Crooks - A London Gangsters Tale | COMPLETED

Chapter Three

Wayne was good at getting on with things. The way his life was, he'd had to come up with all kinds of coping mechanisms. That was why, over the next few days, all the worry he'd been feeling about the fans booing him, or the threat from the Popovs, or the sight of his dad spattering a security man's brains over the wall of a basement somewhere, drifted away. He let it all wash over him like the tide; all the anger and violence. And any shock, anger or grief that might have been roiling inside of him was replaced by a blissful apathy.

At the root of this apathy was the profound trust in his dad – he knew he could rely on David to take care of things. So, when he didn't hear anything for the next few days, he took it as a good sign. He tore the threatening note into a handful of shreds, tipped them into the kitchen bin and carried on with his life.

Of course, neither he nor David was willing to leave anything to chance, and so he went ahead with increased security. On David's recommendation he went with a particularly expensive independent contractor. Wayne did not let himself think too much about the fact that the distinctly compromised security detail at the Mile End stadium had also been his dad's choice. Instead, Wayne simply forked out the cash and settled back into his everyday life. All it meant was that the house felt a bit crowded now. There were men in suits patrolling the gardens and haunting the corridors like the ghosts Wayne did not believe in. He did not trouble to learn their names. Quite honestly, he didn't care. His dad had told him not to worry, to forget about it. And so he did.

At least, he would have if his teammates would have let him.

At training the following Monday, Wayne took the short walk from his Range Rover to the training building accompanied by a pair of discreetly armed guards and was met by a chorus of catcalls. Bloody Nick Devlin was the ringleader, of course. A perennial shit-stirrer, was Devlin. "It's alright Wayne," he yelled, "no need for the armed escort. We'll look after you."

"Piss off, Devlin." Wayne forced himself to smile, though he did not feel like it. While he had gotten used to these lurking presences with their sunglasses and earpieces, he had not stopped to think about what it might look like to other people. He turned to his guards and, with a nod, indicated for them to wait outside the gates for him. They obeyed, and he jogged over to his teammates feeling like a right prat.

"Didn't you hear?" he said, thinking fast. "I've got a bloody stalker, mate. Absolute nutter. And you know what my dad's like, he don't do things by halves. So he's pushed the boat out and got me a load of security."

The mention of David Carter had an immediate effect on Nick Devlin. He glanced at his shoes like a naughty schoolboy and immediately changed his tune. "Yeah, well, you've got to be careful with stuff like that. These stalkers can be pretty nasty."

Wayne grinned. "Well, if I wasn't such a stud they wouldn't be after me, would they?"

One of the other players, Rick, took this as his cue to weigh in. "The crazy ones are the best ones, Wayneyboy!" he called out laddishly.

"Oh yeah? That why you married Cassandra, is it, Rick?"

Cue a chorus of roars from the rest of the team. "Aw, mate! You got done there Rick!"

"Alright!" came a sharp bark from the other side of the tarmac. "Enough mucking about." The players looked and saw their head coach, Luke Grimsby, standing with his hands in the pockets of his tracksuit, puffing plumes of chilly morning air. Grimsby had been a player himself in years gone by, until a splintered ankle put an end to his World Cup dreams. Now he contented himself by yapping at the Mile End first team like a pissed off chihuahua.

Grimsby had his work cut out for him at the moment: he had a new player to contend with, not to mention a team that was largely dysfunctional, in spite of the pretended camaraderie. For all their banter and practical jokes, Mile End Athletic was scarcely a team at all. Rather, it was a bunch of lads out for themselves – and only themselves. They would throw each other under the bus as soon as blink. The particular magnet for their undisguised venom was Wayne. If it had been up to Luke Grimsby, he would have kept Wayne back a bit. He would have let him earn his place in the first team via more visible means, so that the fans could judge the lad's talent for themselves. But of course, it had not been up to Luke. He had not even been consulted. Wayne was in the team, and that was that. Now the poor lad had to contend with thousands of fans who wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire.