Chapter 922 - 922: Planted Feet

I turned the phone round on the table so Cooke could read it. He read it twice. Then he looked up at Dion, stood in the middle of the kitchen with his laces undone and the dog sat at his feet waiting for the ball.

"Go on, then," I said to Dion. "You are JJ. You know he goes on the touch. How do you beat him?"

He did not need long.

"You do not go outside." He took the ball back off the dog and put it down again.

"You stop. He stops. You drop the shoulder, like you are going outside." The shoulder.

"He is waiting for the touch now, so he does not move on the shoulder, but his weight goes. You can see it go. And then you do not go outside at all." He cut the ball back inside across his own body with the sole of his trainer, and it ran under the table into Cooke's shoe. Thud.

"Inside. Across him. He has put his weight on the wrong leg and he has to come back off it, and you are gone."

Cooke picked the ball up off his shoe and turned it over in his hand.

"How long have you had that?"

"Since Saturday." Dion had gone red up the side of his neck. He sat back down. "Sorry. I go on when it is football."

"You do not," his mother said.

Cooke put the tennis ball on the table next to his tea, and did not take the paper back out.

"I had it written down," he said. "You have just stood there and done it. You are ready, Dion. That is what I saw."

Dion looked at him, and then at the table.

Mrs Asare had not moved from the worktop.

"He watches everything," she said. "He pulls it apart till there is nothing left. Every match on that wall. I go to bed and it is still on."

"I know," Cooke said. "That is why I came."

She looked at me again.

"Your club," she said. "Not you. Your club. Has anybody from Spain been in touch with your club?"

"No," I said.

She held me there for a long time. I held her back. The fridge hummed. On the wall behind her Keane was saying something about the Bernabéu and I could not hear what.

"I will be managing Crystal Palace in January," I said. "Michael will be running the under 23s."

"Good." She reached for the remote. "Because if you walk out in January and leave my son sat there with some new man who does not know him, I will drive to Beckenham and take him home myself."

"I believe you," I said.

She pointed the remote at the wall.

Click.

The kitchen went quiet. A car went past outside. Under the table the dog lay down on Cooke's foot.

Cooke bent down, picked his cap up off the lino and brushed the dog hair off the peak with the side of his hand. He put it on the table, well away from the edge.

Dion was looking at the dark television.

"They will have seen that," he said.

"Who will?"

"Inter." He said it to the television and not to us. "It was on Sky. If I can see it off my mum's telly, they can see it. Their analysts will have that clip by tomorrow."

Nobody said anything. Cooke looked at me.

He was right. Carragher had put 2 seconds of Aaron on national television and frozen it, and Inter were 15 days away, and whoever Luciano Spalletti puts on his left side at San Siro will have been shown those 2 seconds long before the 28th.

"Show me," I said. "You are playing for Inter. You have seen that clip. What do you do?"

Dion stood up again and put the ball down.

"Their winger will not stop dead. Aaron is ready for dead." He came at the table at a jog. 2 yards short of an imaginary man he broke his stride, a quick stutter of his feet on the lino.

Tk. Tk.

He dropped the shoulder on the end of it, and went. "The stutter makes Aaron plant his feet. Once his feet are planted, the shoulder, and you are gone before he has picked them up."

He stopped by the back door.

"That is what I would do," he said. "If I was them."

Mrs Asare had watched all of it from the worktop with her mug in both hands.

"You see?" she said to me.

"I see."

"He does not need to be in the under 23s."

"No," I said. "He does not."

I turned my chair round to face Dion.

"Tuesdays and Thursdays is finished. Tomorrow you are at Beckenham at 8 with the first team, and every day after that."

Dion did not move.

"I am on at the warehouse at 6 tomorrow."

"Ring them tonight," his mother said.

"And Hampton." Dion said it to her, not to me. "I tell Hampton myself. To their faces, before Monday. They had me when nobody else did. I am not finishing with them in a text, and I am not finishing with them in the paper."

"Then tell them before Monday," I said. "And Monday you sign."

He looked at me for the first time since we had come in.

"And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow Aaron does 1 against 1s with you all morning. No contact, with his shoulder. He does not need contact. He needs to learn to stand still on a stutter." I pointed at the patch of lino by the back door. "You do that at him until he stops planting his feet."

"And you tell him why," Cooke said. "Every time. Like you told us."

"He will not like it," Dion said.

"He will like it better than Inter doing it to him," I said.

Dion picked the tennis ball up off the table and turned it over in his fingers.

"Then he needs to hear it from me before he hears it from them," he said.

"8 o'clock," his mother said. "Do not be late."

"I will not be late, Mum."

Cooke stood up and put his cap on.

"Thank you for the tea, Mrs Asare."

"You did not drink it," she said, and took both mugs to the sink.

Clnk.

"See yourselves out."

Clack. The front door stuck and then opened.

We went down the path in the cold, and the door shut behind us before we were at the gate. Cooke unlocked the car and we got in.

Clunk.

He started the engine and put the heater on, and did not put it in gear.

Fwump. He sat with both hands on the wheel.

"You lied to her," he said.

"About what?"

"When she asked about the club. I watched your face." He did not look at me. "First time she asked, you told her the truth. Second time you did not."

I did not say anything for a while. The heater was blowing cold air on my shins.

"A man who works for Florentino Pérez rang Dougie on Thursday," I said. "He asked whether I would take a call."

"And today they gave it to Solari."

"Today. Dougie rang me at 8 this morning to tell me about Thursday. I said I would ring him back."

"Did you?"

"No."

Cooke let out a long breath through his nose.

"So Keane is right."

"Keane is right that somebody asked."

"And in January?" He looked at me now. "When the man rings again?"

I looked past him at the house. The kitchen light was still on.

"Tomorrow I ring Dougie back," I said, "and I tell him that when the man rings again, the answer is no, and he does not need to ask me first. And then I get the letter off Jessica and I answer United. 4 months is long enough."

"You mean that?"

"I mean it."

Cooke put the car in gear.

"Good," he said. "Then you have got a right back to get ready for San Siro."

Upstairs in the house a light came on. A shape crossed the window, stopped, stuttered, dropped its left shoulder, and went.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.