FALLEN IDOLS

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David Watts was at the front of his apartment building, facing cameras and reporters. They had been outside there for a few hours, hungry for a quote.

‘I just want to say that I knew Henri Dumas. He was a good player. No, a great player – but above all of that, he was a good man, and football will miss him. I’ll miss him. I would like to express my condolences to his family, and I’m sure the footballing world is in deep mourning right now.’

And at that, he went back into his building. He didn’t feel good. His words sounded irrelevant when he thought about Dumas; just a token footnote. Dumas was dead. Who cared about his condolences?

When he got back to his apartment, he saw the parental look of his agent. She watched the press disappear from the window, and then turned back to the room.

‘That will get you good billing on the news, remind everyone that you’re the statesman of English football.’

He shook his head at her. Karen Klavan. She was a good agent, but she was one cold-hearted bitch. She looked like a pin-up, blonde hair and breasts like weapons, but he guessed that when she fucked, she did it with a motive, not a passion.

‘Someone died today, Karen. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

‘It means you get a chance to raise your profile.’ When she saw the look of disgust, she said, ‘You worry about Dumas, and I’ll worry about making you money.’

He would have smiled normally. Her directness gave her an edge in negotiations, but he wasn’t in the mood. And as he looked over to the billboards again, as he thought about the gossip magazines for sale in the shop just down the road, as he imagined all the children wandering around the country with his name on the back of their shirts, he reckoned his profile was pretty high already. He didn’t want to use Dumas’s death to raise it higher. The thought of it sickened him.

‘I think we should look respectful, take some time out,’ he said, his anger snapping the words out.

‘Yeah, yeah, that too, but look, I’ve got you a slot on breakfast television, to talk about Dumas. Is that okay? It won’t clash with your training.’

He shook his head. She made him money, but she made him mad as well.

‘I’ll end up tired at training.’

‘The country will forgive you if you’re jaded. In fact, they might be furious with you if you look bright and bubbly when you play.’

‘I take it Dumas wasn’t one of your clients.’

‘Can you hear me sobbing? No, he was with that prick Newcombe.’

And then she laughed.

Laughs didn’t come naturally to her, so when they came, they came loud and shrill.

‘He’ll be crying into his vodka tonight,’ she said, ignoring David’s look. When he didn’t respond, she said, ‘You’ll be picked up at five. Be up and ready, dressed soberly.’

‘Where will you be?’

‘Oh, out and about. I’ve some new clients to see, so I’ll be away for a couple of days. I’ll keep in touch.’

‘If you leave it a bit longer, you’ll be able to dance on Dumas’s grave.’

She winked at him and then picked up her bag, not bothering with goodbye. She could tell he was angry. Worse than that, though, was the thought that she didn’t care. He was just an asset, and she had him tied into an agency agreement. He was twenty-eight, so he didn’t have too long left at the top. In a few years’ time, when some younger star started to grab the headlines and his hamstrings were ripped to hell, she’d shunt him off her books as quick as one of his crosses.

When the door clicked shut David turned back to the window, hoping that the view would make him forget about Karen Klavan. He knew she didn’t care about him. He wasn’t sure she cared about anybody.