‘He’s right,’ Jérôme told his brother. ‘It’s not worth it. So put the knife down, eh?’
Philippe glanced at his brother and then pushed me away. There were tears in his eyes. ‘He shouldn’t speak to you like that, Jay. He has no idea what you’ve been through. Better for us both that we get rid of him. He’s going to spoil everything. For you, me, Dad, everyone.’
‘No, no. It’s okay. It’s okay. You’ll see, Philippe. Everything is going to be fine. We’ll sort this out, I promise. I’ll make him understand. All right?’
‘Better listen to your brother, Philippe. For once he’s talking complete sense. You’d be making a very big mistake to kill me and think you could get away with it. But there’s still a chance to salvage something from this mess if you both level with me now.’ I nodded. ‘That’s right. Tell the truth. The whole truth. And maybe we can fix this mess.’
Jérôme put his hand on Philippe’s arm, and then on the hand that was holding the knife. Finally he managed to take the blade away from his brother. He laid the long, black knife on the table next to the Mont Blanc. From where I was standing the pen didn’t look like it was mightier than the sword but there was no doubt that my prospects had improved, a little. I let out an unsteady breath as fear gave way to nervousness.
‘Shit, I need that drink,’ I said, and returned to the tray where this time I poured myself a large glass of twenty-one-year-old Elijah Craig bourbon with a shaking hand, and drained it in one noisy gulp.
I knew I wasn’t completely out of the woods yet. And I figured my best chance of preserving my safety was to get hold of the knife before they changed their minds about cutting my throat. I poured another drink and walked to the table where the knife was now within my grasp. I sipped the bourbon, put the glass down, picked the knife up and examined it objectively, almost as if it had already been used to commit a crime and there was an evidence tag attached to it.
‘This would certainly get the job done, I suppose,’ I remarked coolly. ‘Saw a man stabbed in prison once. With a shank made from a toothbrush and piece of glass. I don’t think the guy who stabbed him expected him to die because the victim was stabbed in the thigh. But the femoral artery was cut right through and he bled to death before anyone could do anything about it. That’s the one thing they never get right in the movies. The blood. There’s a lot of blood when someone bleeds out. A whole gallon of the stuff makes a hell of a puddle.’
I looked at the twins, neither of whom seemed bothered that I was the one now holding the knife. I put it down, collected my drink and sat on the sofa.
‘I’m all ears, gentlemen.’
Which was hardly true; there was my chest to consider; my chest felt like I’d just played on the losing side in a cup final.
The twins looked at each other for a moment as if exchanging some telepathic remark — they did a lot of that, I was to observe — and then sat down opposite me. For a moment neither man said a thing but then Jérôme held his hand up in front of my face as if to indicate his true identity and started to speak, albeit with some difficulty.
‘I’ve never talked about this to anyone except my family,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, wearily, ‘you’re the true king of France.’
‘Jay,’ said Philippe Dumas. ‘Why take a chance? He’s a prick. You can’t trust this guy to keep his mouth shut. And once it’s out in the open it’s out. There’s no going back with something like this.’
‘I have to tell him, Philippe. You heard what he said. If I level with him there’s still a chance for me.’
‘That’s right, Jérôme,’ I said. ‘A good chance, I’d say. You’re a top player. With everything going for you. But if I have to get on that plane by myself, it will be because of your bullshit. It will be over. I can promise you that. No football team will ever touch you again. I’ll make fucking sure of it.’
Jérôme nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you everything. The whole story.’
I sipped some bourbon and waited, patiently.
‘Have you ever heard of a footballer called Asa Hartford?’ said Jérôme after a long pause.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
Almost everyone in English football has heard of Asa Hartford. Back in the early seventies he was a Scottish international who played for West Bromwich Albion. A good one, too. I think he even knew my dad. He also played for Scotland. Then — in 1971, was it? — Leeds United bought him in a high-profile transfer that fell through after it was discovered that Hartford had a hole in the heart.
‘He has a ventricular septal defect,’ said Jérôme. ‘That’s the proper medical term for the condition.’ He paused. ‘For my condition.’
I frowned as the implications of what he was telling me began to sink in.
‘Holy shit. You mean—’
‘There’s a tiny hole in the septum — in the middle wall — between the left and right ventricle in my heart. In a normal heart all of the blood that is pumped out from the left ventricle goes into the aorta. In people with VSD, when the heart beats, part of the blood in the left ventricle flows back into the right ventricle through the septum hole. So, the heart works harder as it has to pump not only the blood entering the heart normally from the rest of the body, but also an extra amount of blood flowing through the VSD.’
‘Jesus, I think I’m beginning to guess what’s been going on.’
‘No need. You’ve done enough guessing, Mr Manson. This is a condition that affects only me, not my brother, Philippe. We’re identical twins in almost every other regard. I discovered I had a hole in my heart at a clinic in Marseille about eight or nine years ago, just before I was going to start playing for AS Monaco. And it was pointed out to me that this might prevent them giving me a contract. So we hushed it up. My mum and my dad. Grace. Everyone. You understand, because of the chance that this gave my whole family we couldn’t afford to do anything else. My father arranged for my twin to come over from Guadeloupe and take the medical on my behalf. We did the same thing again in Paris when I went to join Paris Saint-Germain. Only that time I went back to Guadeloupe and for a while my brother took my place in Paris. To have a taste of the good life himself. He’s a good footballer, you see. Very good, actually. Just not as good as me. It’s not every pair of twins who are as good as the Da Silvas.
He plays for a part time local team called CSC. But because he normally wears a beard nobody notices that he looks like Jérôme Dumas. Besides, his name isn’t Dumas, it’s Richardson, Philippe Richardson. No one ever knew we were twins because how many twins live apart like we did? Me living with our mum in Marseille and Philippe living with our dad in Monserrat and then here in Guadeloupe.’
‘I can see that,’ I said. ‘But Asa Hartford had a successful career. The transfer at Leeds fell through, yes. But he went on to play for Manchester City, didn’t he? Nottingham Forest? Everton? And for big money, too. He was a great player. He even played for Ally’s Tartan Army in the 1978 World Cup. And he’s still alive. I think my dad still sees him from time to time. VSD is mostly asymptomatic. A lot of people go through life without even knowing that they have it. And certainly there are plenty of sportsmen who have it. Aren’t there?’
‘Perhaps that used to be the case, in Asa Hartford’s day,’ said Jérôme. ‘Frankly, it’s never once given me a problem. Not once. Not so much as a twinge. It’s a very common heart condition. It’s estimated that lots of kids are born with a VSD. But insurance companies have changed everything since football became a billion dollar business. Also, VSDs can cause strokes in some people — it’s the condition that nearly killed Fabrice Muamba — so its very hard to get insured to play when you have VSD. So you see my dilemma,’ said Jérôme. ‘I make a lot of money. And the way things are going I’m likely to make a lot more thanks to Paolo Gentile. There’s even talk of me becoming the black Beckham. But all of that ends if it becomes known that I have VSD. On the other hand, if Philippe goes to Barcelona in my place, then everything can proceed as normal.’