3.

Chester Football Club Pre-Season Fitness and Mental Stamina Training

Final Module: Memory and Attention-to-Detail Assessment

Write your candidate number: Six

Write your real name: Six

Write eight thousand words to receive evening rations. Write nine thousand words to receive rations plus a bonus. Write ten thousand words for rations, bonus, and alcohol.

I have been kidnapped.

Send help. SOS. How many words is SOS? Could be one or three. Who makes the rules?

I've just asked Nine and he says in France they have a body that makes language rules. Don't think we have that in England. Yeah, Nine's here. So's Fourteen and Two. Fourteen is struggling physically but doing great emotionally. Two's the opposite. Who knows what Nine is thinking? Sometimes I ask but don't understand the answers.

Seventy-seven words.

Seventy-seven. That's Max's squad number. Does he know this is happening? Nine says oui. Fourteen says no. They're his clients and they know him better than me. I'm a midfielder, not a mind-reader. I reckon he knew about the first three weeks, but not the last three days.

Oh, God. I hate writing. The title where it says final module is another sick joke. Every time we go through some physical hardship and wind up in a godforsaken hut, we have to write an essay, and every time it says final module. It's a mind fuck, plain and simple. We don't know when this will end. All we know for sure is we've got to write eight thousand words before we can leave the hut. It's a test of mental stamina. How well we notice detail. Stuff like that. Nine thousand words and we get extra rations. Ten thousand and we get some booze. I don't think I even want a beer. Tomorrow's going to be torture. Maybe torture for real, knowing these army fucks. I don't want a hangover while I'm being waterboarded.

The long and short of it is we underestimated the new guy. We didn't look after ourselves as a group over the summer. We've got too many sub-par characters. Too many coasters. They don't understand that standards are higher. And now we're here, paying the price.

That's about three hundred words. If I stick to short words, I'll get more done.

Newsflash: Fourteen has found a note under his rations. He's the only one who thought about tidying up, so he's the only one who would have noticed it. Diversity in action. The note's got topic ideas on. I'll use them as an outline.

Describe what you saw on July 3rd in as much detail as you can remember.

Right. I do remember that day. That was Monday. First day of pre-season. Max was back from his... hold on, I'm asking Nine what the right word is. Okay now I'm asking him to spell it. Max was back from his SOJOURN in Croatia. Must have been absolutely boiling. Ah. Now Nine's saying it wasn't Croatia, it was Portugal. Also boiling. Fourteen heard it was Cyprus. Two heard Florida. Fucking Max. Everything's a game with him, and Emma encourages it. Maybe she said it was Florida because Two is half-American? But then she would have told Nine he was going to France and Fourteen he was going to Ghana.

That makes no sense. We ate today but I'm still light-headed. Snapping at everyone. Talking shit. Don't know how to stop myself.

So, just over three weeks ago. First day of training. Max was there. Maybe. There was a Max-sized guy in a baseball cap, shades, and the usual black hoodie pulled over his head. He had ear defenders wrapped round his neck for if things got too loud. I'm pretty sure it was Max, but you can never really know. He did the fake Jackies prank. Why not a fake Max?

Anyway, it was fucking good to see him. He was a bit shaky on his legs when he moved. But the guy just came out of a coma. He's learned to walk again, he's come to work. It's mad. Mad stuff. I suppose he was just showing his face, except he kept it hidden. Was he checking on us? One thing, even though he was wearing all that clobber and I couldn't see much of his face, I'd swear on my life he was shocked to see Nine.

"Nine, why was Max surprised to see you that day?"

"Because I was out of contract. No-one told him I would keep training here until I made my decision."

"Right. It's not long before the first match of the season, assuming we make it out of here alive. Who you gonna play for?"

"I need to talk to my agent."

"Your agent is Max, though."

"I decided not to retain his services."

"So who's your agent now?"

"I'm representing myself."

Fucking Nine! He's worse than Max, sometimes. Good player, though. Looking around, we've got a defender, two midfielders, and a powerful striker. We'd be a decent five-a-side team. Is that what this is all about? Nah. It's just teambuilding stuff. It's not working, though. There’s a massive hole in this team, the way there’s a hole in the number six.

Right, early July, Max is there, Nine's there. We're all thinking Vimsy's gonna do some fitness with us. Nope. There's a guy with Max. He's six foot odd. Very strange face. Blank. Not much going on in that head, you think. He's got that trench under the nose some people have. Very short, grey hair. Brown eyes. He looks a bit like Phil Parkinson, Wrexham manager, but Parky's a bit more... hang on.

"Nine. What's a good word to describe someone whose face is all wrinkly? But not wrinkly like old. With lines in it. Like a fisherman."

"Weathered."

Yes! Parkinson is weathered. This rando is smooth. At first we think it's because he's soft.

Nope.

Next to new guy are three more randos. One's maybe twenty-two. Next is twenty. Next is teenage. They look similar. Later we'll find out that Max has scouted them on his break and christened them 'the Triplets'. Rumour is only one of them's good but he's had to sign all three. No-one knows why, or why someone as stubborn as Max would do that. He doesn't play by other peoples' rules. We start to come up with ideas, but that's all later. It's hard to focus on one thing at a time. That's part of the test, isn't it?

Vimsy gets us players in front of Max. New guy talks.

"My name is John Smith."

Hang on. I'm just asking the others if they think that's even his real name. Three votes for yes. I doubt it. I proper doubt it.

So he goes: "My name is John Smith. I am the new assistant manager for Chester Football Club."

That stirs the pot. None of us have heard a fucking peep about this. We all thought Max was going to manage a few games and persuade Jackie Reaper to come back. Something like that. He's mad on Jackie. There were loads of theories about how the season would go, but most of them didn't have Max as our full-time twenty-three-year-old football manager. Player-manager, I guess. When he's... you know. Available for selection. By himself.

Now, I'm thinking, if there's an AM, that means Max is set in stone. It's really Max as manager. For real. For proper.

Me? I'm all right with it. I'm more than all right with it. Can he set up a team? Yes. Does he get up the other dugout's noses? Yes. Will we bosh this league with him in charge? Yes.

Not all the lads see it that way. They thought Jackie was the man. I heard from Joe and Donny that when they were talking about extending their deals, Jackie straight up said Max would be in charge next season, but they didn't believe him. They thought Max would be in hospital for ages, Jackie would stay until January at least, and if he got that far he might as well finish the season. Would they have signed their contracts if they'd known? Not sure. But why wouldn't you? This club is going places. Open your eyes.

They'll see sense. No doubt about it. Or maybe this whole John Smith thing will have everyone looking for the exit in January. I know it's crossed my mind. Then again, heading for the exit always crosses my mind. I wish it didn't.

John Smith continues. His voice is raspy, but it's not like crazy deep or anything. It's almost normal. Normal with an edge of posh. Soft southerner. "Mr. Best has asked me to get you fit in preparation for the new football season."

That struck me as dead odd. Why would he say football season? It's a football club.

"Today I will put you through your paces. Tomorrow the real work will begin. The work will be real. Mr. Best requires you to be the fittest squad in the championship."

Championship? We play in the National League North. Who is this joker? And who are the other three?

"If you have any questions for Mr. Best that can't wait, ask them now."

Nobody wants to say anything because we don't know what's going on. Like, this could be another wind-up. It would be just like Max to give us a week pretending this guy who knows nothing about football is the new AM, and then whip Jackie out. Probably disguised as a fake Jackie.

Fuck me the way I think these days is twisted.

I stick up my hand. "We haven't heard about pre-season friendlies. Normally we get told who we're playing and when. Glenn gets us tickets for our families and that. Pre-season friendlies are a bit friendlier, if you get me. My mum won't go to a regular season game but she'll come to pre-season."

John Smith leans close to Max. I guess he's whispering to him.

"No pre-season matches. We go straight into the season."

Now that's worrying. That's not right. That's a bad move.

"Nine, what did you think when you heard we weren't playing pre-season matches?"

"I didn't think much. It's obviously to spare Max as much as possible."

"But we need to get match sharp. It's one thing being fit, it's another thing using it in a match."

"I expect Max has the target of August 5th as his first major exertion. If you played a friendly and he wasn't there, only Vimsy, would there be much point?"

I notice he said you played instead of we played. He's got one foot out the door. So why's he here? Anyway, he's wrong. We need matches. "Yes."

"Perhaps. The first match is against Bishop's Stortford. A promoted team. Probably rather weak. Max probably calculated it would be a sort of pre-season friendly."

"I never underestimate a promoted team. They've got winning habits. Winning mentality. It's hard getting promoted. Takes balls. Then we've got York City. They were relegated from the National League. I know some of the players and they're handy. They shouldn't have gone down. New manager. They'll probably be pretty tasty. Could be our strongest rivals. I don't want to play them undercooked."

"I don't know how to reassure you."

Annoying. Him saying that made me realise I did need to be reassured. Which is soft. "Why do you keep saying probably? Don't you talk to Max?"

"I am considered too stimulating."

Fourteen has an opinion. "I trust in Max. If he thinks we do not need a pre-season friendly, perhaps we do not."

"Great. But he's wrong. We do."

"Are you not excited about the season, Mr. Six?"

"I am. But we need to prepare right. And that means pre-season friendlies. If it was me, I'd have three or four and each one would get a little harder. Like he did with the women's team! Yeah. Three friendlies. That's what you do. What you don't do... is this."

I just took a little break from writing while I tried again to get the fire to light. No dos. My wrist hurts. I haven't written this much by hand since I was in school.

Back to July third. John Smith. "New to the first team squad is Andrew Harrison." This Harrison guy waves. He's lanky. Very, very tanned. He’s got one eye on us, one on his younger brothers, one on Max. We're all giving him dirty looks but it's accidental. We'll make him feel welcome later. The news of the AM has thrown us, big time. The fact we've got a new squad member is also out of the blue, but that's more in line with what we've come to expect from Max. I've been working with the kids and the women and they say that every now and then there's some rando who's thrown into the squad. They're always shit, but they get good pretty fast.

Yeah, Harrison's welcome. No problem. Even when I find out he plays midfield. It's like Max said that time. If some rando off the street can take your place, what does that say about you? I'm not worried. I'm going to take Harrison under my wing like Max wants. Show him the ropes. And show him he'll never take my spot. I'm the number six at this club. The squad needs more bodies, especially with flakes like Nine, who's off to a bigger club as soon as he can pluck up the courage to tell his mate. And Two, who's signed a new deal but we all know his heart isn't in the club. His heart's not even in this country. It's in America.

"This is Michael. You may notice some slight similarity. Michael has agreed to join first team training to make up the numbers. Finally, Noah is here to watch. He will join the over sixteens."

No-one corrects him, but that might be because no-one can believe he's made that mistake. Over sixteens? Over?

Vimsy gets us warmed up while John Smith escorts Max to the building with all the credit card people. Half a minute later, the light goes on in the office. Then it goes out again. Someone closes the blinds. Every now and then I look up there and convince myself Max is watching us through the gaps.

He's such a strange person.

At least he's up and about. After the attack, people were saying all sorts of things and I didn't know who to believe. Fourteen said he knew Max would be all right. God told him. He was the calmest, that was for sure. Nine was worst. Took it out on Farsley. Didn't even celebrate his goals. I got that. Proper Max Best football. Score, walk back, score again. Farsley were shitting themselves. We were like terminators that day. Cold, calculating, cruel. I want that. I want that every week.

The lads do, too, mostly, but they don't want to work for it. They think Max'll have a plan and we'll win every game. They frustrate me. Some exceptions: Magnus. Aff. And Raffi's been grafting like there's no tomorrow. Max threw him a lifeline and he's grabbed it with both hands. Fair play. Wish there were more like him.

But when the cat's away, the mice will play, and this John Smith guy has left the area. The lads are laughing and joking, being nice to Harrison, finally, who seems relieved. The Noah kid is begging to join the session. He’s cocky. He’s got spark. There's a lot of banter aimed at John Smith. It's like he's the new headmaster and we're thinking about all the shit we're going to get up to. He's a soft touch. A posh southern walk-over.

Our new assistant manager comes back out, takes off his jacket, and we see his arms.

That's the first hint that we've misjudged him.

First, the size. They're long and muscular, but not the way Magnus used to look. This guy's more like a builder - bulk from being used. But what's he been using his arms for to get them looking like that?

Then the fact that he's wearing three watches on his left arm. That gets under my skin, big time. What the fuck does he need three watches for?

He gets everyone to line up. He walks up and down in front of us. Almost immediately, he chooses Trick, and that scares me, too. He's latched onto the biggest arsehole. He can smell the lack of character. Smith's face changes. So does Trick's.

"Name?"

"Trick."

Smith bristles. I think that's the right word. He puts his head all the way close to Trick and screams, "You will address me as Brigadier!"

"What?"

The Brig, that's what we've started calling him in the meantime, and he's come to allow it, does this thing where his muscles sort of twerk, one at a time, like a Mexican Wave. The flexes are getting closer to his knuckles, so Trick finally gets it.

"My name is Trick, Brigadier!"

"Squad number?"

"Three, Brigadier!"

"Very good. Run," says the Brig.

Trick runs across the width of the pitch and comes back.

The Brig touches one of his watches. "Was that your best effort?"

"Yes, Brigadier."

The Brig points to the grass. "Sit ups until you can do no more. Count out loud. I will know if you try to deceive me."

He gets Gerald May to run. While he's waiting for him to return, the Brig makes a note of Trick's time in a black notebook. He gets May doing sit ups, sends the next guy running, notes May's time. It's a masterpiece in organisation, and I think: this isn't one of the first hundred times he's done this.

Oh, shit.

Max has found some army guy to come and drill us, and his drills aren't rondos. They're drills. He's a military dentist and we're in for a world of hurt. There's dread in the eyes of many. Vimsy, though. Vimsy's made up. He's been suspicious of Max since day one, but like anyone with a brain he's fallen in. Talent talks. But now Max has out Evansed Ian Evans. We've got some fucking SAS guy yelling at everyone. SAS stands for Shouting And Sadism. Vimsy is the cat who's got the cream.

Not all that long later, the Brig's got a 'top speed' score from everyone, plus how many sit ups we can do.

He is unimpressed.

"We will now do an aerobic fitness test. Mr. Best requires that you outperform the Bangladesh cricket team."

My first thought is, that doesn't sound so hard.

My second thought is, oh fuck.

I knew where that was going. We all did. Someone made a noise and I followed his finger. The cones were all set out. Mother of God. The bleep test.

Describe your first week of pre-season training in as much detail as you can remember.

Chester FC training so far in the 23/24 season has been quite different from at the end of the 22/23.

For example:

Under Jackie Reaper we did a lot of complicated passing, possession, pressing, and counter-pressing drills. There was a lot of emphasis on individual skill and competition between our attackers and defenders.

Under Max Best our sessions weren't so much about individual drills but were about seeing a match as a single ninety-minute performance. There was a lot of emphasis on dancing, feeling who had a 'hot hand' and feeding the ball to that person, and while there was a lot of incredibly specific opponent analysis it was presented very much in the context of 'we're top, they're shit, let's go slap'.

Under the Brig, we mostly did running. Straight line running, zigzag running, and as a fun change, hill running. There was a lot of emphasis on vomit.

"Nine, what single word comes to mind when you think about pre-season training?"

"Vomit."

"Fourteen, same question, but you have to choose a different word."

"Sick."

"Two, same question."

"Pavement pizza. Sidewalk spew. Chester chuck-up."

"Thanks."

The second day I remember looking around at all the cones and slalom poles and thinking, this might be fun when the balls come out. But the balls never left storage.

We ran. We ran until we were sick. We had a break. We ran more. All the while, the Brig tormented us. He shouted, he questioned our manhood, he said we didn't deserve our wages, that we were cheating the club, we were swindlers, that we wouldn't pass the basic physical requirements for the Bangladesh cricket team. There was something about the way he kept talking about them that wound me up, kept me running past where I thought I could go. I'm sure they're great at cricket and that, but this is football. It's harder. We have to be harder.

Two was the first to burst into tears. He wasn't the last. I broke on the Friday, but managed to keep it together until I got to my car. After the crying, I had to drive home and smile at Jane and little Tracy. I tried to pick her up and spin her round, she loves that, but I nearly threw her into the fireplace. My arms were jelly from the push ups.

My running times got worse. Somehow, I could do fewer push ups on day five than day one. John Smith was a fraud. Not only a sadist, but an incompetent one.

There was only one good thing that week and that was going with Max to the twelves on Thursday evening.

Hold that thought - I've just had an idea.

"Nine. You know the Brig?"

"Yes. Unfortunately I do know the Brig."

"Erm. You know the way everyone thinks he doesn't know anything about football?"

"He is undoubtedly a rugby man, it is true."

"Right. He's rugby, he's military. I've heard on the grapevine that he's doing a coaching badge. Football coaching. So that he can be a real AM. When Max was in hospital, we all chipped in, didn't we? Going to the youth team training and all that. But it was all voluntary. Start of the month I was forcibly 'volunteered' to go to a twelves. Brig wasn't there, and he's always with Max. Like, always. At the time I thought I was there to sort of look out for Max and help him out if he got tired and all that. But what if I was there to be the Brig for the day while he did his course? Do you know what I mean?"

"No."

"Fourteen, Two, do you?"

"Not really, Six."

Hard to get my thoughts lined up. Been a long day. Long week. Long month. "I'm saying... I wasn't there in case he got tired. He only spoke for a couple of minutes at the start, then he watched. He was showing his face, is all. Reassuring the parents. No, I was there as his bodyguard. In case... you know. Remember those twats were after him before the women's match? That Thursday. Brig wasn't available, and Max trusts me. So... So what if that's what the Brig is? He's, like, Max's bodyguard?" I stop my knee jiggling - it's a waste of calories. "Our assistant manager. He's not the new Guardiola, he's Kevin Costner. He's the bodyguard, and Max is Whitney Houston."

Nine thinks I might be onto something. "Who else did the same sort of thing? Escorting Max that week?"

"Raffi. Glenn. Magnus." Strong lads you wouldn't want to mess with.

Two has thoughts. "Would you want Magnus on your side in a scrap?"

"Magnus would be my first choice from the entire squad," says Nine. We're allowed to use the real names of other people, just not from our little team. We got sloppy on the first day and it cost us rations.

"Really? Magnus?"

"He is formidable. Do not be deceived by the crystals and the love of humanity. He would destroy you before you had even planted your feet." Coming from Nine, that's something. We've been boxing each other - not by choice - and he's handy. Fourteen doesn't like punching a mate. Neither does Two. Nine wants his rations - when he's told to box, he boxes.

"I'm with Nine," I confirm. "I might pick Raffi first, though. He's intimidating. I fucking love playing midfield with that guy. He's strong, he's smart, he's streetwise. And he learns."

"Raffi brings out the best in you," says Nine.

"Do you think?"

"You trust him. That's why he's not in here with you. You don't need to learn more about him."

That's a low blow, not that Nine realises what he's said. "I trust all you guys."

"Apparently not."

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"I mean... I do now. Even more."

Nine shakes his writing hand. I'm pleased to see he's suffering, same as me. "I will once more try the fire. Six, if it isn't private, would you tell us about Max's visit to the twelves?"

"It was mental."

"Oh! I think we have all earned a good story."

That's true. "Right. Before training, before I'm tired beyond belief, the Brig's given me very, very specific instructions. At exactly five past four, I drive to a certain spot, and no sooner do I park than Max slips into the back seat. I drive off. He's in full don't-look-at-me disguise, by the way. We get to the training pitch. Spectrum's there, and it's his first time seeing Max since the day. So he's all emotional and he wants a hug, and Max doesn't want one, but he doesn't want to disappoint his mate, so he suggests Spectrum stands next to him and gently wraps his arms around his waist and nuzzles into his neck 'like a lover'. And Spectrum blushes because I'm watching, but he sort of did it, without the nuzzling, and then I saw what Max was about. Spectrum got his hug, but Max making it weird made sure it wasn't too much, and there was something about the phrase that made Spectrum happy."

"It was a verbal hug," explains Nine. "It shows Max is himself."

"Yeah," I say. "That sounds right. Then Max gestures and says 'uh' which means let's get this over with. So the kids and their parents come over. A few are away on summer holiday, but it's a good turnout. And Max does his speech."

"Pardon me, Six," says Nine, inspired. "Talk a little slower and I will write this down. We all can. Bump up the word count. No-one said anything about copying."

"I am not sure," says Fourteen. He's a stickler for the rules. "If we are disqualified for cheating..."

"Do we need to come to a united decision?" I say.

Nine sighs. "I suppose it's safer not to copy. I personally have no shortage of material." He wanders back to the fireplace.

"All right. No copying. Great idea, though, Nine. Keep that up. If you're still thinking straight after all we've been through, amazing. We'll need that to escape. Okay, so it's Max but you can only see his chin, and loads of worried kids. Max says, 'Hello mein kinders. Wilkommen back in ze Chester training. As you know, I vas in ze ospital but now I am very better.' And little Adam puts his hand up and says why are you talking like that? And Max says, in his normal Manc accent, 'oh yeah I speak German now'. Most of the kids think this is amazing, but some of the parents are looking at each other. And Max goes, 'Once upon ze time, zere was a little boy called Max'. And he starts telling the life story of, well, I think it was Kung Fu Panda. And Adam says, 'you're not German and you're not a panda'. And Max says 'prove it'. And Adam admits he can't. So Max says, 'Look, I only came to show you I'm all right.' And he pulls his hood back, takes his shades off, cap off. And I've got to say, he looked great. Tan, hair's grown back, looks chill. He's obviously not what he was, and he's not smiling as much and he's not as restless and dynamic and all that. But he looks good. I don't think I'd look that well a month after being in a coma."

"Two months after," says Nine.

"Sure. So he gets a football and tries to do a kick up, but he can't. And that's the first mistake he's made. The kids look sad. Adam and John know him best and they really didn't need to see their hero reduced to this. Know what I mean? And he goes, 'right now you're all better at football than me. You should enjoy it. It won't be like that for long. And yeah, I'm not coming to work every day. My doctor said I need to eat loads of ice cream, pizzaburgers, and play with lego.' Then came the craziest bit. He gets the ball again, and as he talks, he does kick ups, but this time he gets past one. 'But not very long from now, I'm going to be able to do eleven kick ups, and on that day I'm going to start going to schools in Chester finding superstar kids.' I'm not sure what his plan was, but he did nine kick ups! And the mood totally changed. The kids were pushing each other, straining on their knees to get a better look, the parents were laughing, I thought one was crying. No group has ever been more impressed by nine kick ups! I've got to say, I was buzzing from it, too. Nine kick ups! I spent a week in April thinking I'd never see him again."

Nine doesn't notice how my voice quavered as I ended the previous sentence. "Me too, mon ami. Me too."

I press on before I draw attention to my mistake. "Max looks pleased with himself, but he's got a serious message. 'The superstar kids are going to come here, and if you aren't training hard they'll take your place in the team. It's nice you were sad that somebody hurt me. But I'm back now, so you can stop being sad. I promise you I'm going to get all the way better. Soon there's going to be loads of new people, and they won't be sad. They're coming for your place in the team. You've got a few weeks of training to make sure you stay ahead of them. Know what I'm saying? You need to get your head back in the here and now. If you train right, you might keep your place. And if you're really, really good...' He puts his arm around my shoulder. 'Sam Topps will give you a private masterclass. What do you think about that?' And they go mental, like that's the best thing that could possibly ever happen to them." I fish some fleck of mud out of my hair. "I don't like being so easy to manipulate."

Nine sighs, but he's emotional, too. "I wasn't fulfilling the role of Bodyguardiola, but I did see him that week and I have a similar story. I told Jude I'd help him out with the sixteens, to check they had been practising their dinks, but after sharing the morning with the Brig I regretted my generosity. I planned to go to the sixteens, sit on a chair and smoke. I had a cigarette out and in my lips, and Jude was hiding me from view, pointing out I am too much a role model and within twenty minutes of seeing me in a cloud of delicious smoke every child in Chester would be irredeemably addicted to nicotine. We were negotiating when Max and the Brig turned up, and the young men entered a state of stupefaction. Max loves those boys - more than once he has very nearly blown up his career on their behalf. And they love him, too. It was very emotional, but a very frozen kind of emotion. It came out soon after, when Max had gone. His speech was like the one you described, Six, but he didn't say he was German. He claimed to be the first ever zombie manager, lamented that the surgeons sucked the orange juice out of his head, and said while he was in hospital he invented a new formation. Tyson asked what it was. The reply was the word 'eleven', accompanied by jazz hands."

Nine finishes messing about with the fire. He can't get it to go, either. He settles onto the bare floor, his back to the mouldy plasterboard.

"He also said that in hospital he had a vision of a beautiful blonde angel floating over him telling him he was special. Benny rolled his eyes and said, 'You mean Emma.' And Max said 'nah it was me in a blonde wig'. As you've all seen, after the initial silliness he likes to get pensive. 'I've got bad news, lads. Bad news is, you lot fucking slap. If there's a better under sixteens team between here and League One, I'll eat Henri's scarf. It's going to take me a bit more time to get back to my old level. But your new level is here.' He reached up to his chin. 'So if you aren't training hard, pushing each other, lifting each other, I'll know. If you think maybe I've mellowed, become kinder and more forgiving, you've got another thing coming. In fact, here's a demonstration. Henri? You're fired.' 'I'm not registered with Chester, Max.' He points. 'See? Proof. I'm back. Chester are back. Chester under sixteens have teeth. Train like it.' And then he walks off. But he comes back, gives me the gentlest hug, smiles. The Brig leads him away. They drive off. The session is bad, at first, but gets better."

"Isn't it," says Two, but he shuts his gob.

"Go on," I say, daring him to continue. He doesn't get the warning.

"Isn't it all a bit childish?"

I grit my teeth. Nine helps me out. "He's having fun. He likes to be creative. But he's also building an emotional world for the young players to live in. You have read The Wizard of Us. Tyson was so close to leaving." Nine shrugs. "Tyson remains."

"I don't want to hear your doubts, Two, mate," I say. "You're lucky you got an extension. You've been dogging it since you got to the club. If you want to slag Max off, you better be as committed as he is. Otherwise shut the fuck up."

I've killed the conversation, which I didn't mean to. I'm right, but I've shot myself in the foot. It's too damn quiet in here. There's the sound of Fourteen's pen scratching across the paper, and the wind coming through the cracks in the walls. My stomach rumbles. I want to kick something, but I don't have the energy. I think about lying down, but I know I won't get up. I curse the Brig, and Max, and Chester, and Two, and pick up my pen.

Write about the weaknesses of one or more of the current players in the squad.

Oh! I should have started with this. Here's an easy ten thousand words.

The goalies aren't agile, don't command their box, can't kick, and every time a shot goes at them I get an ulcer. Apart from that, they're fine.

Glenn's a fucking rock. Proper captain. Leads by example. Weaknesses? Doesn't want to concede shots. He'd love a nil-nil with both sides keeping the ball in the centre circle. That'd suit him just fine. Jackie wanted us to attack and leave the other team to have long shots and hope to get lucky from set pieces, but he'd always want our defenders to outnumber the attackers. Max is happy to go man-to-man. We defend by attacking. It's hard for Glenn to get his head around. He says it won't work at higher levels, but I said, mate, we're not at higher levels. He does his job, though. It stresses him out, but Glenn is a Max Best player. He'll realise it one day.

Two is dogging it. He just about gets by on raw athletic ability. Just.

On the other side of the pitch, Trick, AKA Prick Williams. He's not even smart enough to hold his finger up and feel which way the wind is blowing. I am a hundred and ten percent sure Max would never have given him a new deal. Trick's decent going forward, I'll give him that, and he's consistent. But we had Jack Litherland in for one match - or was it two? - and he slapped. I'd be amazed if we didn't upgrade the left-back this season.

Gerald is fine. Not very mobile, not a good passer, but then again, he doesn't try stuff he can't do. I don't worry about him.

That's the defence. Fourteen's a little gem. As DM, he gives them a lot of protection. I'm sure he'll have some bad games this season - he's only a kid - but apart from being young, what are his weaknesses? His long passing could be better. He snatches at shots. If he sticks to what he's good at, he'll have a proper career. If he gets better, adds a few strings to his bow, he'll play for a big club. And he's worked his socks off during this whole army role play.

Aff is quality on the left. We hope Max can play on the right. Imagine that! Teams in this league can't deal with him. They'd have to put two men on him. Aff would run riot in all the space.

The squad's a bit short, though. The two Triplets are nowhere near the levels. They're good lads, that's clear. But no chance Michael will ever play professional football. Andrew maybe. A few minutes here and there in games where we’re three goals up. Basically, no proper help from them.

We're really short up top. Len’s gone, so we’ve only got Tony. What's Nine planning?

You know what? I'm sick of not knowing. We need to know.

"Nine! Why the fuck are you here?"

"Same as you. I was invited to Nando's."

"That's not what I mean. Why are you training with Chester if you aren't going to play for us? Why not sign with your new team already? We all know Max wants you to move on. But while you're here, the club aren't looking at strikers. When you fuck off, we'll have one fit striker for the first match. So what's your fucking plan?"

"My fucking plan is to survive tonight. My fucking plan is to write ten thousand words about a French footballer who is Isekaied into a twenty-fifth century cyborg. My fucking plan is to cook the rations I earn and keep the wine to myself. So shut up and write if you want to eat."

I'm sort of standing over him, maybe jostling him a bit. "No, mate. No. I'm stuck here with you, needing you to have my back when shit goes down in the morning and I don't even know if you'll be here when the season kicks off. When you turn your ankle on the hike or get sick from drinking rancid water, I'm supposed to carry you to the extraction point? You're not Chester, mate. So why would I?"

He gets up and pushes me away, two hands, forceful. "It's none of your business, Six. Your job is to scamper around midfield. My job is to score goals. Max's job is to build a squad. My future is of no concern to the likes of you."

I bare my teeth. "Talk or I'll deck you."

He doesn't flinch, doesn't do nothing.

I suddenly decide I have to take my frustrations out on him. He's to blame for all of this. I take a couple of boxer's steps forward, feint left, punch right. It's a move that's served me well. Nine falls for it - I think.

Next thing I know I'm on my arse. I wipe my mouth. There's blood. A lot. Fuck. I could wash it off, but then we'd have to take another detour to refill at the stream. Fourteen offers me his canister. I push it away. I've got tears behind my eyes. I've cost the team. I put my head in my hands and try to think. I'm low on calories, low on sleep. I'm making bad decisions. I don't know what to do.

Nine is behind me. I didn't hear him move, but he puts his hands under my armpits and guides me back to my spot. I slump and pick up my pen. I don't have it in me to slag off my teammates. I could write ten thousand words on my weaknesses.

Nine's back in his area. He's got the pen in his mouth like it's a cigarette. "Max wants me to play at a higher level. He encouraged clubs to make offers. Good offers. I would like to stay at Chester, but they can't afford me. It will be easier when I can talk to Max. For now, plan A is to play the first six games of the season for Chester to give Max time to sign a replacement. Then, before the transfer window closes, I will move on."

"But if you keep the team that wants you waiting, they might sign someone else. You might lose your shot."

He shakes his head. "Then I will move in January. In a Max Best team I will score bags of goals. I will be in demand. It does not sound so bad. Fire Chester to the top of the table, leave them in pole position for the last few months of the season. Can Max replace me? Of course not. But he spotted me in the warm up of a match. During that match, Jackie introduced Max to MD, wanted Max to talk about his future, but he only wanted to talk about me. Yes, he has a remarkable sense for what is essential. Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it." He's talking in his usual style, but now he pauses. The strain is getting to him, too. And when the shit hits the fan tomorrow, I'll need to rely on him most of all. So why am I throwing punches at him? "Max told me a hundred times he wants me to move on, but I want to help out. I want to be part of his story. I have an idea," he says, and his eyes close. He's that close to sleep. "It's the kind of idea Max comes up with. His love language is upturning convention. He might go for it." He spins his pen round and brings the nib to his paper. "Or I might punch him in the dick and never talk to him again. That is also an option."

Write about Nando's.

Okay. Ugh. Does writing ugh count as a word? It better. My fingers are numb.

So week one, the training was hard. We accept it because it seems like the Brig is trying to establish a sort of base line of fitness and we'll expand from there with transition drills and six v twos and all the usual stuff.

But week two is week one with extra brutality. We have to throw a medicine ball while we're sitting down. He tells us only two have passed, but he doesn't say which two, and doesn't say what length is a pass. We're doing sit ups, push ups, weights, medicine balls, we're running, it's non-stop. There's vom, there's guys collapsing. I feel fitter, but my numbers don't show it. The Brig is constantly adding new demands. I feel like I start from zero in everything.

Max comes out, once, whispers to the Brig. We're all looking, hoping, praying it's him telling the bastard to calm the eff down, but he's only asking for Robbo to come out of the session. Livia, the physio, comes running, checks Robbo out. There's a consultation. Robbo later tells me he's given the choice of taking the rest of the day off or rejoining the group. He decides to stay. He regrets it.

Week three is a new level of depravity. We run, we jump, we sit, we squat, we throw medicine balls. We're taken to a swimming pool where we have to swim lengths in full Chester FC kit, we have to dive to the bottom to pick up a brick, we have to tread water for as long as possible and the first ten who can't hack it are punished.

Am I getting fitter? Am I fuck. I'm constantly exhausted, constantly drained.

On the Friday comes the most intense moment yet.

We're brought to a lake and we have to climb up a shaky wooden platform. At the end - it's like walking the plank - we have to turn and let ourselves fall backwards, arms crossed, without being able to see where we're going.

A couple of guys go first and it's all easy. Piece of piss. Then Magnus, who's been around and done a lot of mad physical challenges, has his turn, and he's shaking. The Brig is there with him, says stuff we can't hear, and Magnus falls into the water.

Good for him, like, but seeing one guy afraid makes the rest of us realise how fucking scary this is. It gets harder and harder the more people freak out.

When it's my turn, I'm shivering like I've been in the cold water already. My teeth are chattering. Mind's blank. I've been pushed to a physical edge and this is too much. I'm sure my neck will snap - I've seen the mad angles people hit the water at. I wonder what rocks and shit are beneath. There's one thought that sticks as all others ebb and flow - I know there's no way the Brig will let me climb down from that platform. I'll jump, or stay there forever. I hit bottom - bad turn of phrase - and decide to just get it over with and if I die, at least I won't have these fears spinning me around any more. At least I won't have to run up another hill wearing a heavy rucksack.

I fall, gravity takes revenge for all my soaring headers, I hit something, there's a mad panic, a wild feeling of having actually passed into the afterlife the moment I hit the water, but then I'm flying through clouds of my oxygen bubbles, and I surface, and I breathe, and it's the most exhilarating feeling. Like scoring a goal. Like when Tracy was born and she looked at me. I'm alive. I'm fucking alive, my girl. I'm dragged up onto a deck and someone wraps me in a towel. The squad's there. We've all been through something. We'll never look back. We've bonded as a team.

So when the Brig announces pre-season is over and Mr. Best wants to reward us for our hard work with a trip to Nando's, we all believe it. We're buzzing. Nando's! The Brig says there will be a pub quiz later, so we should split into teams of four, remembering that Mr. Best values diversity and likes it when people step outside their comfort zone by spending time with people they don't know all that well. I'll credit myself with being alert enough - cynical enough? - to wonder why diversity would be mentioned there and then, so I tried to get in a team that was proper mixed up. I wanted Raffi, but he was determined to stick with Pascal. He loves that little German like a younger brother. I tried to get Joe Anka, because if it really was a pub quiz, he knows all about music, what with being a part-time DJ. But the team I end up in is pretty varied. Two gives us American stuff. Fourteen gives us Africa. Nine gives us France and useless trivia like philosophy and what long words mean. And I'm good on sport, I suppose.

So we get into five minivans, one per team, and that should have been the first red flag, but I genuinely don't think anyone in mine was worried in the slightest. We'd been through our ordeal, we were fit as fuck, we were on our way to Nando's. Life was good.

The van goes for ages, and suddenly the lack of windows becomes a topic of discussion.

It's a long, long drive, and by the end, we're scared shitless. The van stops, the back doors open, there are massive spotlights shining at us. We can't see anything. Someone puts a hood on my head and I get dragged into some building. The hood's removed and it's me, Nine, Fourteen, and Two, and we're shivering from the cold. We're in a room with rugged-looking, serious men wearing all-black.

They make us change into army gear. We are told not to use our names at any point. We will be known by our squad numbers. We have to hand over our phones, our wallets, everything. For some reason, we're allowed to keep our analogue watches. I'm sure that will prove helpful, but the opposite is true.

We're pushed into four different rooms. I've got sheets of paper and a pen. I'm told to describe the trip from the lake to this location, in extreme detail. If my description matches the others', we'll all get rations. If not, we won't.

I do my best, but I'm disoriented as fuck. The army guys sneer at us. They want us to fuck up so they can fuck us up.

While someone reads our statements, we're made to wait in a cold room in silence. One of the guys comes to tell us we passed. We relax - we're hungry. The guy hands Two a map and compass. No-one else is allowed to touch them. We have to get to the hut marked on the map as fast as possible. If we're the last group to arrive at our hut, the door will be locked and the rations inside will go unopened.

He suggests, from about a centimetre in front of my face, that we get a fucking move on.

We run through the door he points to, and keep running. Eventually, Two stops and looks at the map. I yell at him to keep running, and call him a prick and some other names. He pushes back, saying he's not a midfielder and doesn't get paid to run around at random. That winds me up. He reads the map, looks for landmarks, yells fuck, tells us we should be running the exact opposite way. Fourteen can't believe the men would send us out the wrong way. That's me convinced - we turn around.

I don’t completely trust Two with the map. We're on a quiet countryside road, so we make decent time, I think. It gets harder the further we go, because the features get less distinct. There's quite a lot of frustrating backtracking, but we get to the hut. It's open. What relief!

We find four military ready-to-eat meal packs. They've got everything you need, including a heat source, but it needs water. There are four water canteens next to the MREs, but the canteens are empty. We have to go and find water! I can't believe it. I think we're all close to tears. We talk about splitting up, but Fourteen says that's a rookie horror movie mistake.

"Are we in a horror movie?" I say.

He points to a bundle on the floor. It's a rolled-up sleeping bag. "That is your bed for the night."

I look at the ceiling until I gather some strength. There's not much left. "Okay. We don't split up. Let's find water."

"Wait," says Two. "Let's make a plan."

His plan is good. Water flows downhill, so we follow the terrain. We find a stream relatively quickly, bicker about whether it's likely to be full of bacteria and sewage or not (Fourteen reasons there must be a way to filter it contained in our MRE packs, Two says that's not how it works), then retrace our steps exactly. When we get back to the hut, there are four huge plastic bottles of still water.

They are fucking with us. And there's more to come.

Describe in detail how much you enjoyed this training course and what recommendations you would have for making it even better.

We eat, we sleep. As soon as it's light, the army guys burst in and scream at us to get up. They kettle us in as we run. These guys are wearing heavy boots, heavy gear, and they keep up with us easily. They banter with each other, placing bets on which of us will crack first.

We get to a stream. We've got to get under it, totally submerged, then we're pushed to a log. We have to carry this log back over the stream. The four of us struggle, but we do it. It's another moment of joy. Two of the army guys pick it up and bring it back to where it was. One actually looks at his watch while he goes, it's so effortless for him.

"Again!" screams a guy. We do it again. It's so much harder. There's a crisis as Fourteen loses his footing, but the rest of us hold the log up, stop it from falling on him, and he scrambles to his feet. I yell at him to get out of the way. He insists on doing his part. I'm annoyed but relieved. We need all the help we can get. We put the log down, and I collapse, curling up into a ball. I'm done. If they ask me to do it again, I'm out. Proper out.

One of the army guys kneels and digs my arm. "Top man, looking after your mate." For a short time, I'm absolutely buzzing. But then I realise he was playing with my head. He knows I'm a fraud.

We're taken to a farm where a boxing ring's been set up. Three minute bout, heavy gloves, win by landing the most punches. My team's fighting D-Day's team. I win, Nine wins. Fourteen and Two lose. Two-all. That means half rations for us, half for the other team.

We're led away, given time to eat, then a new map. At the end of the map there's a locked hut with some oil barrels outside. We've got to haul them next to the hut so we can climb in through the roof. Don't dawdle, we're told. The longer it takes, the less you'll sleep.

Two's good on the map. He did outdoors stuff every other year as a kid in the States, and it's coming back to him. We get to the hut, then it's a physical and strategic challenge to assemble the barrels. Fourteen tries to skip ahead, breaking the rules. He gets Two to lift him up to the roof, but the hatch is remotely locked. It will only open when the barrels are in place. No shortcuts.

It's hard. My arms fucking ache from the logs and the boxing. The barrels are proper heavy. I want to sleep but I can't until I do this. I miss Jane and Tracy. Are they okay? Do they know where I am? Nine yells at me to concentrate. We push, we lift, Fourteen climbs in the hatch, opens the door from the inside. We pile in, unfold the sleeping bags, and I'm ready to drift away.

I'm so tired that sleep won't come. Fourteen's out, but the others are up. I chat to them.

We talk about all the stuff footballers talk about. The gaffer, the club, whose wife is fit, the latest hot goss, rumours about the Triplets, what we expect from the season, what we expect from the big teams.

Nine has a theory. When Jackie was around, Max was all about being super technical, all about sweeping passing moves. Now he's not got that. He's got an army guy, so he's pivoted. It's all about fitness. Outworking your opponent. Outrunning him.

Two says it doesn't sound much like Max. Nine says Max is deeply pragmatic. He won't make an omelette if he doesn't have any eggs.

It calms me down, and I get some shut eye.

Amazingly, they let us sleep in. I'm astonished to find it's eleven a.m., but Nine says it's ten. Two's watch says eight. They've snuck into our hut and changed the times. Why? To mess with our heads even more.

We find a box outside. There's a map. We have the choice to follow it to breakfast or to our first physical challenge of the day. No contest there. We go to breakfast, but when we get there, there's almost no food. A note informs us we're being punished for using our real names. All except Fourteen. He shares his rations, insists, but it's almost worse than if we had nothing. We've wasted all that energy getting there, and we have to retrace our steps and then walk on, stomachs growling, knowing there's some torment ahead.

It's a grim morning of physical challenges, a gruelling afternoon of large-scale puzzles, and a long, weary hike to the next checkpoint.

Which leads us to now. In the hut, writing it all up. I have absolutely no idea how many words this is. I'm nearly ready to pack it in, but Fourteen's got one last conversation for me to jot down. He's been deep in thought for a while, looking from Nine to Two to me. Mostly me.

"Six," he says. I note he's dropped the mister. "What is it you hate about me?"

"I don't hate you. Don't put words in my mouth. I don't like that."

"You have been put in a group with three players with uncertain futures. Nine is out of contract. I am on minimum wage terms. Two regrets re-signing. I believe it has been done to provoke you. But it is more than that. You hate that Nine is not fully committed to the club. You hate that Two does not give a hundred percent in training. What about me?"

The little shit. Gets a few games under his belt, thinks he's Billy Big Bollocks. "All right? You want to know? Check this out, then. You ready? Want to write it down? Thing is, mate, we all know you're a big Christian. Got big beliefs. We were joking you'd start trying to convert us, one at a time, starting with the biggest sinner. We were wondering who you'd think that was. Not Trick, that'd be too obvious. So who? But it hasn't happened. You've kept your mouth shut. You listen, you stare, you see us misbehavin’, but you don't speak up. So do you even believe it? If you aren't saying what you believe, what kind of belief is it? Have some fucking courage."

The whelp doesn't flinch, and after a delay he nods. "Yes. It works."

"What the fuck did you just say?"

"Mr. Best told me something once. We were talking about Tyson, the young player. Mr. Best went on something of a rant. Five ways in which Tyson annoyed him. Then he laughed and I asked why. Mr. Best said the things he hated most in others were the character flaws he saw in himself. I have often thought about that. And here we are. You train within yourself. You talk about being committed, but you have had discussions with other clubs. You would leave if a good offer came, as would almost anyone. And you have strong opinions that you never voice."

I don't like being dissed by a child. My knuckles are white, and I'm ready to go. Two and Nine are suddenly between me and the kid. He comes through them. Not scared of me in the slightest.

"What did you do?"

I deflate. He knows. No, he can't know. But he said about having talks with other clubs. I get the feeling I had on the plank. I have to fall in now or they'll never let it drop. "Okay. Okay. Confession time. When Max was in his coma, I was talking to agents. Teams in the National League testing the waters. Unscrupulous. Put my back up, to be fair. But I was flattered. In the end, I decided to stay and give it a go here. But I felt sick. All right? I felt disgusted. What do people think when they think about me? Teamwork? Loyalty? I'm no better than any of you. And these army guys know it. Every time they see me, they're giving it all 'yeah, good teamwork', 'team player right here', all that shit. To wind me up. Because they know what teamwork is, and I don't."

Two shakes his head. "Men like that don't give out compliments like candy."

Nine's got thoughts. "Six. It is not disloyal to look after yourself. Max wants and expects you to do just that. He is one of the most selfish and mercenary people I have ever met."

"How can you say that?" I'm genuinely upset. Nine's his best mate.

"Because I was there with him when he was plotting to leave Darlington! He told me the whole, sick plan. When a chance came along to do it in a better way, he took it. But he would have burned a lot of bridges and hurt a lot of people. He thinks that's his job. And now he thinks it's his job to improve us as players. Starting with our fitness." He's saying us. Our. "I know for a fact he would love to sell everybody in this hut. Fourteen, obviously a fantastic talent. He has told you his plan, yes?"

"Of course. I do not want to leave. But Mr. Best will use the transfer fee to build a new training facility. To buy an X-ray machine. And so on."

"Me? I am a star striker. I have value. If I sign a long-term contract, he will still listen to offers in January. And Max thinks Two has a high ceiling."

"He does?" This is news to the American.

"Oui. League Two, he thinks. Possibly higher. And Six. You're one of the best midfielders in the league, but if he can get a good fee for you, he can replace you with someone like James Wise. Not quite as good, but cheaper, and he'll save on wages. And he'll use the income as Fourteen described. He's excited about selling players, provided you give him time to find a replacement. He does not want another Jack Litherland scenario. Which is why I am waiting to talk to him until he is ready. I have an unusual idea I would like to discuss with him. One that benefits me and the club."

I'm a little bit stunned. I feel like I've confessed to a horrible crime and no-one heard me. "But he was in a coma and I was on the phone."

Nine bats it away. "I was not on the phone. I could not trust myself to talk. But I replied to emails from clubs who wanted to sign me. Yes, why not? It is no crime, Six."

Two props himself up in a corner of the room. If it's confession time, he's got a story, too. "My partner's a nurse in Florida. Much better place to be a nurse than here. I wanted to live out my dream of being a footballer. National League North doesn't pay the bills. I'm not doing well enough to really commit. I should probably go home. Grow up. Get a real job and start a family."

Nine repeats himself. "Max thinks you are good enough."

"League Two?"

"It is your life, mon ami, but if Max is right, and he normally is, you could be a starter in League Two. Have one amazing season, get a deal with a League One team. Double your wages. Finish your career on a high. But Six is right. You have been dogging it. You must train like the devil, or give up your dream. It is simple. I say go for it. As the Brig's tattoo says: Who Dares Wins."

I've got a lot to think about, and so has Two. "I'm going to write out this chat, then I'm ready to hand mine in. What about you guys?"

Two says, "I finished my text in thirty seconds."

"What? You've been writing the whole time."

He picks up his papers. There are sketches of places we've been. Bridges drawn from memory. A distant village. A farm and its field. Plus some attempts to recreate the maps we've been using.

"Is that your way of showing your attention to detail?" says Nine, while Fourteen boggles at the drawings.

"No," says Two. He's got a trick up his sleeve. He picks up the last piece of paper and shows it to us.

He's written, simply:

TEN THOUSAND WORDS

"Oh fuck me," says Nine.

Fourteen stares at the instructions before crouching and silently screaming.

I laugh. I laugh and I hug Two. "You smart little mother. Good for you, mate. Good for you. But you could have told us."

"Yeah. But then we wouldn't have worked it all out, would we?"

***

Final Module: Memory and Attention-to-Detail Assessment

Write your candidate number: Six

Write your real name: Six

Describe receiving your final rations.

When I was done writing, we took our pages to the drop-off point and put them in a box that was there. We trudged back to the hut and found four full military meals, new bottles of water, four double decker chocolate bars, and twelve cold beers. Someone had started the fire and provided spare logs.

A little note said, "Mission over. Well done. You can now use real names."

Fourteen pointed at it. "Is anyone going to fall for that?"

"Not me," said Nine.

We laughed and had one of the shittest and best meals of our lives.

The next morning the army dudes turned up and made us jog. It was an hour or so, but it flew by. I only started blowing near the end when the hills got really steep. Then we saw our destination - a plain, windowless minivan. We got in, unafraid, and were driven back to civilisation. We pulled into a gym, strangely, and used their showers. Hot water! Unbelievably good. Our clothes were there, washed and dried. We got dressed, got back in the van, and were driven somewhere else.

My stomach was rumbling by the time we were let out. Somewhere in Chester city centre. The army dudes gave us bags full of our last things - our phones, wallets, and so on. Then they hugged us and told us we'd done great. For the first time, I believed it.

"What do we do?" said Two, which was a step up from him. He'd only ever spoken to them when spoken to. “Where do we go?”

"Where do you think, map genius?" Army guy pointed to a familiar sign.

We crossed the road - strange to see cars again - and went into the Nando's. My wife Jane was there. My little girl. I embraced them. Drank in their scent. Lifted Tracy and spun her round and round.

"How did you get on?" said Jane.

"You knew about it?"

"Of course. You think I'm going to let Max Best run off with my husband? Not without a scrap, I can tell you! They said it'd be like army training and you always wanted to do that. So I said, great, sounds good."

I'm retrospectively twenty percent happier about the kidnapping knowing my wife was in on it. "We did... okay. I thought I'd do better on that sort of thing. Guess I'm not as tough as I thought. And we nearly killed Fourteen."

"Who?"

"Youngster."

"Oh, not him! He's a lovely boy."

"Yeah, he is."

"Sam Topps," said a voice. The Brig, dressed in civvies. Hint of a smile. "My congratulations. Very well done."

"Don't know about that, Brig."

"You caught the eye of the Directing Staff. They gave you an outstanding rating. Mr. Best was right."

"What do you mean, Brig?"

He doesn't answer. "How are you feeling? Ready for the coming season?"

Two groups come through the doors. D-Day's and Raffi's. They look how I feel - lean, fast, strong. "I'm ready, Brig. I'm ready."