Kwame and John thought that this was a great idea — they were laughing and grinning at each other.
‘That big stupid bastard is going to be so pissed off after the game when we tell him,’ they said.
‘Yeah, don’t tell him it was my idea. I’ve got enough on my plate this afternoon without having to worry about him sticking one on me.’
‘What about the official team handshake?’ asked Kwame. ‘Do we blank him then, too?’
‘Absolutely, yes,’ I said. ‘Like he was fucking invisible.’
Minutes later, in the tunnel, I watched carefully as our players lined up quietly, ready to walk onto the pitch. Aaron Abimbole swaggered out of the Toon dressing room, no doubt feeling quite at home, grinning his big grin and glad-handing one or two officials; and he looked genuinely taken aback when he offered a brother’s handshake to Kwame Botchwey and the Ghanaian turned the other way. I could almost hear him swallow his disappointment as John Ayensu did the same. But he kept grinning for a few moments longer as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.
‘S’a matter with you guys? What’s wiv the dis?’ asked the Nigerian. ‘Something wrong wid you?’
Ayensu ignored him and bent around Abimbole to shake the Newcastle goalkeeper’s hand.
Since his arrival in London Abimbole had managed to learn some Brixton black man argot; he was a quick learner.
‘What’s cracking, bruv? Break it down for me, man. How come you trying to flex on me?’
By now Abimbole didn’t know where to put himself and looked about as isolated and lonely a figure as if he was already on another transfer list: even his own Newcastle team mates seemed to sense that something was wrong and started to blank him, too, which was strange. The two Ghanaians had played their parts to perfection, so much so that I thought Aaron Abimbole was going to cry; and he was the last man to leave the tunnel.
But for a while it was a tactic that looked as if it had gone badly wrong. With just ten minutes of the game gone, Aaron Abimbole scored with a skilful chip when he saw our bright new goalkeeper off his line. It was a sucker goal and left me feeling a fool for having spent nine million quid on someone who looked like he was still keeping goal at Tynecastle, where skills like Abimbole’s were in much shorter supply. So much for the Scotsman’s idea of keeping a clean sheet for the rest of the season. Fuck off.
Now Abimbole was pumped up like a car tyre with a score to settle against his old club and threatened again just three minutes later. This time our new signing made a great save that spared everyone’s blushes and it’s fair to say that while anyone could have saved the Nigerian’s first shot, no one but Traynor could have saved his second; suddenly the nine mill looked like a much better spend.
And then — ‘innocent face’ — it all went spectacularly wrong for Aaron Abimbole. For several minutes he was everywhere — you couldn’t have asked for a better work rate — and yet to my mind he needed to calm down: it was almost like he needed to prove himself, not just to the Newcastle fans but also to the City fans, too, who booed every time he went near the ball. I could see Alan Pardew felt the same. On the edge of his technical area he was shouting at Abimbole to stay in position and to pace himself. But the Nigerian wasn’t listening to anything except the blood roaring in his curiously shaped ears.
A couple of minutes later, having read Dominguin’s pass to Xavier Pepe on the edge of the box as if it had been sent by Western Union, Abimbole launched himself from behind at the little Spaniard with both feet, all his not inconsiderable weight, and more studs showing than an England ruck; he virtually chopped the other man’s legs in half. I’ve seen riders come off superbikes at Monza who were moving slower than Abimbole was when he intercepted Pepe. It wasn’t so much a sliding tackle as an assault with intent to commit actual bodily harm and the referee didn’t hesitate, showing him a straight red card that brought the whole of Silvertown Dock to its feet, cheering wildly for although we were a goal down, you could see the effect on the Newcastle players at the Nigerian’s dismissal. I might have felt sorry for the boy if I hadn’t been so concerned about Xavier Pepe, who had yet to move after the tackle.
Fortunately he wasn’t injured and was soon hobbling around on the touchline; four minutes later he was back on and scored the equaliser when he ran onto a pin-point pass from Christoph Bündchen. After that Newcastle struggled to cope with the one-man deficit; City peppered the Toon box with shots and by half time we were a goal up.
As we went back into the dressing room there was still no sign of João Zarco and Maurice McShane was looking worried.
‘And?’
Maurice shook his head.
‘I’ve looked everywhere.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, not everywhere. It’s a capacity crowd here today: sixty-five thousand people. It’s Where’s fucking Wally out there on the terraces, Scott. But I’ve looked everywhere that’s obvious and quite a few of the less obvious places, too. I’ve phoned his wife, his agent, his ghost—’
‘His ghost? What do you mean by that, Maurice?’
‘The bloke who wrote Zarco’s book, No Games, Just Football. Phil Kerr. He’s here this afternoon. He’s always bloody here. Loser. I’ve called Claire. I’ve even called his builder. I’ve also had a quiet word with the police to see if they can help to find him. I’ve done everything but make an announcement on the Crown of Thorns PA.’
‘Don’t for Christ’s sake do that,’ I said. ‘The press will wet their pants if they think he’s gone AWOL.’
‘I think the cat’s out of the bag on that one, Scott. Sky Sports have noticed he’s not in the dugout. Those penguins have been indulging in an orgy of speculation about where the fuck he is.’
‘Any bright ideas from Jeff Stelling?’
‘Only that we should send Chris Kamara to look for him. Kammy knows everything about being fucking lost.’
‘Very funny.’ I smiled. ‘No, it is. If I wasn’t so frazzled now I might even laugh. I feel like Charlie Nicholas’ haircut.’
‘It’s been suggested that he’s walked out. That he and Viktor have had some kind of barney and that João threw all his toys out of the pram and just buggered off.’
‘If that were true Phil Hobday would have said something. And he didn’t.’
‘Fair enough. But those two have history. Everyone knows it. Even Chris Kamara.’
‘Look, try some of the hospitality boxes. Get the security boys to help you. But don’t make a big deal out of it. Just say Zarco’s left his mobile phone in the dressing room and we don’t know how to get hold of him. Better still, have them search the terraces with the Mobotix, as if we were looking for a hooligan.’
The Mobotix video system comprised seventy-seven high-resolution cameras providing cutting-edge crowd management and security. It worked well during our matches and it was a pity it hadn’t been switched on when someone had dug a grave in the centre of the pitch.
When we went back on for the second half the Toons were still moaning to the officials about the sending-off, but there was little they could do about it now. Aaron Abimbole was already in a taxi and on his way home, which suited me very well. Pardew had substituted a couple of players and moved to a 3-5-1, but the game was already beyond them and fifteen minutes into the second half Bündchen scored two in quick succession, and that was the way it ended: 4–1.
I was dreading the post-match interview on Sky Sports. They were paying for the game and that meant we had to put someone in front of their cameras. I didn’t want to do it but I had no choice since, in Zarco’s absence, there was no one else. I knew Geoff Shreeves was going to ask me about where Zarco was and I really had no idea what I was going to tell him. Shreeves could be terrier-like with his questions and I just hoped he would let go and that I wouldn’t do a Kenny Dalglish and lose it on live television. Being a Scot that’s always a possibility.