Being a man of action, this rapidly escalating feeling of powerlessness was particularly frustrating for David Carter. Over the next fortnight, he saw his already precarious position at his club deteriorate further. Home matches swiftly devolved into anti-David Carter rallies, with protests, chants and banners all denouncing him vocally. He was all over the TV, papers and social media. Everything had spiralled out of control faster than he could do anything about it. Before too long, he had turned into a kind of Howard Hughesesque recluse, surveying the chaos from his director's box. His business was crippled. He owed money to everyone. The Russians wanted him dead. George McMinn and the cabal of investors wanted him dead. Even Max Linley, his closest friend, wanted him out. He was a pariah. Persona non grata in his own club. During the ensuing fortnight, he grew increasingly isolated. Some nights he slept in his office, because he could not face the pitying looks he got from Felicia. Mind you, the pitying looks from Rochelle were just as troubling.

Walking the corridors of the business suite at the Mile End stadium was like striding through the corridors of a ruined palace in the midst of the downfall of some tin-pot dictator. The various bodyguards and security people had begun to look decidedly shifty, to the point where David had a feeling that any one of them might stab him unceremoniously in the back at any given moment. And the admin people were putting in plenty of overtime, but accomplishing very little. David's own meagre efforts to restore his standing in the eyes of the fans were met with widespread indifference. He gave occasional telephone interviews, but found himself losing patience and slamming the phone down in most cases.

Soon there would be no way out. The writing was on the wall. McMinn had stopped taking his calls, so any attempt at getting an extension for his loans was doomed to inevitable failure. Max Linley was gathering media support and had started giving press conferences wearing that suit of his rather than his famous tracksuit. He was dressing like a statesman and conducting himself like one too. The loss of his family in one fell swoop had garnered him the sympathy vote as well.

David Carter was running out of options. The point at which he might reasonably have given up directorship of the club had unfortunately passed. The club itself was worthless; in debt up to the eyeballs. The loss of a shipment worth five million pounds had left him in bad standing as a supplier. And besides, if he gave up the club he would lose any semblance of legitimacy as a businessman. He would be just another drug runner – and a failing one at that. He hadn't heard from Wayne in close to a month, but he couldn't honestly say he missed the lad. Wayne lacked the can-do attitude that had taken David to the top of the tree.

But there was one thing that all these scumbags had failed to reckon with. Namely, the fact that David Carter's greatest ideas and innovations came when his back was against the wall.

*

Pete Morgan was a popular guy these days. It seemed as though all his transgressions had at long last been forgotten. He thought of himself as a kind of guru – someone who had rallied the Mile End fans behind a common cause. It was a glorious feeling. He had almost permitted himself to forget about the visit from Wayne Carter that had set the ball rolling, so to speak. All kinds of media outlets were clamouring to speak with him. So he wasn't altogether surprised when a knock at the door woke him from a welcome slumber. He shuffled out in his dressing gown, swearing under his breath the whole time, and opened the door. He was so drowsy and lazy that he even neglected to put the chain on.

When he saw who was standing out there in the hallway, he immediately regretted this mistake.

"Morning," said David Carter. "Can I come in?"

Without a word, Pete Morgan stepped back to admit the director into his flat. The two men sat in Pete's living room, eyes fixed on each other with undisguised hostility. But on the face of it, David was polite. He was on a peacekeeping mission.

"Well," Pete Morgan eventually said, "this is a surprise."

David smiled. "Thought it might be. But don't worry. I'm not going to sue you or break your legs or anything. No, no. I'm here on a mission of mercy."

"Oh you are, are you?"

"You've certainly been making a name for yourself with all these protests and publicity stunts. I admire you for it, actually. I'm a bit of a self-publicist myself."

"It's not about me," said Pete, "it's about the club."

"'Course it is. Anyway, people tell me you're planning a really massive event for this coming weekend. You're going to picket the match and make all kinds of trouble. Is that right?"

Pete Morgan looked David up and down. The club director was looking a little haggard these days, with bags under his eyes and his hair slightly unkempt, but apart from that he was the same suave smooth-talker who had won over the fans decades ago. A formidable opponent, even now.

"Do you want some tea, Mr. Carter?"

"Call me David. And yeah, I'll have some tea."

Pete had been living alone ever since his bitch of an ex took the kids, and he could never be arsed with things like washing up. So when he found a mug he simply tipped what remained of its contents down the sink and dropped a fresh teabag in. While the kettle boiled, he speculated what the purpose of this visit might be. Best to play it cool for now – say nothing.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Ah. Lovely stuff," said David as Pete handed him the piping hot brew. "Now, I think I'd better be honest with you. It would be best for me if this weekend's protest didn’t take place."

Pete laughed. "Oh, I'm sure it would. So that's what you've come for, is it? To try and talk me out of it?"

"Oh, no, I know better than to try anything stupid like that. No, no. I'm here to buy you off."

"Not sure you can afford it, mate."

"Ha! Well, yes. I know that my financial affairs are more or less public property these days. Everyone knows the club has lost a lot of money. All the same... how does a quarter of a mill sound?"

"Two-hundred-and-fifty grand? Where the hell have you got hold of that kind of money?"

"That's my business. The point is, it's my offer to you, Pete Morgan. So how's about it?"

"To cancel this weekend's protest?"

"Yes. Well, not just that. There are one or two other conditions. But am I right in thinking that you're not entirely opposed to the idea?"

"Keep talking, David."

David grinned. "Atta boy. I knew we'd be able to do business. But I want to make sure I get my money's worth. Cancelling the protest is all well and good, but there's a bit more to it than that. The club's in a mess, you and I both know it. But what the press and social media have got wrong is the notion that I'm the one behind all this so-called financial mismanagement."

"Oh yeah? Well, if you're not then who is?"

"This is where the business gets a bit complicated. Of course I don't expect the public to understand it, but you've got to bear in mind that I'm the director of the club, but I'm not the CEO. I'm the face of the club, and I make all the big decisions, but I'm not the one who oversees the running of all the club's financial affairs. That's the CEO's role. That's what he's there for. It's what he gets paid an exorbitant salary for."

"So he's the scapegoat then, is he?"

"Hardly. After all, it's not his face plastered all over the papers, is it? He's not the one they're burning effigies of in the car park, is he? No, he's been very clever about it, but really this whole thing is his cock-up and nobody else's. And he's got to go. He's going to go. I'll see to it myself. But I need the fans to understand that this restructure is going to save the club. The comeback starts here. And I’m the one who's on the side of the angels."

Pete considered this. He had never been very good at understanding complex business type things, but he could just about get his head around this. And it made sense. Sort of. "So it's the CEO," he said, more to himself than to David.

"Right. But I've got a good man lined up to take over. Somebody who'll help to steer the ship back on course."

"Yeah? Who's that?"

David smiled. "It seems to me like I'm telling you an awful lot when you've not even agreed to my generous offer. So how about it?"

Pete got to his feet and started pacing. “All this is a bit beyond me, David. I’ve never got on with men in suits. What I’m interested in is the football.”

“Same here. And I agree with you completely – it’ll be a sad day when the money men and not the fans are the ones who call the shots at Mile End. But believe me, the shakeup I’m planning will work wonders for the team. And it will take back control for the fans. You see what I’m driving at?”

“I think I do. Alright then.” He tried to make it seem as though it were a grudging acceptance, but of course there was no way he was going to turn down that sort of money – no matter where it came from.

"But I want to know something," said David.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"I want to know who organised all this. Who got you involved. Because – and don't get me wrong – this whole set-up doesn't exactly scream 'Pete Morgan' to me."

Pete laughed. "You know, you're alright David. You're not as much of a twat as I thought you'd be. Still a bit of a twat, obviously, but you're a man in a suit, after all. First, tell me who you're getting in to take over as CEO."

"My son-in-law, Jason Keller. I've decided it's best to keep things in the family from now on. Bringing in outsiders is always a mistake. I'm sure you can see the sense in that, Pete. After all, it's fair to say you went into your father's line of work, didn't you?"

"You're right there. Well, alright. I'll take you at your word, David. But it's funny you mention keeping it in the family. Your son didn't seem too keen on the idea when he brought me on board."

David Carter's stomach lurched, but he made a concerted effort to keep the inevitable look of shock from crossing his face. He remained stony, and simply said: "I had a feeling it might have been Wayne."

"Yeah. Sorry to be the one to tell you."

"It's alright, Pete," said David, forcing a smile. "I already knew."

As he lumbered down the stairs from Pete's flat, David Carter maintained the same look of calm composure, even while his innards boiled. Out in the street, he dived into the back of his waiting car and told the driver to get him back to the stadium.

So Wayne was the one behind the protests. And David had been so sure it was the Popovs. But the idea of his son being in league with the Russians was just too hard to swallow. Hadn’t David always taken care of him in the past, made sure he never wanted for anything? Wayne would have to be a fucking moron to jeopardise his own future by taking down his father's business.

As he reclined in the back seat of his car, David tried his best to fathom the ins and outs of this fresh revelation. Wayne was bitter. Of course he was. David knew that his son had been bitter ever since Ronnie Vincent crippled him. That's all this was – Wayne had been looking around for someone to blame and he had settled on his old man. Simple as that. But it didn't make the situation any less awkward. Without knowing it, Wayne was putting the whole Carter empire in jeopardy.

But it would be alright. The whole thing was over with now. The protest was off, Pete Morgan was calling off the bloodhounds. It would be alright, David did his best to reassure himself as the car coasted across London. This was a minor blip. Nothing he and Wayne could not sort out among themselves. It was good that he had found out; now he could start to put things right. But it left questions. Awkward questions.

By the time he got to the stadium, Pete Morgan had already been spreading the word. The hashtag "#SaveMileEnd" was doing the rounds, and the news was out there that the corrupt CEO of the club was finally being ousted, to be replaced by someone who knew what they were doing. Someone with the seal of approval of the great David Carter. The swiftness of this about-face was not lost on the media, but the fans were quick to retweet their support for the manoeuvre and so the various sports news outlets had little choice but to go along for the ride. David's mobile phone was abuzz as he re-entered the stadium, but this time he knew the news was good. His luck had turned at last.