The Edge (3 page)

‘Why you no like this stuff?’ he said. ‘I think it really work.’ He held out the bottle. ‘Try some.’

Jake sniffed the top of the bottle, and laughed. ‘And I think it’s all in your head. This stuff smells like toilet cleaner.’

Palm trees lined the street, ruffled by a warm breeze even though the sun was setting. Jake had seen most of
the town’s main drag on the way in. It wasn’t a big place, maybe three or four miles across, shunting up against the southern outskirts of Miami to the north. It had a central business district with small supermarkets and clothes shops, a hardware store and a dozen or so bars and cafés. The tallest buildings in the town were a couple of five-storey office blocks.

Jake felt Tan tap his elbow. ‘Look over there,’ he said, nodding towards a bar called the Thirsty Alligator. The front door was guarded by a single bouncer, and some kind of Latin jazz music spilled out on to the pavement. Through the glass frontage, Jake saw what had got Tan’s attention.

Dr Chow sat at a high table, a tall bottle in front of her, leaning close in conversation with a guy wearing a red baseball cap and sunglasses.

‘Must be her boyfriend,’ Jake said. ‘I had to listen to them flirting on the phone earlier.’

‘You think he works at Olympic Advantage also?’ Tan asked.

Jake shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen him around.’

Dr Chow stared down at the table, absently playing with her glass. If they were in a relationship, it looked as if they were having an uncomfortable discussion.

‘Come on,’ said Tan, ‘it bad if they see us watching.’

Jake was about to go when Dr Chow jabbed her index
finger at her companion’s chest. Her face was strained. The man waved a finger back as if telling her she’d said something incorrect.

‘Wait a second,’ Jake said.

Next Dr Chow tried to lean back, only for the guy to lunge across and grip her elbow. Her face creased, registering pain.

‘We need to go in,’ Jake said.

‘Rescuing the lady not work well before, remember?’ Tan said.

Jake’s eyes were on the arguing couple. Dr Chow was trying to pull away, but the guy in the cap wasn’t letting go.

‘Keep the bouncer busy,’ Jake said.

‘How?’ Tan asked.

Jake nodded to the bottle in Tan’s hand. ‘A little spillage should do the trick.’

They waited for a gap in the traffic and crossed the street. Jake let Tan go on ahead. As his friend got to the front of the Thirsty Alligator, he pretended to trip, up-ending the bottle all over the bouncer’s shoes.

‘What the . . .!’ the bouncer said, spreading his arms wide and stepping away from the door.

Jake walked towards the entrance, hearing Tan say: ‘I’m really sorry. So clumsy.’ He was positioning himself so the bouncer turned his back to Jake. Jake slipped into the bar.
The music was pretty loud inside, but he headed straight over to Dr Chow’s table, weaving past a waitress. She’d finally jerked her arm free, and Jake caught the words, ‘Leave me
alone
!’

‘Is there a problem?’ Jake asked as he reached her side.

The guy with the beer looked him up and down in less than a second, then pulled his cap lower. ‘Beat it, kid.’

‘Are you OK?’ Jake asked Dr Chow.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, clearly startled. ‘You shouldn’t be in here, Jake.’

‘Yeah, mind your own business,’ said the guy. He was still trying to hide his face.

‘I was just passing,’ Jake said. ‘I saw –’

‘You saw jack,’ the guy said. ‘Now get lost.’ He nudged him with his elbow as if trying to help him move along. Jake brushed it aside, and the guy’s hand clattered into his bottle, sending beer gushing on to his lap.

‘Why you little –’

‘You,’ said a deep voice behind him, ‘show me some ID.’

A second bouncer loomed over Jake. He had the build of someone who wasn’t used to arguing.

‘Does he
look
old enough to have ID?’ said Dr Chow’s companion sarcastically, wiping at his jeans with a napkin.

The bouncer stuck a thumb towards the door. ‘Out you go, before I call the cops.’

Jake hesitated for another couple of seconds, weighing his options. Should he take Dr Chow with him?

‘You deaf, kid?’ said the bouncer. A few people at a nearby table had turned to watch too.

Jake sighed and backed away from the couple. The guy in the cap was pointedly staring the other way. He’d never got a good look at the man’s face.

The bouncer escorted him all the way to the door. Outside, Tan was still protesting his innocence, trying to wipe the bouncer’s wet shoes. The bouncer, annoyed, gave Tan a light shove in the chest.

Jake’s roommate stumbled back, and seemed to trip over his own feet, landing hard on the pavement. Jake thought at first Tan was just acting clumsy, but then he saw the grimace contorting his face. Jake knew real pain when he saw it. Tan stood gingerly, supporting himself against a tree trunk, favouring his right knee. He began to limp along the pavement. Jake waited until the bouncers were chatting then headed after him at a jog.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ Jake asked.

Tan gave Jake a worried stare. He stopped again, and tried to flex his leg. ‘You can keep secret?’

‘Sure,’ Jake replied.

Tan shook his head. ‘Last year, I tear ligaments. Bad long-jump landing. I have surgery . . . But it no heal right.’

Jake frowned. ‘Should you be training, then? I mean, the next couple of weeks are going to be pretty intense.’

Tan gave a thin smile. ‘I guess not,’ he said. ‘But Olympic Advantage too good to miss, you know?’

Jake knew. It was stupid, but he understood. It would have taken a pretty serious injury to keep
him
off the plane to Miami. Tan was walking a bit smoother now, putting more weight on his leg.

‘You could really hurt yourself,’ Jake said.

‘I take painkillers if it gets bad,’ said Tan. ‘And I have another operation next month. Olympic Advantage mean everything to me. Please no tell anyone.’

Tan stared hard at Jake and Jake thought of the knee injury that had ended his dad’s playing career. Steve Bastin was lucky MI6 had seen his potential and recruited him. A lot of other players had ended up on the scrapheap far too early because of one mistimed tackle.

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ Jake said. ‘But be careful. Don’t push yourself too hard. Don’t ruin your whole future trying to prove something.’

Tan slapped Jake on the back. ‘Thanks, dude. Did you
find out what problem is with jerk in bar?’

‘I guess it was just a lovers’ tiff,’ said Jake. ‘They threw me out as fast as I got in.’

Tan laughed. ‘Maybe you stick to football. Stop playing hero.’

Jake raised an eyebrow. ‘I think you might be right.’

The canteen was buzzing the next day at breakfast. People seemed to have forgotten all about Otto Kahn, but Jake remembered seeing him shovel down his massive breakfast just twenty-four hours before. Even Tan was back to his bouncy self.

The athletes were encouraged to log everything they ate and drank in nutrition books, so the monitors could calculate their calorie intake. Jake avoided the rainbow colours of the chilled Olympic Edge and settled for freshly squeezed orange juice.

After breakfast, he went back to the laundry to pick up his clean kit. Laundry trucks came every other day to collect the mountains of dirty gear, and deposited fresh loads at the same time. While Jake waited for his food to settle, he had a look through the local paper. There was an interview with Bruce Krantz about the previous day’s tragedy, and he was already predicting the coroner would deliver a verdict of accidental death.

Jake was due to get down to the practice pitch at ten-thirty to meet the rest of the football trainees and the coach who’d guide them through the next fortnight. His name was Pedro Garcia, according to the brochure. Jake was hardly looking forward to seeing Oz Ellman again, but was excited about playing some proper football. As he laced his boots, he felt a mixture of nerves and energy. He
was
here on his own merit. ‘Daddy Bastin’ had nothing to do with it.

At ten-twenty, Jake jogged up to the pitch, and counted about twenty other guys standing around, all wearing the Olympic Advantage training tops with the LGE logo on the front. He thought he might be one of the youngest. There were players from all over the world, and most had formed into small groups. They stood around warming up with practice balls.

Oz’s group was at the back, tapping a ball back and forth. When Oz saw Jake, he sneered, but didn’t say anything.

Fine
, thought Jake.
We’ll soon see how good you are.

Jake joined a group of South Americans, playing headers and volleys. That’s what he loved about football – spoken language was irrelevant.

After they’d been going for a minute or so without losing the rhythm, one of the guys plucked the ball out of the air, and whispered, ‘Coach is here.’

A golf-cart approached, driven by a man in a white tracksuit, with the initials ‘PG’ stamped over the breast. He stepped off, flanked by an assistant with a clipboard.

‘Hey, fellas,’ the coach said. ‘Hope you’re all ready for some serious training!’

When Jake heard the coach’s voice, his stomach sank. Even without the red baseball cap and the bad attitude, there was no mistaking the voice.

The football coach – Pedro Garcia – was the man from the bar.

Garcia stood with his feet planted apart. Jake stood behind one of the guys he’d been warming up with, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

‘I guess Bruce has welcomed you already to Olympic Advantage,’ the coach said. ‘My name is Pedro Garcia.’

The player beside Jake, a Peruvian called Manny, leant closer, whispering: ‘Garcia was with Corinthians in the nineties. He played for Argentina under-twenty-ones.’

Jake had trouble picturing this bulky coach doing much good on the pitch. ‘What happened to him?’ he asked.

The South American shrugged. ‘Some cartilage problem, I think, in his feet.’

Garcia continued: ‘My role at the camp is to assess every aspect of your game: speed, agility, stamina, coordination. We’ll analyse tackling, dribbling, heading, jumping, set-pieces. We’ll assess tactics and spatial awareness.’

Yeah, but will we play any football?
Jake wondered.

‘First, roll call,’ said Garcia. ‘Jerry here is my assistant.’

The guy with the clipboard stepped forwards and began reading names off the list. The participants called back ‘here’. When he called ‘Jake Bastin’, and Jake shouted ‘Here’, Jerry paused to peer up from the clipboard. Oz sniggered something about ‘not for long’.

Garcia’s eyes found him now, and his face barely gave anything away: just a slight twist of the lips as if he’d tasted something rotten. The roll call continued. Jake held the coach’s stare.

After roll call, they were told to break into five groups of four for relay sprints across the pitch. Jake was teamed with Manny, and two other guys called Seb and Rafe. At the whistle, Seb set off first, tagging Manny at the far side. Jake jumped on the spot, keeping himself warm. His team was actually in the lead, and he noticed Oz standing next to him, ready to go.
Time to show him I’ve got every right to be here.

Manny arrived at the same time as Oz’s team-mate, and Jake sprinted off, pumping his arms for extra speed as he crossed the pitch. He felt himself pulling away from the Australian, and he reached Rafe a good two metres ahead of him. Oz was puffing, hands on his knees, while Jake watched Rafe take the final leg of the relay and reach the other side
first. Seb was whooping, ‘We won!’ and at the other side Manny and Rafe were slapping each other on the back.

Oz couldn’t even look him in the eye. And didn’t
that
feel good!

Coach Garcia blew his whistle. ‘Sorry, guys,’ he said, pointing to Jake’s group, ‘I’m afraid you’re disqualified.’

‘What?’ Rafe shouted. ‘Why?’

Garcia nodded at Jake. ‘Jerry tells me that Bastin here was already over the line before his guy tagged him.’

‘That’s rubbish,’ Jake said. ‘No way!’

Garcia’s face went darker. ‘There’s no place for cheating at Olympic Advantage, Jake,’ he said.

Jake’s blood was boiling. He hadn’t been over the line – he was damn sure. He bit his tongue as Oz’s team was pronounced the winner.

‘Right, let’s do some push-ups,’ said Garcia. ‘Start with fifty.’

There was a bit of groaning, but Jake got down quick. He could do fifty in his sleep. Jake counted them off, letting his anger fuel his arms. Garcia was going around, uttering words of encouragement. At twenty, Jake saw the coach’s feet near his head.

‘Proper push-ups, Jake,’ he said. ‘Nice and low. There’s no prize for taking it easy.’

‘I’m doing proper ones,’ Jake said through gritted teeth.

He felt Garcia’s hand on the small of his back. ‘Keep your back straight,’ he said. To others it might have appeared as if he was helping, but Jake could feel the coach pushing down, adding extra resistance. Jake knew he was being tested – or punished.

Some of the guys stopped at thirty, others collapsed around forty, but Jake kept going with half a dozen others. With the extra weight on his back, his arms were burning, and sweat dripped from his head. When he got to fifty, he sank on to the turf.

‘That’s good,’ the coach said. ‘But, Jake, you need to give us another twenty. Some of those only counted as a half.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ Jake mumbled.

Coach Garcia barked a laugh. ‘It’s a bit early to be giving me attitude.’

‘I’m not the one with the attitude,’ Jake hissed.

Oz ‘oohed’ theatrically, drawing a sharp glare from the coach.

‘Let’s get one thing straight, Bastin,’ Garcia said.
‘I’m
the boss around here. Got it?’

Jake was about to say that Garcia liked picking on people weaker than him, but he managed to catch himself. It wouldn’t do any good to make an enemy of the coach. He could make the next fortnight hell for Jake if he wanted to.

‘I got it,’ said Jake, readying for twenty more push-ups.

After push-ups came sit-ups, then squats and burpees. Jake was beginning to wonder if they’d actually get around to some football when Garcia called a break. Another golf cart pulled up. A guy in a pale blue suit stepped off, opening a hamper on the back of the cart. It was a cool-box, and inside were bottles of Olympic Edge.