He waited for a response, but Laidlaw’s attention was on the latest batch of notes, so he left him to it.
29
Archie Love was always the last to leave the park. There was a single-storey prefab building that the players used as a changing room. No showers, just a single WC, benches ranged down two walls and another wall of lockers. He liked to linger once everyone else had gone, allowing him to think back to his early days as a player. In the junior leagues, he’d got used to being the star of the show, the one the opposition had in their sights for a studs-up sliding tackle or a sly dig in the kidneys. Later, having signed as a professional, he discovered he was no longer the best. The advice he’d been given was to stick in and he might get there. He body-swerved alcohol and too many late nights, was out exercising from first light, and never shirked a practice session or tactics talk. He knew his playing career could be ended at any moment by injury or a clash of personalities. Even if he stayed lucky, he had between five and ten good years in him. Management was his goal, but he’d never been offered the chance. Nowadays he told the best of his young players that they had to think long term, had to put money aside for the rainy days ahead, and whatever they did, they should on no account open a pub. There were only two ways that ever ended: penury or alcoholism.
He didn’t feel particularly bad about the ones he approached to sway a result. He always did his research. Speaking of which, the bugger was ten minutes late. But then the door creaked and Love adjusted his posture accordingly. The man who walked in looked prosperous enough and fit enough. The coat he wore was new, and there was a chunky gold ID bracelet dangling from one wrist. There was a bit of a glow still left around him, telling those he met that he had a reputation. But Archie Love knew that Geoff Inglis had already passed his personal high-water mark; now he was in his thickening thirties. He might keep splashing, but he was in a pool growing shallower all the time.
‘Mr Love,’ Inglis said by way of greeting.
‘I always liked that about you, Geoff,’ Love replied with an indulgent smile. ‘You show respect.’
Inglis shrugged and began looking around the changing room. He wasn’t tall, but in his day he had commanded the midfield with a no-nonsense pugnacity. ‘You taught me a hell of a lot, back in the day.’
‘All started here, didn’t it, Geoff? Not here exactly, but a set-up just like it, muddy pitch outside and makeshift goalposts. But you applied yourself and you went places. I was always proud of you.’ Love glanced at the mirror opposite, checking he looked sincere.
‘Never quite got that Scotland cap, though.’
‘Not for want of trying.’
‘So what is it I can do for you, Mr Love?’
Love gave an extended sigh. ‘I hate the way they’re treating you, Geoff. Focusing on the younger faces, the fresher legs. We both know you’re on the transfer list. By the summer, you could even be on a free.’
Geoff Inglis pulled back his shoulders. ‘Might not come to that.’
‘You’re not daft, Geoff. It will exactly come to that. Loyalty counts for nothing these days. You’ve given your life to this game and you end up overlooked and unrewarded. I hate to see that happen, especially to a decent individual like yourself. We both know there’s a slow descent coming — lower leagues, maybe semi-pro, and then you’re on your arse.’ Love paused, locking eyes with Inglis. He had the man’s attention. It was time for a change of pace. He allowed his face to droop a little. ‘I had a son, did you know that?
‘I don’t think I did.’
‘He died young, far too young. He had a bit of talent, maybe could have made it. All of you boys, the ones I helped climb the ladder... well, it’s almost embarrassing to say it out loud...’
‘What is?’
Love’s eyes were growing liquid. ‘You’re all like sons to me.’ He inhaled and exhaled. ‘Which is why I try to help when I can.’
‘Help how?’
‘Something to cushion your backside as you slide down that hill.’
Inglis’s brow had furrowed. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
Then you dress sharper than you think...
Love wafted a hand in front of him as if to dismiss the idea. ‘Look, it’s just something that I can sometimes make happen. But I’d have to be sure you really wanted it. Will you do me a huge favour? Go away and mull it over. Think about your future and what you’d like to see there. I’ve got some contacts and they can maybe help those dreams become reality.’
‘I don’t know exactly what it is you’re asking of me.’
Love could see that right enough, but nor did he want to spell it out. Inglis had to join the dots for himself. The less Love said, the less there was to incriminate him. If Geoff Inglis did work it out, he would come back and ask the question, and Archie Love would answer ‘maybe’. Then Inglis would ask: how much money are we talking about? But Love would be coy about that, too, while emphasising that his friends could prove very helpful to Geoff in the future. They would be in his debt and they wouldn’t forget. They were people to whom loyalty was still a point of principle.
Not that Matt Mason ever would lend that hand, or anything else come to that.
But if Inglis was still unsure, Love might add that one small slip-up in a game was hardly going to prove a memorable blemish on a long and distinguished career. Teams would still be interested. A move into management was always a possibility.
For now, though, he had planted the seed, just as he planted his hand in front of him for the younger man to shake, still looking bemused but starting the process of working things out.
‘You’ve come a long way, son,’ Love said in closing. ‘You deserve a lot more than they’re willing to give you. Take it from one who knows, a pocket filled with banknotes beats a dusty cap in a trophy cabinet any day of the week.’ He placed a hand on Inglis’s back, steering him towards the door.
Once that was done, he turned to face the empty room once more. There were dollops of mud on the linoleum-tiled floor, blades of grass embedded in them. A cleaner would be in tomorrow to deal with it. He had found himself itching to play this evening for some reason, had actually almost sprinted onto the pitch. Fear and common sense had eventually prevailed. His power came from his past achievements. In the young men’s minds he was a success story. If he took to the field and was immediately dispossessed, or made a series of poor passes, or committed an error leading to a goal, that power would be lost irreparably. Instead, he had dug his bunched fists deeper into his track-suit pockets and bellowed instructions all the louder.
Now he lowered himself onto one of the benches, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Inglis would either take the bait or he wouldn’t. Plenty more fish in that particular sea. Love knew he was delaying the moment when he would have to return home, where his wife and daughter waited, united against him. Chick McAllister and Bobby Carter? He had flung up his hands at the horror of it, while Jennifer sat there reduced to a sulky adolescent, arms folded and head bowed.
‘It’s her life,’ his wife had argued, standing guard beside the sofa their daughter sat on as if to ward off a physical assault.
‘I’m her dad! It should have been you that told me, not the bloody polis!’
‘What’s done is done, Archie. Jennifer’s learned her lesson.’
Had she, though? He’d asked her that very question, causing her to storm out of the room, only to return a few seconds later.