the way, mate. Word of warning. Don't let Kenny Hawtrey rub you down.'
'Why?'
'Shirt-lifter.'
'What?'
'Iron hoof.'
'Sorry?'
'Fuckin' bummer, innit?'
'Aah ...'
Something about Danny's pose made Spike understand. As he was about to climb into his car, one of the press liaison people took his elbow.
'Tadeusz, do you mind giving a quick autograph? Young lad over there, he's bunked off school to come and see you.'
'Sure, I meet him.'
Standing by the exit from the car park was a youth of about sixteen, slightly built, with curly brown hair and a few pink spots on his chin. He wore a tee shirt, jeans off his hip and a blue hooded top.
'Hello. I am Spike Borowksi.' He held out his hand to the young man.
'Finbar Veals,' he said softly, looking down at his new white trainers.
None of the three syllables sounded like a name to Spike. English people didn't seem to be called John Robinson any more; but linguistically it had been a bad day all round.
'You want I sign your book?'
'Yeah, thanks.' Finn held out a battered school notebook.
'How long you support the team?' said Spike. 'Since you a kid?'
'No, I ... er, I don't. I ... support a different team.'
'What?' Spike laughed. 'Maybe you support Chelsea!'
'No, I ... It doesn't matter. I wanted to meet you because I'm thinking of signing you in my Dream Team eleven. Do you know that website?'
'No. You tell me.'
Finn blushed. 'The Buyers' Guide said you're like Carlton King with a first touch, or Gary Fowler with an IQ.'
Spike laughed. 'Is very rude. Your newspapers too. They say something like I play like Orlando if he stop being a girl. Is not kind to Orlando. Just because he wear earrings.'
'No, I think it's because he dives. Do you think you are going to score a lot of goals? Are you feeling confident?' The meeting was important to Finn, and he found his natural shyness ebbing.
'If I get picked by the boss I will score. But we have four strikers, so is not easy.'
'But he won't play Vladimir Stoev now you're here, will he? He hasn't scored for months.'
'Is strong player.' Spike was thinking of the elbow to Charles Watiyah's face.
'They say he only scores if there's a full moon,' said Finn.
Spike laughed. 'OK ... Finbar? That your name?'
'Finn.'
'OK. Finn. You also go to training ground of team you support?'
'No.'
'But here you come.'
'It was important for me to see you in the flesh.'
'For a place in your team which is not in flesh.'
'Yes,' said Finn. 'I know it sounds weird, but all the guys in my year have teams in Dream Team and I don't want to be relegated.'
Spike looked at him oddly. 'I think you live in dreamland. Like Disneyland, yeah?'
'Well, no, I think it's the real thing.'
'And who else in your special team?'
Finn went through his current eleven. There were two England international centre halves, a Congolese enforcer in front of them, a Brazilian show pony on the wing and a giant Dane in goal. They were his big-money signings. The rest had been squeezed out of the budget that remained to him; they included a psychopathic Guinean with a dyed white goatee, a Welshman on a short fuse and a one-sided Colombian. He had sold a French striker and needed a steady supply of goals.
'I see,' said Spike. 'You make some good choice and some bad ones, I think. Now you meet me, what you say? Think I can score goals on the Internet?'
'You have to score them on the pitch, then they can be counted on the--'
'I know, I understand,' said Spike. 'But did you think I was good enough in training? You watch?'
'Yes, I saw.' Finn felt suddenly shy again. How was he to tell this man he needed to watch out for Sean Mills and Danny Bective, how they'd shafted the prospects of the last expensive striker?
'I must go now,' said Finn. His encounter with reality had left him drained.
'You want I take you somewhere in the car?'
'No, no, thanks. I'm fine. Thank you for the autograph.'
Finn turned and jogged off, out of the car park and down the pavement by the suburban street.
Spike watched him go and frowned. Why wasn't the kid at school?
Finn was already in the back of a black taxi. It was useful that the training ground was in the right direction for his second point of call on his day out: a pet cemetery in Esher.
He'd set his alarm for 8.32 that morning and called the direct line to the