discreetly embedded into a side-table. A motor whirred and a large modernist painting along one wall rose into the ceiling to reveal a home cinema system. Plants revolved to reveal four-foot speakers in each corner of the room. Experimenting with the buttons,Jakerealised the system contained all the latest movie releases and a catalogue of close to 40,000 songs.
His bedroom was located on the second floor, up a spiral staircase in the turret. In the wardrobe, Jake found several items: jeans, shirts and smarter clothes. All tasteful, high-end fashion. His mother would have approved. The drawers were stocked with brand new T-shirts and underwear.
‘How did Popov know my size?’ Jake muttered to himself.
There was even a football kit. Jake lifted the shirt up. St Petersburg Tigers, sponsored by Popov Industries.
Lining one side of the room, close to the door of the ensuite bathroom, were several shoe boxes. Converse pumps, Nike trainers, smart shoes in brown and black – and a pair of Predator football boots. The same model worn by Devon Taylor.
This is a bit creepy
, thought Jake.
But it’s pretty cool too.
He took a shower and changed out of his filthy clothes.
When he came back downstairs to the kitchen there was a middle-aged woman there with his dad. Plump, with curly brown hair. She was loading food into the fridge, and a fruit bowl was piled high.
‘Jake, this is Karenya,’ his dad said.
‘Hello,’ said Jake.
‘Hello, Mr Bastin,’ she replied with a kind smile. ‘Can I makeyou something to eat?’
Jake didn’t much like being waited on hand and foot.
‘Please, call me Jake,’ he said. ‘And I’m fine with an apple, thank you.’ He took one from the fruit bowl.
His dad had spread papers across the counter and was reading them closely.
‘I’m gonna check out the pool,’ Jake said.
His dad grunted absent-mindedly as Jake headed out of the kitchen.
Five minutes later, he was on his fifth lap.
The swimming pool was located beneath the house, almost right along its length. Subdued lighting beneath the water made it feel like a cave lit with candles. As Jake swam, he noticed his body was covered in bruises from the crash.
His dad wanted to work through dinner, so Jake fixed himself a snack and ate it watching
The Bourne Identity
on the home cinema. After the movie ended, he surfed the listings, looking for something else, and came across a documentary about the tragic Busby Babes – eight members of the Manchester United side, managed by the great Matt Busby, who died back in 1958 . . . in a
plane crash.
Jake shuddered as he switched off the TV. He decided to look around the house some more, but his initial wonder had been replaced by persistent unease.
He found his dad sitting at a desk in his bedroom, wearing his glasses. He was stroking his chin, deep in thought. The light from a lamp illuminated the lines of his face. He hadn’t noticed Jake watching him. Jake coughed and his dad jumped.
‘Hey, Jake, you shouldn’t sneak up on your old man like that.’
‘I just came to say goodnight,’ said Jake.
‘Oh, sure. Have a good sleep. Remember we’re going to the stadium tomorrow.’
‘We?’ said Jake. ‘You mean I can come too?’
His dad smiled. ‘Of course you can. You’ll be bored out of your mind here.’
Jake’s heart leapt. ‘Awesome!’ Sure, he wanted to see the stadium and meet the team, but more importantly, he wanted answers. He wouldn’t find them in their plush new home. People had started dying the minute they got mixed up with the Russian billionaire and his new football team. Maybe the stadium was the right place for Jake to find those answers.
7
T he limousine arrived at ten on the dot and Jake was already outside. The driver was the same guy who’d brought them to the house the day before, but today he introduced himself as Stefan. They cruised down the hill to the stadium, under a clear blue sky. Jake had slept like a log and was feeling great. Even
His bedroom was located on the second floor, up a spiral staircase in the turret. In the wardrobe, Jake found several items: jeans, shirts and smarter clothes. All tasteful, high-end fashion. His mother would have approved. The drawers were stocked with brand new T-shirts and underwear.
‘How did Popov know my size?’ Jake muttered to himself.
There was even a football kit. Jake lifted the shirt up. St Petersburg Tigers, sponsored by Popov Industries.
Lining one side of the room, close to the door of the ensuite bathroom, were several shoe boxes. Converse pumps, Nike trainers, smart shoes in brown and black – and a pair of Predator football boots. The same model worn by Devon Taylor.
This is a bit creepy
, thought Jake.
But it’s pretty cool too.
He took a shower and changed out of his filthy clothes.
When he came back downstairs to the kitchen there was a middle-aged woman there with his dad. Plump, with curly brown hair. She was loading food into the fridge, and a fruit bowl was piled high.
‘Jake, this is Karenya,’ his dad said.
‘Hello,’ said Jake.
‘Hello, Mr Bastin,’ she replied with a kind smile. ‘Can I makeyou something to eat?’
Jake didn’t much like being waited on hand and foot.
‘Please, call me Jake,’ he said. ‘And I’m fine with an apple, thank you.’ He took one from the fruit bowl.
His dad had spread papers across the counter and was reading them closely.
‘I’m gonna check out the pool,’ Jake said.
His dad grunted absent-mindedly as Jake headed out of the kitchen.
Five minutes later, he was on his fifth lap.
The swimming pool was located beneath the house, almost right along its length. Subdued lighting beneath the water made it feel like a cave lit with candles. As Jake swam, he noticed his body was covered in bruises from the crash.
His dad wanted to work through dinner, so Jake fixed himself a snack and ate it watching
The Bourne Identity
on the home cinema. After the movie ended, he surfed the listings, looking for something else, and came across a documentary about the tragic Busby Babes – eight members of the Manchester United side, managed by the great Matt Busby, who died back in 1958 . . . in a
plane crash.
Jake shuddered as he switched off the TV. He decided to look around the house some more, but his initial wonder had been replaced by persistent unease.
He found his dad sitting at a desk in his bedroom, wearing his glasses. He was stroking his chin, deep in thought. The light from a lamp illuminated the lines of his face. He hadn’t noticed Jake watching him. Jake coughed and his dad jumped.
‘Hey, Jake, you shouldn’t sneak up on your old man like that.’
‘I just came to say goodnight,’ said Jake.
‘Oh, sure. Have a good sleep. Remember we’re going to the stadium tomorrow.’
‘We?’ said Jake. ‘You mean I can come too?’
His dad smiled. ‘Of course you can. You’ll be bored out of your mind here.’
Jake’s heart leapt. ‘Awesome!’ Sure, he wanted to see the stadium and meet the team, but more importantly, he wanted answers. He wouldn’t find them in their plush new home. People had started dying the minute they got mixed up with the Russian billionaire and his new football team. Maybe the stadium was the right place for Jake to find those answers.
7
T he limousine arrived at ten on the dot and Jake was already outside. The driver was the same guy who’d brought them to the house the day before, but today he introduced himself as Stefan. They cruised down the hill to the stadium, under a clear blue sky. Jake had slept like a log and was feeling great. Even
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