‘They look the same because they’re both showing the same amount of damage,’ said the man in the white coat who was standing to the left of the X-rays. He tapped one of the knees. ‘Your cartilage is damaged, and the damage is getting worse.’ His name was Craig Parker and he was one of the top joint specialists at London Bridge Hospital. He was in his late fifties and the consultation was costing more than a thousand pounds. Gabe’s club reckoned he was worth every penny.

  There was another doctor standing to the right of the X-rays, a pretty West Indian in her thirties. She was wearing a low-cut blue dress under her white coat and Gucci heels that made her almost as tall as Gabe. She was holding a clipboard and had a pen tucked behind her right ear and a stethoscope around her neck. Her jet-black hair glistened under the overhead fluorescent lights, and her pink nail varnish was a perfect match for her lipstick.

  Standing either side of Gabe were the club’s senior coach, Joe McNamara, and the team doctor, Brian Lawrence. McNamara had only been with the team for six months but Lawrence had been around for more than ten years.

  ‘The good news is the ligaments are fine. But you need to address the damage to the cartilage,’ continued Parker.

  ‘We’ve been giving Gabe hyaluronic acid supplements and corticosteroid injections,’ said Lawrence. He was in his forties and starting to grey. Usually he wore a team tracksuit but he’d put on a dark blue suit and a tie for the hospital visit. McNamara hadn’t bothered to dress up though he had thrown a fleece over his track suit. He was in his fifties, his grey hair windblown and unkempt.

  ‘The problem is that the injections might themselves be contributing to the cartilage breakdown,’ said Parker. ‘You know as well as I do that corticosteroid injections have to be strictly limited.’

  ‘We haven’t been going crazy,’ said Lawrence.

  ‘Have you been increasing the dosage?’

  ‘Well, yes. Obviously.’

  ‘And increasing the frequency?’

  ‘We’ve tried not to,’ said Lawrence. ‘I mean, let’s not get this out of proportion. We can all see the scans, but this has been a gradual thing. This hasn’t happened suddenly. We could look at the scans from a year ago and frankly there isn’t too much of a difference.’

  ‘But there is a deterioration, that we can all agree on,’ said Parker. He kept looking at Lawrence and eventually Lawrence had to nod in agreement. Parker gestured at the West Indian doctor. ‘Laura tells me you’re often in pain.’

  Gabe laughed. ‘I’m a professional football player, pain goes with the turf.’ He grinned at Laura. ‘No pun intended.’

  ‘Specifically knee pain,’ said Parker. ‘Knees locking up first thing in the morning. Aches that won’t go away.’

  ‘Doc, show me a single Premier League player who doesn’t need painkillers now and again.’

  ‘Gabe, come on,’ said Laura. ‘You’re among friends here. You can be honest with us.’

  Gabe sighed. ‘Right. Fine. Yes, sometimes I’m a bit stiff in the mornings. And yes, my legs ache at night. But I had that when I was a teenager after a hard day’s training. Your body hurts when you put it under pressure.’

  ‘Sometimes you twist it, right?’ asked Laura.

  ‘Everyone puts their joints under pressure at some time or another. They’re not designed to be twisted.’

  ‘You also need to consider the long-term consequences of the pressure you’re putting on your knees,’ said Parker. ‘And your hips. There’s a very high incidence of osteoarthritis among former top-level players. Long-term that could become an issue.’

  ‘Yeah, well long-term we’re all dead anyway,’ said Gabe, dismissively.

  ‘Gabe!’ protested Laura.

  He smiled at her. ‘I’m just saying, long-term isn’t my concern right now. My concern is Saturday’s game and I want to play.’

  ‘My recommendation would be that you didn’t,’ said Parker, folding his arms.

  ‘But this has happened gradually,’ said Gabe. ‘I haven’t had an accident.’

  ‘Touch wood,’ said Laura.

  Gabe sighed. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that it’s wear and tear. So nothing dramatic is going to happen tomorrow.’

  ‘Or you could take the view that the damage is cumulative and one more bad tackle could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back,’ said Parker. ‘You’ve just turned thirty-one years old. It’s generally accepted that in your profession athletes peak at twenty-seven.’

  ‘I’m ready for the scrap heap, is that what you’re saying?’

  Parker laughed. ‘Of course not. Twenty-seven is also the average age of the footballers in the Premier League so there are plenty of top-class players older than that, many in their mid-to-late thirties. What I’m saying is that you’ve had a good run. But now your joints are showing the effects of, as you say, wear and tear. My advice would be to take a break now and treat these injuries. Do it properly, take some time off to heal, and you could have another couple of years at the top. If you don’t…’ He shrugged.

  ‘I need to play until the end of the season,’ said Gabe. ‘Four more games.’

  ‘You need to sort this out, Gabe,’ said Parker.

  ‘I will do.’

  ‘Now,’ said the doctor. ‘You need to fix this now.’

  ‘I don’t want you cutting me,’ said Gabe.

  ‘There are options that don’t involve surgery,’ said Parker. ‘Not major surgery anyway. There’s a new stem cell technique where we harvest cells, grow them and then inject them into the knee.’

  ‘Great. Let’s do that.’

  ‘But you have to stop playing, for at least three months.’

  Gabe shook his head. ‘No way. Not now.’

  ‘Gabe, it’s for the best,’ said Laura.

  Gabe turned to look at McNamara. ‘Look, I’m playing. That’s all there is to it.’

  McNamara held up his hands. ‘Gabe, at the moment it’s your call. We just want to know what state you’re in. That’s why we had the scans done. Now analyzing those scans is often a matter of opinion, and we need to respect the opinion of the experts.’ He grinned. ‘It’s costing us enough. But if you’re not in imminent danger then whether or not you play is down to you.’ It had been twenty years since McNamara had left Scotland but if anything his Glaswegian accent had strengthened over the years.

  Gabe looked at Laura. ‘There you go. I’m playing. I’m fine.’

  Laura pointed at the X-Rays. ‘No, you’re not. And you know you’re not. And I know you’re not. I’ve seen you first thing in the morning, Gabe, when you can barely get out of bed. I’ve seen you last thing at night when you need a hot bath to unlock your legs.’

  Gabe grinned at her. ‘I love it when you’re angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry, Gabe. I’m worried. Worried about what’s going to happen to your legs if you carry on like this. You could end up in a wheelchair.’ She looked at Parker. ‘Tell him, Craig. He won’t listen to me.’

  ‘Laura’s right, Gabe,’ said Parker.

  ‘You’ll push me around though, if I’m in a wheelchair?’ Gabe asked Laura.

  She laughed despite herself. ‘It’s not funny, Gabe.’

  ‘You’re laughing.’

  ‘Because I love you and sometimes you’re too cute for your own good.’

  Gabe stepped forward and put his arms around her. She made a play of trying to push him away but her heart wasn’t in it and she surrendered to his kiss.

  ‘Guys, please, go get a room, this is a hospital,’ said Parker.

  Gabe broke away from Laura. ‘Seriously, you have a room?’ he asked Parker

  ‘The interns have to sleep somewhere,’ said Parker.

  Laura pointed a finger at Gabe’s face. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said. He grinned and kissed her again and this time she didn’t even pretend to try to push him away.

  Parker looked over at McNamara. ‘Love’s young dream.’

  McNamara smiled and shrugged. ‘We could throw a bucket of water over them.’

  ‘He needs to stop playing. And now.’

  ‘Just a couple more games, Doc. That’s all we need. Let’s just give him an injection same as we always do and we’ll be out of your hair.’

  ‘Joe, this isn’t the same as before. There’s a very real danger of permanent damage.’

  Gabe broke off from kissing his wife. ‘Just let me get the penalty record, Craig. Then I’ll take a few months off and we’ll do the whole stem cell thing.’

  ‘It’s not me you have to convince,’ said Parker. “I’m just the specialist. Whether you play or not is down to you and the manager. All I can do is give you a medical opinion, and I’ve done that.’

  ‘Does it mean that much to you, the record?’ asked Laura.

  Gabe nodded. ‘It does. One more penalty and I have the record for most consecutive penalties.’

  ‘You’re an idiot.’

  ‘But you love me.’

  She nodded solemnly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘And you’ll push me around in my wheelchair?’

  She pulled a face. ‘We’ll compromise, I’ll buy you an electric one.’

  ‘And we can still have sex, right?’

  ‘Guys, we’re still here,’ said Parker.

  ‘We can have sex, but with no knees you’re limited position-wise.’

  ‘Oh good God,’ said Parker. He put his hands over his ears and began to make random sounds.

  Gabe and Laura started kissing again.

  ‘I’m out of here,’ said McNamara.

  Gabe waved as he continued to kiss Laura.

  CHAPTER 4

  Eric LeBrun’s two million pound apartment had stunning views over the River Thames, but this was the first time he’d seen it upside-down. The river came into view every ten seconds or so, then he’d continue to turn. He could feel his face flushing red, the result of being suspended by his ankles from the balustrade of the upper hallway. He didn’t know who the two men were who had kicked their way into his apartment but the fact they were Chinese left him in no doubt who they worked for. CK Lee. Triad leader and all round bastard.

  The doorbell had rung and LeBrun had opened it holding a mug of coffee, assuming it was a neighbour, and one of them had hit him over the head with something hard. LeBrun had staggered to the kitchen but they’d hit him again and he’d collapsed. When he’d woken up he was hanging upside down.

  LeBrun had begged and pleaded for the men to cut him down but they had just sat on one of his sofas, drinking from a bottle of brandy they’d taken from the sideboard. It was expensive stuff, a gift from the club’s owner, but the two men knocked it back as if it was rotgut. They were waiting for something, or someone, and LeBrun was pretty sure he knew who that someone was. LeBrun knew there was nothing he could say to persuade them to let him go, and nothing he could offer them. It was his financial problems that had led him falling into CK Lee’s clutches, so there was no way he could buy his way out of his predicament. LeBrun hoped that this was just Lee applying pressure to make sure that LeBrun did as he’d been told. But he had a horrible feeling that it was more than that. And if LeBrun was right, he was in deep, deep shit.

  CHAPTER 5

  Gabe drove his black Bentley Continental GT3-R to the club’s training ground, some ten miles to the north of the club’s stadium. He arrived a few minutes before McNamara and Lawrence, who were both driving their club Mercs. Gabe’s car came courtesy of the distributor and was replaced every time a new model came out, though Gabe always insisted on having the same colour – black. Gabe had been enjoying the GT3-R so much he was hoping to keep it, but Laura had been less than enthusiastic, mainly because there was no backseat. It was a fair point and Gabe knew that his wife would probably make the final call, but it was one hell of a joy to drive.

  The training facilities were world class, with four full-size pitches, two grass, one artificial and one of sand, a medical and physiotherapy centre, two gyms, a sauna and steam room, and an Olympic-size swimming pool. It was surrounded by high walls topped with razor wire and the main entrance was guarded by two men in fluorescent jackets. Access to the training ground was tightly controlled. On occasions the Press was allowed in but generally it was off limits to everyone except players and club staff – even wives and girlfriends weren’t allowed in.

  The guards recognised Gabe and waved him through. The main building was to the left, the car park to the right. There were more than a dozen cars parked and it was easy enough to spot the ones owned by the players. There were two red Ferraris, a white Lamborghini, a black Range Rover with tinted windows and three Porsches.

  Gabe got his kitbag from the boot and headed for the changing rooms as McNamara and Lawrence drove up. Ronnie Watts, the team’s Liverpudlian keeper, was warming up in one of the goalmouths with two mid-fielders – Jason Wood and Juan Fernandez taking it in turns to lob balls at him. Wood was a thirty-year-old black midfielder who had been with the club his entire career. He was as big as they came, and favoured a shaved head and a goatee beard to cover the fact that his hair had started receding when he was in his twenties. Fernandez was shorter and stockier, an Argentinian who had been in the UK for five years, most of them with United.

  Assistant coach Tommy Brett was taking names in the changing rooms, using his iPad to note the time each player arrived. The club’s manager, Italian Piero Guttoso, had instituted a battery of penalties for what he saw as infractions. Late for training was a £100 fine for every hour, five times that on a match day. Failure to turn up on match day without a suit and tie was £200, using a phone on the team coach was £500. The money didn’t mean much to players earning thousands of pounds a week, but Guttoso used it as a way of keeping track of who was playing by his rules. He kept a chart by the entrance so that everyone could see who was breaking the rules and it was the embarrassment factor more than anything that kept the players in line. Guttoso was a hard taskmaster but he got results which meant he had the full backing of the club’s Thai owner. Brett was in his late twenties and had been one of the Premier League’s top goal-scorers before an ankle injury brought his playing career to an untimely end. Brett tapped his iPad and nodded at Gabe. ‘After the warm-up we’ll do thirty minutes of ball control then I can schedule penalty practise with Ronnie and Jamie if you want.’ Jamie McNeil was the number two keeper, a lanky youngster who had recently been signed from Glasgow Rangers during the January transfer window. He was only twenty but was fearless and already had Ronnie Watts looking over his shoulder.

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Gabe, dropping his bag in front of his locker. All he had in his bag were his boots and toiletries, the club supplied everything else he’d need.

  ‘How are the knees?’

  ‘All good,’ said Gabe, unzipping his kitbag and taking out his boots. Most of the players left their boots at the changing rooms for the apprentices to clean but Gabe always took care of his own. And unlike some of the players who preferred to play in neon yellow or Day-Glo orange boots, Gabe had always stuck with traditional black.

  In front of Babacar’s lockers were two gleaming boots, one black and one red. A lot of the players had various superstitions they followed and Babacar insisted on the mis-matched boots. He said it was because when he was a kid he stole his first pair of boots and he couldn’t manage to get matching ones. Now he was worth millions but the mis-matched boots kept him in touch with his roots, he claimed. Other superstitions were harder to explain. Marco Mancini, for example, always insisted that his socks were rolled up and placed inside his boots, pre-match. And Fernandez wanted his Number 20 shirts on wooden hangers rather than the metal that most of the players had. Stefano Armati always crossed himself before pulling on his Number 18 shirt, and Tim Maplethorpe demanded a fresh pair of laces for every game. Gabe considered himself free of such nonsense, though he couldn’t imagine himself playing in any other boots than black.

  ‘The ice bath is yours when we’re done,’ said Brett.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gabe. He was pulling on his boots when McNamara came into the changing rooms and took Brett over to one side so that he could be brought up to speed. Lawrence sat down next to Gabe. ‘Okay?’ asked the doctor.

  Gabe grinned. ‘I’ve been asked that a hundred times today, give or take.’

  ‘We’re worried about you.’

  ‘There’s no need, it’s wear and tear; I’ll be careful and I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Make sure you hit the ice bath after training.’

  ‘Yeah, Tommy’ll have it ready.’

  ‘And maybe half an hour of physio before you head off.’

  Gabe nodded. ‘Sure.’

  McNamara walked over and stood in front of Gabe, hands on hips. ‘Have you heard from Eric?’

  Gabe shook his head. ‘Not today.’ Eric LeBrun wore the club’s number 7 shirt and had been captain for almost three years. He was a Frenchman but had played in the English Premier League for more than a decade.

  ‘Any idea where he was last night?’ asked the coach.

  ‘We’re not joined at the hip, Joe,’ said Gabe. ‘Last time I saw him was here yesterday.’

  ‘He didn’t say he was planning a night out? You know what Eric’s like.’

  LeBrun had a liking for champagne and casinos, ideally in the company of a pretty blonde or two, a series of vices that had led to him being divorced two years earlier. ‘He didn’t mention it.’

  ‘I can’t believe he’s pissing around like this on the day before a big match.’ McNamara sighed. ‘If he’s gone AWOL again there’ll be hell to play. The boss won’t stand for it.’

  ‘He’s not answering his phone?’

  The coach slapped his head theatrically. ‘Of course, why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Gabe. ‘I was just trying to help.’

  ‘If he does get in touch, tell him to stop fucking about and call me.’