Wayne had experienced many hangovers in his life, but the one that scorched his retinas and seared his cerebellum when he woke the next morning was up there with the worst of them. There was something about champagne, it knocked him out better than any other booze. It was eleven in the morning when he finally plucked up the courage to lift his head from beneath the bedclothes. He blinked furiously into the blazing sunlight that streaked in through the blinds.

These days his bedroom was very different from the one he had grown up in; this one was vast, white and sterile. Like the moon, or maybe an operating theatre. It nestled on the top floor of the grade-II listed mansion in the wilds of Essex that Wayne now called home. A place of echoing, cavernous hallways and creaking staircases. If he were a different kind of person, he might have found it spooky. But Wayne had never had much use for imagination.

What he appreciated most about this place was freedom. It was his, a place where he could come to get away from the looming shadow of his father. Somewhere to get drunk and host parties and bring a girl if he could find one. But of course, really it was just the illusion of freedom. Dad had picked the place for him, hired the staff to look after him, and ensured the house and gardens were well-maintained. Basically, this house was a sprawling, luxurious prison cell.

But Wayne wasn’t thinking about that when he tumbled out of bed that Sunday morning. In fact, he was struggling to form even the most basic coherent thoughts. That champers last night had really knocked him for six. His feet sank into the rich, plush white carpet and he looked down to discover that he was naked. Well, that was a development. He grabbed a bathrobe from a hook on the back of the bedroom door and quickly wrapped it around himself. Then he headed through to the ensuite, where a blast of icy water helped to revive him somewhat.

But he was still feeling giddy and a little sick as he stomped down the stairs. The place was empty; all the staff had Sundays off. The hallway was littered with clothes. He must have stripped off and tumbled into bed as soon as he got in last night. His suit trousers were draped over the bannister, his boxers hooked on the chandelier. He followed the trail of discarded clothing into the kitchen. His jacket was draped over one of the chairs. He picked it up and gave it a sniff. Ah, the good old-fashioned stench of boozy sweat.

Wayne headed for the sink and filled a glass from the tap. He knocked it back in one gulp. Finally, the room stopped spinning. His head still felt as though a pneumatic drill was chugging away between his ears, but that would soon pass. He sat down at the kitchen counter and ran his hands across the cool, smooth marble surface.

He looked out the window at the Porsche 911 parked in the gravel driveway. The driver must have put the Rolls away in the garage. His house, his furniture, his clothes and his cars had all been thrust on Wayne with undue speed. At the time, he had felt as if he’d won the lottery. But there was a statistic he’d read online somewhere that said the suicide rate for lottery winners was through the roof. It was possible to have too much money, too much success. Wayne had always worked hard to stay grounded, but circumstances did not make it easy for him.

That’s when he remembered the strange encounter with one of the guards yesterday. The little guy with the son. Hadn’t he given him something…?

A letter! That was it. Wayne reached over and grabbed his jacket. He fished around in the inside pockets and eventually emerged with the envelope, which was now decidedly creased.

To Wayne, the outside of the envelope read. Written in felt-tip or something similar. The cursive was decidedly confident; it didn’t look like something a ten-year-old would have done. But then again, writing was never Wayne’s area of expertise. He ripped open the envelope and unfolded a single sheaf of paper.

It wasn’t tightly packed with childish scribbles. In fact, the handwriting was just as bold and decisive as the lettering on the envelope. The message was brief. It said:

YOUR DAD STOPS OPERATING IN WEST LONDON

OR

WHEN WE PLAY MILE END

WE END YOUR CAREER

Time stopped. The world around him froze. And then, all at once, he came crashing back to reality with an undignified crash. In his shock, he had let go of the glass of water he’d been holding in his left hand. It dropped to the tiled floor and shattered spectacularly.

He sat there in the warm sunlight, reading and rereading the brief cluster of words. His brain could not quite make sense of them. And once the shock began to wear off, it was almost funny. Except, no, it wasn’t funny at all.

He absent-mindedly got down from the stool and scraped his foot on a shard of glass.

“Fuck!” His voice echoed to the uppermost halls of the old manor house.

He stumbled out into the hall to retrieve his trousers. His phone must still be in one of the pockets…

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

It was. He grabbed it, letting the trousers drop to the ground at his feet. He prodded the keypad a couple of times and opened up his address book. He jabbed a button labelled “DAD” and held the phone to his ear.

“Come on, come on…”

He need not have worried. David Carter was not a man to decline a call from his only son, his golden boy.

“Alright lad! Have a good night last night? Blow off a bit of steam?”

“Dad, listen,” Wayne snapped, “something’s happened.”

David’s tone immediately became serious. “What do you mean? Tell me.”

“I need you to go through the CCTV from yesterday. There was someone at the ground who shouldn’t have been. One of the security guards.”

“And you’re only mentioning this to me now? Why didn’t you tell me last night?”

“Because I didn’t know last night. He gave me a note. He said it was from his son and he told me to read it. I didn’t get around to it till this morning.”

David sighed on the other end of the line. “You always were a slow reader.”

“Fuck off, dad. This is serious.”

“Alright, so what did this letter say?”

Wayne held it up in front of him, disconcerted to spot that his hand was shaking slightly. “It says: ‘Your dad stops operating in the West End, or, when we play Mile End we end your career.’”

He waited a moment to see what his dad had to say. Somewhat alarmingly, there was a good ten seconds of silence on the other end of the line.

After what felt like hours of that hideous silence, David said: “Send me a photo, Wayne.”

Wayne took a quick photo of the note and sent it over.

More silence as David read the message for himself. “I’ll get security on this,” he said. “They can go through the tapes, find out who this fucker is. Can you describe him for me, Wayne?”

“Yeah. He was a bit shorter than the other guards. Now that I think about it, he was kind of out of place. I should have known at the time he didn’t belong. But he was dressed like all the others, and nobody else seemed bothered about him.”

David sucked in air through his teeth; a classic sign that he was furious. “Alright,” he said, “we’ll track him down.”

Before David could end the call, Wayne cut in quickly. “You know what this means, don’t you? It means there’s a bad apple in your team. It’s fucking ridiculous that the Popovs were able to hand me a letter in person. What if that bloke had a gun? Or a knife? Could have been a fucking disaster.”

“I know, son,” David said softly.

“Listen, I don’t need any of this, dad. I really don’t. I have enough to worry about with my own fucking home crowd booing me. I don’t need this shit on top of that. I don’t need your enemies trying to put the frighteners on me. You need to sort out whatever you’ve got going on with the Popovs, and make sure I’m left out of it. Alright?”

There was another silence, and for a worrying moment Wayne thought he may have stepped out of line. But then David answered him in a conciliatory tone: “I’ll sort it, son. Don’t you worry. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I give you my word on that.”

“Good,” said Wayne, then ended the call.

His heart was racing. He needed something to calm himself down. What he really needed was a drink; hair of the dog. But at the same time, he didn’t want to risk facing the Popovs at diminished capacity. He had to keep his wits about him.

Luckily (or unluckily) he didn’t have any plans for this Sunday. None at all. That would give him time to think this whole thing through and work out what to do next. His paranoia went into overdrive. He checked all the windows – all seventy-two of them. Every single one was securely locked and bolted. He called the home security firm that handled his alarm system and arranged for all his pin numbers to be changed. He also asked about getting more CCTV set up around the place. Maybe some sort of facial recognition scanner. That way he could guarantee that only a select few people were ever allowed entry to the property. The security guy on the other end of the phone quoted some prices at him, but Wayne was only half-listening. And then all of a sudden he found himself wondering if he could really trust this guy, if even he might be in the pocket of the Popovs.

He ended the call without settling anything. He ferreted around in a few kitchen cupboards and emerged with a dustpan and brush, which he used to scrape up the broken glass from the floor. Then he went in to one of his seven bathrooms and gave his bloodied foot a good wash with warm water. Next, he dressed. Just a t-shirt and jeans; nothing special. He wanted to look as inconspicuous as possible.

It had turned out to be a glorious day, and the rolling countryside all around him had never been more peaceful. But when he headed out into the garden, he found himself scanning the horizon for enemies, as though the Popovs were some kind of invading force.

The Popovs. Even the name made Wayne uneasy.

Thinking back, there were so many things that happened in his childhood that had warned him his dad was no ordinary businessman. Red flags that would have made a more inquisitive son ask difficult questions. But Wayne had learned from a very young age that the best approach was to not ask questions. To not make waves. To do everything he could to keep the old man happy.

All the same, there had been plenty of briefcases full of money that seemed to materialize from nowhere around the house. While more and more people were embracing the tech-savvy cashless society, David Carter continued to favour old-fashioned notes. There was nothing too unusual about that, perhaps, but the sheer volume of money coming in and out of the house certainly was unusual. On the few decidedly rare occasions when Wayne did mention this to his dad, David would always change the subject. “Just a bit of spare change,” he’d say. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be at practice?”

One of the things about power is that you have to be careful how you use it. David Carter had been investigated a few times by various regulatory bodies over the years. These regulatory bodies were then wined and dined before – surprise, surprise – coming to their senses and realising that David Carter was as pure as the driven snow. But it was close shaves like this that ensured David never took anything for granted.

When Wayne was growing up he was aware that all his friends’ dads were quick to demonise drugs and alcohol. At school there were regular assemblies and classes devoted to guiding kids away from the illicit substances that could prove to be their downfall. But David was a bit more laissez-faire about things like that. He turned a blind eye when he caught Wayne drinking lager while still underage. Wayne enjoyed the benefits, but he never really stopped to wonder why. Even when it cost him his mother.