and the former first-team player didn’t even break his stride, but as James stood up he slipped a piece of glass from the pocket of his shorts and drew the sharp edge up his leg.
He was too chicken to press down hard and the first attempt didn’t even break the skin, but the second try cut into the tight skin around his calf muscle and produced a dribble of blood.
‘Owww,’ James yelled, as he looked around for Bruce.
Bruce had been waiting for James to go down and was on the scene in seconds, offering him a hand up.
Bruce inspected the wound and tutted. ‘That’s barely a nick, you tart. If you show Sasha that he’ll laugh his arse off.’
‘Bugger off,’ James said indignantly. ‘There’s plenty of blood there.’
‘Gimme the glass,’ Bruce said, as he looked around.
Fortunately play continued in a disorganised scrum around the distant goalmouth and the only spectators – Sasha and the coach – had lost interest in this pathetic excuse for a training session.
‘I know what you’re like,’ James said, as he palmed the glass over to Bruce. ‘Don’t go mad.’
Bruce bent forward as if he was concerned about James’ injury, then sneakily pressed the jagged edge into the tiny cut before ripping it out in a downward motion.
‘What the …’ James said, clutching his agonised leg. He would have yelled out, but he had to cover up because the injury was supposed to have happened when he’d gone down half a minute earlier.
‘That looks much better,’ Bruce said, as a torrent of blood poured down James’ leg into his crumpled football sock.
‘What have you done?’ James gasped, as Bruce gave him a lift out of the mud. ‘I’m bleeding to death.’
‘Don’t exaggerate,’ Bruce grinned, before he ran to the bench.
‘What’s up, champ?’ Sasha said disinterestedly, as he looked up and saw Bruce with James hobbling behind him.
‘My cousin cut his leg,’ Bruce explained, holding out the bloody chunk of glass. ‘Have we got any first-aid stuff around?’
By this time James was close enough for Sasha to see the state of his leg.
‘I’ll get the first-aid kit out of the van,’ the manager said, much to the alarm of James and Bruce.
‘Forget that,’ Sasha said, as he leaned forward and inspected James’ leg. ‘You can’t clean up all that blood without running water. Go over to my place and my missus will fix it up: she was a nurse, she’ll know what to do.’
34. FOIL
‘That worked OK,’ Bruce smiled, as he helped James to limp across the empty car park.
‘You’re a git,’ James moaned. ‘You know I’ve got a low pain threshold.’
‘That’s just a posh way of saying you’re soft.’
By the time they reached the main gate, James had walked off some of the pain and didn’t need Bruce’s arm around his back. As they passed on to the street, Bruce ducked behind a tree and grabbed a small backpack Chloe had dumped there half an hour earlier. It contained everything he’d need, hidden beneath a layer of dirty sports kit: a tiny PDA with a built-in voice recorder and camera, a couple of compact listening devices and a stun gun just in case things went wrong.
They rang the bell and were surprised when sixteen-year-old Lois Thompson opened the door. She looked like she’d been chilling in front of the TV, dressed in grey sweat pants with a ripped knee and a giant Luton Town football shirt that must have belonged to her dad.
‘Hey,’ Bruce said. ‘James slashed his leg, is your mum home?’
‘Did my dad send you over?’ Lois tutted. ‘He knows she goes to Weight Watchers on Monday night.’
‘Oh,’ Bruce said, exchanging an awkward glance with James as Lois examined James’ leg.
‘Looks nasty,’ she said. ‘I can take a look if you like. I used to be in the St John Ambulance when I was a kid.’
‘Would you mind?’ James nodded. ‘It’s a long walk home.’
‘Try not to drip blood anywhere.’ Lois let them into the hallway. ‘It’s brand new carpet and my mum would freak.’
‘Thanks,’ James said, pulling off his football boots.
‘Leave ’em on the mat,’ Lois smiled. ‘The first-aid stuff is in the big bathroom up on the first landing. Can you manage the stairs?’
‘I can hold the banister and hop,’ James grinned.
Lois looked at Bruce, unsure why he’d taken off his boots. ‘Aren’t you going back to the game?’
‘Oh …’ Bruce said.
‘There’s not much going on,’ James said, covering hurriedly. ‘Can’t he wait for me here? I might need help coming back