Wayne was good at getting on with things. The way his life was, he'd had to come up with all kinds of coping mechanisms. That was why, over the next few days, all the worry he’d been feeling about the fans booing him, or the threat from the Popovs, or the sight of his dad spattering a security man's brains over the wall of a basement somewhere, drifted away. He let it all wash over him like the tide; all the anger and violence. And any shock, anger or grief that might have been roiling inside of him was replaced by a blissful apathy.

At the root of this apathy was the profound trust in his dad – he knew he could rely on David to take care of things. So, when he didn't hear anything for the next few days, he took it as a good sign. He tore the threatening note into a handful of shreds, tipped them into the kitchen bin and carried on with his life.

Of course, neither he nor David was willing to leave anything to chance, and so he went ahead with increased security. On David's recommendation he went with a particularly expensive independent contractor. Wayne did not let himself think too much about the fact that the distinctly compromised security detail at the Mile End stadium had also been his dad's choice. Instead, Wayne simply forked out the cash and settled back into his everyday life. All it meant was that the house felt a bit crowded now. There were men in suits patrolling the gardens and haunting the corridors like the ghosts Wayne did not believe in. He did not trouble to learn their names. Quite honestly, he didn't care. His dad had told him not to worry, to forget about it. And so he did.

At least, he would have if his teammates would have let him.

At training the following Monday, Wayne took the short walk from his Range Rover to the training building accompanied by a pair of discreetly armed guards and was met by a chorus of catcalls. Bloody Nick Devlin was the ringleader, of course. A perennial shit-stirrer, was Devlin. "It's alright Wayne," he yelled, "no need for the armed escort. We'll look after you."

"Piss off, Devlin." Wayne forced himself to smile, though he did not feel like it. While he had gotten used to these lurking presences with their sunglasses and earpieces, he had not stopped to think about what it might look like to other people. He turned to his guards and, with a nod, indicated for them to wait outside the gates for him. They obeyed, and he jogged over to his teammates feeling like a right prat.

"Didn't you hear?" he said, thinking fast. "I've got a bloody stalker, mate. Absolute nutter. And you know what my dad's like, he don't do things by halves. So he's pushed the boat out and got me a load of security."

The mention of David Carter had an immediate effect on Nick Devlin. He glanced at his shoes like a naughty schoolboy and immediately changed his tune. "Yeah, well, you've got to be careful with stuff like that. These stalkers can be pretty nasty."

Wayne grinned. "Well, if I wasn't such a stud they wouldn't be after me, would they?"

One of the other players, Rick, took this as his cue to weigh in. "The crazy ones are the best ones, Wayneyboy!" he called out laddishly.

"Oh yeah? That why you married Cassandra, is it, Rick?"

Cue a chorus of roars from the rest of the team. "Aw, mate! You got done there Rick!"

"Alright!" came a sharp bark from the other side of the tarmac. "Enough mucking about." The players looked and saw their head coach, Luke Grimsby, standing with his hands in the pockets of his tracksuit, puffing plumes of chilly morning air. Grimsby had been a player himself in years gone by, until a splintered ankle put an end to his World Cup dreams. Now he contented himself by yapping at the Mile End first team like a pissed off chihuahua.

Grimsby had his work cut out for him at the moment: he had a new player to contend with, not to mention a team that was largely dysfunctional, in spite of the pretended camaraderie. For all their banter and practical jokes, Mile End Athletic was scarcely a team at all. Rather, it was a bunch of lads out for themselves – and only themselves. They would throw each other under the bus as soon as blink. The particular magnet for their undisguised venom was Wayne. If it had been up to Luke Grimsby, he would have kept Wayne back a bit. He would have let him earn his place in the first team via more visible means, so that the fans could judge the lad's talent for themselves. But of course, it had not been up to Luke. He had not even been consulted. Wayne was in the team, and that was that. Now the poor lad had to contend with thousands of fans who wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire.

Then there was this new Colombian. Again, Luke Grimsby had not been consulted. Well, that wasn't quite true, he had, but the "consultation" had taken the form of him being escorted into David Carter's office at the top of the world and informed that he would soon be welcoming a new player to his team. The way David talked about it, the arrival of the player was an inevitability, like an unwanted pregnancy, and there was nothing any of them could do about it.

While Luke Grimsby strutted around the pitch, occasionally growling encouragement or admonition at the young players, he thought about the Colombian.

Luckily, he spoke perfect English. Grimsby had worked with enough players from overseas to know that this was not always the case. It could make things very difficult. But a language barrier was not one of Lorenzo's problems. What was a problem was his ham-fisted approach to the beautiful game. He was aggressive, and he certainly did not lack drive, but there was no panache. No flair. Nothing distinctive. He evidently had a lot of personality off the pitch and was not afraid to indulge in drinking, partying, and just about every other vice under the sun. While Wayne Carter made up for his physical deficiencies with his boundless energy, Fabian Lorenzo was a sloppy player. And now Luke Grimsby, poor bastard Luke Grimsby, who had missed just about every opportunity life had thrown at him, found himself stuck with a team of sub-par players who hated each other. Sometimes he wondered what the hell David Carter was playing at. Not that he would ever have voiced his concerns to the big man. It was more than his job was worth. While the players played, he slumped on a plush leather bench seat and sighed.

As for Wayne, he found that the more he played, the greater his anxiety. At home he could just sit and watch telly and forget about things. Forget about the pitiful last words of the security man. Forget about the Popovs. But here, at the local training ground, as he darted around and practiced his manoeuvres, he caught himself glancing surreptitiously in the direction of his bodyguards. Checking they were still there. Checking they had not abandoned him. Making sure that he was not on his own.

The more he thought about it, the worse it got. The faster the adrenalin was pumping through him, the more his paranoia increased. The world around him started to blur, he charged at the ball and tackled his teammates with added aggression. He thought about the security team back at his house, rooting through his stuff, going through all his cupboards and clothes, checking for bugs or bombs or whatever it was they were looking for. He thought of the armed guards, shadowing him day and night. They were in his employ, but if push came to shove, and his father came for him the way he’d come for Darren, would they still protect him? Were they his men, or his father’s?

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All at once, a feeling of horror flooded his heart. He couldn't live like this. He couldn't.

"WAYNE!” It was Luke Grimsby, standing to one side of the pitch, beckoning.

Wayne stopped what he was doing, took a deep, calming breath, then jogged over.

"Wayne, what's the matter with you?"

"What do you mean, boss?"

"You're on another planet. You're all over the place. What's going on?"

Wayne stood with his mouth hanging open for a moment. He had not realised it was quite so obvious. "I… I’m sorry, Luke."

"Don't let me down, Wayne. You know it's a big game tomorrow, I need you on top form."

A big game. That was most certainly an understatement. Tomorrow's game – a home match at Mile End – was against none other than Chiswick Wanderers. The Popovs themselves would be in attendance; all of them. Wayne knew that if they were ever going to carry out their threat, it would be tomorrow.

For the fans, it was a local derby, a chance for them to give their longtime rivals a bloody good pasting. But for Wayne Carter, it was life or death. All at once, the terror and the anger that he had been suppressing ever since he received that note came flooding back.

"Wayne? Jesus, you look like you've seen a ghost. Is it this stalker business?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Yes, that's what it is. Sorry Luke. I'm not myself at the moment."

END YOUR CAREER

The words flashed in front of Wayne's eyes as though in blazing neon. He swallowed. "I... I don't know if I can play tomorrow."

"What?" Luke snapped. "The fuck are you talking about?"

"I don't know if I can do it."

Stage fright. First night jitters. In some ways, a footballer is like an actor. A game is a performance. There are plenty of ways to handle a jittery actor, and Luke Grimsby had developed his own technique over the years. "Don't be a pussy, Wayne," he said, smacking the midfielder on the arm a little too hard. "Time to man up."

Of course, there was no way Luke Grimsby could entertain the idea of Wayne not taking to the pitch in tomorrow's game. He cast an unfriendly glance at Fabian Lorenzo, who was doing a few ostentatious stretches and trying his best to look busy. If this guy was the future of the club, then they were all fucked.

Wayne took a swig from his water bottle, then immediately spat it on the ground. Could be poisoned. No! He was being ridiculous. The Popovs wouldn't try something like that. Would they?

He needed to think. He needed space. But more than anything else, he needed to get out of tomorrow's game. He could try playing the stalker card a bit more – make out that's what was worrying him. Or...

That's when he came up with another idea. It was so simple, why hadn't he thought of it before? There was a fool proof way to get out of playing in tomorrow's match, and that was to get injured. Nothing too serious, just a pulled hamstring or something similar. The sort of thing that happened all the time and would not raise the slightest suspicion from his teammates, the fans, or the Popovs. Not a bad idea. He might just be able to pull it off.

Then, under the watchful eye of Luke Grimsby, Wayne started to put his plan into action. He began playing with increased aggression, even during basic training matches. He was more confrontational in his challenges, charging his teammates and seizing control of the ball with commanding style. In the process he scored about four goals (he wasn't counting) and made the rest of the team look like lazy twats. But nobody stepped up to meet him at that same level of adrenaline-charged ferocity. He glanced over at Luke and saw the manager nodding his approval. This was not supposed to happen.

So, Wayne upped the ante a little bit more. He had a couple of near misses, which resulted in him skidding across the ground. But no injury. Not even the hint of an injury. What was the matter with him?

That's when another fresh opportunity arose. It was the new guy, Fabian Lorenzo. Wayne had only met him briefly and couldn't really make his mind up about him. Lorenzo had an air of completely unwarranted arrogance, but it was obviously a front. It seemed to say, I'm not here to make friends. That was an attitude Wayne could identify with, though he knew that Lorenzo would not have to suffer the humiliating chants of 60,000 fans tomorrow.

When Fabian Lorenzo took possession of the ball – his first time in this training match – Wayne charged at him. He barrelled into the young Colombian, slicing his feet out from under him in his wild attempt at a tackle.

Lorenzo was obviously not expecting this. He was completely unprepared. He crumpled like an origami swan.

Wayne found himself sliding along the ground again, conspicuously uninjured and in possession of the ball. What the hell had happened?

He snapped back to reality at the sound of a shrill cry. Fabian Lorenzo was curled foetally on the ground, clutching his shin and rocking back and forth. Was he crying? Were those tears in his eyes?

"Jesus, Wayne!" Grimsby snapped. "What the fuck are you playing at?"

"I'm... I'm sorry..." Wayne said absently, as he clambered to his feet. "I didn't mean to..."

"Look, let's just call it a day, shall we?" said Luke, beckoning to a couple of medics, who came jogging over to attend to the fallen Colombian. "Let's chalk this up as a loss."

Lorenzo was stretchered off, still moaning.

"Fucking hell," Grimsby wheezed.

"Nice job, Wayne," said Devlin with an unpleasant smile. "Maybe save it for Chiswick next time though, eh?"

Wayne gritted his teeth. Not only had his plan failed, but he had almost crippled the new guy. There was only one thing for it. Now that the training was over for the day, Wayne showered, got dressed and wandered back in the direction of his two bodyguards, who had been standing by throughout, watching everything with identical looks of profound boredom. Before he reached them, Wayne took his phone out of his pocket and tapped his dad's name in the address book.

A few rings, and then David Carter's voice came on the line, chipper as ever. "Alright Wayne? How's it going? Set for tomorrow?"

David was a master of acting as though nothing had happened. Hard to believe that only a couple of days ago, Wayne had watched him blow a man's brains out.

"Dad, it's about tomorrow. I can't play."

"You what?"

"You heard me. I don't want to play. I don't want anything to happen to me."

David sighed. "Is this about that note again? Look, I told you not to worry about that. I won't let anything happen to you. You know you can trust me."

"I just don't want to risk it."

"That note didn't mean anything. It's just part and parcel of the business. This is a game, Wayne, that's all it is. The Popovs want to put the shits up you. They haven't got the guts to actually do anything. Not when they're on our turf, surrounded by my men. I've got everyone coming down for this one, except for Tom and his team, who will be keeping an eye on your house while the game goes ahead. It's all covered."

"I'm still not sure..." Wayne tried again.

As David talked, a thin, icy edge crept into his voice. It was subtle, but Wayne was able to recognise it, even over the telephone line. "There's something else you need to think about, Wayne, and that's how this makes me look. It's all about appearances, and if you don't play, do you know what that looks like? It looks like I'm backing down. And I don't do that, do I? I don't back down."

There was a frosty pause. Then: "Say it."

"Say what?"

"Say I don't back down."

"You... you don't back down," Wayne murmured.

And all at once, David's good humour returned. "Ata boy. I'll see you at the match."

Wayne ended the call and headed back to his two bodyguards. He clambered into the back of his Range Rover without a word, and as the car whisked him away from the training ground, he looked down at his hands and saw that they were shaking.