Your ComeUppance

Prologue

“Carver and his cronies are an insult to the flag. A bunch of toss-pots … err … if you’ll pardon the vernacular, sir.”

The captain waved his hand dismissively. “Apology accepted, Wriggly. And my sentiments exactly.”

The rec room of the Royal Centre for Defence Medicine at Birmingham’s Queen Elizabeth Hospital was austere but functional. A coffee dispenser gargled away next to the entrance. A forty inch Sony TV flickered from the opposite corner of the room. The facility’s threadbare furniture and drab, time-marked magnolia walls mattered little to those who had roughed it in the fighting fields of Afghanistan.

“This’ll make you think, sir,” said Wriggly, dragging his eyes away from the box. “I was talking to that Nurse Suzie. She works a fifty hour week for which she gets paid a measly 24 grand a year including overtime. Made me think did that, and I worked out the maths. Do you realise that little ponce Carver – excuse me again, sir – but that little piece of shit takes home in one day what Suzie earns in an entire year? And if that isn’t bad enough,” added Wriggly, jabbing his finger on the worn arm of the sofa, “the bloke earns enough in one year to pay the annual salaries of every single doctor and nurse in this hospital. Can you believe that, sir? Honestly?”

The captain studied the gaunt, thin face of the young man sitting to his right, his plaster encased leg balanced on a wooden stool. “Nobody ever said life was fair,” he said.

The two men were alone in the TV lounge. The other spectators had variously stumbled or wheeled themselves out of the room in disgust. The 2-0 defeat at the hands of Andorra – a crunch match which might prove decisive to England’s bid to qualify for the finals of the Euro Cup – was more than they could take. Some of those men had quite literally spilled their guts fighting for their country. The lack of commitment from their national football team had been sickening. Insulting, even. Made them wonder whether it was all worth it.

Even Taffy Brydon from the Welsh Guards had to sympathise with his English colleagues. “If I were English, God forbid, I’d be properly embarrassed too!”

In truth, the result was not entirely unexpected. With only two days to go before the confrontation, centre forward Payne Carver, together with fellow lackeys Frank Beaney and Terry Gibb, had led a team revolt in support of a substantial increase in match bonus fees. Not a win bonus; a match bonus. The recently introduced win fee of fifty grand was simply not enough. The demand for £100,000 per man for a win and £50,000 for a defeat was non-negotiable. In the words of ring-leader Carver, “The FA can either accept our proposals or they can go fook themselves and find another squad.”

The press, the whole country for that matter, were appalled. Until recently, appearance fees for international matches had been regarded as more of a goodwill gesture than a profit-making wheeze. Traditionally the players would donate such fees to charitable organisations. How attitudes had changed in such a short period of time. The unanimous call for the entire squad to be sacked in favour of keener, more patriotic players was tempered by the necessity to win such a vital game. The best chance, albeit unpalatable, was to accede to the demands of the first choice selection. It was a course the FA reluctantly chose to steer.

To no avail as it transpired.

It was not just the loss of the match, however, which infuriated everyone. It was the lack of grace. The bad blood. Proof positive that the foul-mouthed, loutish behaviour of Britain’s chav sub-class had thrust itself into the limelight of the world footballing arena, dragging with it the reputation of Britain and every right-thinking person associated with it to a new, cringe-worthy low. Included in the list of grievously affronted, in Wriggly’s opinion, were the tens of thousands of soldiers who had ever fought in the employ of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.

“It’s a crazy, mixed up world,” continued the young private. “The staff in this hospital are highly skilled and dedicated to their work. It takes years of learning to save lives and to get people like us back on our feet. And what do Carver and his cronies do? Kick a football and behave like complete tossers. It’s obscene, sir.”

It was not the first time that the man known by all as Wriggly had indulged in such a conversation with the captain. The two men had arrived at the hospital within days of each other. Now into their third week of convalescence, they had frequently met in the TV room and exchanged pleasantries and chit-chat. With every discussion the private had become more confident in conversing with the older superior officer, although he was always mindful of the need to respect rank and was careful not to cross the thin line of familiarity. For a moment, as he sat pondering the inequalities of life, he thought he might have overstepped the mark, gone too far. He shuffled uncomfortably in his battered seat.

“Sorry, sir. The injustice of it all makes me so angry.”

“You don’t have to apologise, Wriggly. In fact, I agree with you. Sadly, though, I don’t see things changing much in my lifetime. Perhaps one day society will wake up and smell the coffee. We can only hope that day comes sooner rather than later.”

“Come the revolution, eh, sir?” The private grinned and shook his head.

“Indeed, Wriggly. Come the revolution.”

“When I get out of here,” continued Wriggly as he massaged his thigh, “I’m going to do something about Carver and his like. Dunno what it’ll be, but I’ll play to my strengths.”

“Those being?”

“Much the same as yours actually, sir. Computers and killing the Taliban.” Wriggly smiled. “Can’t think the latter will come in too handy in Civvy Street, so I guess I’ll be hacking the bastards’ bank accounts and redistributing their ill-gotten millions to charity. Yeah, I could quite fancy myself as a modern day Robin Hood.”

“Sounds honourable enough to me … and talk of the devil.” The captain nodded towards the TV set. “Here’s your friend now.”

“Thank you for joining us,” announced the BBC pitch-side commentator as he manoeuvred the chunky, shaven-headed England forward into optimal camera position. “I suppose the question on everyone’s lips is why you made England’s task that much more difficult by swearing at the ref and having yourself sent off in the first quarter of play?”

Payne Carver glared at the BBC man before shrugging his shoulders and answering in his thick, incongruently high-pitched, trademark, Lancastrian whine. “Look, sunshine, I woz brought down in the box and the blind git of a ref didn’t blow. We woz robbed!”

“But the replay clearly shows Linares never touched you,” said the commentator. “In fact, you appear to have tripped over your own two feet.”

Carver took a sip of water and tossed the plastic bottle to the ground.

“Don’t you think you owe the England fans an apology?” pressed the BBC man.

“Apology?”

Carver looked genuinely surprised by the question, but then his usual belligerence quickly kicked in. He studied his inquisitor as though he were a piece of shit acquired on the sole of his new Berluti shoes. “Apologise for wha’? Eh? It’s a bloody war out there, and all’s fair in love and war. It’s not just about kickin’ a ball, you know. There’s tactics, see. And one of those tactics is to take every advantage you can in the oppo’s box.”

“Including falling over?”

“Yeah! Wha’ever!”

“But that’s quite an extraordinary admission coming, as it does, from an England player. Surely sportsmanship and integrity must enter into the equation somewhere?”

Carver threw his head back and laughed. “Give me a break will ya. Everyone’s at it. That’s fookin’ football and if you think …”

“I’m dreadfully sorry, sir.” Wriggly jabbed the mute button, tossed the remote control on the couch and adjusted his leg on the stool. “I can’t take any more of that bullshit.”

“That’s okay. I understand.”

“No, sir. I’m not sure if you do.”

“Try me.”

“Well, sir, it’s what Carver said about football being like war.” Wriggly snorted air from his nose. “If only the twat knew.”

The captain said nothing. Part of his officer training was learning to listen to, and empathise with subordinates.

“There were fifteen of us, sir. Out of Camp Bastion and performing patrol duties in the nearby key location of Lashkar Gar. The Taliban got lucky and somehow managed to section us off from the other units. Things didn’t look too rosy as bullets started flying everywhere. In that moment of confusion we ran for whatever cover we could find. God knows the rag-heads were never renowned for their marksmanship, so it was just rotten luck that one of the bastards found my leg and shattered the knee.

“I was down, and as far as I was concerned, dead meat. I prayed the next bullet would put me out of my misery quickly. Better that than be taken alive by the rag-heads. Next thing I know someone’s got me by the collar and is dragging me along the ground. For one dreadful moment I thought I was in enemy hands. Then I heard the shouts from my colleagues. Come on! Give ‘em cover!

“Anyway, I find myself dragged behind a wall, and as I focus on my rescuer I recognise the beaming face of Lieutenant Peter Harper.”

...