The Danger Game

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘Well, the fact that he didn’t talk it over with her first has something to do with it, but the thing that’s really bothering her . . . well, I think she’s just worried that he’s putting too much trust in Gloria.’

  I frowned at Gran. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘It all goes back to what happened in Czechoslovakia. If Gloria was working for the Soviets as a double agent, if it was her who tipped them off about the undercover operation . . . well, who’s to say she won’t betray your grandad again?’

  ‘Why would she do that? And who would she betray him to?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just saying that that’s how I think your nan sees it. Once a traitor, always a traitor.’

  ‘Do you trust Gloria?’ I asked her.

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Travis. I’ve never met the woman. I don’t know enough about her to form a valid judgement.’

  ‘All right, but what’s your gut feeling about her?’

  ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘You’re not answering my question, Gran.’

  ‘You’re not answering mine.’

  We looked at each other for a few moments then, waiting to see who’d make the next move. I’m pretty good at waiting, and after a while I think Granny realised that it was up to her to speak first.

  ‘Your grandad trusts Gloria,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t have hired her if he didn’t. And while my son might have his faults, I’d never doubt his judgement of character.’ Granny shrugged. ‘If he thinks Gloria’s OK, that’s good enough for me.’ She smiled at me. ‘Does that answer your question?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s good enough for me.’

  19

  At two o’clock on Monday afternoon I was sitting on the bench with the rest of the substitutes watching the semifinal of the Twin Town Cup. Kell Cross Under-15s were playing a German team from a place called Steindorf, which apparently is somewhere near Wetzlar. The German side weren’t bad, but they were no match for Kell Cross, and although the game had only been going for fifteen minutes, Steindorf were already 1-0 down.

  It was another cold and drizzly day, and on top of my football kit I was wearing a tracksuit and a parka (with the hood up) and a beanie hat pulled down over my ears. If I had to sit here doing nothing for the next eighty minutes or so (U-15 matches are forty minutes each way), the least I could do was keep warm.

  The other semi-final was taking place on the adjacent pitch – Slade Lane Comprehensive v Saint-Jacques-de-la-Lande. I didn’t know if the French team were any good or not, but even without having seen them play I doubted they’d have much chance against Slade Comp. Slade’s team had an almost unbeatable combination of exceptional skill and savage brutality. They not only had half a dozen really top-class players, they also had three or four who were both reasonably skilful and frighteningly vicious. So even if Slade did come up against a side who were as good as them football-wise – which very rarely happened – they always had a Plan B to fall back on, which basically was to kick the other team off the park.

  Despite the miserable weather, there were pretty decent crowds watching both games. A lot of them were pupils, of course – anyone who didn’t have exams coming up was free to watch the semi-finals – and there were quite a few parents and teachers on the sidelines too. There were also one or two reporters and photographers from the local newspapers, a handful of representatives from various sponsors, and I’d even heard rumours that a couple of scouts from professional clubs had been spotted watching the games.

  As I mentioned before, the Twin Town Cup was a big deal for the school, and as I gazed around now – taking everything in, soaking up the atmosphere – I had to admit that it was actually pretty exciting. It would have been even more exciting if I’d thought there was a chance I might get to play, but that wasn’t why I was here, I reminded myself. I was here to catch a thief.

  A muted roar went up, and as I looked across the pitch I saw Kendal Price trotting back to the centre circle, modestly accepting the congratulatory hugs and pats from his teammates. I hadn’t actually seen him score, but Kendal’s one of those big tall centre backs who always lumber upfield for corner kicks, and I’d be willing to bet that he’d just hit the net with another of his trademark towering headers.

  Steindorf were 2-0 down now, and as the game kicked off again, it was obvious from their body language that most of their players were already resigned to getting beaten. Which was kind of untypical for a German team, as they’re usually renowned for never giving up. ‘You can never write off the Germans’, the football pundits always say. Well, you could write off this lot, no trouble.

  I glanced over at the changing rooms. They were housed in an L-shaped building, with the away dressing room in the shorter side of the L and the home side in the longer part. The car park in front was jam-packed with cars and buses, blocking my view of most of the building, but I’d taken care to position myself so that I could still see both doors. Mr Ayres, who taught history and PE, was standing guard outside the away dressing room, and Mr Wells – English and drama – was by the other door.

  When I’d met up with Mr Jago and Kendal at school on Sunday afternoon to install the motion sensors, I’d asked Mr Jago if he was going to tell the teachers who’d be guarding the doors about the sensors.

  ‘No,’ he’d said. ‘All I’ve told them is that once the teams have left the changing rooms, they’re to lock the doors and not let anyone back in without asking me first. Unless there’s a really good reason for anyone to go back in – a serious injury, say – then the changing rooms stay locked until half-time.’ He glanced at the air-freshener sensor in my hand. ‘Are you going to be able to switch that on and off when necessary?’

  ‘They’re remotely connected to my mobile,’ I’d explained. ‘I can either turn them on and off whenever you tell me, or you could just leave it to me. As long as I can see the changing-room doors, I’ll know when everyone’s left and the doors are locked, so I can just turn them on then.’

  ‘And turn them off again at half-time?’

  ‘Yeah. Then I’ll put them back on again when the second half starts and the doors are locked again. So you’ll only have to contact me if someone needs to get into the changing rooms unexpectedly.’

  ‘Right. And you’ll let me know immediately if the sensors pick up anything.’

  I nodded. ‘It’s probably easiest if we keep in touch by text.’

  I’d installed the sensors on the wall above each door, and with Kendal’s help I’d double-checked to make sure they covered every inch of the changing rooms. I’d also spent an hour or so having a really good look round the changing rooms, both inside and out, searching for anything that might indicate where and how the thief had got in. As far as I could tell, there were no signs of forced entry anywhere. The windows were all safe and intact, there were no telltale marks on the doors, and I’d even climbed up a ladder and had a quick look at the roof, but it was just a flat slab of solid concrete, and there was no way that anyone could have got through it.

  I couldn’t help being intrigued as to how on earth the thief had got in, and despite my earlier lack of enthusiasm for the case, I found myself thinking more and more about it. By the time Monday morning had come along – and I’d gone into school early to check everything out one more time – I was actually feeling quite nervous and excited.

  Now though, as I glanced at my mobile again, making sure I hadn’t missed an alert from one of the sensors (I hadn’t), I was beginning to wonder if anything was going to happen after all. Maybe the thief had somehow found out what we were doing, or maybe they hadn’t actually found out but had just seen or heard something that made them wary. Or perhaps, despite all my double- and triple-checking, I hadn’t installed the sensors properly. Or I’d made a mistake setting up the Wi-Fi . . .

  I shook my head. I knew I hadn’t made any mistakes. I knew it beyond doubt. But now that the thought was in my head, I just couldn’t get ri
d of it, and I started going over everything I’d done, replaying in my mind every stage of the installation, every step of the connection process, everything I could have possibly done wrong . . .

  And then my mobile buzzed.

  To keep things as discreet as possible, I’d set the sensor alarm to vibrate, and I’d put my mobile in my trackpants pocket so there was no chance of missing the alarm if it went off.

  I quickly dug into my pocket and pulled out my mobile. The alarm was still buzzing, and the sensor icon was flashing red. There was a letter H inside the icon, which told me that it was the sensor in the home dressing room that had been activated. I’d set a forty-minute timer on my mobile to help me keep track of the match-time, and as I quickly checked it now I saw that there was still almost ten minutes of the first half to go. My heart quickened as I glanced over at the changing rooms. I could see Mr Ayres standing outside the away dressing room, but my view of the other door was blocked by a bus that for some reason was reversing out of its parking slot. I couldn’t see the home dressing-room door or Mr Wells.

  I texted Mr Jago, using the simple signal we’d agreed on over the weekend – AAH. Alarm Activated, Home dressing room. I looked over at him. He was standing near the touchline at the far end of the subs bench, waving his hands around and yelling out instructions. He stopped suddenly, pulling out his mobile and glancing over at me at the same time. I saw him open the text and read my message, and then – after a quick word with one of the subs on the bench (a regular first-team player called John Cohen, who was being rested for this game) – Mr Jago headed off towards the changing rooms.

  I realised then that we hadn’t actually discussed what I was supposed to do if the alarm went off, so I wasn’t sure whether to follow Mr Jago or stay where I was and wait to see what happened.

  I looked over at the changing rooms again. The bus was parked right in front of the building now, and I still couldn’t see the door. I could see Mr Jago though, and as I watched him marching sternly across the car park, his face a picture of grim determination, I almost felt sorry for whoever it was he was about to surprise.

  I watched Mr Jago disappear round the back of the bus and then I looked at the timer on my mobile again. There were five minutes to go until half-time. I turned to the kid sitting next to me, a nippy little striker called Mosh Akram. He was leaning forward on the bench, his eyes fixed intently on the match.

  ‘I’m just going to the toilet, Mosh,’ I said, getting to my feet.

  ‘Have one for me while you’re there,’ he replied, without so much as a glance at me.

  I stuffed my hands in my parka pockets and hurried off to the changing rooms.

  20

  The changing-room door was open when I got there, and as I moved towards the doorway I could hear Mr Jago talking angrily to someone inside. He wasn’t shouting or anything, and he didn’t have that scolding-teacher tone to his voice, but he definitely wasn’t happy.

  It’s not difficult, for Christ’s sake, I heard him say. I mean, how many times do I have to tell you what to do? Just stay outside the door and don’tgo inside. It’s not bloody rocket science, Ralph.

  I knew who he was talking to now. Ralph was Mr Wells’s first name.

  I’m sorry, John, Mr Wells said wearily. But like I told you, I thought I heard someone in here, so I just came in to take a look.

  Jago sighed. We already talked about this, Ralph. If you see or hear anything suspicious, you call me. We agreed on that, remember?

  I just thought—

  Don’t think, Ralph, Mr Jago said dismissively. Just stick to the plan, OK?

  Although I couldn’t see him, I could hear the condescending sneer in Jago’s voice, and knowing Mr Wells, it wasn’t hard to imagine how he was taking it. I could picture him standing there, with Mr Jago towering over him, his shoulders stooped, his eyes lowered, unable or unwilling to stand up for himself . . .

  Mr Wells was a nice man. Too nice for his own good, probably. He was also a very troubled man. And whatever he’d done wrong now, whatever silly mistake he’d made, he didn’t deserve to be treated like dirt.

  I decided then that it was best if they didn’t know I’d overheard them, and as I began backing away from the changing-room door, I realised that my fists were clenched and my heart was filled with hate.

  Mr Wells’s son Peter had been two years older than me, so although I used to see him around at school, I didn’t actually know him personally. I used to hear lots of rumours and gossip about him though, so I had a rough idea at the time of what he was going through, but it wasn’t until afterwards that I found out the details of what had happened to him and his father.

  Peter was the spitting image of his dad – kind of swotty-looking, a bit weedy, wire-rimmed glasses, an old-fashioned haircut – and he had the same kind of personality as his dad as well. Quiet, harmless, a bit of a loner. He was nice too, just like his dad. But there are all kinds of ‘nice’, and his was the kind that doesn’t go down very well with some kids. It was the kind of ‘unmanly’ niceness that attracts derision and mockery, especially from so-called tough boys, and Peter was forever having to put up with teasing and name-calling – Gay Boy, Pete the Poof . . . pathetic stuff like that. Which would have been bad enough in itself, but Peter had the extra burden of being the son of a teacher, which made everything a hundred times worse for him. I remember seeing him in his dad’s car once, the two of them leaving school together at the end of the day, driving out of the teachers’ car park through a throng of boisterous kids. Some of the kids were deliberately dawdling along in the middle of the road, getting in the way of Mr Wells’s car, and as he beeped his horn and waved them out of the way, and they laughed and joked around – pretending to be startled, jumping out of the way – poor Peter just sat there in the passenger seat with his eyes lowered, his shoulders drooped, his face bright red with embarrassment. I remember thinking to myself at the time that he looked like the loneliest kid in the world.

  I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been in his position. I’m lucky really, in that I’ve never been seriously bullied or picked on or anything. I’ve never been ‘in’ with any of the tough kids, but I’ve hardly ever had any trouble with them either. I’m not sure if they generally leave me alone purely because they know I can look after myself, but there’s no question that that’s a big part of it. My dad started teaching me how to box when I was just a little kid, and I’ve been going to my boxing club every Tuesday night since I was ten years old, so I know how to box, and I know I’m pretty good at it. I also know how to fight dirty – I’ve got my grandad to thank for that – so, all in all, when it comes to any kind of physical conflict, I’m more than capable of holding my own. And whether you like it or not, the ugly truth is that sometimes violence is the only answer. It’s all well and good saying that you should ‘turn the other cheek’ or that ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’, but if you’re trapped in a dead-end alley in the middle of the night with a twenty-stone psychopath coming at you with a samurai sword, a pen isn’t going to do you much good, is it? Not unless you’re James Bond and your pen has a hidden button that turns it into a flamethrower or something.

  Anyway, all I’m trying to say is that it was different for Peter Wells. He wasn’t a fighter. He couldn’t stand up for himself. He couldn’t physically fight back against the kids who made his life a misery. He couldn’t beat them at their own game. And I suppose that’s why he decided to join them. Or at least, that’s what he tried to do.

  It was a fairly gradual process, and it started off with relatively minor changes in Peter’s behaviour. He began getting average marks for his written work – Bs and Cs instead of A*s – and when he was in the classroom he no longer put his hand up to answer questions. He just sat there, looking bored out of his mind. If the teacher asked him a question, or asked for his opinion about something, he just shrugged. It was more a case of a bad attitude than actual bad behaviour, but over time it got worse and wor
se, and Peter progressed from being a slightly sullen but essentially harmless boy to being a kid with serious behavioural problems. He was reported for swearing at a female teacher, and it wasn’t just the everyday kind of swearing, it was the really unpleasant stuff. He started missing classes, on one occasion just getting up and walking out halfway through a lesson, and it was suspected – but never proved – that he stole over a hundred pounds from a charity collection box for kids with leukaemia.

  Although his self-styled transformation from nice-quiet-swotty kid to socially-disruptive-serious-problem kid didn’t actually win him any friends, the kids who used to make his life a misery did actually start leaving him alone. I don’t think it was because they began to admire or accept him though, I think it was because they thought he was crazy, and it wasn’t the kind of craziness they liked to laugh at either. It was the kind of craziness that actually frightened them a bit. That’s my opinion anyway. I remember passing Peter in the corridor once. He was just standing there staring at the wall, a weird kind of smile on his face, and when he turned and stared at me, the look in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine. It was like looking into the eyes of something from another world.

  It was a pretty tough situation for Mr Wells to deal with, of course. Peter wasn’t just his son, he was one of his pupils too, so he didn’t just have to cope with it on a personal level – which must have been hard enough in itself – he had his responsibilities as a teacher to consider as well. So I suppose it was kind of understandable that when Peter was caught shoplifting one day, and Mr Wells was called out of school to go down to the police station to sort it all out, he was so exasperated and embarrassed by his son’s behaviour that when he got him home he really let rip at him. There were no witnesses to this outburst, of course – it only came out later because Mr Wells admitted it himself – so no one knows what was said or what really happened, but two days later Peter’s body, or what was left of it, was found on the mainline railway track just a kilometre or so from his house.