January Window Read Free

years since we had both been members of the same Arsenal team. A broken leg had ended Drenno’s career at just twenty-nine, but not before he’d scored more than a hundred goals for the Gunners and made himself one of Highbury’s heroes. Even today he could show up at the Emirates and have the whole crowd cheering him just by walking onto the pitch. This was more than the bastards ever did for me. Even Spurs fans seemed to like him, which is saying something. Since he’d stopped playing football, however, his life had become a chapbook of very well-publicised fuck-ups: drink, depression, an addiction to cocaine and Nurofen, three months in the nick for drunk driving and six months for assaulting a police officer – I couldn’t hold that against him – a flirtation with Scientology, a short and ignominious career in Hollywood, bankruptcy, a betting scandal, a bitter divorce from his first wife and reportedly a failing second marriage; the last I’d heard of him he’d checked himself into the Priory Clinic, again, to try and get himself together. Not that anyone gave it a snowball in hell’s chance of success. It was well known that Matt Drennan had dried out more often than a Holiday Inn bath towel. For all those reasons, Drennan was the only footballer I’d ever met whose autobiography was a fascinating read, and that includes my own crappy book. He made Syd Barrett look like the Moderator of the Church of Scotland. But I loved him as if he’d been – well, not my sister, I don’t speak to her much these days, but someone important in my life.
    ‘So how is he? You didn’t say.’
    ‘Didier Cassell? Not good. Not good at all. He’s out for the rest of the season, that’s for sure. And right now I’d say you’ve got a better chance of playing again than he has.’
    Drennan blinked as if considering this might be a real possibility.
    ‘Christ, I’d give anything to play a full season again.’
    ‘We all would, pal.’
    ‘Or just one FA Cup Final. A sunny day in May. “Abide with Me”. Us against a decent side like Tottenham or Liverpool. The whole Wembley thing. The way it used to be before the Premier League and foreigners and television turned the whole thing into a bloody sideshow.’
    ‘I know. That’s the way I feel about it, too.’
    ‘As a matter of fact, it’s my intention to make one last headline appearance at Wembley. And then call it a day.’
    ‘Sure, Matt, sure. You can lead the community singing.’
    ‘Seriously.’
    Drennan lifted the Scotch to his lips but before it got there I tackled the glass neatly and carried it out of harm’s way.
    ‘Come on. The car’s just outside. I’d let you sleep here but you’d only drink all my booze and then I’d have to toss you out on your shell-like, so it’s best I take you home now. Better still, why don’t I just drive you straight to the Priory? We can be there in less than half an hour. Tell you what, I’ll even pay for your first week. A late Christmas present from your fellow Gooner.’
    ‘I might even go, too, but they don’t let you read in there and you know me and my books. I get so fucking bored if I don’t have something to read.’
    As if in evidence of this statement he glanced down at a rolled-up paperback in the pocket of his jacket, as if checking it was still there.
    ‘Why do they do that? Not let you have books?’
    ‘The cunts think that if you read you won’t come out of your shell and talk about your fucking problems. As if that makes it better. I’m trying to get away from my problems, not crash into them head on. Besides, I have to go home, if only to get my diamond stud back. It fell out of my ear when Tiff belted me and the fucking dog thought it was a wee mint and swallowed it. He’s very fond of mints. So I locked the bastard in the garden shed to let nature take its course, you know? I just hope naebody’s let the thing out for a walk. That stud cost me six grand.’
    I laughed. ‘And I thought I