DailySquashReport.com

Chapter Seventeen

I couldn’t wait for the British Open, but before that there was a decent tournament in London and then the Mickey Mouse Championships in Brighton. My training had gone well through the autumn, with a special focus on preparing for the Open at the beginning of January. Even so, Sailor had me ease off training for a couple of days before the London tournament, the Barnes and Barney, or B&B as it was referred to. The tournament was apparently sponsored by a ‘hedge fund’, whatever that was, and either Mr Barnes or Mr Barney, maybe Mrs B or Mrs B, I didn’t know their gender, had an interest in squash.

I’d entered the Under Nineteens rather than the Under Seventeens in the B&B. “Part of the message,” was Sailor’s comment. “Do well in London an’ you’ll scare the children in Sheffield.” Hmm, what did that make me?

Anyway, I felt really strong when the tournament started. The entry wasn’t as large as it would be in a couple of months’ time for the Open, although it did include some well-ranked Egyptians among the higher seeds.

Daily Telegraph, November 17th

Jacks Wins Barnes and Barney Junior Championship

In a display of fierce hitting newcomer Jolyon Jacks, not yet seventeen, won the international Barnes and Barney Junior U-19 Tournament at the RAC Club in London. In the final Jacks overpowered the Egyptian junior number five, and number one seed, Salah el Zarka, 11-5, 11-5, 11-3 in just twenty seven minutes. Jacks did not drop a game throughout the tournament. He never looked threatened against el Zarka, and overwhelmed the tiny Egyptian with his fierce pace.

Jacks is coached by Sailor McCann in Manchester. He has surprised observers with a string of impressive results since joining McCann’s group in the summer.

Zoë had taken to helping me with the mental preparation for matches, when she wasn’t away herself at tournaments. I was amazed how seriously she took every aspect of her squash. Firstly, she had her own internal databank of opponents, and before tournaments with Sailor she would watch videos of the ones she was likely to meet. They would work out where most of their winners came from, how close to the T they moved in down-the-wall rallies, what signs they gave out when they were tiring. I’d seen Zoë win a tournament in Nottingham. She wouldn’t talk to anyone for a whole hour before a match. She would just prowl. She was visualising, she told me. Clean ball striking. Good movement. And above all how she would apply the pressure that was the key to her game. I started to do the same thing before matches, with a fast mix in my headphones, taking myself into a zone that excluded everything else, imagining how I would make the game so hard for my opponent he would mentally have given up long before the end of the match.

Before any further matches, though, I had to deal with my disciplinary. I’d no idea of what was coming up. I thought I’d get some sort of a bollocking, with maybe a warning put into my HR file. Then Jim Braddock told me to come to his office.

“Close the door,” Jim said, and didn’t offer me a seat. He was sitting in the big chair behind his desk, with a couple of folders open in front of him. “I understand this is the third time you’ve been observed swearing in front of customers, on top of persistent arguing with staff, shoddy work and poor punctuality. Anthea has apologised for not coming to me sooner. I hadn’t realised that there’ve been actual complaints too.”

For a moment I was lost for words. Eventually I croaked, “What do you mean, third time? And complaints? That’s ridiculous. And late? I’ve never been late, not once.”

“Anthea only told me yesterday. It’s all here, in the log, seven entries. On top of that here’s the two complaint forms, you know the system, from members of the public.” He prodded one of the folders with his finger. “Our customers, Jolyon, we take our customers seriously here.”

He opened one of the folders. “September the third, abuse in the canteen area, Mrs Nightingale and Miss Swann. October the twelfth, shouting during Over Sixties Swimming.

“I don’t mind doing a favour for Sailor McCann, but I can’t go on supporting you, not with this persistent poor behaviour. Especially customer-facing. Your disciplinary’s set for next Wednesday. You’re not scheduled to be in that day, I’ve checked. Anthea Trivet has prepared the dossier. We’ll start at two fifteen. You’ll get a fair hearing, of course. There’s a standard company procedure. There’ll be a representative from headquarters HR. You’re entitled to bring along a representative yourself if you wish, but it has to be a member of staff.”

I could hardly take in what he was saying. This was all made up, or virtually all of it. I stood there. If I was out, what would I do for money?

“I have to tell you this,” Jim went on. “I’m not optimistic about the outcome. In the meantime,” he looked up from the fiction he’d been consulting, “I’m obliged to suspend you from customer-facing duties. As of now.”

“But it’s not true,” I said. “Or hardly any of it. I admit I shouted at Anthea. I was pissed off because she’s been giving me all the dross jobs, all of them, while Derek hangs around hardly lifting one of his fat fingers. I had to do extra lifeguard sessions because he said he wasn’t feeling good. Then I had to spend most of my tea break unblocking a toilet. But the other stuff, that just didn’t happen.”

Jim didn’t look impressed. “Firstly, if you want to dispute any of the evidence that’s brought on Wednesday, that’s your prerogative. The incidents have all been logged. Even assuming something’s been exaggerated, which I don’t believe for one minute, it doesn’t look good. Look, here are the two complaints. They’re both signed by the customers.”

He pushed the file towards me. Sure enough, there they were, separated by another one, referring to ‘Faeces in the Men’s Dry Side Changing Room’. I knew the cause of that one, a horrible little five year old. Surprise, surprise, it was me who had been given the task of clearing it up, and the little shit, or more accurately the little shitter, had peered round the door while I was doing it. The two complaints about me cross referred to forms that had been sent to head office. They were both initialled by Anthea.

“You’ll be given a chance to speak for yourself, of course, and bring any evidence. In the meantime, you’d better keep your nose clean.” He closed the files dismissively. “Right now Anthea’s got work for you clearing out the gym pit.”

I left the centre that night in despair. I didn’t need to be a genius to work out that Anthea and Derek had concocted the stories. All except the lifeguarding incident; what a prat, that had been a gift. I’d no idea who Miss Swann and Mrs Nightingale were. Birds of a feather, probably elderly, swimmers maybe. The oldies looked much the same in their swimming hats. I turned to eye the wretched leisure centre after I’d walked through the doors, restrained myself from making a rude gesture at the CCTV camera trained on the forecourt and headed for the bus stop.

Back at Sailor’s I went straight to my room, put my headphones on and started a savage mix. Blast everything out of my head. Didn’t work. I kept thinking about Derek and Anthea, and how easy it had been for them to manufacture evidence. The only weak point might be Miss Swann and Mrs Nightingale. Maybe I could speak to them. This idea improved the more I thought about it. I could get their numbers from the members’ register and at least call them, then even catch one or other at the centre. I was booked in for the evening session the following day and should be able to make the calls in my break.

“I heard from Jim Braddock yesterday evening.”

My heart sank. This was an angry Sailor at breakfast, the morning after my meeting with Jim.

“The disciplinary?” I said. The darned disciplinary was going fissile. What if Sailor told Grandpa?

“Aye. Yer an eejit. A complete eejit. I called in a favour with Jim to get you in there.”

“But Sailor...”

He wasn’t to be interrupted. “Now you’ve blown it out of the water. Bang, gone.” A swing of the hand that knocked the cornflake packet violently onto the unused fourth chair at the table. Cornflakes spilled onto the floor.

“The thing is...”

“I’m a fair man but I won’t be made a fool.”

“Most of it’s a...”

He was shaking a finger at me. “Not me, I won’t be made a fool, sonny.”

“I know what...”

“Now where does this leave you?”

Mary had kept her head down to this moment, quietly eating her usual one and a half slices of wholemeal toast. She put a restraining hand on Sailor’s arm.

“Hold on, Sailor. Jolyon’s trying to say something.”

Sailor looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there, and then back at me. “Aye, well what do ye have to say for yerself, son? This is no’ a joke.”

“What I have to say is that it’s mostly untrue. I did shout at one of the supervisors, once. She was being completely unreasonable. But they have me being rude to customers, there’s two complaints. They have me being late. I’m never late, not once, but I’m up for poor punctuality. They have me not doing the job properly.”

“What’s going on, then?” Mary asked.

“Two of them, they’ve got it in for me. One of the lifeguards. I admit, I did wind him up a bit. It was a month ago now. And Anthea, she’s a supervisor, she’s been on my back from the first week I was there. She really doesn’t like me. She always gives me the crap jobs.”

“Son, yer in deep trouble. Ye’ll no be making it worse with bad language at my table.”

“Sorry. What I’m saying is, she always gives me the worst jobs. Finds ways of making life difficult. I think they’ve got together and made up a whole lot of stuff.”

“Did ye tell Jim?”

“I tried to. He wouldn’t listen. He said if I wanted to bring some evidence at the disciplinary I could.”

Mary said, “You’ll have to do that. You can’t let this thing go through.”

“I know, but I can’t see how. My word against theirs. One thing though. I know who the two people are, the customers, the ones who complained. Well, I know their names, anyway. Not actually them to recognise. I was thinking of finding out their numbers and calling. Or even speaking to them at the centre. Although I’d have to find out who they were.”

Sailor gave me one of his gamma ray stares, five seconds of it. “Okay, son. I believe ye. You do that an’ I’ll give Jim a call. It doesn’t sound good though.”

That evening I found Miss Swann and Mrs Nightingale in the members’ register. During a quiet moment on reception I rang them.

First Miss Swann. “Who’s that?” It was a very elderly woman’s voice.

“It’s the leisure centre at Fallowfield. I want to speak to Miss Swann.”

“Sorry, she’s not here. She’s gone to see her sister.”

“When will she be back?”

“Some time next week. Thursday I think.”

“You sure it’s not before Thursday?”

“I think so. I get so muddled with the days. It’s not one of my lottery days. We were talking about it. Do you want to leave a message?”

“No. No thanks. No message.”

No luck there. Maybe I’d do better with Mrs Nightingale.

“Hello.”

“Is that Mrs Nightingale?”

“Who wants to know?”

“It’s Jolyon from the leisure centre.”

“Who?”

A white lie was needed. “It’s the manager from the leisure centre. It’s about that trouble you had the other day. I wanted to apologise to you and find out if you’re all right.”

“All right? Course I’m not all right. I’ve never heard language like that. Not even my brother, and he was a bad one. He was in the army. That big young man. I used to like him. That was when I used to come in regularly.”

Ah, my suspicions confirmed. “You mean the one that swore at you?”

“He’s a nasty piece of work. He quite frightened me.”

“Would you be able to come in and tell me about it? We’re having to decide on the right punishment for him.”

“Come in? All the way to Fallowfield? Not on your life. I was only there for my granddaughter. It wasn’t her fault she spilled that drink. There was no reason to behave like that. I’ve had quite enough of you and your leisure centre.”

The phone went dead. Oh nooo! Mrs Nightingale would have been perfect; it was so frustrating. For a moment I’d had a picture of bringing her in the following Wednesday and showing that at least one of the pieces of evidence against me had been totally made up. Once I’d established that, the disciplinary would surely have fallen apart. Better still, Derek and Anthea would have been in deep doodoo. The only positive point from Mrs Nightingale was the information she’s given me. It was obviously Derek who had sworn at her, and from that it confirmed that he and Anthea were prepared to make stuff up to get me into trouble. I suppose I knew that anyway, but this was concrete. If only I could prove it.

I was really depressed as I left Fallowfield that evening. Again I resisted the temptation to star on the CCTV. Jolyon’s Got Talent. But why not? I couldn’t make things any worse. And I knew that the cameras were hardly ever monitored. The images were displayed together in a crowded pattern of squares on a small CRT behind the reception desk. No one paid much attention. The tapes were stored for a month in the strong room and then re-used. I was thinking about this on the bus when suddenly it occurred to me, what if there was something of Derek’s incident with Mrs Nightingale, or even whatever he’d done with Miss Swann, on the CCTV? Trouble was, there was no way I could check. It would take hours to run through the tapes.

I’d been earning as much as possible at Fallowfield to cover the several tournaments that followed the British Open in the spring, so I was back at the centre the following evening. And so unfortunately were Derek and Anthea. They were both nearby on poolside during my first lifeguarding shift.

“What do you think’s going to happen to the Jolly Boy at the disciplinary?” Derek asked at a volume I couldn’t help but hear over the noisy background of a swimming club training session.

“He’s out. It’s too many things together. I suppose if we both put in a good word for him, say what a good worker he is, he might get off with a serious warning. Letter from HR, that sort of thing.”

“Are we going to do that?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m just going to tell the truth, like a responsible supervisor.”

Derek giggled. “And say he’s a cunt?”

“I might not use that word. It’d be what Jim would call unprofessional. And I’m always professional here, you know that.” Anthea winked at him. “So I’ll say he’s an arsehole.”

They walked away laughing, not realising that they’d just made a big mistake. This was too far, over the top. Suddenly, instead of being angry, I was in match point mode, match point down. I would not lose now. I WOULD NOT LOSE! I was determined with a cold passion. This was not wanting to be shown up in training with Zoë. This was my match replayed against Ron Clarke. Whatever it took, I was going to beat the two of them.

A little groundwork would be necessary. At breakfast the next morning I told Sailor I’d be staying overnight with the Kemballs. Russell would be picking me up from Fallowfield.

Sailor nodded. “Make sure ye’ve enough sleep. And don’t be late Friday morning.”

“Course not.”

Chapter Seventeen

Not being late the following morning might be an effort. My shift that evening ended at 10pm. The centre would be closed at eleven. I’d made up my mind to hide somewhere inside till the place was locked up and then spend the night, or however long it took, in the strong room with the CCTV tapes. A video machine in there was available for reviewing them. I didn’t know if it was working, but it was used for training so it should be. I probably wouldn’t be in great shape for my own training on Friday, but this was match point.

I’d scoped out the CCTV cameras. There were eight of them in and around the centre, all displaying simultaneously on a monitor behind the front desk, out of sight of the customers. The first camera was the one that tempted me when I was leaving the building, outside covering the forecourt. The next was trained on the front desk. One was in the canteen area where I hoped to see Derek’s incident with Mrs Nightingale. One covered the entrance to the pool. I hoped to use this to work out the total time Derek and I had spent lifeguarding on the day I shouted at Anthea. One was in the crèche, one outside the gym and two trained on the gallery above the sports hall, at either end. I might even have to come back a second night. What a horrible thought.

Any encouragement I needed with the tapes was provided by Derek that evening. I was knackered after clearing away a hall full of gymnastics apparatus and looking forward to a sit down with my sandwiches. Bad news, Derek was in the staffroom too, having his meal. I went to the fridge for my food and was surprised to see my sandwich box and apple sitting out of the Sainsbury’s bag they’d been in. There was no sign of the yoghurt I always finished my meal with. I’d had food nicked before so this wasn’t a surprise, just bloody annoying.

As I took my sandwiches out of the fridge, Derek said, “Oh sorry, Jolly Boy, is this your yoghurt?”

It took me an instant to hold back a white hot bolt of rage.

“Looks like it, Derek, old son. No problems though. I’ve heard yoghurt’s good for mammary development and we wouldn’t want those big breasts of yours to shrink, would we?”

His face went red, but he did his best. “Ha ha very funny. Who’s going to be laughing next week?”

“Next week we’ll wait and see. It’s tomorrow I’m thinking about. I’ll bring raspberry flavoured in tomorrow. It’s said to make your nipples stick out, so remember to help yourself.”

He half got out of his seat and I hoped for a moment he’d be after me. “I’m going to be so satisfied,” he said. “You’re going to be dismissed next week. No doubt about it. I’m going to have a big house party in your honour.”

“Ooh Derek, you’re lovely when you’re angry.”

That did it. He was after me. Nothing to be gained by a last stand in the staffroom, and I was out of the open door far faster than Derek would ever manage. Unfortunately I almost collided with Jim Braddock, coming the other way. Jim caught me and was just starting with, “What’s going on?” when Derek emerged, also at speed, and with impressive momentum. It was his momentum and his lack of agility that did for both Jim and me. The three of us ended up in a tangle on the floor, with Derek coming off worst.

I was on my feet quickly, taking an early chance to make my case. “Sorry Jim, Derek nicked my yoghurt. He can be awfully aggressive.”

“Hold on a minute,” Jim said as he picked up both himself and his clipboard. “I’m not going to hold an inquest here. Come on, get up, Derek. Now, just cut this out, both of you, understand? I’ll see you both in my room in fifteen minutes.”

We got a fearful bollocking from Jim when he confronted us in his office. Inevitably the truth didn’t emerge, but I managed to provoke Derek into calling me a cunt, in a loud voice, so I felt I came out the better. There was nothing like a little aggravation to speed the passage of the evening. It didn’t feel long before I was making a pantomime of saying good night and leaving through the front entrance. I didn’t head for the bus stop, but nipped round the back and in through an emergency exit I’d left ajar a little earlier. Then it was just a case of hiding until Dave the duty officer had closed the centre down at eleven. From behind a vaulting horse in the gymnastics storeroom I heard Dave doing his checks at five to eleven. There was some light in the storeroom from the lobby, and this clicked off at eleven. The last thing I could hear was Dave setting the alarm.

Then there was silence.

I gave it five minutes. The first thing I had to do was unset the alarm. I knew the code so that wasn’t a problem. Next I collected the key to the strong room from a drawer in the front desk and headed for what was going to be my last hope. I wasn’t expecting Derek to be lobbying with Anthea to put in a word for me, and there was no way the little dear herself would say anything positive. On the plus side, I was sure there’d be something on at least one of the tapes. Trouble was, how long would I need to find it?

The strong room contained a Human Resources filing cabinet, properly locked. I assumed Jim Braddock kept the key. There was a safe, some floor-to-ceiling shelving with row upon row of company files and procedures, and my target, a roll-fronted cabinet where the CCTV tapes were stored. These were labelled with their dates, each covering two days, and the location of the camera.

Now that I was in there I was excited. My plan was to photograph the incriminating frames with my mobile. Once I’d produced these at the disciplinary they could review the originals if extra clarity was needed. It would be a delicate matter explaining how I’d tracked down the relevant frames. It could hardly have been during a working shift, but I couldn’t imagine that would be an issue if the message from the CCTV was clear.

I’d already decided to start with the canteen tape. My best hope was to show that it was Derek and not me involved in the incident with Mrs Nightingale. Her complaint had been logged on September the third at 11.35am I found the relevant tape and slotted it into the machine. The first image came up. The date and time to the nearest hundredth of a second were digitally displayed at the top right hand side of the screen. It wasn’t a moving recording. One image was logged every three seconds, in black and white. Sadly of course, there was no sound.

I quickly got the hang of the display’s fast forward, fast back and pause controls and started reviewing the tape from 10am onwards on the third. Through the first hour I watched jerky images of an increasing number of people using the canteen. The quality was mediocre but you could see some detail in the freeze frames, whether a person had a soft drink in a bottle or a hot drink in a cup on their tray, and you’d have been able to recognise most individuals if you happened to know them.

There at last, at 11.03.22, was the meat mountain, no problem in identifying him, apparently talking to Janice, the woman who ran the canteen. I felt a surge of excitement and intently clicked forward, frame by frame. Derek spent some time at the canteen counter. Then Janice was pointing across the canteen with Derek looking in the same direction. Yesss! Two frames later he was paused in front of a woman and a little girl sitting at one of the tables. It looked as though a glass on the table was on its side. Derek stayed there for four frames. He was facing away from the camera, partly obscuring the woman. I clicked back and forward several times in increasing frustration. There was no story. All you could make out was that Derek and the woman seemed to be talking, although a couple of people at nearby tables were turned to them in the last two frames. It could be that the little girl was crying in the last frame before Derek left, but that might be my imagination. If only I could track down the two women at the adjacent table. Sadly there was no chance with the limited time I had before the disciplinary. It would take a major effort just to identify them. The next two frames showed Derek leaving the table. Then he was gone.

Oh dear, it was past midnight, I’d made no progress and my best opportunity had turned out to be useless. Those images would never be accepted as proof that it had been Derek shouting at someone. I wasn’t even sure the woman in the images was Mrs Nightingale. Suddenly I felt tired. Training that morning had been intense and I was way beyond my usual ten o’clock bed time, extended to eleven on Fallowfield evenings. My enthusiasm for investigating the other opportunity was waning. I wanted to be able to show that although Derek and I should have been doing roughly equal lifeguarding stints on October the seventeenth, the day I had my run in with Anthea, I had spent far more time at it than him. It wasn’t much in the way of mitigation but it would indicate that Anthea was favouring Derek over me.

Going through the tape at the entrance to the pool from 2pm to my 10pm finish was tedious. It wasn’t a quick process finding and noting when Derek and I entered the pool area. There was no camera on the pool itself so you had to suppose that the lifeguarding sessions coincided with our ins and outs. I wearily took photos of each relevant frame on my mobile and made notes of the times. It was half past two when I reviewed my notes. Not good news. Although I had indeed spent more time lifeguarding than Derek, it wasn’t nearly as clear cut as I’d thought, and certainly not enough to confirm serious favouritism on the part of Anthea.

What to do now? The whole CCTV thing had turned out to be a waste of time, good sleep time too. My prospects at the disciplinary had descended to bleak. There was a vending machine in the lobby and I shambled through to get a Red Bull. As I put the money in I wondered about the change that had been going missing from the till. There was only a small chance of anything showing on the CCTV, why bother? It didn’t take much to pocket an occasional 50p during a transaction with a customer. Even if something was there it would be needle and haystack territory.

As I headed back towards the strong room I stopped to look through the glass wall that separated the lobby from the wet side. The pool was eerie without its harsh lighting. There was no hint, apart from the empty lifeguarding stand, that underneath the cover were thousands of gallons of chlorinated water, ready to be weed into by the children of East Manchester. I realised I was standing exactly where Derek and Anthea had been when they laughed at me the evening of my single genuine disciplinary offence. Half a can of Red Bull reinforced the surge of anger I felt. That day was one of the ones when the till hadn’t tallied. Come on, match point down, worth having a last go at finding some evidence. Derek’s fat-fingered mitt in the till? That would help on Wednesday.

The lobby camera took in the desk, the start of the corridor leading to the changing rooms, the bottom of the staff stairs to the upper floor and the entrance to the admin area. This was separated from the reception desk by a dividing wall on which there was a noticeboard and a big bank of switches that controlled the lights throughout. Derek’s shift had started before mine that day but he couldn’t have been around at the 6am opening, for about twenty unfortunates in the swimming club, so it was likely that he was on a twelve to eight shift. I fast forwarded the tape to twelve midday and began the tedious process of advancing through the frames slowly enough to have a general idea of what was happening. Derek’s first stint on reception was at one o’clock. A lot of punters were coming and going around lunch time. There were many occasions when Derek could have put some change to one side without it being recorded. It was so boring. I finished the Red Bull and nearly packed up right then. My plan was to doss down on some gymnastics mats in the storeroom until five thirty, then let myself out. The duty officer would arrive between five or ten minutes before six so I would be well clear. I was then going to spend the half hour or so before I could reasonably arrive back at Sailor’s in an all night café I occasionally went to five minutes from his house. I knew the buses started early so getting back wouldn’t be a problem.

I reluctantly decided to carry on as far as the Derek and Anthea incident. Seeing it again would probably prevent me from sleeping, if the gym mats didn’t achieve that anyway, but it would be an appropriate end to a fucked up project. Derek had two further spells on reception through the afternoon, neither with any hint of 50p thievery, before at 17.52 22.73 seconds he emerged from Admin and, apparently by chance, met Anthea in front of the glass wall. I clicked slowly though the next couple of minutes. I could make out a blob that was me on the lifeguard stand. As for Derek, his back was turned and Anthea only half in view. Her big-time irritating smile was obvious and there I saw the pointing incident. It was all I could do not to throw the monitor across the strong room, it made me so angry. I carried on clicking forwards, only half watching. A couple of frames later Anthea was walking towards Admin. Next frame Derek followed. In the next they were both stopped behind the dividing wall to Reception, facing each other, quite close, completely out of sight unless someone was coming in or out of Admin. All of a sudden I started to pay attention.

In the next frame, wonder of wonders, they were snogging.

This was a result! The result I absolutely, desperately needed, on par with clear evidence about the Mrs Nightingale incident if I’d been able to get it. Better than that. I clicked back a frame and carefully took a photo. Two clicks on, 17.56 33.46, and they were still snogging. Three frames later, 17.56 42.41, I struck gold. Anthea’s hand had very obviously disappeared down the front of Derek’s pants. It stayed there for six whole frames, an eighteen second grope, each frame recorded at the highest setting on the passable camera in my mobile. In the next frame Anthea’s hand was back out, no doubt smellier than when it went in, and it was only due to the strength of the fabric of Derek’s tracky bottoms that his dick wasn’t out too. He was side on to the CCTV camera, a perfect profile. The effect of Anthea’s manipulations was rigidly obvious. Several frames later Derek went in to Admin, at a guess for a wank in the staff bog, and Anthea disappeared up the stairs.

I rewound the tape and played the sequence again, to convince myself the whole episode hadn’t been my imagination. Yesss! It was all there, frame by glorious frame in arty black and white. How stupid could you get? I punched the air a couple of times, here we go, here we go, here we go, checked the pics on my mobile before I shut the video down and tidied up. I didn’t want to leave evidence that I’d been in the storeroom.

It was almost 3am when I’d finished, time for a couple of hours’ sleep. I managed to get comfortable on the gym mats in the overheated storeroom and the next thing I knew it was half past five with the alarm going off on my phone. I borrowed a spare key to the front entrance from behind Reception, set the alarm, let myself out and locked the door. With any luck no one would notice the missing key, and I’d be able to return it later when I was back for my shift.

Sailor gave me a surprised look when I turned up at around seven. “Russell gave me a lift,” I said. I had some breakfast, messed around with Facebook on my laptop and felt surprisingly good when we headed off to the EIS for training. It wasn’t my best morning but I got through it and was able to grab a couple more hours sleep before heading off to Fallowfield for my four to ten shift.

I was trying to work out how to let my dear colleagues know about the information I had on them. Derek would be too unpredictable to be given the news about Anthea’s feel directly so I waited until I had an opportunity to talk to her. It came with just the two of us in the staffroom, quite late after the swimming club had finished their evening training. I was sitting at the table, having a cup of tea. Anthea was tidying up.

“What’s likely to happen at my disciplinary?”

She seemed surprised I was even talking to her. “It’s a done deal, must be. Repeated offences, several. You’ve got to get used to the idea. You’re going to be dismissed.”

“It would help if you put in some words for me. You know I’m always on time, and I get stuff done.”

“What makes you think I’d do that?”

“Maybe you’d have second thoughts.”

“Ha, ha.”

“It’s not as if I was ever misusing company time. Or stealing. You’ve never proved that business with the till. Or getting caught doing it on the premises.”

She looked at me sharply. “What do you mean, doing it?”

“You know, making out. Instant dismissal, that’s what the staff handbook says.”

She laughed. “No, it’s not that. Not you. I can’t see anyone wanting it with you.”

Oh Anthea darling, you’re making this so easy.

“No, I suppose not. It’s true there’s some of us, like Derek would be another, some of us no one would want to touch. What a loser, Derek. They say big muscly blokes have tiny dicks.”

“That’s enough. You’re not being funny. You’re not helping yourself for Wednesday, either.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny. I’m surprised you didn’t leap to Derek’s defence. You know full well how big his dick is.” Ooh this was so sweet. “Don’t you?”

“Cut it out, Jolyon. If you don’t stop right now I’ll log this as sexual harassment. Not that one more complaint’ll make any difference. You’re out and good riddance.”

“Only, if I could prove that you were, how can I say it, investigating the size of Derek’s miserable little knob on the premises here, do you think they might overlook sexual harassment charges against me? You’d suppose they would. That’d be sexual harassment, much worse, supervisor corrupts poor innocent lifeguard.”

“This has gone far enough.” She made a move towards the door. “I’ll ignore this, but just don’t expect any favours on Wednesday. You’re history.”

“Hey Anthea, stop.” I took my mobile out of my pocket. “I’m just wondering if you’ve seen these pictures. It’s Derek and you. I’d no idea you two were so close.”

She paused in the doorway. “What do you mean?”

“Come and see. Shame they’re not in colour. For your mum and dad, that is. They’re awfully sweet. Your family, they’d be so proud if you had one put into a frame.”

I’d never seen someone’s face fall. It was a metaphor my English teacher had used in class. ‘Faces don’t literally fall’, she’d said. Well Anthea’s did. It was comic.

“What are you talking about?”

“Here they are,” I said. “There’s more than one. Come here and see.”

She walked over and stood beside me uncertainly. I pulled out a chair. “Sit down. We don’t want you fainting or anything.”

“Just show me.”

I played the sequence of shots. It hadn’t struck me how sordid they were, voyeuristic, a private moment between a girl and a bloke. It should stay private, but it was my lifeline. Anthea sat down in the chair beside me, her hand over her mouth.

“How did you get those?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I’ve got them. You wouldn’t want the management to see them, would you?”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Well, yes it is, if you want to put it like that.”

“You can’t do it. It’s, it’s illegal.”

“Huh, you’re one to talk.” My sympathy evaporated. “So is making up stories and putting them in the complaints log. You and Derek, you must’ve thought you were being clever. Well you weren’t. If I had more time I’d get more proof. But I don’t need that, do I? Like I suggested, you and the meat mountain can put in some words for me. Say what a good worker I am. Say what dragons those two women were. Anything, I don’t mind. It’s just that it doesn’t suit me to have to leave this miserable job at the moment. It’s miserable because of miserable pricks like you and Derek. It would be okay otherwise. Anyway, the job suits me so I need help from you at the disciplinary.

“Now, go and find Derek and bring him here. He needs to understand too.”

“I can’t. He’s on lifeguarding.”

“Gosh, doing some proper work, that’s rare. Well fiddle it. You do that often enough. Put Janice on or something. Go on.”

She stood up and headed stiffly out of the room. I was still sitting at the table when a couple of minutes later she returned with Derek, who came straight across the room and stood over me.

“What’s this, then, sonny? You been upsetting Anthea? Right? Right? Upsetting Anth? Just listen, sonny, if you been putting yourself about, I’ll have you. Just see if I will. I’ll make you sorry you ever walked in here.”

It was a golden opportunity for Derek baiting, but I wasn’t in a position to run, and the running option always had to be available at those times.

“Hey, no Derek, it’s okay, I just wanted a chat, sit down.”

He looked uncertainly at Anthea.

“That’s right, sit down, Derek.” She slumped into a chair opposite me, and Derek reluctantly sat between us. “What’s it all about, then?”

“What it’s about is, I need some help from Anthea, and maybe you if you get involved, at my disciplinary.”

“Help you? You must be joking.”

“Well no I’m not, see. I was hoping to persuade you.”

“What is this, Anth? This prick can’t be serious.” Anthea remained staring at the table.

“This prick is serious,” I said. “This prick has some photos on his mobile that you wouldn’t want the management to see. This prick was hoping that in exchange for the photos remaining private, Anthea and maybe you, if you could make five consecutive words come out in the right order, would help him with his disciplinary.”

“What photos? You better fucking show me, mate. There’s no photos’ll make me change my mind about you.”

“No, I don’t think you’ll change your mind. Not about me as a person. I think your opinion of that will be reinforced. But about my value as a good colleague, yes.

“Here, have a look.”

I ran through the sequence of photos. “You dick, you cunt,” he said. “How d’you fucking get those?”

I couldn’t resist. “With my hermaphrodite skills, Derek dear.” No surprise, he looked blank. “That was what Anthea asked,” I went on, “but it doesn’t matter. The fact is I have them, and if Jim Braddock sees them you’ll both be out of here, bang, just like that. Without a reference.

“I’m quite prepared to show the photos to Jim, happy to. You’d be mad to let me, though. This is long term for you and Anthea here. Your career. Hers, anyway.” Anthea was still staring at the table. “It makes no sense for you to chuck it away. All I want is a little help. Between you, you made up most of the evidence for my disciplinary. You can’t uninvent it but I’m sure that you can persuade the panel or whatever it is that it would be unjust for me to be dismissed. Which after all it would.

“If I had more time I’d find those women who apparently claimed I’d shouted at them. I never did that. So either it never happened, or maybe someone else shouted at them. I think it was you, Derek darling.

“I don’t need the ladies, though.” I pointed to my mobile. “These are enough. I have Anthea’s hand, Exhibit A, inside your pants, Exhibit B. Getting on for half a minute. And oh look, in spite of all the steroids, Exhibit H with Exhibit O, you’ve got a hard on.”

Silence from Derek. Silence from Anthea.

“That’s agreed, is it? And don’t be in the slightest teensy weensy bit of doubt. I don’t mind getting a formal warning from the disciplinary. But if I lose my job, Jim sees these. You’ll be out as well, both of you. I don’t know if Derek will be involved in the hearing, but obviously you will, Anthea. Derek can back you up if he’s called in. The message is, I’m a star, those women were way out of order, there’s no way it could have been me with my hand in the till, there’s no way the centre can run efficiently without me, et cetera et cetera.

“Now, it’s knocking off time for me. I’m going to have a shower and piss off home.”

I left them at the table, Derek looking at Anthea and Anthea staring at the table. I went into the tiny changing room leading to the staff shower, put my things in my locker, undressed and got into the shower. It felt good to rinse away the tension of that sordid meeting. I couldn’t imagine that Derek and Anthea would take any chance of the photos being made public. I might have a rough ride at the disciplinary, but if Anthea stood up for me I should be able to avoid being dismissed.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped out of the shower was that my clothes were on the floor. Why?  My locker was open, too. The key, which had been in the pocket of my shorts, was still in the lock.

The rage inside me threatened to burn its way out through my skin. Was it Anthea? Or was it Derek? Derek of course, put up to it by Anthea. I hardly wasted time checking the contents of the locker. I’d left three items in there, my keys, my wallet and my mobile. My wallet was there. So were my keys. My mobile was not.

Along with the anger I felt a surge of triumph. Did those two no hopers imagine that my phone was the only place the photos had ended up? The first thing I’d done when I got back to Sailor’s that morning was to download them into my laptop, email them to myself and copy the files onto a memory stick, belt, braces and a safety pin for good measure.

Derek was by the reception desk as I went to leave the building. “Anything missing, then, loser?”

“You know it.”

“I wouldn’t know it, not me.” He laughed. “It’s just you look sort of down. I’ll call you if anything turns up before we close. You know, lost property?”

Ha ha. I walked out, leaving him to enjoy his smirk. When I got back Sailor had gone to bed but Mary was still up. She let me use their printer and before I went to bed myself I’d made two grainy A4 sets of the photos. They looked even more tawdry printed out. I blagged two envelopes from Mary, put a set of the photos into each with a short note, ‘Staffroom, 5pm, make sure no one else is there’, and wrote Anthea’s name on one and Derek’s on the other. I was on my usual afternoon-plus-evening shift the next day. Something to look forward to in the middle of the shift.

When I arrived the following day I put the envelopes into Derek and Antheas’ pigeon holes. As I started my afternoon work Anthea was neutral and Derek all pally. “You don’t look too good, little Jolyon. Why don’t you,” here he paused and pretended to crease up, “phone a friend?”

“You should be on TV, Derek darling. You’re so funny. Only, have you heard the saying, ‘he who laughs last...’?”

“Oh, I’m laughing, sonny, I’m laughing. How many days more have you got? It’s five, isn’t it? Me and Anth were just talking about it.”

“Nice piece of counting, all the way up to five. That must have been Anthea?” I was ready to run but with an obvious effort he controlled himself.

If Derek had looked angry then, it was nothing compared to the way he looked an hour later, talking to Anthea, the envelope in his hand. This was going to be almost as good as beating ‘Tripper’ Clarke at squash.

The two of them were standing waiting when I entered the staffroom at five. They didn’t respond to my relaxed, “Sit down, sit down.” I sat down myself, put my feet on the table and looked at them.

“Whose idea was it to nick my phone?”

No answer.

“How come you don’t deny it?”

Still no answer.

“It’s one more thing I can’t prove, so you don’t need to worry.”

“We don’t need to worry anyway,” Derek said. “We’ve worked out how you got those photos. From the CCTV, wasn’t it?”

“Oh Derek darling, I’m impressed.”

“And the only time you could have done it is after closing.”

I was a little worried that I wasn’t in a position to run, but I couldn’t resist the temptation. “Miss Marple couldn’t have done any better.”

“Miss who?”

“Never mind. Go on. So I was in the building when I wasn’t authorised? Which will get me another disciplinary?” I looked at the notably silent Anthea. “I’m surprised at you, Anthea. You must have worked it out. The point is, Derek dearest, for sure I’ll be fired if any of this CCTV business comes out. All that’ll happen is I’ll get another poxy little job somewhere else. Inconvenient, that’s all. You, you and Anthea that is, it’s your careers. And those pictures mean you’ll be fired, absolutely no doubt about that. Without a reference. Think about it. And absolutely no doubt, too, I won’t hesitate to use the photos.”

Anthea sat down and I went on, “It’s not in your interests. And destroying the CCTV tape wouldn’t work, even if you could find it. I don’t need it any more. The date and time are printed on the photos. It’s obvious where they were taken. Get used to it. I’ve won.”

“Okay,” Anthea said. “You’ve made your point. Only, we’ll want all the copies of the pictures.”

“Anthea, don’t you see? Why should I give you back the pics? They’re electronic anyway. How would you know they still weren’t in some folder somewhere? The pics mean that once you’ve got me through the disciplinary, you’ll have to treat me like a human being. All up to the time I decide to leave this place. You should be able to manage that. It may be a problem for Derek, obviously.

“Now, one more thing. I need a phone.”

They exchanged a glance. “Go and get it,” Anthea said.

Derek went round the corner. I heard him open his locker. A moment later he came back and tossed the phone to me, or more accurately, at me. I caught it, very deliberately took the back off and extracted the SIM. Then I tossed it gently back to him.

“You didn’t listen, Derek darling. I didn’t say I wanted my phone. I said I wanted a phone. What I want, by the end of next week, is an iPhone 4S, SIM free, max memory, I think that’s sixty four gig.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Derek said. “They’re six hundred quid.”

“Welcome to the big bad world, Derek darling. You started this.”
Chapter Eighteen

Sussex Argus, December 3rd

Squash - Local Boy Returns

Ex-Redbrook pupil Jolyon Jacks returned to Brighton at the weekend for the South of England U-19 squash championships. It was a winning return. Still only sixteen, Jacks left Redbrook in the summer after his GCSEs to train full time at the English Institute for Sport in Manchester. Jacks must be doing something right in Manchester, and he made short shrift of a quality field at the Brighton Squash Club.

In the semi-final Jacks slaughtered the top seed, local boy Dan Moore 11-4, 11-4, 11-0. The final was a complete mismatch, a rerun of Man U against Brighton in the cup. Jacks ran out the winner 11-5, 11-3, 11-3 in only 25 minutes, and this was against the fancied Brummie, third seed Billy Stamp. Jacks said afterwards he was sure the fitness he’d gained from his cross country running in the Downs around Redbrook was now helping his squash.

I’d almost pulled out of the South of England on Sailor’s advice because the field was a weak one. For various reasons several of the top under nineteens had withdrawn. But it was an opportunity to say hello to Grandpa, and he had sounded anxious the couple of times I’d phoned him through the autumn.

So I took an expensive taxi ride over to see him after my semi-final win. We had a cup of tea, made with actual leaves and not a bag, and he asked me how I was getting on. His eyes sparkled when I talked about the wins I’d had, and the satisfaction of making the final in Brighton, with every prospect of taking the title.

“That’s what I wanted to hear, Jolyon, you do the business, and keep going. Remember, this is early days. You’re doing well, as Sailor expected. We’ll know better after you’ve had the odd setback, and recovered. There’ll be setbacks, there always are. It’ll be injuries, loss of form, who knows. Call me if you’re ever struggling. You know I’ll listen.”

We chatted about other stuff for half an hour, and I headed back to Brighton in a cheerful mood.

The Times, January 22nd

Jolyon Jacks won the British Open Under Seventeen championships in Sheffield at the weekend, to prevent a clean sweep by the strongest team of Egyptian juniors ever to enter the tournament. According to the seedings, the result was a surprise. Jacks, who only took the game up seriously in the summer of last year, was seeded in the bottom half of the draw, as low as number six. However, anyone who has been following his progress through the autumn, and the way he has been destroying opponents in under nineteen tournaments, would have expected something special from the sixteen year old.

The final was certainly special. Jacks broke the spirit of the elegant Hatem el Gabaly in the first game, which lasted a punishing fifteen minutes. The next two games occupied a total of all of nine minutes. The score of 11-7, 11-2, 11-3 tells something of the ferocity of Jacks’ play. Jacks never allowed el Gabaly the time to weave the wristy spells that had taken him so effortlessly through to the final. It was to the Egyptian’s credit that he fought so hard in the opening game. It wasn’t enough. Jacks played more like a young man than a teenager still learning the game.

We shall be hearing a lot more of Jolyon Jacks.

The Times reported the triumph. Fortunately it didn’t cover the disaster. If some journalist had picked up the other half of the story, it might have appeared in the front of the tabloids. The incident involved the Bentley family. Dick Bentley, I suppose because Sheffield was his base, was one of the principal organisers of the Open Juniors. A big job, and, I gathered, his first time doing it. I’d overheard him in his strong Yorkshire accent talking to Tim Graham about the size of the task. This was on the first morning of the tournament as people milled around in the old-fashioned Abbeydale Club.

“Bloody hell, Tim. You didn’t warn me it was going to be like this.”

“Welcome to the hard part of squash, mate. It’s worse than running round the court, as you can see.”

“I’m worn out and it’s only day one. I had more than two hundred emails this morning, can you imagine it, two hundred and six emails. The press is constantly on my back. There are too many coaches here and they all want special treatment. There are parents from countries I haven’t even heard of. And at least half of them are making complaints about the marking. Already. I’ve had to pacify a couple of the referees too, for Pete’s sake. Then of all things, did you hear about this one, there’s the dietary requirements of the Muslim players. Someone didn’t pass the message on when the bar manager at the Hallamshire went sick. We had to send out to a Halal supermarket.”

If Dick had known on top of everything else what I was going to be like as a guest, he wouldn’t have invited me to stay at his place during the tournament, but normally I wouldn’t have been much of a distraction.

The Bentley house was a large one, half way up one of Sheffield’s big hills, ten or fifteen minutes by car from the three tournament clubs. Dick’s wife had apparently died several years earlier, and his two sons were away at their universities, so it was just Paula and him rattling round in the family home. During the tournament Dick left dead early each morning and returned late so I fitted in with Paula’s to-ing and fro-ing to the courts. She had a beaten up little diesel Renault that she drove far faster than I ever would. A lift is a lift though, and a lift with a fanciable girl who smiled at me, that was more, especially in my Samantha-less world. What’s more, her poor dad had been looking increasingly sorry for himself and even ill as he zoomed between the three Sheffield clubs sorting out the tournament problems, someone to be avoided.

After a couple of morning matches my quarter final was scheduled more comfortably for two o’clock, on the fifth day of the tournament, this time at the Abbeydale. It was against Ross Fitch, a tall boy from New Zealand who had quite a reputation in the junior squash world. Paula had lost the previous day, but she happily took me in to the club in the late morning. She stayed in the gallery to see me beat Ross pretty comfortably three nil. It was about five o’clock by the time I’d stretched, showered, had a drink with Ross’s parents, really decent folk, and met up with Sailor in the bar for a debrief.

“Why did you let up in the third, son? It shoulda been eleven love.” Ross’s single point in the third game had come when I’d caught Paula’s eye as she sat on the crude scaffolding that acted as a gallery behind the ancient glass back court.

“I lost concentration for a moment,” I said truthfully.

“Well you’re no’ here to be ‘losing concentration’,” Sailor tried to mimic my voice. “You’re here to win the squash tournament. Scare the wits out of the international folk in the junior game. Let the folks in the professional game know you’ve arrived. It’s all part of the top two inches. If people are scared to play you they’ll fold at the start of the match when you do your whirlwind thing.” He tapped his forehead. “Beat them up here and you’ll beat them easy on the court.”

Sailor had started talking up my ‘whirlwind game’ some time before Christmas. He said he’d put the word out about it to signal to my opponents what they could expect, and to make the point, as he explained it, that I was different. I’d never thought psychology came into what I was doing, but I’d already started to see the benefits as perfectly capable opponents started to hit the tin long before they’d become seriously tired. Any game won quickly in a tournament is good news. The accumulation of effort, usually five rounds over just three days in the juniors, could leave you tired and vulnerable during the later stages, if you got that far.

Paula came up while we were talking about my semi-final opponent, a Malaysian player called Chong How Joon.

“Mind if I join you? I was thinking of heading home if you wanted a lift.”

“Give us two minutes,” Sailor said. Nothing gets in the way of squash talk.

When Sailor had finished dissecting Chong How Joon’s game, the main message being that the Malaysian was crude, physically dynamic and tended to hang back, so shots to the front of the court should tire him more than an opponent with more orthodox positioning, Sailor signalled to Paula that we’d finished.

“What are you doing about an evening meal, son?” Sailor asked me.

“I’m cooking something for him,” Paula said.

Sailor’s comment came with a half smile and a half frown.

“Well don’t give him anything that’ll slow him down tomorrow.”

Paula laughed, “Of course not.” Then she looked at me. “Jolyon will be energised for sure.”

As we drove out of the car park I said, “You don’t have to cook for me. I wasn’t expecting anything like that.”

“Well, now I’ve been knocked out I’m going to make sure someone in the household does well. Daddy won’t be home till late and it wouldn’t be fair to expect him to cook with all the tournament stuff going on. He was looking awful today, wasn’t he? He does miss my mum. Misses her still. I miss her tons, but they were so close. I think she’d have packed him off to bed the way he’s looking.”

“You going to do enough food for him too?”

“I guess so, just in case he wants something when he gets in.”

After stopping at a local supermarket we staggered into the house with several bags of provisions in addition to my squash bag.

“It won’t take long,” Paula said, standing rather close to me in the large kitchen-cum-parlour. “It’s a bit early to eat. Any idea how we might pass the time for an hour?”

“Well, I’ve got to decant my kit and put new grips on a couple of racquets.”

Paula rested her hands on my shoulders and locked eyes with me. “That should take less than five minutes. Can you think of something that will fill up the other fifty five?”

The penny well and truly dropped. “Well, I can think of something that might last, ooh, all of five minutes.”

“Five minutes, that won’t do. If it’s going to be like that it’s not going to happen.” Her hands moved behind my neck and she mumbled into my lips as she pulled us together, “A first snog’s going to take longer than five minutes, all by itself.”

And it did. We collapsed onto an ancient sofa that occupied the opposite end of the room to the AGA and lost ourselves in a spectacularly intimate snog. It was at least five minutes before Paula’s hands were inside my tee shirt, and mine inside hers. She took a deliberate age with the zip of my jeans. Then another tantalising five minutes before her hands were into my pants. And mine into hers, I wasn’t going to be outdone in undoing. Not many more of our minutes and we were mixed up naked all over the sofa.

“My you’re fit, Jolyon. You have the stamina for this as well as squash?”

I lay back with my arms above my head. “Gotta do my stretches.”

“How would you like me to stretch, then? Methinks this must be a good exercise if semi-finalist Jolyon Jacks does it.” She sat up beside me and stretched her arms over her head in a parody of my parody, cosmic breasts. This took me past the limit of playing games and I wrestled her onto her back. The look on her face as I pushed into her was a further turn on and I knew I was only going to last a few seconds.

“Stop,” she said.

I couldn’t.

“No, I mean it, stop.”

I did manage to stop, but it wasn’t going to be long term. “What’s going on? Don’t be such a fucking tease.”

With her hands on my shoulders she pushed me away. “Don’t be silly. I want to enjoy this too. We’ll do it at my speed, that’s all. The way I like it. Or not at all. What’s it going to be?”

She looked really serious. “Come on, Jolyon, get off me. Get off.”

“That’s what I thought I was doing.”

She giggled as I pulled out of her. “It’s all right, Mr Willy,” she made a ticking off gesture to my dick. “You can go back in in just a moment.” She got off the sofa, still staring at my dick and stood for a moment rubbing her breasts. Then she slowly made her way to the end of the sofa and bent over the arm, hands on the cushion with her back arched like a stretching cat.

“Come on, Jolyon. We have one rule now. I do the moving. You stand still.”

Weird, I thought as I positioned myself behind her, I can’t believe this. I wasn’t going to argue, though. I was starting to see the point.

“That’s it,” she said, “slowly, slowly.”

Once I was in her again it was pleasurable torment. She told me to stand still and for ages just wiggling her bum, ever so slowly.

“Do you like that, Jolyon?” At last she started to rock herself gently backwards and forwards over her outstretched arms, looking round now and then. Teen squash player's head explodes. I was forced to content myself with holding her hips. This went on for further ages, help! She’d talked about this taking an hour, but in the end I couldn’t control myself and started to push.

“Oh no,” Paula said, “I’m not ready yet. Any more of that, boyo, we stop.”

You can’t fight nature though. As she resumed her rocking I felt my balls tightening. “Oh Jesus, I’m losing it.”

I was indeed about to lose it, shit I was, but not in the way I thought. Without warning the door into the hall gave a loud creak. My heart lurched.

Nooo!

We both looked across as the door swung open. And we both froze. A dishevelled figure in an ancient tracksuit appeared in the doorway.

Paula managed a strangled squeak, “Dad!”

Dick Bentley blinked at us as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Almost certainly true. His face transformed in a few silent, agonising seconds from influenza grey to an intense, sickly purple.

“Get out, you cunt, get out. Out! And don’t come back. And you, Paula. Upstairs. Now!”

Your girlfriend’s father, I thought, the world’s best cure for premature ejaculation. I suppressed a complaint that he should have arrived a bit sooner to help me hold out and for an instant considered the one saving grace in a totally unsavable situation: the appearance of my host had caused my erection to disappear like a burst balloon. Dick deflates dick. Prick pricked. So-called cunt exits cunt. Paula held a tee shirt over herself as she ran out of the room, leaving me with what would in other circumstances have been a further pleasing image of her naked bum. I rushed around the sofa in a panic, gathering items of clothing, pulling on my pants, tripping over myself. Then it was three at a time up the stairs to my bedroom where I crammed kit, racquets and the few spare clothes I had into my overnight bag.

Dick was waiting downstairs by the front door, quivering, face still purple. He wasn’t there to wish me a polite good night.

“Get the fuck out of here, boy, and don’t come back.”

Plain spoken as usual, with the message reinforced by the way the door slammed behind me.

I trotted out of the drive into the road, anxious to get away. Then I took stock. Any other evening the frost that was already forming on the grass would have looked pretty. Now it was one extra negative in a truly negative situation.

Where was I to go? The only places I knew in Sheffield were the squash clubs. It had to be one of them. Even that wasn’t simple. I’d not paid enough attention during trips in Paula’s car. I wasn’t confident of the route to any of them. And, I then realised, the situation was even worse. I’d left my warmest garment, my hoodie, on a hook to the side of the Bentleys’ front door. I shivered as I felt the cold air on the back of my neck. A further problem, my mobile was in the pocket of the hoodie.

The first part of the route from the Bentleys’ house was obvious, so I set off, feeling thoroughly sorry for myself. What would I do when I arrived at one of the clubs? Would they even be open when I got there? What was the time now? My mobile would tell me that, ha ha. It couldn’t be too late in the evening, surely. When had we started snogging, half six? If Paula hadn’t been so keen on the drawn out Cosmo sex-and-simultaneous-orgasm crap we’d have been dressed and half way through supper when her dad had appeared. The arrival of Mr Bentley must have been around seven thirty. Something like eight o’clock now, I thought. And what about Dick? Why was he there? He must have come back early to sleep off his flu. How unlucky could you get?

I took further stock as I walked. My squash bag was on my back but my arm was starting to ache from carrying my overnight bag. My hands were freezing. An awful thought was the possibility of a night outside. Too grim to contemplate? Yes, hopefully I could at least get into one of the clubs.

Not so encouraging now was the prospect of the semi-final against the dynamic Chong How Joon, with my preparation disrupted. Make that preparation utterly ballsed up. Then there was the prospect of explaining to Sailor what had happened. That was worse than all the other prospects put together.

I dithered at a road junction that was only half familiar. If I remembered correctly, the Abbeydale was nearer the Bentleys’ place than the Hallamshire, and it was downhill from there to the Hallamshire. So I took the uphill road. The Abbeydale would do. There weren’t many streetlights, with dark banks of trees on either side, not houses. Pretty discouraging.

Ten minutes later I stopped to give my shoulders a break. At least I was warm now, apart from my ears and my hands. Hungry too, I realised. Paula’s still-born spaghetti Bolognese was an enticing thought. If only. Well I could get something at the Abbeydale bar, as long as the club was still open.

Oh no!

Oh no comma FUCK! Something else dawned on me. I wouldn’t be able to get anything at the Abbeydale bar. There was another item nestling safely in the pocket of my hoodie. Also enjoying the warmth and comfort of the Bentleys’ hall was my wallet. Not much in my wallet these days, but not much was a whole lot more than nix. And nix was what I had with me. A thorough exploration of the pockets of my jeans produced not even an odd coin.

I came to another road junction. Had I seen this one before? I wasn’t sure, so I crossed over and went straight on. I was starting to feel weary. Although the score against Ross had been decisive, the points didn’t reflect the big effort I’d had to make in the first game, something like twenty minutes of it. A decent meal and an early night were what I needed, what a dream.

It must have been a mile before I reached the next junction, twenty minutes, and by that time I knew I was lost. I thought of flagging down one of the occasional cars that went past. Or maybe it would be easier to call in at a house to find out where I was. First find the house.

A car horn nearby startled me, and a small red Renault pulled up. The window wound down. For an awful moment I thought it must be Dick, kitchen knife in hand on a castration mission.

“Come on, jump in!”

Not Dick at all, it was Paula. Thank goodness! Apparently she’d been driving round for half an hour looking for me. Her father had gone back to bed after giving her a mighty earful and once she was sure he was asleep she’d slipped out to see if she could find me. Even better, my hoodie was on the back seat.

“Phew, thanks, you’ve saved my life. I was heading for the Abbeydale but I seem to have got lost.”

Paula put the car into gear and pulled away. “Abbeydale was a good idea. You can’t come back to our place obviously. Even though Dad’s dead to the world now. You’re not so far away from the club in fact. You’re on a parallel road. Not the one you should have taken.”

She ran her hand through her long hair. “It’s too bad about Dad. That was so embarrassing, awful, I just can’t say. I can’t imagine what’s going to happen in the morning.”

“God, what’ll he do to me? I suppose he slipped home to try to shake off his flu.”

“Yes, his car was in the garage. I never thought to look. It’s not as if he minds me having boyfriends, but I guess he doesn’t dwell on what I do with them.” She giggled. “And in the parlour. And over the arm of the sofa.”

“If you’d let me go at my speed we’d have been well finished. Showered and dressed.”

“You’d have been finished too. With me, that is, for sure. Sex isn’t something you do in sixty seconds.”

“The way we left it, next time it’ll take about two seconds.”

Paula rested her hand on my leg. “We’ll have to try again, but not at my place. Not an option, is it.”

“No way. I’m not looking forward to bumping into your dad, here or anywhere.”

She pulled in to the entrance of the Abbeydale club, its lights blazing. There was the familiar sound of squash balls blatting onto squash court walls as I got out of the car. The club was very much open.

Paula got out too, and handed me my hoodie as I struggled with my bags. “What are you going to do about somewhere to stay?”

“I don’t know. I’m too scared to call Sailor. I thought maybe I could doss down somewhere in the club. Anyway, you’d better get back home before your father wakes up. I don’t want to be responsible for his death due to a seizure or something.”

“I wish I could help, Jolyon. I can’t really ask any of my friends.”

“You have helped. I could have been wandering around Sheffield all night. I’ll get something to eat, that’s the first priority. Then I’ll see what can be done about sleeping.

“Now push off, and thanks, it was nearly a great evening.”

She gave me a quick kiss and got back into the car. I felt lost as she drove off.

Oh well, food first, I was starving. It turned out I had enough money for two club sandwiches, a jumbo Mars Bar and as much tap water as I could drink. I’d leave what to do about breakfast until the morning. Fifteen pence wouldn’t buy much. While I ate I tried to look as though being there at that moment had always been a major part of my life plan, the most natural thing in the world. Luckily the place was still busy. No one was paying attention. I felt a tinge of envy every time someone walked purposefully out of the building with their bags and their car keys. It wasn’t good not having anywhere to go. Not at all.

I took stock round the club. The last tournament matches had long finished and it was just late evening bookings for members. Was there a corner where I could lie down without being noticed? Nothing much on my first circuit. The changing rooms were barren. I’d wondered whether there might have been some towels I could use as blankets. None.

This wasn’t looking good. I explored the rest of the club, along ancient improvised corridors past anonymous administrative offices. Nowhere you could easily hide from staff and, equally bad, nowhere remotely comfortable for a half decent sleep.

I sat myself down again in the darkened bar area. A large plasma screen was showing a professional tour game from the PSA circuit. It was a recent tournament in Doha, lots of prize money, lots of ranking points. I recognised an up and coming American, Julio Mattaz, being demolished by Jan Berry. The squash was even more depressing than my current situation. The Hatchet indeed; Jan Berry was well named. How could anyone live with that frightening energy? Mattaz looked just as far away from my squash, even under the immense pressure. His casual skills delayed the inevitable three nil thrashing. How could I ever hope to beat players of the quality of Mattaz, let alone Jan Berry?

“Trying to see how it’s done?” A voice beside me with a strong New Zealand accent. I looked round to see Ross Fitch’s dad, Colin.

“Oh, hello Mr Fitch. I’m surprised to see you still here.”

“Same about you. We’ve come back to collect the half of Ross’s kit he didn’t take with him. Are you on the same mission?”

I wondered what I could tell Colin Fitch. It was such a relief to see a sympathetic face, and before I could stop myself I blurted out, “No, it’s a long story, but I don’t have anywhere to stay tonight.”

“That’s radical. What happened?”

It was too dark for Mr Fitch to see me blush. “I, er, I upset my host, I have to say.”

“Who is that? Oh, I know, Dick Bentley.” Then a long, slow, “Oh yes.”

He smiled. “I think I can see, mate. You were staying with Dick Bentley, weren’t you? And that was his daughter here, nice player. She was taking quite an interest in you during the match with Ross.

“And you didn’t want to call Sailor McCann, I suppose?”

Unseen, I blushed some more, and didn’t reply.

“Well, I guess not, let’s not go into that. I’ve probably got the wrong end of the stick anyway. Point is, you can’t stay here tonight. That wouldn’t be right. We’re in a B&B only a few minutes away. There’s a second bed in Ross’s room. Why don’t you sleep there?”

I felt a surge of relief. “Oh thanks, Mr Fitch, that’s almost too good to be true. I was feeling pretty down.”

“If you’re staying with us you’ll have to call me Colin,” was his response. Ross soon joined us, with a large bag of kit, and in a couple of minutes we were in the Fitch’s hire car on the way back to their B&B.

The goodnight formalities didn’t take long. Moments later in Ross’s room the spare bed looked absolutely wonderful.

“What happened?” The second Fitch to ask me that, as we were undressing.

“Dick Bentley, you know, the tournament director, well I was staying with him. I went home with Paula, she’s his daughter, she’s been driving me everywhere. And I’m like making out with her in the kitchen. Sort of kitchen living room, it is. On this large sofa, or not exactly on it. He wasn’t going to be back for hours. Then he appeared out of nowhere, in the middle of us doing it, he’d been there all the time, upstairs. He’s got flu and he must’ve gone home for a sleep. You can imagine the rest.”

“She wasn’t that girl watching our match, was she? Yeah I remember. You were doing all right there.”

“That was what I thought until, well, that was embarrassing with a capital E, a big time no-no. Can you imagine it? Anyway, he threw me out. Inside thirty seconds.”

I paused. “I can’t believe your dad now. He’s saved my life.”

“We’ve always got someone or other staying back home in Matamata. This is just normal. It’s been a long four weeks, this. I’m looking forward to going home now I’m out of the tournament.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that. You know what I mean.”

Ross laughed. “No problem. It wasn’t as if I played badly. It hacks me off if I play badly and lose. I hadn’t heard about you. I was fancying my chances against Chong How though. I’ve beaten him twice. You won’t have any trouble.”

“I may not now, thanks to you lot. That’s if I don’t get chewed up and spat out by Sailor tomorrow morning. He’s sure to have heard about it from Dick Bentley.”

“Sailor looks like a hard nut.”

“The hardest.”

I was not looking forward to my next encounter with Sailor.

Chapter Nineteen

In the morning Sailor’s body language said it all the instant he saw me. What I recalled used to be referred to in gymnastics as body tension. I was desperately trying to look unconcerned as I walked into the Hallamshire. My semi was scheduled there that evening, and we’d agreed the previous day to have a gentle hit on a practice court at midday.

He jerked his thumb. “You, sonny, outside.” Several people looked round, more embarrassment for me. Sailor marched away from the club till we were standing by a statue of Queen Victoria on the edge of the park next to the club. He was bristling like Rascal, my mother’s thankfully deceased Yorkshire terrier.

“Right, sonny, you explain yourself to me, no bullshit.” His face would have been right in mine but for his lack of height. Looking down at him slightly, regardless of the consequences, I lost my rag.

“Hold on, Sailor, just hold on a minute. It’s you now. You’re just like everyone else. Jolyon Jacks, everyone’s blank canvas. See here, Jolyon Canvas, exactly what you want him to be. Jolyon Cardboard Cut Out. Colour him in yourself, people. Just look at him, Jolyon Jacks, the perfect teenager.”

I didn’t care what Sailor would say now, how he’d react. I was letting a whole lot of frustrations spew out and gave him no chance to interrupt.

“Why do you think I was so happy to leave home? No secret there, you know that, my mother. Then there was my school, my prick of a housemaster. Mr Pomp-Pomp-Pompous Middleton. Maybe I haven’t told you about Mr Middleton. A scheming bastard, pardon my language. Why is it that everyone expects me to be something they want and something I don’t happen to be? It’s true my mother’s the worst. All I ever am to her, I realised when I was quite small, is an extension of her personality. An object to increase her status. ‘Look at my wonderful toy, it’s called a Jolyon.’ God knows how screwed up her own life must have been. To actually need that.

“Then I’m faced with a situation at the Bentleys. It’s normal this, Sailor, it’s what teenagers do, and yes I was wearing a condom. It was a normal situation with a normal boy and a normal girl. There was no way we could have known that her father was home, no way. Not during the tournament. You’ve seen the hours he’s putting in. Neither of us wanted that to happen. Neither of us would have taken any sort of a chance on that. And now you’re looking at me as though I’ve committed some crime against humanity. I know it was an appalling muck up last night, but just, just,” I petered out, “just don’t look at me like that.”

For a moment, Sailor said nothing. The terrier capable of the Doberman bite. Plus rabid. Brace yourself, Jolyon.

When it came it was entirely different from what I was expecting.

“Okay, son, you’ve made your point. You messed up last night, you know that. We both know it. I’m afraid there are some important boats burned there. We’ll come to that but it’s history now. I hear what you say. We put it behind us.”

He stepped even closer. “But now you’re going to listen. I won’t say this again. This sort of thing, there won’t be any next time. First, you’re at an important tournament. Whatever the story, you’ve let yourself down. You’ve let me down. If you want to be world champ by twenty one, by any time, you’ve no margin, absolutely no margin. During a tournament there’s no room, any room, for messing around.”

He looked around. No one was paying any attention, thank goodness. “This is your launch tournament for God’s sake, and you’re prepared to take a chance on the semi-final? You win this tournament the way you’re playing, it’s the first piece of the jigsaw, the five year jigsaw, and it’s a big piece. This is where your reputation starts, sonny.

“Second, whether you like it or not, I’m loco parentis. That’s what I do for all my players. I’m responsible. And what you did is not acceptable. Do you hear me? Not acceptable. However you dress it up, it was abusing someone’s hospitality. I know I’m old-fashioned, but some things don’t change. You make the bed. You clean the toilet. And you don’t take advantage.” You don’t shag the host’s daughter over the sofa.

All that I could cope with, and Sailor was right. Then he laid the bombshell on me. “Third and last. Any chance of a lottery grant for you, son, next five years probably, that’s gone, torpedoed, blown out of the water. I know Dick Bentley. He’s a good man, but he doesn’t forgive and he doesn’t forget.”

No, not possible, oh no! “But that’s not fair. What about the others on the committee? If I win here they’ll vote for me won’t they?”

“Where are you based? North of England. Who’s the man in the North? Dick Bentley. I can mebbe start to influence things when you’re playing senior tournaments, but up to then, the man is Dick Bentley, and he calls the shots. You’ve pissed the man off. End of story. It’s unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate. What am I going to do about money?”

“ You’ll be getting to know the Fallowfield Pool even better, won’t you. It’s no’ tiring and it fits with training.”

Of all the things I’d been really looking forward to with my lottery grant, not having to go to the Fallowfield Pool was number one. I was about to start a rant but Sailor just said, “Cut it,” and I did. It would have been a waste of energy.

“Come on, son, we’ll get changed for our practice.”

Chong How Joon had eyes that appeared totally black behind his science fiction mask. He had come to squash, Sailor had told me, from a promising junior career in badminton. I hadn’t taken on board the implications for his squash, and to be fair, Sailor hadn’t said much either. He’d just talked about Chong How’s positioning. In the gallery, as I struggled against the Malaysian’s first game onslaught, Sailor kept mouthing the word ‘think’ at me. It took many minutes before I realised that anything I was hitting high was being smashed away to a back corner or short to a front nick, and I was 7-2 down before I realised that Chong was very ordinary if the ball was below shoulder height. After that, by diligently keeping my shots low, I was able to impose my own game. Chong had less heart than Ross the previous day, and this time, without Paula distracting me in the gallery, I ran through him and finished with an 11-3 win in the third game.

Sailor surprised me in our debrief. I was expecting to be complimented with the way I’d finished the match off.

“What were you playing at?” he said. “You don’t serve French fries to the class fatty. You don’t play to your opponent’s strength. He was murdering you with those overheads.”

This really pissed me off. “Why didn’t you warn me about it?”

“You’ve got to grow up, sonny. You have to think on court. Think. I knew you’d beat him, but I wanted to see how quickly you caught on. You have to use the top two inches, remember. Think as well as play.”

He was right. It was something that Zoë had already talked to me about several times. She said how important it was to her. It was just that actually doing it, practice rather that theory, doing it on court in the middle of a match, was a different matter.

“Okay Sailor, point taken.”

I had phone calls from two journalists after beating Hatem el Gabaly in the final. They wanted to know about the so called whirlwind training I was doing, plus more normal stuff, my background, how long I’d been playing squash, where I’d met Sailor and so on. It was strange having people taking an interest in me. I wondered if my mother ever saw the resulting articles. I’d had no contact with her in weeks, and little with my Dad, who was away at sea. I did get a call from Grandpa, full of encouragement.

Returning to Fallowfield Pools after the British Junior Open was hard; dreary shift after dreary shift. I’d been given a written warning in my disciplinary hearing, and had been desperately looking forward to handing in my notice.

“When are you leaving then?” Anthea asked. “It was your big competition last week wasn’t it? The one that was going to ‘free you from your shackles’? That was what you said to Derek.”

“Well soon,” I muttered.

“How the mighty are fallen, my my.”

Had she heard anything about the events in Sheffield? I couldn’t see how.

In other respects back in Manchester things returned to normal. A month later, sure enough, I heard via a formal letter signed almost illegibly by ‘R Bentley’ that I’d been turned down for a lottery grant, ‘Dear Mr Jacks, we regret to advise you...’ Regret my Aunt Sally. It was more like, ‘Dear Mr Jacks you horrible shagger, I’m positively thrilled to be the one to inform you that not only have you not got a poxy little lottery grant, as long as I have anything to do with it you’ll have more chance of winning the lottery itself than getting a penny of the money it provides to Squash England.’

After Sheffield I started to take a greater interest in what was going on in the squash world. What I’d seen that evening on the plasma screen at the Abbeydale had fired me up. I’d become an avid watcher of any squash I could find on television. I was soon able to recognise the top players, one or two of them after they’d visited the EIS. The world number one was an Egyptian, Magdi Gamal, and the number two the Australian Trevor Cooper. Third of course was Jan Berry, whose manic face in close ups was almost frightening. The one who really interested me though was Julio Mattaz, the American Berry had been beating in the match I’d seen at the Abbeydale. Mattaz was ranked no higher than fifteenth, but there was something about his style of play that set him apart from players above him. Unusually too, he never argued with the marker, just shrugging and throwing himself a gentle catch with his racquet if he got a bad decision.

I mentioned Julio to Zoë one afternoon when we were out for one of the occasional runs we did together, during a pause to admire the view of the Hope Valley from halfway up Kinder Scout, the highest peak in the Pennines.

“Oh yes, Razz. He’s a bit tasty, isn’t he. He’ll be top five next year, I’m sure of it. Watch the way he moves, no effort, and it seems to me he’s intelligent, too, which counts. And he trains at altitude, Salt Lake City, that’s bound to make a difference. He’s the one you’re going to have to beat in the end. He’s going to go past the others. I’d put money on that if I bet.”

“What do you mean, Razz?” I said. “Where does that come from?”

She smiled. “Julio Mattaz. Razzmatazz. You should see the way he dresses. He was destined to be called Razz. You focus on Razz Mattaz, Jolyon. You’ll see him live pretty soon, maybe the English Open. Watch him.”

“What about Joe Jackson, or Jan Berry?”

“Joe won’t be up there in two or three years. He’s got a bad knee, he’ll have to stop. As for Jan Berry, ugh, the world’s most boring man.” Zoë grimaced. “I had a meal with him once.” 

“Not your boyfriend, then?”

“Jan Berry? No, no way.” Her shoulders dropped a fraction, and she gazed out over the hills. “Boyfriends. You know what, Jolyon.” She wasn’t looking at me. “I don’t know if I’m right for boys.”

Without thinking I said, “You’d be right for me.”

“No, I’m being serious.” So was I. “For one thing,” she said bitterly, “where’s the darned time? You know the life by now, maybe it is the squash, what I put into it. I wish, I wish, oh I wish. I wish I knew. And, you know the score, the absolute basics, you have to fancy someone. Want someone, really want them. That’s not happening. That doesn’t happen.

“I wish,” she paused, “so many wishes it’s silly. I’ve tried but it just doesn’t work. Nothing works, darn it, being close to someone. It doesn’t work,” ‘work’ almost shouted. “It’s not that I don’t, well, there’s always possibles. You know what I mean.” I certainly did. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, just you’re okay, Jolyon, my little brother, we’re alike.” She was silent for a moment, and I noticed the wind, which was drying my sweat cold inside my tracksuit. “There was this girl, way back, I was in the sixth form. Looking back, something could have happened. I don’t know. It’s such a mess.”

Then she looked at me fiercely, shaking off the moment. “Don’t you say anything, right? To anyone. Not anyone. Not a word. Understand? If you do I’ll kill you. I mean that. I’ll kill you.”

I just said, “Hey, Zoë,” and cupped her shoulder with my hand. I so wanted to give her a hug.

She turned away and became the usual Zoë. “Jan Berry. The first time you play Jan you’ll have an insane match, and if it’s in say the next eighteen months you’ll probably lose. He’s horrendous, there’s no one like him. You won’t believe the bruises you get.”

“Bruises?”

“Oh yes, it’ll be physical. If it’s two years away, what, you’ll be nineteen then, you’ll probably win. You’ll do his thing better than he does, and you’ll work him out anyway. He doesn’t think. I don’t think he’s capable of thinking, he just grinds away on automatic. Automatic frenetic. You’ll see things in his game, I’m sure. You’ll work him out.

“You’ll know you’ve been in a match, though.”

We set off again. I let her set the pace on the narrow track, always happy to watch her move in front of me, glide really. I didn’t know what to think about what she’d said. Not that it made any difference, if I was realistic. It was so much more than wanting to shag her, which I did, violently and gently at the same time, if that made sense. I wanted to make things right for her. But the door was again tight shut as she pushed on with the run. It had only been open a crack, and only for a moment. I didn’t think I’d be seeing past that particular door again.

If only.

February came and went, March and April. I was loving the training. I was soon doing more in a day than Dave and I had been capable of in our three whole sessions a week when we’d started. I was always conscious of Zoë’s way, everything at match point intensity. My first trip abroad was to the European Junior Championships in Brussels. I was just into the under nineteens, after a quiet birthday on March the tenth. ‘Time enough wi’ the children’, Sailor had said. To his irritation I lost a game in the quarter finals to an incredibly clever Danish player, Bjarne Funck Rasmussen. For a start I couldn’t work out his name. Then more importantly I couldn’t work out where he was hitting the ball. His body language would say one thing and the ball would go somewhere else, making me look a right prat.

“You just have to force yourself not to commit,” was Sailor’s unsympathetic comment as I moaned about this afterwards.

“But if I don’t anticipate I’ll never reach the ball in time.”

“Move quicker, son, move quicker. An’ rough him up. Once you do that he’ll hit the tin like everyone else. Clever doesn’t work if you’re hitting the tin.”

I suppose that had been true. Bjarne had tinned a lot in the later stages of our game. Unusually the semi was less trouble than the quarter and the final easier still. I had the pleasure of taking home a smallish winner’s cheque as European Junior Champion, some non-Fallowfield earnings, quite a landmark. I’d have to make ten times as much to be able to give up the lifeguarding though. Maybe I could pawn the engraved silver Frisbee that came with the cheque and skip a session or two at Fallowfield.