Wayne Carter was lazing by the pool when he spotted a figure approaching across the garden. For a brief moment, he was terrified, but then he made out the familiar shape of Rob Linley.

The weather was improving, and Wayne was finding himself spending more and more time outdoors. He was learning to enjoy his new lifestyle. He could even see himself as a man of leisure. He had his sports car, he had his millions of pounds and – most important of all – he still had his youth. He could do whatever he wanted.

Rob, however, looked to have aged a decade or two in the few days since Wayne last saw him. He came traipsing across the grass like a battle-scarred soldier returning from war. His tie hung limply around his neck like a noose, and there were sweat stains on the armpits of his crisp, white shirt. He hadn't shaved, and he appeared to have some sort of bandage around the little finger of his right hand.

Wayne sat up to greet him. "Rob! What brings you here?"

"Alright Wayne," said Rob, slumping into the seat beside his old school friend. "Sorry to bother you."

"Don't worry about it. You want a beer?" Wayne reached down and prised open the chiller cabinet at his feet, revealing a few green glass bottles protruding from a heap of ice cubes.

"I'd love one, but I'm driving, so better not."

Wayne knew what this meant: Rob had already been drinking. "Jesus," Wayne said, peering over the top of his sunglasses, "you look like shit, mate."

"Cheers. I feel like shit, too."

"What's up?"

"What do you mean, what's up? Haven't you heard?"

"I'm trying not to get too involved in stuff these days. I'm guessing it's something to do with Mile End?"

Rob shrugged. "Sort of. Wayne, I think I've fucked everything."

"Go on."

"It's Silvertown," Rob whispered. "I wish I'd never heard the fucking word. It's all gone tits up. The development has fallen through."

"Hmm," Wayne said. "I thought it was funny I hadn't heard from dad for a bit."

"It was the bug. The bloody Judas Fly. The Popovs got some environmentalist to issue a statement about the Judas Fly habitat, and now there's an injunction in place to stop construction."

Wayne gave a sardonic bark of laughter. "Ohhh shit. So what does that mean? Greasing a few more palms? It's going to cost him more than five billion quid?"

"That five billion's gone, Wayne," Rob said, shaking his head sadly. "The Popovs really did a number on him this time. But not just him – the investors, too. It's going to turn ugly, I think. Basically, he's spent five billion quid of other people's money on a worthless patch of wasteland."

"That's a real shitter alright," Wayne said, "but my dad's not the type of person to roll over when things get iffy."

"I don't know." Rob looked utterly dejected. "I think he may be up against it this time."

"So why have you come to me?"

"Because you're the only one I can talk to.” For the first time, Wayne realised how desperate his old friend was. "You're the only one who knows what happened. About the Popovs. About that note, and the photos..."

"I'm guessing one of them is responsible for that?" Wayne nodded at Rob's broken finger.

"Yes. And I'm getting fucking paranoid over here, Wayne. I wasn't built to play these kinds of games. I'm a businessman, that's all. I'm not a gangster."

"I think," Wayne said, "some people turn into gangsters without even realising it."

Rob didn't even pause to wonder what his friend meant by that remark. Instead, he continued: "I'm worried your dad's going to do something silly."

"Such as?"

"Such as taking out a loan. Using the club as collateral. That would ruin everything."

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

"I thought everything was already ruined?"

"Things can always get worse," Rob muttered darkly. It was the wisest and truest thing he had said for a long time.

*

David Carter did not surface from his office at the Mile End stadium for a long time. All morning, he’d been engaged in a series of increasingly frantic phone calls, occasional snippets of which drifted out toward a shell-shocked Rochelle, who was back at her desk doing her best to act as though nothing had happened.

Now, a cabal of financial advisers had arrived and filed into David’s office, looking grave. Rochelle pictured them all sitting across the long conference table from Mr. Carter, all waiting to give their verdict. She’d made a note of each and every one of them when they came in. Mr. Carter had files on all of them: their weaknesses; their strengths; the best way to bride them. She wondered if he would have to use any of the information he had compiled on them today. Rochelle had never seen Mr. Carter so nervous. He wasn’t a man who usually felt nervous. And she was sure that he had a miracule up his sleeve.

The financiers were also hoping David Carter had a miracle.

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea, Mr. Carter," said Hugh Greeley, whose six-figure salary usually guaranteed his compliance with whatever his boss wanted to do.

David had spun his swivel chair to face the window. He was looking out at the grey London cityscape, melancholically. The rage was gone, and in its place a kind of bitter acceptance of this "new normal."

"No," said David, "me neither. But I've got to do it. It's the only way."

"The fans won't take it kindly, you know."

David sighed. "They put up with a lot, our fans. But I'm sure they'll understand. And if they don't, our PR people will make them understand."

"Alright," Greeley nodded, "if that's what you want, sir, I can have the papers drawn up this afternoon. All they will require is your signature."

"Yes," said David absently. He had not taken his eyes off the window.

It was indeed going to be a highly controversial move. The fans would hate him for it. The media would crucify him for it. But it was necessary. There was no other way out.

That morning, David Carter had received the brutalised corpse of a bird – subsequently identified as a duck – at his London apartment. In fact, Felicia had been the one to open the package, and her screams had shaken the building to its foundations. The message was clear enough: you're a dead duck, Carter.

A year ago, even six months ago, something like this would have been unthinkable. But it was a different world now, a world where Silvertown was bringing the Carter organisation to its knees. David had been trying to suss his way out of it, but the only option that presented itself to him was the one he was now pursuing. The one that would turn him into Public Enemy Number One to all the rabid footie fans.

He was in the process of arranging a loan which, in itself, was not all that controversial. But the circumstances made it so. It was a complex legal arrangement whereby the club, Mile End Athletic, would be liable for the loan as opposed to David himself. Something only a man in his position of power could have pulled off. But of course, the fans would loathe the idea of six hundred million quid coming out of their pockets in order to pay off the club owner's debts. David was past caring.

When the papers were delivered to him by motorcycle courier that afternoon, he signed them without so much as a second glance. And then he waited quietly for the media fallout.

The phone on his desk began to ring at two minutes to five that afternoon. He did not bother wondering who had managed to bypass the office switchboard with his direct line number. Whoever it was, it was somebody he did not wish to talk to. And yet he knew he was going to anyway.

He grabbed the receiver. "David Carter."

"Alright, Dave?" It was a gruff voice made fuzzier and throatier by distance.

"George."

George "The Fucker" McMinn. For a retiree living it up in sunny climes, he was surprisingly on-the-ball when it came to bad news. "A little bird tells me you're in even deeper shit than you were this morning."

A little bird. David had been wondering which of his silent partners in the Silvertown deal had been responsible for that ugly message with the morning mail. Now he knew. "Had to be done, George. No way round it."

But McMinn was surprisingly conciliatory. "Listen, I know it's the last thing you would have wanted to do. But you done it anyway. I respect that. Like tearing off a sticking plaster, you got it done regardless. That's alright. That's well and good. I've been speaking to a few of my fellow investors and we're all in agreement."

So McMinn was the ringleader. David supposed that he was the natural choice; he'd been around a while, he'd seen and done his share of dirty jobs, and he used to be the boss.

"And?" David asked.

"We've decided to give you one last chance. Aren't you a lucky boy?"

David sighed. He was indeed a lucky boy. A lesser man than he would likely have been found slumped over his steering wheel with a couple of bullets in the brain by now. It was nice to see that the Carter name still carried a bit of gravitas. His word meant something. "You won't regret it, George. Please pass on my thanks to the rest of the shareholders."

"Oh, I will.”

The conversation ended on amicable terms, and David laughed to himself, a little hysterically. He felt like a kid who has stolen a fiver from his mum's purse and got away with it. That adrenaline-fuelled elation of realising he was off the hook.

But it didn't last long.

David never bothered with social media, but it was part of Rochelle's remit to ensure the club maintained a robust online presence. And when she noticed that the phrases #mileend, #scam, #conman and #ripoff were trending at roughly the same rate across various platforms, she knew the word was out.

She had two options, now that her volatile boss had gone home for the day. She could call him on his personal mobile to break the news, or else she could let it simmer until tomorrow morning. Quietly, she shut down her computer and went home.