Ark Angel

There’s always next time…”
    Alex glanced away from the image and that was when he saw him. Silver Tooth was wearing an orange Gore-Tex jacket. Perhaps he thought it was going to rain. There was a large gap between the terraces and the pitch, and Alex saw Silver Tooth as he separated from the crowd. He was walking purposefully round the front of the south stand, not making for any of the exits. Alex was able to examine him properly for the first time. He was in his twenties. Not English. His looks were Middle Eastern. His hair was long and dirty.
    It wasn’t just his teeth that needed attention. Alex followed him behind the goal and towards the players’
    tunnel. What was the man doing here? He turned the question over and over in his mind.
    Silver Tooth reached the tunnel and disappeared from sight. Alex quickened his pace, grateful for the security pass around his neck. A couple of stewards glanced his way but neither of them tried to stop him.
    It occurred to him that Silver Tooth must have a pass too. If so, how had he got it? Or was his simply forged?
    He reached the tunnel, which was surrounded by a sea of empty blue seats with the press box just above.
    Nine steps led down to an old-fashioned metal and wire gate. In normal circumstances Alex would have given anything to be here. He had watched his team emerge countless times from right where he was standing. He could picture the spectators in their thousands, hear the chanting and clapping swelling into a roar of excitement as the players appeared. This really was the lion’s mouth. But he couldn’t feel any excitement. Despite all his resolutions, Alex knew that he was getting into trouble once again. Trouble, it seemed, just wouldn’t let him go.
    Alex entered a modern, surprisingly empty area with a ceiling so low it was oppressive, and grey tiles on the floor. There was no sign of Silver Tooth. There were a couple of gleaming silver bins and a bench where injured players could receive immediate physio. The air was cold and sterile, endlessly recycled by a powerful air-conditioning system. Everything smelled brand new, and Alex recalled that the owner of Chelsea had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds smartening the place up. He pushed open a door and found himself looking into the press room, a rectangular space with about twenty seats facing a narrow platform. The journalists had already left. There was an outer room with two walls covered in carefully placed advertisements and he recognized the spot where Adam Wright had been interviewed only a few minutes before.
    He tried another door. As he pushed it ajar, he heard voices coming from inside. One was all too familiar.
    He held the door open a crack and looked through. Yes. Combat Jacket was there. The last time Alex had seen him, he had been shooting at him with an FP9 single-action pistol, blocking his escape from a blazing building. Now he was standing with his back to the door, hands on hips. Silver Tooth and Spectacles were with him. They were surrounding a fourth man who was sitting on a bench, a towel wrapped around his waist.
    It was Adam Wright. This was the visiting team’s changing room. Peering through the narrow crack—Alex didn’t dare open the door any wider—he took in the blue padded benches, the lockers, the vending machine filled with water and Lucozade, the ultra-modern showers and toilets on the far side. The ceiling was low here too. Alex could almost feel the weight of the seating in the stand directly overhead.

    The Stratford East captain was the only player in the room. The others must have left while he was being interviewed, getting out as fast as they could after losing the game. Adam Wright was looking up at the three men towering over him. He was clearly surprised to see them.
    “If you guys don’t mind,” he said, “I was just going to take a shower. We don’t usually have visitors in the players’ changing room.”
    “We represent the Stratford East Supporters’ Club,” Combat Jacket said. “And we have something for you.”
    “A thank-you present,” Spectacles added.
    “That’s right. To thank you for everything you’ve done for the team.” Combat Jacket took a sealed plastic box from his pocket and held it out.
    Adam Wright took it. “Well, that’s very kind of you guys. But if you don’t mind, I’ll open it later.”
    “We’d prefer you to open it now.”
    Alex was only a few metres away from the Stratford East captain, who was