‘Christ,’ said Simon who was now standing alongside me in the centre of the pitch. ‘Has he had a heart attack, or what?’
‘Worse than that, I think,’ I said. ‘It seems like his heart has stopped beating altogether. They’re trying to get it going again now.’
‘It can’t be,’ said Simon. ‘Not him. Not Bekim. The lad’s only twenty-nine and as fit as a flea.’
‘Right now it doesn’t look as though he’s going to make thirty,’ I said.
‘Stop CPR. Stop now. Do not touch the patient. Analysing heart rhythm. Do not touch the patient. Shock advised. Stand clear.’
‘Stékeste,’ said the Greek medico.
‘Press flashing shock button.’
Once again Bekim’s body jerked spasmodically and then remained motionless. Some others came onto the pitch with a scoop stretcher to pick the man up just as soon as he could be safely moved. It was already beginning to look pointless.
‘He needs to be in hospital,’ said Simon. ‘Someone needs to call a fucking ambulance.’
‘They’re doing the right thing,’ I told him. ‘If they stop with the defibrillator then there’ll be no point in taking him to the hospital.’
‘No point anyway if the fucking doctors are on strike,’ said Simon.
By now the news that Bekim was in serious trouble had reached the small contingent of English supporters who were somewhere in the stadium and they began to sing his name.
‘BEKIM DEVELI! BEKIM DEVELI!’
‘BEKIM DEVELI! BEKIM DEVELI!’
To my amazement the Greeks joined in and for almost a minute the whole crowd was as one in its attempt to let the stricken Russian know that they were rooting for his recovery.
‘BEKIM DEVELI! BEKIM DEVELI!’
I swallowed hard, and in spite of the heat shivered a little with emotion, trying to keep it together, but inside I was in complete turmoil. What about his baby son? I kept asking myself. What if he doesn’t make it? Who’s going to look after Peter? What will happen to Alex? Football, bloody hell!
Bloody hell, indeed.
17
As six pairs of hands lifted Bekim onto the stretcher and hurried him off the pitch, I followed Gareth to the mouth of the players’ tunnel. The air was as warm as an open oven but I felt cold and empty inside. The audience started to applaud the man now fighting for his life.
‘Is he alive?’ I asked him.
‘Only just, boss. His heart’s all over the place. Maybe they can do something for him at the hospital. His best chance now is a massive shot of adrenalin. Or if they open him up and massage his heart. But we’ve done all we can for him here, I think.’
‘But what happened? What caused this?’
‘I’m not a doctor, boss. But there’s something called SADS — Sudden Arrhythmia Death Syndrome, or what the newspapers call Sudden Adult Death Syndrome — but that’s just what doctors call it when they have no fucking idea why people keel over and die. Except that they do. All the time.’
‘Not when they’re twenty-nine,’ I said. But Gareth didn’t hear me; the stretcher had halted briefly so that he could help to give Bekim CPR again.
‘Go with them,’ I told Simon. ‘Go with them to the hospital. And stay in touch.’
‘Yes, boss.’
I turned to find Gary standing behind me. He looked pale and drawn.
‘Drink something,’ I said, almost automatically. ‘You look like you’re dehydrated.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. But it’s not looking good right now.’
‘We can’t play on tonight,’ he said. ‘Not in these circumstances, boss. The lads need to know Bekim’s all right.’
‘I think you’re right.’
‘Christ, it makes you think what’s important, eh?’
I walked towards the touchline where Merlini, a UEFA official and several guys from Olympiacos were in conference. Merlini had both hands clasped as if he’d been praying too; he was biting his thumbnail anxiously as he tried to decide what to do. The Olympiacos manager, Hristos Trikoupis, put a hand on my shoulder.
‘How is your man?’
I shook my head. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘They’re taking him to the Metropolitan,’ he said. ‘It’s a two-minute walk from here. It’s a very good hospital. A private hospital. Not a public one. Try not to worry too much. It’s where all our own players go. I promise you, they’ll give your guy the best treatment available.’
I nodded dumbly, a little surprised at this turnaround in his attitude to me; before the match he had said some very unpleasant things about me in the Greek newspapers; he’d even brought up my time in prison and had joked that that was where I belonged, given my record as ‘a very dirty player’. Mind games, perhaps. All the same, that had hurt. You don’t expect that kind of behaviour from someone you used to play alongside. It had been all I could do to shake hands with Hristos Trikoupis before the match without trying to break his arm.
‘Look,’ I said eventually, ‘I don’t think my boys can play on. Not tonight.’
‘I agree,’ said Trikoupis.
Merlini, the referee, pointed to the tunnel. ‘Please, let’s go inside and have a talk there,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel comfortable deciding what to do in front of the television cameras or all these people.’
He blew his whistle and waved at the players on the pitch to come off.
I grabbed my jacket and then we went into the officials’ room; Merlini, the UEFA official, Hristos Trikoupis, the two team captains and me.
We sat down and for almost a minute nobody said a thing; then Trikoupis offered around some cigarettes and everybody took one, me included. There’s nothing like a cigarette to help draw yourself together; it’s as if, when you inhale smoke into your lungs, you’re pulling something back into yourself that had been in danger of escaping.
Gary smoked like a hard-bitten soldier in a trench on the Somme. ‘I used to think these would kill me,’ he said. ‘But after what’s happened here tonight, I’m not so sure.’
Trikoupis handed me a glass of what I thought was water and it was only after I’d downed it that I realised it was actually ouzo.
‘No,’ I said, firmly. ‘We can’t play tonight.’
‘I agree,’ he said.
‘So do I,’ said Merlini. He seemed relieved that the decision had been made for him. ‘The question is, when is the match to be finished?’
The UEFA official, a Belgian called Bruno Verhofstadt, who looked like Don Draper wearing Van Gogh’s beard, nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘That’s agreed. I’m sure we all hope and pray that Mr Develi will make a full and speedy recovery. Obviously I’m not a doctor but I trust Mr Manson and Mr Ferguson will forgive me if I state a very cruel and unpalatable truth: that it seems to me whatever happens now there can be no question of Bekim Develi playing for London City in the very near future. Not after a heart attack.’
I nodded. ‘That’s fair, I think, Mr Verhofstadt.’
‘Thank you, sir. I hope you will also forgive me if I suggest that we use this opportunity to try to find the best way forward from where we are now. By which I mean the situation as it exists, from UEFA’s point of view.’
‘Which is?’ I asked.
‘I’ll understand completely if you don’t feel you want to talk about this now, Mr Manson. I wouldn’t like you to feel that I’m putting you under pressure to make a decision about what to do next.’
‘No, no. Let’s talk about it. I agree, I think we have to do that now. Makes sense. While we’re all here.’
‘Very well. So then, given we are agreed that Mr Develi is unlikely to play any further role in this cup tie...’ Verhofstadt glanced at me as if awaiting confirmation.