DailySquashReport.com

Chapter Twenty Four

 My angst-inspired training, with the lump in my stomach not abating one bit, continued to serve me well through my eighteenth birthday and the first half of the next season. During a trip to India in February, where I was treated like a prince by AllSports, I actually stopped thinking every moment about Zoë. Suresh drove me round Delhi and his brother Mital navigated me through the incredible traffic and the heat and the pollution of Mumbai, where AllSports was based. The staff I came into contact with were fanatical about squash, with never-ending questions about the tournaments and the cities where they were held and the players who played in them. I spent some brilliant times with kids, showing them the basics of squash. No one realised how little I knew myself. The final responsibility of the trip turned out to be good fun in its own right. Suresh arranged for me to play several televised exhibitions with Neeraj Solkar, the guy I had seen at the Junior Open. Through his teens Neeraj had been held back by his wealthy family because of sore knees, which explained why we hadn’t seen him in Europe. I wondered what my mother would have done if sore knees had interrupted my progress at tennis. I once saw a teenager crying with pain as his father shouted at him to get on with it. Anyway, Neeraj’s knees had sorted themselves out and he was trying to make up for lost time. Even with crippled knees, I thought, he’d win points anywhere. He blasted extraordinary nicks, far harder than I could hit the ball, but also played delicate angles that reminded me of Dave. His percentages inevitably weren’t good, and I won all the games, but not before we’d done lots of running and been given enormous applause.

After India I had a successful month, four tournaments in Canada. I won in Calgary, lost finals in Edmonton and Vancouver, and reached the semis at my first three star tournament, in Toronto. It all added up to six hundred and thirty seven point five points, raising my ranking to forty eighth. I was inside the world’s top fifty!

Zoë wanted to hear all the details when I got back to Manchester. I told myself to get over my ridiculous attitude. We were sitting in the canteen at the EIS, with Carmen and Ahmed.

“It’s a big country, Canada,” Zoë said. “You must have covered thousands of miles. I was worn out on my first trip there.”

“It wasn’t too bad. I had a lot of help from AllSports. Even apart from the flight tickets. They had reps in each of the cities and they met me at the airports, drove me around and so on.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are.” She grimaced. “The travel, it takes it out of you. It held me back at first. Cheapest possible tickets. Dogleg flights via stupid stop offs. I had to scrape for the first two years, every last penny. I used to sleep in airports, the bigger ones anyway, where I felt safe. Anything to let me make a trip, an extra tournament.”

It hadn’t occurred to me what a difference AllSports was making. It was certainly true I was playing in tournaments I’d never have reached with my own financing. I’d not considered that arriving in comfortable time, and being able to relax and practise without hassles, contributed to my good results.

“Well I’m signed up with them for eighteen months more. And then further if it all goes well. Suresh said they were pleased with how it went in India. He says they want me to get as high as possible as soon as possible. He and Sailor have agreed a good schedule for me for the rest of the year. It’s all good.”

“Is sure good, Jolyon,” Carmen said. “Can I come with you to Gran Canaria?”

I’d been looking forward to playing in an International 25 in Las Palmas, and Carmen had got very excited. Apparently she had family there.

“Sure thing, Carmen. You can be my minder. And my practice partner. And my masseuse.”

“What’s this mass... masseuse?”

“Massage, you know, tired arms, tired legs.”

Poor Carmen blushed.

“It’s all right,” I said. “Zoë can come too and act as chaperone.”

Zoë arched an eyebrow. “I see. Jolyon’s harem. How will that go down with Sailor?”

Everyone agreed that that would not go down with Sailor. Zoë changed the subject. She wanted to ask me about my opponents in Canada, what had I learned, what would I do differently against each one next time. We chatted for ten minutes. Ahmed had some interesting thoughts on the two Egyptian players I’d met. It certainly made me organise myself. From then on I decided to emulate Zoë and record snippets about players in a loose leaf folder.

One pleasant chore on my return from Canada was to call Grandpa. I’d kept him updated while I was away, but I wanted to tell him about being inside the top fifty.

“You’ve made remarkable progress, Jolyon,” he said, in a voice as strong as I’d heard for ages. “It’s the next year that’s going to be tough. You’ll have to prepare yourself for the odd setback.

“You know what. I’ve been feeling so good for these past few weeks, I’d like to come and see you play. Can you tell me if there’s a suitable tournament. I mean in England, all this jet setting you’re doing. I’m hoping your father can come. If he’s ashore. I know he wants to see the new Jolyon.”

“Not my mother, though.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

“Well, I don’t need to tell you the answer to that.”

I promised to let him know when I was sure to have a decent game, a definite date. I didn’t want to line him up for a final somewhere and then go out in the quarters or the semis. As I put the phone down I thought, there’s me now, look at me, worrying not about first round draws but high quality quarters and semis. I’d progressed so quickly, in spite of several self-inflicted muck ups. In Sailor’s plan I was not due to break into the top fifty till the end of the year. Maybe I’d been lucky. Maybe it was the AllSports deal. The intensity of the training must have had something to do with it, especially since I’d been so pissed off with Zoë.

Just for the fun of it, I called my mother. “Hello Mum, it’s me.”

A grunt from the phone.

“I wanted to tell you how I’m doing.”

“If you must. I don’t have long.”

“Well, I’ve made it into the world’s top fifty. Think of it. I played four tournaments in Canada last month and did really well. I won one of them. In Calgary. It’s the second open tournament I’ve won.”

“I lost count of how many tennis tournaments you won.”

“Oh come on, Mum. That was just juniors. I’m ranked forty eighth in the world, how about that, forty eight in the professional squash rankings.”

“Bully for you. There’s no money in it, is there?”

“That’s not true. I’ve won nearly twelve thousand dollars this year, and that’s after paying the PSA levy. I’ve got really good sponsorship, all my travel paid.”

“You’d get twice that as a first round loser at Wimbledon. You’re not going to convince me that there’s any significance to this, Jolyon. I’m still expecting you to come to your senses sometime. I don’t know when but it’s bound to happen sooner or later. Sooner would be better.”

“Thanks, Mum; all the encouragement.”

“Don’t get sarcastic with me. I’ve made it perfectly clear what I think about your... your folly. You’ll regret it soon enough, believe you me. You’ll come to your senses. Just don’t come running when it all falls apart. You’ll have to get yourself an education eventually. And you’ll have to do it all by your foolish self.”

“Well I’m on the squash track at the moment, and doing all right. But I think I’m boring you with the foolish details.”

“Too right, Jolyon. Now I have to go. Good bye.”

Bang. Ooh I enjoyed that one. I could picture the phone wincing at its abrupt return to the charger. I hadn’t listened to a new rant for ages, now the ‘your folly’ rant. I made up my mind to call her again when I got into the top twenty. Then when I made the top ten. My money was on repeat performances, ‘you’ll come to your senses... just don’t come running...’ Knowing my mother it would be verbatim.

My Carmenless Gran Canaria trip didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. I beat one of the three-to-four seeds to reach the semis, but was taken apart by the top seed, a good Spanish player called Leandro Ramós. The entry Leandro earned in my smart new folder was, ‘Left handed/unbelievable forehand/next time hit it more the other side!’ I’d not played many left handers. On the flight back I determined to take it up with Sailor, and Zoë.

Zoë was late for training on my first day back, unheard of. Someone saw her arrive in a BMW X5, they said, which then sped away. Maybe sponsor business. Anyway, she had some positive thoughts about the Leandro problem when a group of us were sitting down at the canteen for lunch a couple of days later. “They can be strong at the front left, lefties. You shouldn’t worry about their power otherwise, especially you since you’re left handed. I’d maybe give them less at the front forehand. It’s always an idea to give less pace on that side too. Upset their timing. But you don’t do less pace, do you? The other thing is, lefties are sometimes less strong on their backhands, you can explore that.”

Carmen had other ideas. “Is just, all Spanish players are too good, no?”

“Only you, Carmen,” Riley said.

Carmen pouted. She hadn’t been thrilled either by Riley’s familiarity with Zoë.

The World Junior Championships were a big fixture for me in the middle of the year. I’d wanted to enter the previous year. They’d been held in Dubai and I’d not been able to afford the trip. This time they were in Cairo, and AllSports were very keen for me to enter. Suresh explained in one of his regular phone calls that it would be great publicity for AllSports to have a World Junior Champion. They were introducing a new range of kit that they wanted me to wear, and new racquets. The racquets, the Stinger range, he explained, were physically the same as the ones I’d been using. The difference was in the artwork. They were covered in lurid black and yellow stripes, resembling hornets. “You get it? The Stinger?”

I got it. I couldn’t care less how the racquets looked. As long as I had several that behaved in the same way I was happy. If you broke a string during a game, the replacement racquet had to feel identical, same weight, same balance, same string tension. Happiness was being provided with them free.

The World Juniors was a big tournament. Like the British Junior Open there were no ranking points at stake. There would though be strong opposition, and Sailor wanted me to blitz it. “It’s the manner ye do it. The word gets round. It’s another chance to put the fear of God into the journeymen ye’ll meet in the smaller international tournaments. We want them beat before they go on court.”

So off to Cairo it was, sadly not with Sailor but with plenty of support from Squash England, who had sent out a manager, Brendon Robinson, the equivalent in the South West of Dick Bentley, and a physio, Graham Hayes, who I’d seen at several junior tournaments. Luckily, I hadn’t needed Graham’s services so far in my career, if you could call it a career, beyond the advice he gave on warm ups before, and stretching after, matches. He was a man who you listened to, and Sailor had good words for him.

The England party, the two adults plus six of us in the boys’ draw and two in the girls, was staying in a hotel in the middle of Cairo. It was hot and noisy, with traffic that was almost as crazy as Mumbai’s. The facilities were excellent though, in two air conditioned centres with high quality courts. Suresh was around everywhere, brilliant smile, open neck shirt, immaculate suit, talking now to players, now to officials and now to managers. He checked that I’d tapered my training properly back home. Had the travel been all right? The hotel comfortable? Was there anything I needed? Did I know about my first round opponent?

The answer to the last one was yes. I was seeded one and playing Ross Fitch in the first round, my opponent from my first Junior Open back in Sheffield. Ross greeted me with a smile. “Time for payback for the room, mate. Ross to win three love. Shock exit for first seed.”

“Nah, you only let me have the second bed, the small one. Otherwise...” I shrugged and smiled.

As I hoped, it was me who won three love. It was a hard game. Ross wouldn’t give up, scampering every which way with his long legs, mainly behind me as I applied the pressure. Sailor’s pressure, I thought. Anyway, the game didn’t take much out of me. Nor did the thirty twos, nor the sixteens, nor the quarters. Sailor had insisted I call him before each game. Who was I playing? A New Zealander, an Egyptian, an Aussie. What was the plan? That was easy. ‘Blitz him.’ Make sure you eat at the right time. Yes, Sailor (I was). It may be hot out there but don’t forget to warm down properly. Yes, Sailor (I was). Are ye behaving yerself? Yes, Sailor (I wasn’t).

My behaviour problem centred on the junior English number two girl, Nikki Maltin. I’d noticed Nikki at several tournaments back in the UK. Any bloke less than a hundred years old with at least one functioning eye would have noticed Nikki. She was blonde and blue eyed and lovely, not in the subtle way that Zoë was lovely; Zoë’s looks took a moment to make their impact, and were all the stronger for that. Nikki was in your face gorgeous, an absolute fox.

“Would you like a hit with me?” she asked, after Brendon had assembled the English group in our hotel the day before the tournament. We were planning the transport and the practice times.

“Sure,” I answered casually. “As long as practice means practising hard, not rehearsing rubbish.” What a dick.

Nikki met my gaze. “They said you were like that. Rubbish it won’t be.”

Rubbish it wasn’t. At first I made a fool of myself because I was watching Nikki more than the ball. You would, given the choice, a small bit of hollow spherical rubber, black with two yellow spots, and a perfectly sized eighteen year old girl, white with two... Well, Nikki was distracting. She wasn’t as lean as Zoë, which may not have helped her squash, but her less-than-lean bits were sensational. She hit the ball very hard for a girl and had been well drilled, so her shots tended to be tight. We got a good feel for the courts during our hit, and as a group we did a brief session of ghosting afterwards, perfect preparation for the next day. Back at the hotel, where we had a chance to relax together, I asked Nikki why she wasn’t the number one English junior.

“That’s simple. I’m not as mobile as Rita. I’ve lost to her three times this season. She gets so much back.”

“Well I’m glad I practised with you rather than her,” I said lamely. “You hit the ball so well.”

She looked very directly at me. “Oh, there’s lots of things I’m better at than Rita.”

“On court or off court?”

“I’ve never tried on court. Have you?”

My brain exploded. This was going in a wholly unexpected direction. In my tediously focussed little world I sometimes mixed my priorities up. Manchester was great for the second priority, squash: winning matches, becoming world champion, that sort of thing. But Manchester had been a desert for social relations. All of a sudden I seemed to be in sight of a surprise oasis.

“No, and not behind the Pyramids either,” I said, “which if I’m catching your drift might be our only opportunity.” We were going on a sightseeing trip to the Pyramids later in the week. Opportunities for social relations in the hotel would be negligible because we were all in shared rooms. Nikki and Rita had been put together as the only two girls. I was with Art Ballingall, a rangy junior from Devon, whom I didn’t know too well.

“It’s okay,” Nikki said. “Art and Rita and me, we go way back. Art and Rita want to spend some time together. I said to them, sigh, big sacrifice, I’d see what I could do. Then eeny, meeny, miny, mo, and you’re mo, it turned out to be you.” She smiled. “No, only joking. And I saw you looking at me on court. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t.”

“Well Ms Maltin, seeing as it’s helping out your friends.”

That was how I found myself alone with Nikki in her room, after some chicanery with Brendon to make sure he didn’t realise what we were up to. Nikki and Rita had gone up first, and when I slipped into the girlie bedroom, it was no surprise that Nikki was by herself. What did come as a surprise was that she was wearing one of her short squash dresses.

“Now you can take a proper look,” she said primly.

I duly did as she spun round a few times, arms above her head. Then she went over to the television in a slinky walk and bent over in an exaggerated way to pick up the remote. What a jolt. She wasn’t wearing any knickers. No bra either, I soon discovered, although it was a while before she removed the dress. “Not until you’ve got your own kit off.” As I dropped my tee shirt on the floor she came right up close, circled her arms round my neck and pressed herself against me. “And then maybe, if you’re lucky. Or I might just leave it on.” Big blue eyes just inches from mine. “Do you think you’re going to be lucky tonight, Jolyon?”

Boxers were said to avoid sex for at least a month before bouts. I hoped that twelve hours would be enough for squash players. The morning end of the Brendon avoidance plan was for Rita and me to return to our rooms at seven prompt, and we passed each other as I left the girls’ room, with Rita giving me a complicitous grin. My game was at one o’clock, and Nikki had till four for hers. She hadn’t displayed any of her claimed lack of mobility, or flexibility, the night before, and she had booted me out into the other single bed so we got a proper sleep, right up to the alarm at ten to seven. No time for further sex, although I was tempted as I watched Nikki walk naked round the end of my bed to pick up her discarded dress.

Finagling the sleeping arrangements became routine for the four of us through the week of the tournament. The night before my final was slightly complicated by Suresh, who invited me out for a meal. Nikki and I were too randy to be fazed, and when Suresh picked me up I already had a spare key to the girls’ room in my pocket. Nikki’s parting words to me were, “For fuck’s sake skip the dessert.”

Suresh took me to a swanky French restaurant in the middle of Cairo. “Don’t worry, Jolyon, I won’t keep you late. I know you’ll be wanting your rest before the final.” Strange words in view of what he had to say at the end of the meal. My opponent was another of his protégés, my friend from my Indian trip, Neeraj Solkar. To the huge disappointment of the local crowds, Neeraj had unexpectedly beaten good Egyptian opponents in both the quarters and semis. I was looking forward to playing him, and completely confident of a win.

“Neeraj has been really catching up over the last six months,” Suresh said. “At last he’s been able to train properly.”

“We should have a good game, but I reckon I’ll be too strong.”

Suresh looked at me intently. “I’m not so sure. He’s a talented player, and when you ally that with some real fitness, he’s been training like a fanatic, no one would be surprised if you lost.”

He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “That’s by the by. What I want to talk to you about this evening is your relationship with AllSports. My fellow directors have been very pleased with you. They love your enthusiasm. They love your style. It’s a perfect match for our marketing boys. The trip in February was a huge success. We recorded a fifteen percent boost in sales in the month after the exhibitions. The television audience had doubled for the last TV show. We had a lot of enquiries from distributors. It’s all positive.

“So what we want to propose, we’re taking a chance here, we want you to sign with us for the next three years, to commit yourself, to become the face of squash for AllSports.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, don’t worry. The number one priority will still be your squash, progressing your career. We want you to make number one just as much as you do. Any success for you will be success for us. The kids are going mad over here for squash, and I’m not even thinking yet about the USA. We want you brash. We’re developing the kit to reflect that. We want you hip hop. We want you Bollywood. This is the time for our big push. Nike, Head, Dunlop, we’re going to take market share from all of them, plunder it. Our equipment is good, up there with anyone’s, that’s not the question. It’s going to be our image. We’re targetting the youth demographic. You’re in the middle of that. You are brash. We’re brash. You are flash. We’re flash. You sting. We sting.”

He hissed the word ‘sting’ at me. “I can see that, Suresh, but I don’t see what it means for me. Me personally.”

“For you, Jolyon, not too much in the sense of changing what you’re doing. You’re life is too bound with training and tournaments and winning and ranking points, and let’s not forget, rest at the right times. We’ve factored in the trips to India. We won’t add to them. We can take advantage of more PSA opportunities in India. Within the next two years there’ll be two World Series tournaments in India, two minimum. You’re going to be in the country anyway. Perfect opportunities for AllSports with no extra wear and tear on you. It all fits.”

“It sounds fantastic.” It did sound fantastic. Enough money to pay my way day to day, and the all important travel support.

Suresh’s eyes gleamed and his teeth flashed. “Wait till you hear what we’re proposing for you. We want you to be out there in front of our customers, our market, all the time, even when you’re not in tournaments. Your wardrobe will be important, whirlwind on court, whirlwind in the fashions. So we’ll triple your regular financial support. You have to look good. We want the boys to want to look like you.” Here he laughed. “We want the girls to want you! And a little intrusive, but we think you’ll like it, we want to be with you as you travel to tournaments, ‘Jolyon en route to the Hong Kong Open, Jolyon arrives in Singapore, Jolyon heads for the Tournament of Champions, Big Apple here we come’. So we’re going to have you travelling business. I told you it would be brash. We must work on your Facebook profile, and I want you to start a blog.”

I tried to hide my gulp. I’d walked through business cabins on a couple of my transatlantic flights and it was a world apart.

“But listen to me, Jolyon.” Suresh dropped his voice. “The bedrock, the very bedrock, is your squash. If you don’t feel comfortable, if Sailor doesn’t like it, then we don’t do it, simple as that. You have to get to number one. We know you don’t get to number one by showboating. A full length bed in an A380 across the North Pole is no use if you lose to a hungry opponent in the semis at the other end.”

I thought for a moment about my mother, and then of Grandpa. “Don’t worry on that score, Suresh. I want to do well. I have to do well.”

“Good. I’ve already told my board that. We know we’re investing well.”

“How many other players are you supporting?”

“In a major way, it’s just three. You won’t have heard yet but we’re on the verge of signing Razza Mattaz. Keep this under your hat. Razza as you know will be the next number one, liquid class. Too good an opportunity for us to miss. He’s the one you’re going to have to displace, Jolyon. Grace and guile, what a combination. Another wonderful personality, too. Just what we need in the USA. The potential in that country is enormous. They have some radical thinkers in squash. They’re developing the game. We want a piece of that. Must have. AllSports is a natural in the US. There Razza will be the catalyst for us. Then there’s Neeraj. You know Neeraj is with us. Neeraj is gold dust for us. An Indian and good enough to be top ten material, maybe even better. Neeraj is well connected. That matters in the Indian market. His father is a senior judge, wealthy. Like you Neeraj is good looking. That matters anywhere, London, Lucknow, LA, photogenic, charismatic. If he reaches his potential he will be the Tendulkar of Indian squash. Or maybe the Virat Kohli, the swashbuckler. There won’t be a day when Neeraj won’t be in the news.”

It seemed like a fantasy, as I listened to all of this. This was a passport to the fast lane, to my achieving what I wanted, maybe the difference between success and failure in my dream, my world championship dream. I had already seen what a difference the support from AllSports was making. Winning or losing vital matches often hinged on the odd point. One percent more speed might be all it took at ten nine game ball when you were at your physical limits, and one percent more speed could easily come from perfect preparation.

“So you see, Jolyon,” Suresh said as he paid the bill. “Yourself, Razza and Neeraj, what a trio. And just a word about Neeraj.” He dropped his voice again and leant towards me. “In terms of worldwide exposure, right now Neeraj is behind Mattaz and yourself. This knee problem held him back. He needs a high profile performance to fix his place on the map, to confirm he is at the top table. It would make a huge difference if he were to win the World Juniors. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I frowned. “I can see it would be big publicity if he beat me tomorrow. That’s not going to happen. I could imagine losing to him down the line. When he’s fitter. Right now for all his shots he’s going to get tired. You know that.”

Suresh’s smile had gone. “You don’t understand me. There aren’t any ranking points at stake. This doesn’t make any difference to you. Not in the grand scheme of things. This won’t hold you back. My board will take a very favourable view of a Neeraj win. It fits with our Q-three Q-four promotions, that’s your autumn into winter, In addition to that,” here he leaned right forward, with his eyes only inches from mine, “there are some powerful influences in India that are expecting a Neeraj victory.

“I’m depending on you, Jolyon. You understand? It makes sense. You need our support. I know you won’t let me down.”

Uunghhh! I did understand, of course. If it’s too good to be true it probably isn’t true. Who had said that? I was being asked to throw a match, in exchange for an unbelievable support package, a pot of gold. The AllSports deal would last well beyond my twenty first birthday. It would make a significant difference in my achieving my goal.

“All right, Suresh,” I mumbled, “let me think about it.”

“Good man,” he replied. “You had to see sense.”

We were silent in the taxi back to the hotel, where I thanked Suresh for the meal, why ever did I do that, and headed for the lobby. I didn’t go directly to Nikki in the girls’ bedroom, which had been our arrangement. I wanted time to think, so I slumped in a chair in the lobby. I tried to call Sailor, but got his voicemail. I knew what he’d say anyway. I wanted to speak to Zoë. She’d understand the pressures. She knew from her own experience what a difference the AllSports deal would be making. Now it would be even better, business class, what an idea. To me the AllSports difference might be fundamental, success or failure in Grandpa’s challenge. I pictured my mother’s gloat if I didn’t make it. ‘What did I say? I’ve been telling my friends all along. Of course you’d never do it. Hair brained, I knew that from the start. The bridge group, they’ve been surprisingly sympathetic...’ Could I take the chance of facing that? No way.

Unfortunately Zoë’s phone went straight through to voicemail too. Oh well, it had to be Nikki. I’d enjoyed the time with her over the previous few evenings, not just the sex. Nikki was grounded, realistic about what she could achieve at squash, keen to do well but keen to have fun, to enjoy the experience, and I really had to talk to someone. In a few moments she was letting me into the room, in a short, pink cotton nightie.

“You’re later than I expected. Good meal?”

“Sorry, the meal was fine. It’s just, well, some issues.”

Her frown was almost comic. “What do you mean, some issues? We haven’t been found out, have we?”

“No, it’s okay, nothing like that. I’m sure you’d have heard from Brendon. No, it’s to do with AllSports.”

I kicked off my All Stars and lay down on the bed with my hands behind my head. “They want to involve me much more.” I told Nikki about Suresh’s proposal.

“That’s sensational,” she said, sitting down on the bed and leaning over me. “You’ll be made with all of that. Can I come in your hand luggage?”

“That wasn’t the end of it.” To an incredulous Nikki I finished the story of the meal.

“You mean they want you to throw the final?”

“Yup. Apparently it’s important for AllSports that Neeraj’s image gets a boost. I’d love to talk to Tafiq.”

“The one he beat in the semi?”

“Yes. I wonder if AllSports got at him. It didn’t look like it. Neeraj played well. It does make you wonder, though. I got the impression from Suresh that there’s betting. It goes on in cricket big time. Betting is illegal in India, but that’s where most of it goes on, serious money. I had the feeling this evening that Suresh is under pressure.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure the AllSports thing depends on you losing?”

“Suresh didn’t say that in so many words, but he made it pretty clear. They know Neeraj can’t win if I play properly.”

Nikki bent down and kissed me on the lips. “Sleep on it.”

“So you want me to go to sleep?”

“No, you need a cuddle.”

“Just a cuddle?”

“Up to you,” she said as she pulled her nightie over her head in a single, sensuous movement.

Squash On The Web

Jacks Triumphs In Cairo

In Cairo this evening Englishman Jolyon Jacks trounced Neeraj Solkar from Mumbai to add the World Under Nineteen Junior Championship to his rapidly expanding portfolio of titles. This was not so much a victory as a demolition. The score of 11-4, 11-0, 11-2 reflects the one sided nature of the contest, which lasted only twenty five minutes. Solkar had done well to make the final. In the quarters he beat the second seed, home town favourite Omar Abdel Sulieman, in five punishing games, and he had a long semi final against Tafiq el-Barak, in which he eventually triumphed 9-11, 11-8, 12-10, 13-11. Nevertheless, a lot of smart money had been on Solkar, who has improved rapidly following his return to full time training nine months ago.

In the event, Jacks dominated from the opening point, ruthlessly confining Solkar to the back corners. The Indian had no chance to unleash the array of attacking shots that had accounted for his powerful Egyptian opponents. “Neeraj has been unplayable when he gets in front,” Jacks said afterwards. “I saw both his games, against Omar and then Tafiq. I knew I had to keep him deep. I think he was probably tired, too. I had the easier semi final.”

As far as I was concerned Neeraj wouldn’t have got more than a handful of points even if he’d been properly rested in a king sized bed with satin sheets. I’d realised, lying awake during the night after Nikki had booted me out, that if I went along with the AllSports plan I’d be in their power for as long as I was in squash, my entire career. There’d never be a way out. Business class seat and first class hotel in Sydney? Yes. Never mind the surprise loss in the quarters. The British Open in Manchester and the big dollar bonus? Yes, but again an upset loss. I couldn’t do it. I wanted to give Suresh, and more to the point the figures behind him, a message. The corruption side was awful, but even more, it was the knowledge that I would be controlled. I didn’t want some faceless Indian businessman or bookmaker or anyone pulling my strings. I’d made too many sacrifices getting away from my mother. And I didn’t want to lose squash matches without being properly beaten. Winning was hard enough. I wasn’t going to sacrifice even an occasional victory. The timetable for my world championship dream was too tight, anyway.

It was obvious there was no chance that Suresh’s fabulous promises would be realised if I beat Neeraj. Worse, I guessed that my established AllSports sponsorship would come to an end. Nevertheless, I was determined to play all out. Before I came off court I noticed Suresh hurrying away from his front row seat. Out of character. Suresh was always around after a match to congratulate, with his flashing smile, or commiserate with an arm round your shoulder.

Later that evening Art and I found out why Suresh had left the court so quickly. We were due to leave early the next morning for the airport, and had decided to forego the bedroom exchange for the last night. I’d never have admitted it to anyone but between them, seven rounds of squash, each match lasting up to forty five minutes, and six nights of Nikki had worn me out. Sleep had become the number one priority. Art was of the same mind. He and I headed straight for the lift when we reached the hotel, and he was first down the corridor to our room. I lagged, slowed by my squash bag and my big glass trophy. When Art opened the door to our room he uttered an awed ‘f-u-c-k-i-n-g heck’.

Chapter Twenty Five

Fucking heck it was. The first thing you noticed was the smell. Paint. Then Art turned on the main light. His side of the room was normal, a mess, but it was Art’s mess. My side of the room was a mess too, but in a different league. My side had been trashed. I’d left five of my eight swanky new-style AllSports racquets in the room. They were on the floor, no longer in their lurid black and yellow covers, each one snapped neatly across the shaft. My spare kit, my spare pair of AllStars, my clothes, my toiletries, the soft bag I used as a suitcase, all of them had been piled beside the racquets and smothered with red paint. The paint had been over-budgeted, five litres. The remainder lay in a pool on the duvet on my bed, with the empty tin dumped on my pillow.

It was a powerful message.

It took half the night to sort things out. First we contacted Brendon, then security, then the hotel manager. Then it was the police and finally after all the questioning, the move into our new room for all that was left of the night. I had said, truthfully, that I didn’t know who had done it. I had had a disagreement with my sponsor, nothing else. Brendon had looked sceptical and so had the policeman who interviewed me. He was going to track Suresh down for an interview, he said. Fat lot of good that would do. Suresh was too smart.

The scariest thing only emerged afterwards. At my next tournament I heard that Suresh had disappeared. In the squash world at least he was never heard of again. I spoke to someone from AllSports India, who said he had resigned suddenly. It left me hugely relieved that I hadn’t gone along with the plan to lose to Neeraj. Nothing emerged from the investigation. The Cairo police apparently came to a dead end. A couple of weeks after we returned to England I was contacted by the Egyptian embassy. They told me on the phone that the case had been closed. They were sorry I had been inconvenienced. A Dutchman took over as AllSports’ European representative. He pointedly ignored me whenever our paths crossed.

So I was left with my iPhone, which fortunately had been with me in the club, about half my minimalist collection of clothes, three black and yellow striped racquets, a couple of pairs of squash shorts and the real choker, zero sponsorship. Financially, I was on my own again, this time with a credit card bill to pay off.

“Will ye listen to me next time?” Sailor wiped his hand wearily over his face as I talked him through what had happened in Cairo. We were sitting down together over a cup of tea at home after Mary had gone to bed. “It was always too flash. Ridiculous, this AllSports India.”

“That’s easy to say now. It worked out pretty well for me for a year, a bit more, didn’t it? And it’s got me inside the top fifty.”

“Ay but this is where you have to be pushing on. An’ that means winning. An’ that means being there in the first place, where the tournaments are. How are you going to get there?”

“Well once I’m winning, I know it’s never much, there is the prize money.”

“Ye can’t win prize money in Nottingham and Freiburg and Rotterdam sitting on yer backside in Manchester. You have to be there. How much have you got left?”

This was embarrassing. “Nothing, actually. I’m skint. I was expecting my monthly transfer from AllSports tomorrow. It might still come through.”

“No, don’t hold yer breath for that, son. These people don’t do charity, and they’re sharp. They won’t overlook something like that. Not after ye beat their boy. I’m hearing rumours. There’s been a lot of betting interest in India on squash. They’ve moved into it after all that publicity in the cricket. It’s said that PSA results have been manipulated. No’ hard to do. It’s all down to money, and some of the players are desperate,” he grimaced, “like you.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. You’ve seen what I did in Cairo. I’m not into losing squash matches on demand. It was a big offer, too.”

“That’s all right, son. I’d never have taken you on if I saw that in you. Good win over Solkar, by the way. I’ve seen the lad play. What was it? Six points? People will hear, people will listen. Thirty three six against Neeraj Solkar. An’ that’s not just the shady folk in Delhi and Bangalore and Mumbai. That’s squash folk. It’s a good message.

“Now listen. Mary’s become very fond of you since you’ve been here, can’t see why. We were talking about Cairo after your news came through about AllSports. I don’t go along with this but Mary wants to tide you over, so you can get to tournaments, pay us for that matter. She agrees soon ye’ll be making enough from winning tournaments.

“What do you think of that?”

“What can I say? Mary’s an angel. And it’s true I can’t win prize money if I’m not in the tournaments. Chicken and egg. I won’t need long, though. I’m feeling good.”

“You tell Mary that, son. If I had my way you’d be back to Fallowfield Pools.”

I spoke to Mary at breakfast the next morning. Sailor had left early for a meeting in Manchester. “It’s strange,” Mary said. “I’ve never really engaged with Sailor’s world before. Not personally. We’re chalk and cheese him and me, different interests, very different lives. It’s just, we’ve always clicked. So his players have mostly been only names to me. I’ve always wanted him to do well. His passion, squash. I just let him get on with it; I’ve not been interested. I didn’t see much of Zoë Quantock when she was coming up through the ranks, the rankings. Until you came along she was Sailor’s pinnacle. She made Sailor; she gave him confidence. You’ll be better in a way, if you make it to the top. You’ll show that Zoë wasn’t a fluke. It’s been lovely having you here. I’ve seen how hard you’re trying. Then this setback. AllSports, it must be a huge disappointment. It sounds like a good thing you’re out of it, but it leaves you in a mess, doesn’t it?

“So for three months I’m going give you what you need to get to tournaments. You’ll pay me back, plus the interest.” I scratched my head. “Don’t worry. I’ll work it out, Bank of England minimum lending rate. That’s a bargain by the way. If you do half as well as Sailor says, paying me back won’t be a problem.

“It will be so exciting if you make it,” she said. “It’ll put Sailor on top of the world. You too,” she smiled warmly, “of course.”

There wasn’t much time to thank her before she headed off for work. Mary’s money would be a lifeline, but it racked up the pressure another notch. Someone else not to disappoint. I vowed to take the campaign in the coming European tournaments extremely seriously, the preparation, the concentration, the recuperation. It was to be the full effort, all the ingredients, nothing left to chance.
Chapter Twenty Six

I had Mary’s generosity in mind on the way to Rotterdam for the Blooming Autumn Championships, if I’d got the gist of their flowery Dutch name. It was a PSA International 25 tournament, plenty of blooming euros, anyway, worth doing well in. After winning a hard quarter final I was stretching out in the changing rooms at the excellent venue, the Victoria Squash Club. I was unaware how well I was about to be served by my, or should that be Sailor’s, zero tolerance to recreational substances. I looked up to see a heavyset dude walking directly towards me. He greeted me by name and said that he was from the Dutch national anti-doping agency: I’d been randomly selected to provide a urine sample.

Wow, me being dope tested!

The dude showed some identification, Pieter Wittens it said on his Netherlands Antidoping Agency badge. I remember wondering where the errant ‘i’ had crept in. Anyway, I was clean. Bring it on, Pieter.

It was a novelty to witness the well organised, highly detailed sample process. My passport provided the necessary photographic identification. I declined the opportunity to have a representative with me throughout, but accepted the offer of a free cola. I had as always been careful to take in plenty of glucose electrolyte drink during my match, so I wasn’t dehydrated, but I might as well get something out of this. The manager at the club, Caes Edelman, had been appointed as the ‘Urine Collection Witness’. Lucky Caes. Caes was looking apologetic.

We followed the procedure laid down by Mr Wittens. The three of us had the washroom to ourselves while I peed into the sample container. It was Caes’ job to look on. Mr Wittens was busying himself with the paperwork. I’d had to remove my tracksuit top before providing the sample so that nothing was covering my lower arms. Mr Wittens explained that it had not been unknown for athletes to use a reservoir of innocent urine taped under the arm and connected to a tube that served as a secret parallel willy. He didn’t say parallel willy, he just said penis. With his accent it came out explosively as ‘benis’.

When that was done we sat down at a table in the large lobby. I was surprised to be given the choice of so called sample collection kits. They all looked the same. When I’d made my choice, Mr Wittens opened the sealed package and took out two bottles the size of small jam jars. These were the ‘A’ and ‘B’ containers you sometimes hear about in big name drug cases. In Mr Wittens’ correct but Dutch-sounding English the ‘B’ container sounded like the ‘P’ container. How apt. He filled each container with some of my sample. Still according to the procedure, I was the person who had to seal the bottles. Mr Wittens then completed the Doping Control Form, pages and pages of it. Was I taking any prescription drugs? No. Did I want any concerns about the procedure recorded? No. Was the sample code number correct? Yes. And so on and so on. Eventually the form was complete, the three of us signed it, Mr Wittens gave me a copy, we all shook hands and off he went. There had apparently been a couple of earlier victims. I was the last.

Mr Wittens’ parting words were, “Put that copy somewhere safe.”

‘Whatever,’ I thought.

The dope test was a sort of highlight for me in Rotterdam. I was disappointed to lose in the semis. Two weeks later though I had another chance in an International 25 semi. This time the tournament was on home territory, Nottingham, and it was something big for me, not because I expected to win, which this time I did, but because Grandpa was going to be there: my father was bringing him. I’d been longing for a chance to show Grandpa what I could do. The time with Sailor had changed me so much. I was sure Grandpa would be impressed. After the collapse of my AllSports India deal he’d said in one of our regular telephone chats, “You didn’t expect this to be plain sailing, did you? It’s just one more thing to overcome.” I wanted to show him that I was really capable of overcoming.

My opponent for the semi was another English player, Mark Goodrich, the world number forty. I’d be disappointed if I lost a game to Mark. It should be plain sailing in Grandpa’s terms. However, I was about to encounter the least plain of all the sailings, Storm Force Twelve.

Mark and I were due on at five o’clock. My dad and Grandpa had arrived at lunchtime, while I was showering after my practice hit on the show court. We’d lingered over lunch in the large upstairs bar area overlooking the Park Estate. Grandpa was in fine form. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this. I’ve never seen proper squash before.”

My father laughed. “Huh, you saw me play once. That Jesters match.”

“No, I mean proper proper.”

Sailor perked up. “Jesters is proper. I belong to the Jesters Club. Right attitude.”

“Well, I’ll save ‘proper’ for when I’m in the top twenty,” I said.

“If,” said my father, “not when. It’s what they drum into us in the Navy. Always anticipate the unexpected.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m more confident than I was a year ago. I’ve been getting good results. I’m number thirty two. In the world, think of it, Grandpa. I’m feeling so strong. And I can see where I can improve. Honestly. I’ve had a run of tournaments in the last two months so I haven’t been able to do any proper training for a while. I know I can improve the fitness side, and the speed.”

Sailor and my father had been chatting in lowered voices, excluding the other two of us. “That you can, son,” he said. “Right now it’s time for your pre-match. I’ll look after these gentlemen.”

Ninety minutes later I’d completed my warm up and visualised my way through successfully countering Mark’s strengths and exploiting his weaknesses. I sought out Grandpa and my father in the gallery behind the show court. Sailor was with them.

“All set, Jolyon?” Grandpa asked.

“I think so.” I was feeling more nervous than usual, with two people there I so wanted to impress.

“Good. Sailor’s expecting you to win. We’ve taken a chance and booked into a hotel. We’re going to stay for the final.”

“Excuse me,” Sailor said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, looked at the screen, got up and moved away to the gallery above the adjacent courts. Something about his body language intruded as I carried on chatting. I looked across just as he snapped his phone shut and set off towards us. His face was like thunder.

“Come here, son, now!”

He hurried away and down the stairs. I followed at a run. He didn’t stop till he’d gone through the lobby and out of the club.

“What is it?”

“You eejit.” His eyes blazed at me. “You complete fucking dead-in-the-head eejit. Ye’ve tested positive for cannabis. Rotterdam.”

What? Rotterdam? No way!

“That’s it for me. You’re done. Yer history, son. I’m finished wi’ you. I cannot effing believe it. How could you be so stupid? I’ve staked my reputation on you. I’ve put myself on the line. I’ve supported you. I’ve apologised for you. I’ve had you living in my home. I’ve all but changed yer nappies. I’ve made you something. Now this. It’s almost three years I’ve invested in you. Gone. Wasted.”

Sailor’s eyes were beyond flint. “Well? What ha’ ye got to say fer yersel’?” His voice was getting louder and his accent stronger.

“I dunno, Sailor. I just don’t know. It’s not true, that’s all.”

“Don’t make me puke, son, that’s what they all say.” Spittle was gathering at the corners of his mouth. He was on a roll and all I could do was stand there.

“Marion Jones?” ‘Maahrion Joorns.’ Louder still. “The smiling Miss Jones? Innocent? Floyd Landis? Innocent? Ben Johnson?

“‘It wasn’t me!’ They all said that. ‘Someone spiked my food!’ ‘It was in a supplement!’ Flo-Jo fuckin’ Joyner?” He looked around. “I’m sorry but I’ve heard all the stories. They’re all bullshit. Yer finished, son. It’s a two year ban, minimum. Does nae matter how long. Two months. Two years. I don’t care. I’m having no more to do wi’ you.

“Yer tainted. Tainted.”

“Hold on, Sailor. What about my B sample? I can have that tested. We don’t know if that’ll be positive.”

“Do me a favour.” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Just get out o’ my life.”

As he turned to go back inside my father came out of the club entrance. “What is it? Has something happened?”

Sailor didn’t stop. As he passed my father, he jerked his thumb at me and said, “Ask him.”

“What is it, Jolyon?”

“It’s, well, it’s…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“Come on. It can’t be that bad.”

“It is. I’ve tested positive for cannabis. I’ve no idea how.”

“Oh God. You fool.”

“But it’s not true.”

“Your mother was right. She said this would never last, committing yourself to squash. Your going up the rankings. Her exact words, I remember them when she first told me, ‘He doesn’t have it in him’. I said, for heaven’s sake, cut him a bit of slack. He’s done okay.

“She was right. I’m sorry to have to admit it, I was wrong. You’ve made a fool of yourself, now, and of all of us. A complete arse. I suppose this means you can’t play any more?”

I welled up. I was so disappointed. And so angry.

“This won’t help. Pull yourself together. You’ll still be able to play today but you’ll have to get a grip of yourself. There’ll be some sort of a hearing, I’m not familiar with the process. That’ll be in due course. But right now I don’t care. I’m going to take your grandfather home. We’re not going to watch you after this.”

He turned and went back inside. I wandered down the wooden steps from the entrance balcony, past a couple of rows of cars in the narrow car park at the front and sat against the wall.

What could have gone wrong? Could my sample have got mixed up with someone else’s? It didn’t seem likely. Maybe my B sample would be clear? Fat chance. I thought back. Cannabis. I could do with a joint right now. But I’d been saying no ever since that conversation with Dave, on the bus, what, three, four years ago. I’d had opportunity, small time dealers, plenty of offers, spliffs and the like. It just hadn’t been worth it, wasn’t worth it, too much at stake. Had someone found a way to spike my sample? No, I couldn’t see it, and anyway, why? I was a minnow in squash terms. So where and how could the drug have got into my system?

Then it dawned on me with an awful certainty. It was obvious. It just hadn’t occurred to me until that moment, never crossed my mind. The free party in Manchester, and, I smiled to myself for a moment in spite of everything, its aftermath.

Before Rotterdam the series of European tournaments facing me was intense. I was determined to have at least a little relaxation, my world was so narrow. There was the EIS, the track running, the weights sessions, drills, stretches, practice games. ‘Take care to warm down.’ Yes, Sailor. ‘Mind you rehydrate properly.’ Yes, Sailor. ‘Mind you eat properly.’ Three bags full, Sailor. Beyond that? Just my little bedroom, falling into bed exhausted every night, too tired even for a wank, then up with the alarm for the Faslane-punctual breakfast. The succession of tournaments was providing some diversion. Some. Ah look! A different changing room. See here! A different squash court.

Occasionally I had to break out.

The break out didn’t have to be extreme. I’d resigned myself to staying off the weed and I’d lost the stomach for a bellyful of lager. But when an opportunity came up, a change of scene, a gig, an occasional party. You had to go for it.

And this one was a beauty, a comfortable two days before I departed for the tournament in Rotterdam. Dave had arranged for me to play a set at an event in an old school building destined for demolition not too far from the centre of Manchester. Dave had got into university there after an appeal and it hadn’t taken him long to extend his music connections all round the city. I checked, the small hours of the night wouldn’t be involved. My set was early, before the arrival of several heavyweight DJs, notably a dwarf from New York called The Small Blitz!z!z! I’d bought a whole lot of vinyl online just before AllSports pulled the plug, and I was well up for a mix through a proper sound system. The headphones in my bedroom were sterile.

To make matters better, this particular sticky cake turned out to have icing on it. Paula Bentley was there.

I spotted Paula from behind the turntables. She was dancing at the edge of the heaving mass of ravers in front of me. In the semi darkness and the smoke, fifty percent tobacco, fifty percent weed and fifty percent goodness knows what else it was that thick, I’d normally have done well to pick her out. But you couldn’t miss Paula that night. She was in a vivid yellow tee shirt and a narrow strip of equally yellow skirt. Her friends in contrast you could hardly see. Paula was looking great, great spelt s-e-x-y.

I caught up with her after my set, as soon as I’d safely packed my vinyl away. She put her hand on my shoulder and shouted into my ear, “I wanted to say, fantastic set.”

“What?”

“Fantastic set.”

“Did you say you wanted fantastic sex?”

In the semi darkness, music pounding, smoke swirling, she put her head back and laughed. Then she made the sort of eye contact I’d have fantasised about back in my bedroom if I’d had the energy, and I could clearly read her mime. “No, I said I wanted to take you to bed.”

“Unfinished business?”

Her lips were all over my ear. “Yes, and I hate to leave things unfinished.”

“I’m not driving to Sheffield for the pleasure of getting interrupted again in your dad’s kitchen.”

“Oh yes, the kitchen? I like my dad’s kitchen.”

“I’ve been allergic to kitchens since. They bring me out in a rash.”

“It’s much nearer than that.” She tugged at my arm. “Come on.”

“Wait,” I shouted. “I’ve got to get my vinyl.”

I didn’t waste long on goodbyes to Dave and the other organisers. “You going to get your beauty sleep?” Dave asked.

“Sort of,” I shouted. “See you soon.”

Paula quickly parted from her friends and seconds later we were outside. It was cool but not cold. She had slipped a long thin sober grey woollen garment, with buttons down the front, over her minimalist rave clothing. I had brought an AllSports-funded leather bomber jacket. We didn’t stand out in the busy centre of the city. Manchester was alive with clubbers.

“I’m borrowing my friend’s apartment,” Paula said, grabbing my hand. “It’s only ten minutes.” If I’d had my way we’d have made it in five. A female hand in mine, the prospect that none of the rest of its owner would be off limits. I hoped no one was staring at my ooh-what-a-give-away crotch.

“My friend works for a bank here but she’s on holiday. Her parents set her up in this place.”

“Lucky her. What are you up to?”

“I’m back with my dad. I can’t thank you enough for the Mick the Prick thing. What a prick. I’m still asking myself, how could I have fallen in with that? I guess he was the complete opposite of my dad. I was like seriously in a mess. It kind of jolted me, that night. I went home and told dad what had happened. I’d been so beastly. He’s not so down on you now.”

How much not so down, I wondered. “So are you going to uni?”

“No, I can’t see the future in it, three years of handing over borrowed money to a place that doesn’t give a toss. Then paying off the debt for the rest of your life. If you can get a job, that is. It doesn’t add up. I’m starting a management training scheme with Marks and Sparks in Sheffield. And get paid to do it.”

“What about squash?”

“I’m playing again. I’m out of the rankings now. Not sure about that. I may just stick to the club.

“How about an update on you?”

No time for that. We’d passed the typical town centre shops and arrived in front of a large brick building at least five stories high. “Here we are,” Paula said. She fumbled in her tiny yellow bag, found some keys and let us in through a door with an intercom buzzer system, perhaps thirty buttons in all. Inside there was a spotless vinyl-floored lobby with a door marked ‘Janitor’ and two lifts. We snogged on the way up to the fifth floor, or rather I attempted to snog and Paula giggled, “Mind out, the CCTV.”

“Oh yes, I know about CCTVs.”

As she let us in to the flat I said, “No CC anything in here I hope.”

“Not unless you’d like me to set something up. We could do it on my mobile?”

“Phew, next the Internet?”

We’d entered a smart carpeted hall with an open door through to the main living area. Two other doors led to a bathroom and a room that if I had been asked to assign rankings would have come in comfortably at one. The bedroom.

Paula closed the curtains and switched on a reading light over the double bed. “Now Jolyon sweetie, same conditions as before.” She came over close to me and looked intensely up into my eyes. “This is for me as you know. That’s the deal. I know that you’re quicker than me, oh my all that hard,” ‘hard’ said with great exaggeration, “hard conditioning Sailor makes you do. So we’ll have to go at my speed, slow, slow.”

True to her word she was ever so slowly unbuttoning her cardigan. “You can sit on the bed and watch me undress. Just so you’re ready to put on one of these.” She fiddled in her bag and tossed me a condom. “We’ll have to make sure you’re hard enough to get it on.” Job done, I thought, about fifteen minutes ago outside the club. Knowing Paula as I did I stifled any argument, sat dutifully on the bed and prepared to watch. She eventually let the cardigan fall in a heap on the carpet and stood in front of me. “You choose,” she said. “My shirt or my skirt?”

“Hmm, if I said skirt, would I get to choose again? I take it you’re wearing some knickers?” I knew she was wearing knickers, yellow ones, from when she had bent down to slip her shoes on at the club. Her skirt was that short.

“Yes, just for the moment, you’re in charge.”

“You’re not wearing a bra, are you?” Even the most needy of Specsavers customers would have worked that out.

“No.”

“What, you didn’t have a yellow one?”

“As a matter of fact, no.”

“So if I said shirt you’d be naked apart from that shockingly skimpy skirt and a pair of yellow knickers?”

“How do you know they’re yellow?”

“Just a guess. I know you have excellent colour sense.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What, your colour sense?”

“No, you’ve sneaked a preview of my knickers.”

I smiled. “Aha, a preview implies a proper view to follow. I’d better make a decision pronto or I won’t be able to get the condom on.”

“Well?”

“Take your tee shirt off.”

She crossed her arms, took hold of the hem of the tee shirt and pulled it over her head. Theatrically, she let it fall on top of the cardigan. Wow! She was a little rounder than I remembered, perhaps the absence of recent squash.

“Two down, two to go,” I said.

“What about my wedges?”

“I forgot about those.”

“With what I have in mind, they’re staying on.”

“What is it you have in mind?”

“You’ll find out when we’re both undressed.”

“Okay, skirt off then.”

Reaching behind for the zip of her skirt brought Paula’s breasts into greater prominence in the oblique light from the reading lamp. In this case ‘reading’ didn’t accurately capture what the lamp was doing for us: it wouldn’t be illuminating any text that evening. Paula shimmied her hips, the skirt fell to her ankles and out she stepped. Her knickers were of the no VPL variety, lacy at the front. They weren’t skimpy, I assumed since they were an essential back up to her skirt.

They were indeed a vivid yellow.

“I’ve never seen yellow knickers before,” I said.

“Liar. If you don’t admit you’ve seen my yellow knickers already I won’t take them off.”

“All right, it was only a glimpse, I promise. At the club. And let’s face it, if you go out with a skirt that short, you have to expect that your knickers will be clocked.”

“Well before they come off, you’re going to have to do some catching up. Stand up.”

She was staring at my crotch. “Ooh look, it obeys me too. I have the power.”

“At your service, Miss. Me and my knob, that is.”

“Good.” She undid the button of my jeans, then slowly unzipped them. Her touch was electric. Finally she pulled them down.

“Your pants aren’t doing a very good job.” This was a fair observation. The waist of my pants was designed for ‘S’, but it was being stretched to ‘XL’.

“I’d better take them off before they pop.” This she duly did.

“Ah yes,” she said. “I remember this.” She looked up at me. “Oh my, has it grown? Jolyon’s hard on, what fun. Where’s that condom?”

She retrieved the little packet, extracted its slippery contents and worked it over my dick while I watched her breasts gently wobbling. “Good.” She looked up. “You seem to be ready?”

“Just about, Miss. Now it’s time for your knickers to come off. I’ll do it.”

I knelt down in front of her, hooked my fingers into the waistband and pulled off the third last item of her yellow attire, counting the wedges. The wedges elevated her by about three inches, bringing my face into close proximity to the curve of her half-in-shadow mound. She smelt sexy.

“Is it okay if I steal a kiss?” I asked.

“All right, if you must. It’s not part of the plan, so just a quick one.”

“In the nick?”

She giggled.

I reached round to her bum, pulled her towards me and planted a soft kiss just where her long legs met. After a brief moment, more giggling, “Hey, put your tongue away. I didn’t give you permission. It tickles. We’ve got to get back on plan.”

I looked up at her. “And what exactly is ‘plan’?”

“I told you. We’re going to carry on where we left off.”

She turned away, round to the end of the bed, bent forward, legs straight and wide apart, with her bottom exaggeratedly in the air and her hands on the wooden foot board.

“Surely you can remember this?”

“Yes,” I said as I moved behind her, “graphically.”

“And the other thing is. You have to remember this too. I do the moving.” Strong emphasis on the ‘I’.

“Oh Paula, that’s not fair.”

She turned to look at me. “What’s fairness got to do with it? That’s the deal, anyway. Take it or leave it.”

I was more likely to leave it than a banker leave his bonus, and being an adaptable fellow, I coped. No one burst in, I succeeded in preventing my balls from bursting, in spite of the hyper stimulating sight of Paula’s rounded bum and my dick sliding in and out of her. On subsequent engagements in the bed, rather than over the end of it, I was allowed to do some of the moving. We were at it for ages. When we’d eventually shagged ourselves to a halt I had to deal with the only debit note of the night. I couldn’t share Paula’s fat spliff.

We were both propped up against the headboard, with Paula sucking deeply on the joint. As we watched the smoke slowly drifting upwards she said, “You were pretty good, Jolyon, for a young bloke.”

“You usually do it with geriatrics then? That’s a perversion.”

“No, one older guy, just one. He was pretty good, too.” She smiled. “Experience does count.” She turned to me and rested her head on my chest. “But your body’s much nicer, much sexier.” She sat up and pushed the sheet back. “You’ve a beautiful body.”

“Why thank you, Miss.”

“No, I mean it. Squash players have the best bums. Not those wimpy little flat things you see on male models.”

“That works for girls too.”

“And nice hard legs,” she went on. “And nice arms.” She traced the veins on my arms. “These too. Look how your veins stand out.”

“Talking about bums,” I said, “well, talking about your bum, it’s not just my veins you make stand out. You’re making me hard again.”

“Relax, I’m too sleepy to do it again.” She blew smoke in my face. “Take a puff.”

“No, I can’t. I really, really can’t.”

So, I’d said no to proffered spliffs at the party. Then no again in the bedroom. But it had been smoky as hell at the gig, and no less so after Paula and I had made love. Combined, that had to be it. I must have taken in enough passively to register in the test. Not that it mattered. No one would believe me. Talk about hero to zero. What was I going to do?

First I had a match to play. I wasn’t banned yet. I got up and made my way back up the steps to the club. Grandpa and my father were coming through the entrance in the opposite direction, bleak faced. Grandpa stopped and said in a voice that wasn’t overburdened with sympathy, “What a fool, Jolyon, and I’ve misjudged you. I’m so disappointed.”

Not Grandpa, oh dear. I could take it from Sailor, just. I could take it from my father. I could take it from my mother, no problem there. But Grandpa. His harsh words made me realise how much I depended on the support from him and the enthusiasm he always added.

“But don’t lose touch,” he said, looking back as my father helped him down the steps. “I’ll be wanting to know what you’re doing. This is something else you’re going to have to deal with.”

Why should I bother, I thought during the knock up against Mark Goodrich. The whole project was coming to an end. My life as I knew it was coming to an end. What was I going to do? I didn’t have a clue. There wasn’t anything else as far as I was concerned. My head had been filled with squash, to the exclusion of everything, apart from Zoë, and the occasional Nikki and Paula. They didn’t count. I duly lost to Mark for a handful of points; my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t be bothered to do any stretches afterwards and showered quickly. Sailor had apparently departed so it had to be the train back to Manchester, what fun, and too late to get one that evening. I walked back to my B and B, picking up a McDonald’s en route, who cares, and crashed out, feeling exhausted. Next morning it was three hours and fifty five minutes via Sheffield to Manchester, then twenty five minutes by bus out to Sailor’s.

I wished I hadn’t bothered. Sailor was there, back for lunch. He emerged from the kitchen as soon as I was inside the front door.

“So you lost?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you should have tried.”

“What’s the point?”

“You enter a tournament, you give it yer all. You compete.”

“I didn’t feel like competing.”

“Well no. And I don’t feel like supporting you. Here,” he handed me a letter. “Came this morning. Registered. It’ll be your notification from the agency. There’ll be a hearing. If you want, I’ll represent you, I’ll do that for you, not that it’ll do any good. But I’m no’ having you under my roof any more. You’re out of here, son, as of now. Today.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, son, that you are moving out. This afternoon. I will not have a drug taker living in my house. Understand?”

“Where will I go?”

“That’s for you to decide. Home, mebbe.”

Something in the way he said it triggered an explosion, everything I was feeling. “For fuck’s sake, Sailor. You’ve condemned me without even listening to me. You may be throwing me out but you’re going to fucking listen for two minutes.”

“Don’t start effing wi’ me...”

I felt this colossal indignation. I’d been judged without the slightest chance of providing an explanation, of making a comment. “I will effing eff as much as I like. Just this once. There’s another side to this story. I know you won’t believe it but I’m going to give it to you anyway.” I took a deep breath. “Now listen. I-did-not-smoke-any-dope-before-Rotterdam. Hear me? Did not. I’ve not smoked anything, not even a cigarette, not since I’ve been here in Manchester. All that time. I was at a gig the weekend before Rotterdam. I told you. A lot of dope was smoked. And socially afterwards. I think it’s possible it got into my system that way.”

“Got into my system that way?” He sneered like a bad actor. Another time it might have been comic. “I said at the club. Everyone has an excuse, some story to tell. Everyone pleads innocent. It won’t work with me. The system’s good. The cheats get caught, some of them anyway. Only shame is, some of them come back. Two years. It’s no’ enough.”

“It’s not cheating, what I’m supposed to have done. Even if I did do some dope. It’d be more likely to slow me down, cannabis. Not increase performance.”

“Yer wasting yer time on me, son. Get yerself packed. You can leave anything you can’t carry. Pick it up later. I want you out of here before Mary gets back.”

Oh dear, Mary. I hadn’t thought about Mary. She had supported me to the extent of giving me money. How on earth was I going to pay her back?

“I’d like to say goodbye to Mary.”

Sailor hesitated. He appeared to be thinking. Then he turned away. “Save it,” he said over his shoulder. “She won’t want to see you. She’ll be as disgusted as I am.”

I trudged upstairs to my bedroom. Disgust. That wasn’t fair. I didn’t deserve that. Disgust. It wasn’t as if I’d done anything bad, anything to be ashamed of. In two days I’d gone from number thirty two in the squash world, with brilliant prospects, some sort of chance at least of meeting Grandpa’s challenge, to this. Contempt, disgust, nowhere. And nowhere to go. What had Sailor said? Go back home? And face my mother? Not in a zillion years, no way. I could picture her smug satisfaction, hear her words. ‘What did I tell you?’ ‘Never had it in you.’ ‘It was always going to end in tears.’ I wouldn’t be able to control myself. Teen drug fiend in matricide tragedy.

But what were the alternatives? Maybe I could doss at Zoë’s for a couple of nights while I worked something out. She might not be unsympathetic, hmm, but I wasn’t so sure. What about the Kemballs? They were my best bet. Russell didn’t seem too judgemental, and I couldn’t imagine Marion not being helpful.

So I called Dave, hoping he wasn’t in a lecture. “What happened?” he said when I started to explain. “Je-sus, that’s bad.”

There was a pause. Then he went on. “I doubt if it will be a problem with Mum and Dad while you sort yourself out. But what are you going to do?”

“I have no idea. Life after squash. I’ve been thinking about it every minute since yesterday afternoon and I’ve come up blank. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could go home. That’s one thing I couldn’t face. Not my mother.”

“Well look,” Dave said. “I’ve got to go. I’ll text you the numbers. Talk to you soon. Let me know what’s happening.”

“Thanks.”

I managed to get hold of Marion later that afternoon. She listened without saying much as I told her what had happened. “Yes of course you can come over. Dave’s not here, he’s at the university but you know that. Do you want a lift?”

“No, that’s okay, I’ll get the bus. There’s one in forty minutes.” I’d have loved to have accepted a lift but I was being offered huge hospitality as it was. The relief at having somewhere to go, even if only for a few nights, was enormous.

On the bus I opened the letter. It was indeed the official notification from UKAD, the UK Anti-Doping body:

Dear Mr Jacks

Re Urine Test, October 29th, Victoria Squash Club, Rotterdam

I am obliged to inform you that the A Sample taken from the urine sample you provided at the Victoria Squash Club, Rotterdam during the Golden Tulip International 25 Squash Racquets Tournament, October 26th-31st, has tested positive for cannabinoid metabolites. Cannabis is included on the current World Anti-Doping Agency list, Version 33.01 dated September 30th, of Prohibited Substances the presence of which in an athlete is proscribed under Article 2.1 (Presence of a Prohibited Substance) of the World Anti Doping Code as adopted by UKAD, the UK Anti-Doping body.

Please note: While this positive test for a Prohibited Substance is under investigation, you are ineligible to compete in any competition regulated by any sports body that is registered with UKAD or the World Anti-Doping Agency.

In order to establish your eligibility to continue competing in sports competitions under the auspices of affiliated sports bodies, you have two options:

1) Your B sample has been retained by the Dutch Anti-Doping Agency at Capelle aan den IJssel, Rotterdam. You may request to have your B Sample tested. A positive result will oblige you to attend a hearing organised by UKAD as described in 2), below.

A negative result from your B Sample test will terminate this investigation in your favour.

2) If you elect to forego analysis of your B Sample, an early hearing has been provisionally scheduled for 10.00 a.m. on November 25th at the offices of the English Institute for Sport, Sportcity Manchester, Gate 13, Rowsley Street, Manchester, M11 3FF.

Please reply as soon as possible by recorded delivery to indicate the option you have chosen.

Yours sincerely

Abraham Charlton

Test and Performance Section

UKAD

The letter felt awfully official, although it didn’t tell me anything new. It left me feeling completely in the power of the authorities. The actual date for the hearing was a surprise though, only two weeks away. Awfully close but on the whole a positive angle. I would soon know where I stood, whether the last four years had been a total waste of time, whether I was going to have to find an alternative life, whether I’d have to crawl back home to my mother.

Oh dear, dossing down in a passage near Manchester Piccadilly Station would be preferable to that.

Chapter Twenty Seven

That evening, sitting at the Kemball’s kitchen table, I went through the whole sorry story with Marion and Russell.

“The thing about cannabis metabolites,” Marion said, “is they’re persistent. They have a long half life, that’s the technical way of putting it. So it is plausible that if you inhaled some at that gig…”

“And afterwards,” Russell interrupted with a smile.

“…it is possible that the cannabis persisted in your system till the time you provided the sample.”

“What are we going to do then?” Russell asked.

“We?” I said. He and Marion exchanged a glance.

“Yes, we. We can’t let this go on. It’s just unfair. Just unjust, you might say.” He turned to Marion. “Can you get chapter and verse on cannabis, especially how long it persists and the levels that can be detected by tests? We need to be able to prove that whatever quantity was picked up in Jolyon’s sample, it could have come from passive inhalation.

“You say you don’t know about the tribunal process?”

“Not much,” I said. “Only the date. And it’s going to be held at the EIS.”

“See what you can find out. I’m going to look into it too.” He was all enthusiasm. “Do you remember that French tennis player, what was his name, Grass... Gass... Gasquet, that’s it, Richard Gasquet, top ten, I think. He got off, didn’t he, and that was cocaine. He said he’d got it from a girl he met in a bar in Miami. From a kiss. Quite a kiss, I guess. There must be other cases. I really think you should fight this. The other angle is the girl, who’s she?”

“Paula Bentley.”

“Oh, Paula. Is that Sheffield Paula?” He smiled again. “Well, good for you. We can get a statement from Paula. Maybe get her to attend the tribunal. It depends on the process. Could you get anyone from the gig? One of your fellow DJs. It would be great to have a statement from one of them. About you not smoking while you were there.”

I could hardly believe this. After all the hostility, from Grandpa and my father and Sailor, the assumption I was guilty, all the condemnation, here were Marion and Russell on my side, working out how they could help. They believed me.

“You don’t know what this means,” I said. “You’re the first two people who haven’t branded me as guilty right from the start.”

“Well we’ve got Dave,” Marion said. “It probably makes us more understanding.”

“All Dave makes us is poorer,” said Russell. “We won’t worry about that though. I want to explore this tribunal process, top to bottom.”

“And I’ll do the cannabis stuff,” Marion added. “Let’s compare notes tomorrow evening.”

Daily Telegraph, November 12th

Teenage squash star Jolyon Jacks has sensationally tested positive for cannabis. Jacks underwent a random test last month at a PSA tournament in Rotterdam. Jacks’ coach in Manchester, Sailor McCann, last night confirmed the leaked result. Jacks’ abrasive manner has not endeared him to the squash authorities, but in the last twelve months he has shot up the world rankings and was tipped by many to be a future world champion. Jacks has been suspended from competition pending a tribunal. He faces a two year ban.

Oh dear, the Daily Telegraph. I’d picked it up online. It meant my mother’s friends would know. I could hear her savouring my discomfiture, the ‘Jolyon never had it in him’ theme. Trouble was, maybe she was right.

Not if the Kemballs had anything to do with it. They must both have spent ages in their research. That evening Marion launched into the relevance of my quoted cannabis levels. “The information available is varied. Your urine level, twenty two nanograms per ml, was low, which is helpful. I’ve found a report that says the presence of cannabis metabolites in urine is not,” she looked at some notes, “‘unequivocal proof of active cannabis smoking’.”

“That’s great,” said Russell.

Marion went on. “Cannabis is taken up in fatty tissue and released slowly from there. It can hang around in the system for up to thirty days. That’s in persistent users. For a single exposure we’re talking up to six days.” She looked at me. “How long was it for you?”

“I was tested on the Thursday. That makes it five days, or four really. I was with Paula well into Sunday.”

“Four sounds better. The other thing is, with cannabis metabolism people vary a lot. That’s in your favour too. You might be a slow metaboliser. I think there’s a plausible explanation in there.

“So,” she said, putting away her folder. “It would have been possible for THC to remain in your system all the way from the Saturday night at the gig, let’s say Sunday morning, to the following Thursday in Rotterdam. Your reported levels there were certainly low. On that timetable the experts will conclude that you hadn’t had the marijuana equivalent of a skinful. Alternatively, you might have had a skinful say two weeks before Rotterdam. So nothing’s proved. Except that the gig and what you did afterwards could have, potentially, accounted for your failed test. You’re not off the hook but there’s real doubt about being guilty.”

She turned to Russell. “What have you got?”

“I have a process that at least I understand properly now. I’ve reviewed a lot of cases. Two things usually happen.” He raised his eyebrows. “The first is the accused pleads innocent.” Then he frowned. “The second is he or she gets convicted. It’s not sympathetic, the world of dope testing. The system is desperate to nail you. What we’re up against specifically is UKAD. This is a subsection of WADA, and as I’m sure you know, WADA rules are tough. You can get done for using a steroid cream, just a cream for goodness sake, rubbed into your skin. That’s if you don’t have a therapeutic use exemption, or TUE they call it. The one that catches out a lot of athletes is asthma medication. Ventolin? Yes. TUE? Okay then. No? Quick as a flash, you’re banned. Recreational drugs, let’s say cannabis for example, are considered no less bad than performance enhancing drugs. Which is to say, lower than the belly of a worm.

“There is some good news. Firstly, it’s specifically stated, the hearing panel has to be fair and impartial. That gives me scope if the hearing goes against you, an appeal with reasonable chances of success. I can dig up some stuff on the panellists’ backgrounds; there’s usually something there. Next, you’re given the right to respond to the supposed rule violation by presenting evidence. That can include calling witnesses, or if the panel allows it, introducing phone or written testimony. Thirdly, this is the real good one, you have the right to be represented at the hearing by your appointed counsel. That’ll be me. For a huge fee.” He must have seen the look on my face. “It’s okay, I’m only joking. My fee will be a pint of Theakstons, on a no win no fee basis.

“Now, you’re going to be found guilty under WADA rules, that’s the way they’re written, that’s inevitable. There’s no point in us contesting. There were cannabis metabolites in your urine. You, the athlete, are responsible for what’s in your body. Doesn’t matter how it got there. For a first violation it means two years ineligibility, as they call it, from competition. But, section ten point four of the rules allows what they refer to as elimination or reduction of the period of ineligibility under specific circumstances. This is where there’s a great big opening. We’re going to have to demonstrate that you were exposed to a lot of cannabis smoke over a protracted period on Saturday October the twenty fourth.”

“And Sunday October the twenty fifth,” Marion added.

“Does it mean I can bring witnesses to the hearing,” I asked.

“That would be the best way. Like I said, Paula would be good, both for being at the gig and explaining the afterwards. And if you could get someone else to say you were at the gig and that you didn’t smoke, and that it was smoky, that would be perfect.”

“Let me give Paula a call.”

I managed to get hold of Paula straight away while Russell and Marion made a pot of tea. She was reluctant, but when I explained what was at stake she said she’d help. She’d be willing to appear in person at the hearing. One in the bag, I thought, good. As for the local DJs, I had Facebook addresses for two of them, and I messaged them.

We sat down again over the tea. “It would be best if I could speak with Paula pretty soon,” Russell said. “Where is she based?”

“She’s in Sheffield. Working nine to five I think.”

“We could go over one evening,” he suggested.

“Really? That would be great, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s so kind of you, of both of you.”

Russell laughed. “It’s a worthwhile project.” He put on a pompous voice. “I always want to see justice done.”

“And it could so easily be Dave,” Marion added quietly. “On top of that, I don’t think you’ve had a fair deal from your parents. You could do with a bit of support.”

Russell and I fixed to go over to Sheffield the following Saturday to see Paula. Russell said we should take her to lunch. Her presence at the hearing was assuming greater importance because neither of my DJ contacts wanted anything to do with authority. They didn’t want to attend the hearing in person and they wouldn’t sign their name to any statement. If someone was going to come good it had to be Paula anyway, as she could talk about my further passive cannabis intake after the party, as well as what had gone on there. I was starting to feel that I had a chance at the hearing, with the Kemballs on my side. They were a good combination, Marion with her knowledge of medical tests and Russell a lawyer. And I had what was surely a decent story to tell.

Problem was, I hadn’t considered who the story was going to be told to. I had a call from Sailor the following day, with the message that another recorded delivery letter had arrived for me. Russell offered to take me over that evening so I could collect the letter and pick up the rest of my stuff. Sailor was terse when he opened the door.

“Here’s the letter. My offer still stands for the hearing. Your kit’s in the hallway.”

“Thanks, Sailor. In fact Russell has said he’ll represent me, and it would be a big chunk out of your day. Is Mary there?”

“Mary will no’ be seeing you.”

“What? Isn’t she here?”

“I said, Mary’ll no’ be seeing you.”

Oh dear. One of my objectives in calling at the McCanns was to try to square things with Mary.

“I owe her some money. I want to tell her that I will pay it back, maybe not too soon, but I will.”

“I don’t think she’s wanting your money, son. Neither of us, for that matter.”

“Hey, that’s not fair.” My voice was loud and fortunately Russell intervened.

“Come on, Jolyon. That’ll do for now. Let’s get your stuff.”

My stuff was my decks and my vinyl, the rest of my squash kit plus a few clothes, so it didn’t take long to load it into Russell’s car. I called goodbye to Sailor as we were leaving. He had disappeared into the kitchen.

As we were driving away I opened the letter:

Dear Mr Jacks

Re: UKAD Hearing, November 25th, 10.00am, EIS, Sportcity, Manchester M11 3FF

Thank you for your letter dated November 14th, with regard to your positive urine test for a Prohibited Substance from a sample taken on October 29th in Rotterdam. I note your decision not to have your B Sample analysed, and confirm therefore your forthcoming attendance at a UKAD hearing at 10.00am on November 25th.

I am writing to remind you that you may chose to be represented at the hearing by a lawyer. If you chose to be represented, please send me details of your legal representative.

The UKAD panel will consist of three members, one of whom will be myself. The other panellists will be:

Mr Frank Walsh, LLB, as UKAD’s legal representative,

Mr Dick Bentley, representing Squash England.

Yours sincerely

Abraham Charlton

Test and Performance Section

UKAD

My heart sank. Dick Bentley. Why did it have to be Dick Bentley? If ever there were a hanging judge, for me it would be Judge Bentley. Should we be lenient with this fornicator? Certainly not! It is our duty to throw the book at him, preferably at his deviant crotch. Will the squash world be better off without him for two years, or even four? You betcha! Even overlooking Dick’s attitude to someone he’d caught shagging his daughter doggy style over a sofa in his kitchen, what effect would his presence have on Paula?

The Paula question was promptly answered when Russell and I sat down with her in an Italian restaurant in the middle of Sheffield.

“My dad’s going to be there? You’ve got to be joking. I’m sorry. I’m not going to do it. No way!”

The best part of an hour’s persuasion and a bottle of wine extracted a promise from Paula to give us a statement. She had seen me at the party, yes. It had been full of smoke, yes. Not all of the smoke, she believed, could have been attributed to the combustion of tobacco. Some of it, she thought, might have come from cannabis.

“Our story, it’s pretty thin now,” Russell said as we drove glumly back towards Manchester. “Not having witnesses will make the passive inhalation story,” he shrugged, “…it’ll just sound like a legal argument. Clutching at a straw,” here he laughed, “…a spliff-sized straw. I guess it’s all we’ve got now, that and your marginal levels that Marion talks about.”

The days leading up to the hearing were dreadful, in the literal sense, especially with Russell’s confidence so obviously gone. We had talked about objecting to Dick’s presence on the panel, in view of his and my acquaintance, but decided it would be counterproductive. I went out for several runs, but I was listless without the level of physical activity I was used to. I helped as much as I could round the Kemballs’ house. The evening before the hearing I had to scrub emulsion paint from my hands.

Approaching the EIS felt strange after a gap of several weeks. I had spent so much of my time there over the previous two and a half years. I noticed details that had previously lost their impact. The Mercedes dealership that had provided me with fantasies of owning a lairy AMG. The enormous sculpture from the Commonwealth Games of a sprinter starting, not from blocks, but from a huge globe. And there was the looming futuristic presence of the Man City stadium and its Etihad advertising. How long would it be before I was flying off anywhere again?

We were early. The letter-writing Mr Charlton appeared in response to a call from Russell, who was looking unusually formal in a grey suit, and led us up the stairs to a meeting room on the first floor. The walls were decorated with photos of athletes. A shaft of morning sunlight did nothing to cheer me, mourning sunlight, I thought.

“Please wait here,” Mr Charlton said as he left us. “The panel will convene in about ten minutes.”

Dread. I was at the mercy of a system that didn’t care what happened.

“Cheer up,” Russell said as I mooched around the room. “I’ve seen good results in worse cases than this.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve got a chance.”

“You’re entitled to a fair and impartial hearing, as the words say, and I’ll see you get it. Don’t forget, you are actually innocent in natural law. We just have to show it. In the end it will come down to whether they believe you or not. Tell your story, like it happened. I’ll do everything else.”

At five to ten the three panellists joined us. Dick Bentley blanked me as he sat down with the others at the large table, the three of them side by side, opposite the two of us. An attacking posse, I thought, they’ve got the numbers and we ain’t got the guns. There was no standard size for panellists. Mr Charlton was small, apart from his Adam’s apple. I was no good at ages: he was nearer thirty than fifty. He meticulously parked four large lever arch files and a laptop in front of him and introduced his colleagues. First Mr Frank Walsh. Large, Adam’s apple lost in the folds of his chins. Mr Walsh wasn’t anything like my image of a lawyer. He was cheerful looking, happily stressing the seams of his pinstripe suit. He was also a file man, two thick manila ones in his case. Then there was Dick Bentley, skinny, just about managing a nod as he was introduced. In the file department Dick, with just a notebook and a pencil, was outgunned. Did that mean that his mind was made up? He was the one I was going to have to convince. Finally Russell introduced the two of us, with Mr Charlton making some notes. He asked whether Russell had any objection to the hearing being recorded.

“No problem,” Russell said, “provided that we can have a notarised transcript within three days.”

“We don’t usually have a formal transcript done,” Mr Charlton said.

“Well I’m not happy you’ll have access to a resource we don’t have in the event of an appeal.”

“I tell you what,” Mr Walsh said in a deep, burbling voice. “If it comes to that we’ll have a transcript done. The recording’s just to simplify the clerical side. Mr Charlton and his minutes. We find it helpful to be able to review what was said.”

Russell nodded. “In which case that’s fine by me.” Afterwards he told me he had known the likely outcome, and simply wanted to be able to make a concession.

Mr Charlton opened his laptop, inserted a USB stick and made a few moves on the trackpad while we watched. “Right, the recording has started.” He pronounced the date and time and some details of the hearing. Then he read from a script, summarising the allegation against me, citing various paragraphs from the World Squash Federation Anti-Doping Rules, summarising the possible penalties, listing the people involved in the collection and analysis of my sample, getting me to confirm that I had waived the right to having my B Sample analysed, and finally inviting me or my representative to respond.

In contrast to Mr Charlton, Russell sounded almost conversational. “Jolyon has asked me to speak on his behalf, and I’ll get him to explain the circumstances that led to the positive test. I’ll try to be brief.

“Now, firstly, we accept the findings of the urine analysis. That’s why Jolyon hasn’t asked for a B sample analysis. He has thought back over his movements in the days leading up to the test. He knows when he was exposed to cannabis smoke and we’ll show that the inhalation was inadvertent. The point I’d like to emphasise here is the marginal level of THC detected. The urine level is compatible with passive exposure.

“This is the sequence of events. On Saturday October the twenty fourth Jolyon went to a free party in a building in central Manchester. I’ll leave him to describe the party in a few moments, but first I’d like to ask if you’ll accept a witnessed statement concerning Jolyon’s presence there.”

“Could I see it?” Mr Walsh asked.

Russell opened his briefcase, took out an envelope and extracted a single sheet of A4 paper with Paula’s handwritten statement on it. Russell had suggested the message would have more credibility if she didn’t type it up. He passed it over to the lawyer, who gave it a cursory glance said, “That’s in order,” and handed it back.

Russell put on a pair of reading glasses. “I’ll pass this over when I’ve read it out. ‘To whom it may concern’,” he started, “‘I was at a free party held in the hall of what used to be St Botolph’s School in Manchester on the evening of October twenty fourth. Jolyon Jacks was at the party, at least between ten o’clock and one o’clock in the morning. There were at least two hundred people at the party. Many of them were smoking cannabis. The windows of the hall were kept closed to stop the noise getting out, so there was little ventilation. The atmosphere was very smoky.’”

Russell didn’t specifically mention Paula as the person who had given the statement. He replaced the A4 sheet in the envelope and went on, “As you’ve seen, the statement is duly signed and witnessed. I’d like to submit it formally to the hearing.” He handed the envelope to Mr Charlton, who took the statement out, made a note, and passed it to Dick Bentley. Dick’s face didn’t register any surprise as he too glanced through it. Maybe Paula had told him.

“So,” Russell went on. “We’ve established Jolyon’s presence at a party where a lot of cannabis was being smoked.”

“Is that all you have?” Mr Walsh asked.

Russell appeared surprised. “Well, yes. How much do we need? It’s pretty unambiguous. The statement, and Jolyon’s evidence to come.” Mr Walsh made a note in his file. “Carry on, please.”

“At about one in the morning,” Russell continued, “Jolyon left the party and spent the rest of the night with a friend in her flat, also in central Manchester. Regrettably this friend did not want to provide a statement. We wanted a statement from her as the period after the party is relevant. Specifically, during this period, Jolyon’s friend smoked several cannabis joints. Since she and Jolyon were in bed together, once again he was exposed to high levels of cannabis smoke.”

Mr Walsh interrupted again. “I would have thought you could have provided at least a supporting statement here, since as you say this has a significant bearing on the account. Without corroboration this evidence is worthless.”

Russell ignored this and carried on. “Now, turning to the urine sample. Tetrahydrocannabinol, THC, is the cannabis metabolite that is picked up by gas chromatography mass spectrometry, GC/MS, the usual analytical method for this type of drug. I’ve obtained this paper from the American Society of Clinical Chemists, published in the journal, Clinical Chemistry.” Russell took another A4 envelope from his briefcase and passed it over to Mr Charlton. “To summarise, three hundred and sixty six subjects exposed to cannabis use underwent blood and urine tests up to fourteen days after exposure. I’m particularly interested in the results from seven of the subjects whose exposure had been limited to passive inhalation. THC at low nanogram levels was detected in these subjects’ urine up to seven days after exposure.”

Russell took of his glasses. He was one of those people who made you want to listen. He paused and looked in turn at each of the three panellists.

“This isn’t complicated.” He gave a slight grin that removed any hint of talking down to his audience, drawing them onto his side. “We’ve shown that Jolyon was exposed to high levels of cannabis smoke for a combined period of as much as six hours.”

“Three hours is what you’ve shown,” Mr Walsh said.

Russell shrugged. “A substantial period on the Saturday and Sunday before the Rotterdam tournament. He will have been continuously inhaling cannabis smoke for the majority of this time, with a break between when he left the party and, if you accept his word, his time in the flat. We know he provided the urine sample at the most five days plus two or three hours after the end of his exposure. We know THC is slowly eliminated from the body and we know from the Clinical Chemistry paper that this level of exposure can result in detectable levels in urine, not just for the five days that are relevant in this case but for as long as seven days.

“So it is entirely plausible to account for Jolyon’s positive test as coming from passive exposure, especially given the low level of THC that was detected.” Russell paused. “Of course there is another plausible explanation for the positive test. Jolyon may have actively used cannabis. Again being led by the Clinical Chemistry report, this exposure could have been up to fourteen days before the sample was taken. This is the crux of the matter, and you’ll have to be the judge. Any questions?”

“We’ll do questions when you’ve finished,” Mr Walsh said.

“All right. I’d like you to listen to Jolyon’s own account. To help you make up your minds.”

The panellists turned their attention to me. My mouth was parched, my saliva having been apparently diverted to my armpits and the channel down the middle of my back. No antiperspirant could hold back the three mini deluges.

Russell, Marion and I had debated how exactly I should approach this. The line we agreed was, why on earth would I put at risk the sole, single, burning focus of my life?

“I only started playing squash when I was fifteen,” I said. “Almost by accident. I knew I was good early on, but it was just for fun. I entered a few junior tournaments, which was where I met Mr Kemball’s son, Dave. I came to Manchester in the summer holidays to play squash with Dave and do some mixing.” Mr Charlton looked blank. “Music, I mean.”

I felt better once I’d got started. “We went along, Dave and I, to train with Sailor, Sailor McCann, here at the EIS. He gave us some performance tests and I did really well. Sailor told me then that if I wanted to I could be world champion. I couldn’t believe it. I’d never imagined I could be any way that good at anything, maybe county standard at running, squash nothing really, not properly good. I always thought it was mixing I was best at.

“The problem was, I had to give up school to train full time. Otherwise I’d never make it. My Mum and Dad, well mainly my Mum, didn’t want this. They, mostly she actually, my Dad’s away most of the time, she said she wouldn’t support me, no money, no nothing. But I made up my mind, and Sailor, well, Mr McCann, said I could stay with him and he’s very strict, and he’s very strict especially about things like drugs. Since coming here I’ve trained really hard, just about every single day since I came, and I’m on track, sorry I haven’t told you this, my Granddad wants me to be world champion by the time I’m twenty one,” Mr Bentley gave a little laugh, “and I’m on track for that, or at least I was until this thing happened.”

“Where are you ranked, now,” Russell asked.

“Three weeks ago I was world number thirty two. And I was going up pretty fast.” Neither Dick Bentley nor Mr Charlton showed any response, but Mr Walsh said, “That’s good.”

It put me off my stride and I stopped, but Russell was great and prompted me again. “Now talk a bit about the music.”

“Yes, the music. You see I was always really into mixing, ever since I was eleven or twelve. I had a good reputation as a DJ down in Sussex, round Brighton. I’d be at a gig or a party most weekends. I loved it, more than tennis, I used to play tennis, more even than cross country. I loved cross country. Most of all I loved the parties, they’re what you read about as illegal raves, but no one means any harm. It’s just most people my age can’t afford tickets to proper music gigs, in proper venues, even if you wanted to go. These parties get put on in places the police aren’t going to object. That’s what we try anyway. Trouble is the police do object, and you can understand it in a way, there’s lots of drug taking there, I want to say that. It’s pretty harmless mostly. I do know the other side, people get into trouble.” Dick Bentley wiped the side of his face and stared at the table. “Anyway, I have to admit, I did do cannabis, I used to, always when I was mixing. Everybody did, really.”

Now all three of the panellists were looking at me intently. Russell had emphasised while we were preparing, don’t hold back. Just tell them. So I went on. “When I came to Manchester, some time in the first couple of weeks I was here, Dave Kemball told me about the WADA list. And that cannabis was on it. I was surprised. I knew about steroids, everyone does, and EPO. No one down in Sussex had explained drug testing to me, maybe because I hadn’t been involved in the county set-up. And I’d thought that cannabis would only make you worse, anyway, worse at squash.

“But I made up my mind, that time I was talking to Dave. I really, really want to do well, I really want to become world champ, and even though I’ve been to some parties up here, and I’ve had lots of offers, I’ve never smoked anything since I’ve been here. Not a single spliff. Why take the chance?

“And now I feel terrible. Everyone seems to think I’ve been taking drugs and I’ve blown it. But I haven’t. I wouldn’t do anything that got in the way of squash. It would be so silly. Especially now, after I’ve got this far. It was just the smoke that night, honestly, that’s what it was.”

There was silence in the room for a few seconds. Then Mr Walsh asked, “How often do you go to these parties?”

“It’s only occasionally. They tend to last through to the morning, and that doesn’t work with training. Or competition. I’ve been to maybe six or seven, in the two and a half years I’ve been here. Otherwise I just mix through headphones, or sometimes with friends.”

“And you say that there’s always cannabis at these parties?”

“Yes, people will always be smoking weed, and tobacco, and doing other stuff, and there’ll usually be dealers, low level,” I glanced at Dick Bentley, “and occasionally one of the more serious dealers, with hard stuff.”

“What’s stopped you at these parties?” Mr Walsh asked.

“It just hasn’t been something I’d do. I love the mixing, and the chance to play through a big sound system. It’s completely different from mixing through headphones. I dunno, it’s the energy at a party, all those people out there dancing, it grabs you. But I haven’t wanted to do weed any more. The squash is more important. Weed might affect my training, and I couldn’t take the chance of that.”

“Were there any dealers at the party in Manchester?”

“None that I was aware of, but I wasn’t interested. Probably in the crowd. I didn’t know many people there. I was offered a spliff by one of the DJs. I just said no. It wasn’t a big deal. You’d always offer, up on the platform.”

“I see. So you were offered cannabis and said no?”

“That’s it. That’s what I’ve always done, since coming to Manchester.”

“Thank you,” Mr Walsh said. He addressed his fellow panellists. “Do you gentlemen have any questions?”

“Why should we believe you?” Dick Bentley asked, looking at his finger nails rather than me.

I didn’t know what to say. “I... I... I just want to be world champion. I wouldn’t take the chance. It’s not worth it.” I felt myself going red. “I just wouldn’t. I can’t explain any more. I just wouldn’t.”

I looked at Mr Walsh. He was staring intently at me. “All right. You can understand Mr Bentley’s point. Every dope-in-sport case I’ve been involved in, I didn’t do Dwayne Chambers, in the end he was different, in every one bar none the athlete has had a story. This time it’s supplements, this time it’s tainted meat. We’ve had the jealous-rival-spiking-my-drink story more than once. You name it, we’ve heard it.” His eyes were protruding now. “And I didn’t believe any of them. Not one. We’ve had the passive inhalation story before, too.”

Russell intervened, in a mild way, with something hard underneath. “We take the point, Mr Walsh. Dope is a problem, it’s a shocker. But I hope you and your colleagues will simply look at the particulars of Jolyon’s case. We’re not disputing the test result. Not disputing the violation. I’m prepared to bet that Jolyon won’t be going to these parties any more, and in the circumstances, first violation, strong mitigating factors, we’re asking, under Para Four of the UK Anti Doping Code, for a reprimand and a waiver, no period of ineligibility from competition. We strongly assert that there was absolutely no intent on Jolyon’s part to enhance his athletic performance with the THC in his system.”

“Thank you, Mr Kemball, I know the code. Do either of you have anything else to add?”

I shook my head and Russell said, “No, that’s all. Thank you for the opportunity to present the case.”

Mr Charlton said, “Under the procedure, the panel members will now have a discussion in private. This won’t be recorded. Please wait in the adjacent room in case we need to clarify anything.”

Mr Charlton led us out and showed us the room. We hung around for a moment then went downstairs and bought teas in the canteen. Then is was back to the room and settling in for the wait.

“That was no good,” I said. “Mr Walsh had it in for me. Mr Charlton doesn’t seem anything and I won’t get any help from Dick Bentley.”

“It’s too soon to fret,” Russell said. “Mr Walsh is paid to challenge what’s said. It may have sounded personal, but it wasn’t. I still think the key is Dick Bentley. He’s hard to read.”

“We know the result already if it’s down to him.”

Russell grimaced. “We’ll see.” We were both quiet for a few minutes. I couldn’t help thinking about the embarrassment of having to tell people what had happened. Russell eventually broke the silence. “It’s an awful time, this waiting. You agonise over everything you said, and what they said. I admit, your story is thin. Even if we’d had a gallery full of witnesses, it was going to come down to whether they believed you. And you did just fine, don’t worry about that.”

After half an hour of broken conversation Russell sent me down for more tea. This whole process was agony. The morning of a lethal injection in an American prison. No, that’s silly. But it felt not far short. At least you wouldn’t have to explain things to anyone after the injection, I thought.

I just couldn’t see what I’d do when I was banned. What was I going to say to people. They’d freeze me out. There’d be my mother’s self-satisfied scorn. Grandpa’s disappointment. Then there was Zoë. What would Zoë say? What would I say to her? It would be goodbye to Zoë. My glums were interrupted by the need to find a toilet. I lost concentration there and had to wipe up the miss with copious runs of poor quality EIS bog paper. Back to the condemned cell, more painful silence. Eventually, after almost an hour, I was startled by a movement of the door handle. It opened and Mr Charlton peered in.

“Would you gentlemen like to come back.” You may if you wish, Mr Jacks, prefer to jump out of a window and impale yourself on iron railings.

The meeting table was tidy. Mr Walsh’s documents were all back in their files. Mr Charlton had put away his laptop. There was a single sheet of paper at his place, with handwritten notes that were too small for me to read. Mr Walsh watched us as we rounded the table and sat down. Dick Bentley just stared at the table. He wouldn’t meet my eye.

Mr Charlton cleared his throat. “Thank you for waiting.” He picked up the sheet. “Mr Jacks, we have discussed your statement and all aspects of your case in detail. First, I’m obliged to formally ask you to confirm that you’ve had full opportunity to respond to the asserted anti-doping rule violation and call and question any and all witnesses.” Oh dear, not a prelude to good news.

Russell grimly nodded. “Yes,” he said.

Mr Charlton’s Adam’s apple aped the Grand Old Duke of York’s ten thousand men, up to the top and down again. “I’m now obliged to inform you that the hearing has established your unambiguous guilt in the issue of ingesting a specified substance, in this case tetrahydrocannabinol. As you know, UKAD has an attitude of zero tolerance to such transgressions. For a first violation the period of ineligibility is two years.”

Oh God, it really struck home. Two years. It might as well be two centuries.

“For a transgression with a specified substance,” another return excursion by the grand old Adam’s apple, “but a claim from the guilty athlete that the substance was not intended to enhance their sporting performance or mask the use of a performance-enhancing substance, we are obliged to consider reduction or elimination of the period of ineligibility. In your case, Mr Jacks, we accept,” he looked up, “marginally accept, the modest corroborating evidence you have presented about your cannabis ingestion, in the context of the minimal level of THC detected in your urine, and we have taken into consideration the nature of cannabis as a recreational and not a performance-enhancing drug. We have decided to exercise our option, since we believe on balance that you bear no fault or negligence, to eliminate the period of ineligibility.

“Congratulations, Mr Jacks, you’re a fortunate young man. You may continue to compete.”

It took a moment to sink in. I’d given up the last hope that I’d get off. Paula’s refusal to attend the hearing, the involvement of her father, not my greatest fan, the track record of harsh judgements in doping cases, the sheer formality of the process, they all had pointed in one direction.

Russell patted me on the back. “Well done, Jolyon. You’re okay. It’s back to squash.” He turned to the panel. “Thank you, gentlemen. I’m passionately anti-drug, but I think you got it right here.”

Mr Walsh said, “You should thank Mr Bentley.”

Dick Bentley was still staring at the table but he sneaked a quick glance at me. “I know a bit about you, son. I know your attitude.”