Rochelle brought Wayne a glass water bottle, which he unscrewed and guzzled gratefully. He noticed the others watching him drink and wondered if he'd committed some kind of boardroom faux pas. He didn't know the etiquette, but he was ready and willing to learn.
That's when David Carter made his entrance. "Morning all," he said, working his way around the room, shaking hands. When he got to Wayne, he took his hand warmly and gave him a friendly wink. "All ready, son?"
"Ready when you are, Dad," Wayne grinned. The blade in his pocket had never felt heavier. It might have been made of lead. He could do it now. It would be so easy. All he had to do was slip his left hand into the pocket, draw the knife in a single swift motion and plunge it deep into his father's heart.
"You sure? You're looking a bit nervous."
"Just excited," Wayne said. Which, in a way, was the truth.
He could do it now. Now, when David would least expect it. None of them would expect it. With the exception of the Popovs, who were studying the Carters with chilly eyes.
All at once, David withdrew his hand. Wayne had missed his moment. He took his seat, his shoulders beginning to heave up and down with increasingly agitated breaths.
"Well, good morning everybody," said David. "Thank you all for coming. I'd like to extend a particular thanks to Mikhail Popov and his sons, Yuri and Stanislaw. Welcome to Mile End."
The three Russians smiled around politely.
"I wanted you all to be here," David continued, "because I've got something important to share with you all. Over the last few weeks and months, Mile End has gone through a streak of bad luck that is unrivalled in the history of football. But not only that, we've experienced a great deal of personal loss. Enrico Brigante, one of the most brilliant players of his generation. Rob Linley and his family in not one but two senseless accidents. And most recently, our own beloved Max Linley, who suffered a catastrophic heart attack in this very building. It's times like these that you find out who your friends are. That's why it's such a great pleasure to announce to you all that the Popov organisation and the Carter organisation will at long last put aside our differences and continue as allies."
There was a round of spontaneous applause from the partners. Mikhail inclined his head.
"But that's not all," said David, holding up a hand for silence. "This new 'friendly agreement' between rivals is a great cause for celebration. It marks the end of a lengthy and heated conflict. But it also means that the Silvertown deal – which had seemed like such a costly disaster – might at long last be able to proceed."
More applause.
"Having said all that, there's another announcement I want to make."
David was obviously drawing to the close of his remarks. If Wayne was going to strike, he would need to do it soon. While his father was standing at the head of the conference table, all eyes on him. That would be the most perfect and impactful moment.
"All the turmoil of the last few weeks has taken a considerable toll on me personally. I've reached a point where I no longer feel I can run the club to the high standard that you all expect. That's why, when the deal between the Carters and the Popovs has successfully gone through, I'll be announcing my retirement as director of the club."
Stunned silence. Whatever the partners had been expecting, it wasn't this.
"That means of course that my son Wayne, whom some of you know already, will not only be joining the family firm but stepping straight into the role of director. I think that's going to be a popular move. What do you reckon, Wayne?"
Wayne was speechless. It was the job he would have killed for. In another life, it was everything he could have wanted. If only he had waited.
"Of course you'll be able to shadow me during the next few weeks, to learn the tricks of the trade. But I'm confident that you'll be a quick learner. Gentlemen, I'm incredibly proud of my son Wayne. To me, Wayne embodies the spirit of hard graft and tenacity that's made Mile End such a force to be reckoned with. As a footballer, I know Wayne won't mind me telling you that he never had what could be called a natural instinct for the game, but that he nonetheless rose to the top through sheer bloody hard work. He managed to stand out from a team of professionals and earn his place in the hearts of the fans. And then, as you all know, Wayne suffered a terrible, career-ending injury. What a tragedy that was for the club. But also, that tells you a lot about Wayne as a person. How he was able to take one for the team and keep going with his head held high. A lot of players would have been devastated by an injury like that – but not Wayne. Wayne was already looking for the next big thing, the next opportunity to succeed. I admire you for that, Wayne."
"Thanks, Dad," Wayne stammered. The words sounded a bit feeble, but he thought he'd better say something, or else risk looking like a bloody idiot. His grip on the knife handle in his pocket had slackened. He was confused.
"How does that old song go? 'Regrets, I've had a few...' but if there's one thing I've ever truly regretted, it's that I wasn't a better father to you, Wayne. I think that the mistakes you've made can all be traced back to that. I should have done better. In fact, if I had one wish it's that I could turn the clock back and start over from scratch. But you have to play the hand you're dealt, don't you? The important thing is that you've grown up into a fine man, and I couldn't be prouder of you. Ah, Rochelle! Right on cue."
Rochelle had just entered the boardroom with an ice bucket containing a magnum of champagne. She was accompanied by one of her subordinates carrying a tray of champagne flutes. These were swiftly distributed, and David grabbed the bottle and carried over to his son. He poured the first glass for him, and Wayne watched it fizz. It was still early in the morning, but Wayne couldn't resist. His throat was still dry, even after the water. He took the flute and sipped.
He realised that this was the moment. The chance he'd been waiting for. David was standing over him with that insufferable smirk of his. He'd given a pretty speech, but Wayne knew it was meaningless. Just lip service. All at once, Wayne felt a sudden wave of hatred wash over him all over again. He wrapped his fingers around the knife handle. He gripped it tight.
At least, he tried to. To his surprise, his fingers wouldn't do his bidding. They remained slack and weak. What was happening?
Wayne began to sweat. He felt a kind of hellish heat down in his belly, spreading upward to his throat. He opened his mouth. "I..." he said. It came out as little more than a crackle.
"Shh," said David softly. "No need to say anything, mate. I know. I know everything."
The heat became a stabbing pain. With his free hand, Wayne gripped his throat. It was as if he were trying to claw it open. He gasped.
David, the partners and the three Popovs all watched as Wayne bucked and kicked. He tipped the chair over sideways, landing prone at his father's feet. He was gagging now, and he spewed a mouthful of bloody foam onto the carpet.
"Sorry, Wayne," David said as his son continued to twitch and moan. "I meant what I said, though. I'm proud of you. You came as close as anyone ever has. But this is my club, and I’ll do whatever I have to to keep it that way. If anyone gets in my way, this is what's going to happen to them." He looked down at Wayne, who had stopped moving but was still breathing shallowly. "No matter who they are. Self-preservation, and all that."
Wayne gave a dramatic lurch, arching his back and flinging out his arms. This caused the steakknife to fly from his pocket and scud uselessly across the floor. David looked at Mikhail, who gave him the same nod he had given to Wayne minutes earlier. There was a bond of trust between them now. David dropped to his knees and picked up the knife. He tutted. "Very nasty," he observed. "You could make a mess of someone with this."
As if in reply, Wayne gave a guttural groan, spitting more foam onto the floor.
David proceeded around the conference table, filling each champagne flute as Wayne emitted his last few gurgles. Lastly, David filled his own glass and raised it high in a toast. "To Wayne," he said, "the best son a man could ask for. I'm sorry I couldn't do better by you, mate. I tried, but you can't win 'em all."
When the others did not raise their glasses, David prompted them: "Well? Aren't you going to help me toast my son?"
"To Wayne," said Mikhail.
"To Wayne," said Yuri.
And the others joined in, somewhat reluctantly. They waited for David to take a sip, which he did.
When everyone had sipped the champagne, David stood over Wayne once more. Wayne had stopped moving now. He was disturbingly silent. "But this is what happens," David said with an air of finality, "when people get in my way."
He strolled away from the conference table over to the floor-length window. He had a peaceful, contemplative little smile on his face as he gazed out. Below him, the damp pitch gleamed like emeralds.
THE END
