Skeleton Key

nobody questioned him. His ballboy uniform was enough. He climbed the stairs, passed through the players‟ lounge and into the restaurant at the other side. The guard was there, ahead of him. Once again he had his mobile phone in his hand. But he wasn‟t making a call. He was simply standing, watching the players and the journalists as they finished their lunch.
    The dining room was large and modern, with a long buffet for hot food and a central area with salads, cold drinks and fruit. There must have been about a hundred people eating at the tables and Alex recognized one or two famous faces among them. He glanced at the guard. He was standing in a corner, trying not to be noticed. At the same time, his attention seemed to be fixed on a table next to one of the windows. Alex followed the direction of his gaze. There were two men sitting at the table. One was wearing a jacket and tie. The other was in a tracksuit. Alex didn‟t know the first man but the second was Owen Bryant, another world-class player, an American. He would be playing later that afternoon.
    The other man could have been his manager, or perhaps his agent. The two of them were talking, quietly, intensely. The manager spoke and Bryant laughed. Alex moved further into the restaurant, keeping close to the wall. He wanted to see what the guard was going to do, but he didn‟t want to be seen. He was glad that the restaurant was fairly crowded. There were enough people moving about to screen him.
    Bryant stood up. Alex saw the guard‟s eyes narrow. Now the mobile phone was on its way to his ear. But he hadn‟t dialled a number. Bryant went over to a water dispenser and pulled a cup out of the plastic cylinder. The guard pressed a button on his phone. Bryant helped himself to some water. Alex watched as a bubble of air mushroomed up to the surface inside the plastic tank. The tennis player carried the water back to the table and sat down. The manager said something.
    Bryant drank his water. And that was it.
    Alex had seen the whole thing.
    But what had he seen?
    He had no time to answer the question. The guard was already moving, heading for the exit. Alex came to a decision. The main door was between himself and the guard and now he made for it too, keeping his head low as if he wasn‟t looking where he was going. He timed it perfectly. Just as the guard reached the door, Alex crashed into him. At the same moment, he swung an arm carelessly, knocking the guard‟s hand. The mobile phone fell to the floor.
    “Oh—I‟m sorry,” Alex said. Before the guard could stop him, he had leant down and picked up the phone. He weighed it in his hand for a moment before passing it back. “Here you are,” he said.
    The guard said nothing. For a moment his eyes were locked into Alex‟s and Alex found himself being inspected by two very black pupils that had no life at all. The man‟s skin was pale and pockmarked, with a sheen of sweat across his upper lip. There was no expression anywhere on his face. Alex felt the telephone being wrenched out of his hand and then the guard had gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
    Alex‟s hand was still in mid-air. He looked down at his palm. He was worried that he had given himself away, but at least he had learned something from the exchange. The mobile phone was a fake. It was too light. There was nothing on the screen. And it had no recognizable logo: Nokia, Panasonic, Virgin … nothing.
    He turned back to the two men at the table. Bryant had finished his water and crumpled the plastic cup in his hand. He was shaking hands with his friend, about to leave.
    The water…
    Alex had had an idea that was completely absurd and yet made some sort of sense out of what he had seen. He walked back across the restaurant and crouched down beside the dispenser. He had seen the same machines all over the tennis club. He took a cup and used its rim to press the tap underneath the tank. Water, filtered and chilled, ran into the cup. He could feel it, ice cold against his palm.
    “What the hell do you think you‟re doing?”
    Alex looked up to see a red-faced man in a Wimbledon blazer towering over him. It was the first unfriendly face he‟d seen since he had arrived. “I was just getting some water,” he explained.
    “I can see that! That‟s obvious. I mean, what are you doing in this restaurant? This is reserved for players, officials and press.”
    “I know that,” Alex said. He forced himself not to lose his temper.