‘So how is he? You didn’t say.’
‘Didier Cassell? Not good. Not good at all. He’s out for the rest of the season, that’s for sure. And right now I’d say you’ve got a better chance of playing again than he has.’
Drennan blinked as if considering this might be a real possibility.
‘Christ, I’d give anything to play a full season again.’
‘We all would, pal.’
‘Or just one FA Cup Final. A sunny day in May. “Abide with Me”. Us against a decent side like Tottenham or Liverpool. The whole Wembley thing. The way it used to be before the Premier League and foreigners and television turned the whole thing into a bloody sideshow.’
‘I know. That’s the way I feel about it, too.’
‘As a matter of fact, it’s my intention to make one last headline appearance at Wembley. And then call it a day.’
‘Sure, Matt, sure. You can lead the community singing.’
‘Seriously.’
Drennan lifted the Scotch to his lips but before it got there I tackled the glass neatly and carried it out of harm’s way.
‘Come on. The car’s just outside. I’d let you sleep here but you’d only drink all my booze and then I’d have to toss you out on your shell-like, so it’s best I take you home now. Better still, why don’t I just drive you straight to the Priory? We can be there in less than half an hour. Tell you what, I’ll even pay for your first week. A late Christmas present from your fellow Gooner.’
‘I might even go, too, but they don’t let you read in there and you know me and my books. I get so fucking bored if I don’t have something to read.’
As if in evidence of this statement he glanced down at a rolled-up paperback in the pocket of his jacket, as if checking it was still there.
‘Why do they do that? Not let you have books?’
‘The cunts think that if you read you won’t come out of your shell and talk about your fucking problems. As if that makes it better. I’m trying to get away from my problems, not crash into them head on. Besides, I have to go home, if only to get my diamond stud back. It fell out of my ear when Tiff belted me and the fucking dog thought it was a wee mint and swallowed it. He’s very fond of mints. So I locked the bastard in the garden shed to let nature take its course, you know? I just hope naebody’s let the thing out for a walk. That stud cost me six grand.’
I laughed. ‘And I thought I had all the shitty jobs at London City.’
‘Exactly.’ Drennan grinned and then burped loudly. ‘I like it,’ he said, pointing to the picture before glancing around the room and nodding his appreciation. ‘I like it all. Your place. Your girlfriend. You’ve done all right for yourself, you canny bastard. I envy you, Scott. But I’m glad for you, too. After everything that happened, you know?’
‘Come on, you stupid cunt. I’ll take you home.’
‘Nah,’ said Drennan. ‘I’ll walk up to the King’s Road and get a cab. With any luck the driver will recognise me and give me a free ride. That’s what usually happens.’
‘And that’s how you end up in the newspapers for getting yourself thrown out of another pub by the landlord.’ I took him by the arm. ‘I’m driving you, and that’s final.’
Drennan took his elbow out of my hand with fingers that were remarkably strong and shook his head. ‘You stay here with that nice wee lassie of yours. I’ll get a taxi.’
‘Straight home.’
‘I promise.’
‘At least let me come with you some of the way,’ I said.
I walked Drennan up to the King’s Road where I hailed him a cab. I paid the driver in advance and, when I was helping Drennan into the cab, I slipped a couple of hundred quid in his coat pocket. I was about to close the cab door when he turned and caught my hand and held it tightly. There were tears in his pale blue eyes.
‘Thanks, pal.’
‘For what?’
‘For being a pal, I guess. What else is there for people like you and me?’
‘You don’t have to thank me for that. You of all people, Matt.’
‘Thanks anyway.’
‘Now fuck off home before I go and get my violin.’
There was a man sitting on the pavement in front of the ATM. I gave him a twenty although frankly it would have been better if I’d given him the two hundred. The guy in front of the ATM was at least sober. Even as I’d put the money in Drenno’s pocket I’d known it was a mistake, just as I knew it was a mistake not to drive him home myself, but that’s how it is sometimes; you forget what it’s like dealing with drunks, how self-destructive they can be. Especially a drunk like Drenno.
3
When I got back to my flat I found Sonja preparing dinner in the kitchen. She was an excellent cook and had made a delicious-looking moussaka.
‘Has he gone?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
I inhaled the moussaka greedily. ‘We could have given Drenno some of that,’ I said. ‘A bit of food inside him was probably just what he needed.’
‘It’s not food he needs,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’m glad he’s gone.’
‘You’re supposed to be the sympathetic one.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because you’re a psychiatrist. I sort of thought that it was part of the job.’
‘It’s not sympathy my patients need, it’s understanding. There’s a difference. Drenno doesn’t want sympathy. And I’m afraid he’s all too easy to understand. He wants something that isn’t possible. To turn back the clock. His problems will be solved the minute he recognises that fact and adjusts his life and behaviour accordingly. Like you did. If he doesn’t, it’s plain to see where it will end. He’s that rare thing: a self-destructive personality who really wants to destroy himself. He’s a classic case.’
‘You might be right.’
‘Of course I’m right. I’m a doctor.’
‘So you say.’ I put my arms around her. ‘But from where I’m standing you’re the best-looking WAG I’ve ever seen.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment even though I regard the idea of looking like Coleen Rooney as anathema.’
‘I don’t think Coleen knows Ann Athema.’
We were finishing dinner at the breakfast bar and considering an early night when the telephone rang. The caller ID showed it was Corinne Rendall on the phone, Viktor Sokolnikov’s secretary. He was not someone I was used to speaking to very much, a fact of which I was sometimes glad. Like many people in football I’d watched the recent Panorama special about Sokolnikov, which was where I’d learned of the rumour that he’d inherited his business from another Ukrainian called Natan Fisanovich, an organised crime boss in Kiev. According to the Beeb, Fisanovich had disappeared along with three of his associates in 1996 and it was several months before they turned up in four shallow graves. Sokolnikov denied having anything to do with Fisanovich’s death, but then you would, wouldn’t you?