s awake? He’s alright?”
“Awake, yes. Alright? Not for a while.”
Relief washed over me.
“Yer’d better come ‘n meet ‘im,” said Bernie, still shaking his head in wonder. “Loik fockin’ twins so ye are.”
* * *
Getting past the nurse was simple enough with Bernie vouching for me: “‘E’s me sister’s only brother,” he smiled as we trooped past her and into a private ward festooned with flowers and Man United scarves. Two women sat at the bedside: one was clearly his mother, and the other, rather stunning creature, was probably his wife. They looked up as we entered the room and stared at me.
“Danny lad?” asked Bernie.
I could see no resemblance so far. The man in the bed was covered in bandages with only his eyes and nose showing. He continued to stare out the window for a few seconds and then murmured: “Allroight, Da?”
“Foin lad, foin. I’ve brought someone fer you to meet.”
“Fock’s sake, no visitors. Not today,” slurred the invalid, and I realised he was probably on very high doses of industrial strength pain killer.
“This is a very special visitor, all the way from Australia. He’s got somethin’ important to tell yer.”
The bandaged head of Danny Malone swivelled slowly in my direction. The green eyes, surrounded by purple bruising, trained on me and did not waver.
“Focken Jayzuz.”
“That’s focken blasphemy, son,” his mother chided gently.
“Aye, but fock. Where’d you come from?”
“G’day mate,” I said. “It’s a bit of a long story.”
I recounted, once again, the story commencing with the Qantas Club, the stranger in Bangkok, and the constant references to me looking like Danny Malone.
“I mean, I must’ve seen you a thousand times on telly back in the 80s and 90s but I never noticed the resemblance.”
Danny was silent for a moment. The drugs must’ve been strong; it was painful watching him try to think. At last he said, “Bloke in Bangkok … yer said he give ya key?”
“He did.”
I fished my keys out of my pocket and showed them the small silver key with K242 inscribed on it.
“Blokes in ‘ouse kept askin’ me, where’s the focken key? Didn’ know what they wuz talkin’ about.”
“Tell yer whut,” said Bernie. “This is more ‘n just revenge. Yer’ve been mistaken fer our Danny, but it’s plain yer’ve also been mistaken fer someone else. Someone’s
