‘Christ, I didn’t know.’
‘Oh, yes. That would mean I’d have to leave the island, of course. I couldn’t continue to work in a society that hanged people.’ She glanced at her cousin. ‘Sorry, Jay; you were saying.’
‘At first I intended to be here for just a couple of days,’ said Jérôme. ‘A week at the most. But the longer I stayed, the harder it seemed just to leave him and go back to Barcelona and play football. I mean, you can imagine how worried I was? I couldn’t think about sport. Not for a minute. Someone once wrote that the immediate prospect of being hanged focuses the mind wonderfully. I’d agree with that except for the word “wonderfully”. The last few weeks have been hell. I was already depressed but this made everything seem even worse. I’ve been following the case on TV and in the papers but I haven’t been able to contact Grace. I gave her my numbers in Paris and Barcelona but of course I haven’t been there. And there’s no landline here; GJB likes it that way. Not even internet. As you’ve probably gathered by now, the mobile signal on the island is virtually non-existent. I didn’t like to go into Pointe-à-Pitre even at night, in case I was recognised. So I’ve just been laying low here, hoping something will turn up. My dad would have been furious that I’d stayed on here, of course, instead of going back. For Dad my career comes before anything. Anything at all, including him. The family needs money, see? It’s not just him. It’s my aunt, too. She’s been sick. My dad actually thought I was back in Europe until you showed up asking questions about my whereabouts. He only learned about that because Grace overheard you talking to that stupid cop in St John’s. Anyway, Grace told my dad, and he was furious and said she had to get a message to me insisting that I go back to Barcelona with you, and that he’d be all right. And here you both are.’
Sinking back into the big white sofa like a collapsing balloon Jérôme uttered a deep and despairing sigh as if at any moment he might fall to pieces and give way to a flood of tears and the insupportable weight of a very large black dog. He shrugged, and then rubbed his scalp as if acutely self-conscious that I was looking critically at him, narrow-eyed, trying to judge the veracity of his story.
‘I don’t know what else to tell you. Really I don’t. I can’t say that my actions could make sense. But, I’ve been depressed. For several months, really. And I can’t honestly explain why.’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Grace. ‘That’s the nature of depression. The only true cause is physiological.’
‘Maybe. But I know most guys would look at my cars and my house and my girlfriend and think such a thing impossible. How could a guy like me be depressed? But I am. And the fact is it’s getting worse. I ran out of Seroxat a couple of weeks ago, which was all that was keeping me afloat really. Since then I’ve done nothing but stay in bed, play the PS4 and stare out of the fucking window. Frankly, I’m glad you’re here as I really don’t know what would have become of me otherwise.’
It all sounded plausible enough, and yet there was something about his story that didn’t quite ring true. It was nothing I could put my finger on. Maybe it was just the fact that like a lot of rich young footballers Jérôme struck me not as someone stupid or lacking in intelligence, merely precipitate, a little unwise perhaps. Which was why most young footballers these days had someone like Paolo Gentile around; someone to advise them anyway. But I felt I had to push the door and see that there was nothing hidden behind it.
‘What are you not telling me?’ I asked.
Jérôme shook his head.
‘Come on. There’s always something people keep back right to the end. Something they don’t want to give up.’
‘Like what?’ asked Jérôme.
‘I don’t know. But that’s just how it is when you’ve been in prison like I have. You spend enough time with enough liars, you get a feeling for when there’s more to tell.’
‘I think you’re being a bit unfair,’ said Grace. ‘It sounds to me like Jérôme’s made a clean breast of everything. He was worried about his father. Any man can understand something like that, surely.’
‘Now I know you’re lying. You’ve got your lawyer speaking for you.’
Grace laughed. ‘Here we go again. It’s lucky I’ve got a sense of humour.’
‘But I’ve told you everything,’ insisted Jérôme. ‘Honest.’
‘Believe me, that’s a word you never use when you’re trying to tell someone the truth. Not that the football field is much different from prison, mind. The bullshit you hear when you’re out there on the pitch. I wish I had five quid for every lie I’ve heard during my twenty-odd years in football. I never meant to hurt him. It was a fair tackle. I never dived. Who me? I played the ball, not the man. It was a fifty-fifty ball. That was ball to hand, ref, not hand to ball. I am ten yards back. And that’s to say almost nothing about the lies you hear in the dressing room when you’re a manager. The leg’s fine, boss, it doesn’t hurt at all. I can play the next half without any problems. I couldn’t hear what you were saying, boss.
‘Jérôme, do I look like a dick? All footballers are fucking liars. Lying is just part of the game now, like ice packs or isotonic energy drinks, or a chunk of Vick’s VapoRub on your shirt front. I honestly think that if a team suddenly started to tell the truth, everyone would think they were on drugs. So, what is it that you’re not telling me?’
‘Nothing,’ he protested. ‘I’ve told you the whole story. And that’s the truth.’
But I was swiftly wrong-footed by what happened next.
Jérôme Dumas began to cry.
‘That’s it,’ said Grace. ‘I think he’s had enough.’
‘Now you really sound like his brief.’
Grace stood up. ‘I think it best that we finish this discussion for now. We can meet again later. This evening. When Jérôme is feeling like himself again.’
‘Suppose he goes walkies again? Then what? I’ll have summoned the Barcelona jet here for no reason.’
‘So wait a little,’ said Grace. ‘A few hours’ delay until you’re satisfied everything is as it should be won’t matter very much now, will it?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
She sat down next to the weeping footballer and put her arm around his heaving shoulders.
‘You’re not going anywhere, are you, Jay?’ she said. ‘Not now that we’ve found you.’
He wiped his face and shook his head. ‘No, I’ll be here.’
‘We’re going to walk back to the hotel,’ she told him. ‘We’ll come back at around seven when perhaps we can go somewhere for dinner. That is, if we can think of anywhere they serve something that’s actually edible.’
23
Our two-roomed suite at the Auberge de la Vieille Tour was, we were told, the largest that the hotel had to offer, although that didn’t make it seem any more comfortable. The dressing room at Stoke City was probably better appointed.
There was a long, split-level terrace with a table and couple of sunloungers, a nice view of an amethyst-green lawn and beyond this the sea, and in the blue sky a wide variety of bird life. Mostly these were mockingbirds whose sharp mockery possibly related to our choice of hotel. It certainly felt that way. There was no carpet, only a marble floor, and the suite was furnished with but the one armchair, a cheap-looking sofa that you might have found in any cut-price bedsit, and a TV with all the main French and Italian channels, which at least meant I wasn’t going to be deprived of football. The minibar was about as well-stocked as a student’s refrigerator and the Wi-Fi signal was weaker than a signal from the Mars Rover. One night in Guadeloupe’s best hotel looked like it was going to be quite enough. I couldn’t wait to get back to Jumby Bay and then London.