Chapter 4
As I was working my way through notes and reports, the phone on my left rang on the small desk I sat at. The sharp brrrrlliinnnggg cutting through the silence like a jagged knife, it startled me to be fair. It was getting on a bit, 21:43 to be exact. The few street lights I could see in the staff car park outside casting long shadows, accusingly I thought, across the cheap blinds of the window. I stared at the phone for a moment, an uneasy kind of stillness creeping in, the kind that wraps itself around you when you know you’ve done something wrong.
And I have done something wrong, haven't I?
I picked up the receiver ‘Scott Brown’ I said.
‘Scott Broon eh’ the voice said, the accent on the Broon instantly telling me it was a fellow Scotsman on the other end. The voice growled, thick with rage that seemed barely controllable. I feared it was the other Scott Brown calling, but whoever it was I got the feeling they didn’t want to catch up.
‘Erm, can I help you?’ I said, not knowing what to expect back
The silence that followed was heavy, and almost suffocating. Then came the laugh, a low gravely and bitter chuckle
‘I think we need to have a word laddie’ the voice said. My heart dropped like a stone in a river. I didn’t recognise the voice but I didn’t need to. It was the real Scott Brown. Or the police ringing me to get me for fraud. Or at the very least it was the voice of a man that knew more than he should, a man that has put the pieces together.
‘Who is this?’ I asked, trying to sound uninterested, but I got the feeling the nervous edge betrayed me.
Another little chuckle, then he said ‘when I was asked by the agent about Broony getting that job, I had my doubts. Why would Broony stop playing for Celtic at 31 and manage that absolute sh*te of a club?’ the voice said, dry as a whisper, smooth as a blade and delivered with the venom of a snake ‘you’re good at pretending Scott, I’ll give ya’ that laddie’
I felt a chill crawl up my spine, the kind that starts at the tailbone and creeps all the way up and doesn’t stop until it’s gnawing on your nerves. I didn't even try to hide the deception, but it wasn’t my fault was it. Andy Montegriffo had assumed I was Scott Brown of Celtic and offered me the job. I’d told him enough times I’m not that Scott Brown, hadn’t I?
’What are you talking about?’ I said down the phone but my voice sounded about as a firm as a chocolate fireguard
‘Don’t play silly boll*cks with me’ the man said, a hint of amusement in his tone now ‘I know all about you, pretending to be someone you’re not just so you could get your foot in the door of this management game and no one would be wise to it. Schoolboy error Scott’
I’d stumbled into this semi borrowed identity, but never thinking there would be risks to it, and I’d convinced myself at some point I’d do well enough to be able to get through it. It seemed so naive now, pathetic even. He was right, schoolboy stuff.
‘What do you want?’I asked flatly, my voice all but drained of any swagger I had when I walked into this job and when I picked up the phone 30 short seconds ago
‘What do I want? Now there’s the question’ the man chuckled, voice low and humorless. ‘Simple Scotty, the truth. You admit to your wrong doing plain as day. And maybe at some point in your miserable little life you’ll earn your way into a managers seat instead of pretending to be something you’re not, and getting the job based off someone else’s achievements’ he paused, not long enough for me to think of anything before he continued ‘you see I know people in this game Scott. I can make it so you never work a day in your life again’
‘Are you threatening me you doss c*nt?’. You can take the boy out of Dundee but you’ll never take the Dundee out the boy.
‘Oh no Scotty lad, no threats, just promises. Maybe I let you crack on in that shi*ty job you’ve landed in, see how you do, who knows you might actually do alright in it’ he said with another half laugh ‘I doubt it though. Let me give you a piece of advice, next time you steal something, make sure the reward is worth it. You could’ve gotten a decent job somewhere, somewhere like the actual Boca Juniors, not a job in the ar*e end of the football league in Gibraltar. Look at me and where I am, maybe one day you’ll have the ability to makes things happen’
‘And who the fu*k are you anyway’
‘Oh I thought you knew? The agent your boss knows, he’s the agent for my star forward Ramazotti. I’m Steve Kean, DPMM manager and currently on route to winning the league in Singapore again. Read the press and you’ll see I’m lined up for big things over here’
I let the anger flow out of me ‘hahah Steve Kean, that bell end that stuffed it at Blackburn and who’s ran to the other side of the fu*king world where no one knows how much of a sh*te you are’
He let the silence drag, just long enough to tell me he was still in charge of this phone call. I swear I could hear him breathing down the phone before he said ‘what happens now Scott, is that I’ll be in touch. Either letting you carry on the charade or putting you out of your misery’
And with that the line went dead. I sat there, holding the phone in the dim light, feeling the cold weight of the situation pressing down on me. The silence had settled in like a thick fog and outside in the small vibrant center of Gibraltar the faint sounds of the country's nightlife felt like a taunt or an insult, I couldn’t decide.
There was no way out now, Steve Kean, Steve fu*king Kean of all people had decided to ring me and get involved, no doubt Celtic or even Scott Brown himself would be next.
==========================
As I was working my way through notes and reports, the phone on my left rang on the small desk I sat at. The sharp brrrrlliinnnggg cutting through the silence like a jagged knife, it startled me to be fair. It was getting on a bit, 21:43 to be exact. The few street lights I could see in the staff car park outside casting long shadows, accusingly I thought, across the cheap blinds of the window. I stared at the phone for a moment, an uneasy kind of stillness creeping in, the kind that wraps itself around you when you know you’ve done something wrong.
And I have done something wrong, haven't I?
I picked up the receiver ‘Scott Brown’ I said.
‘Scott Broon eh’ the voice said, the accent on the Broon instantly telling me it was a fellow Scotsman on the other end. The voice growled, thick with rage that seemed barely controllable. I feared it was the other Scott Brown calling, but whoever it was I got the feeling they didn’t want to catch up.
‘Erm, can I help you?’ I said, not knowing what to expect back
The silence that followed was heavy, and almost suffocating. Then came the laugh, a low gravely and bitter chuckle
‘I think we need to have a word laddie’ the voice said. My heart dropped like a stone in a river. I didn’t recognise the voice but I didn’t need to. It was the real Scott Brown. Or the police ringing me to get me for fraud. Or at the very least it was the voice of a man that knew more than he should, a man that has put the pieces together.
‘Who is this?’ I asked, trying to sound uninterested, but I got the feeling the nervous edge betrayed me.
Another little chuckle, then he said ‘when I was asked by the agent about Broony getting that job, I had my doubts. Why would Broony stop playing for Celtic at 31 and manage that absolute sh*te of a club?’ the voice said, dry as a whisper, smooth as a blade and delivered with the venom of a snake ‘you’re good at pretending Scott, I’ll give ya’ that laddie’
I felt a chill crawl up my spine, the kind that starts at the tailbone and creeps all the way up and doesn’t stop until it’s gnawing on your nerves. I didn't even try to hide the deception, but it wasn’t my fault was it. Andy Montegriffo had assumed I was Scott Brown of Celtic and offered me the job. I’d told him enough times I’m not that Scott Brown, hadn’t I?
’What are you talking about?’ I said down the phone but my voice sounded about as a firm as a chocolate fireguard
‘Don’t play silly boll*cks with me’ the man said, a hint of amusement in his tone now ‘I know all about you, pretending to be someone you’re not just so you could get your foot in the door of this management game and no one would be wise to it. Schoolboy error Scott’
I’d stumbled into this semi borrowed identity, but never thinking there would be risks to it, and I’d convinced myself at some point I’d do well enough to be able to get through it. It seemed so naive now, pathetic even. He was right, schoolboy stuff.
‘What do you want?’I asked flatly, my voice all but drained of any swagger I had when I walked into this job and when I picked up the phone 30 short seconds ago
‘What do I want? Now there’s the question’ the man chuckled, voice low and humorless. ‘Simple Scotty, the truth. You admit to your wrong doing plain as day. And maybe at some point in your miserable little life you’ll earn your way into a managers seat instead of pretending to be something you’re not, and getting the job based off someone else’s achievements’ he paused, not long enough for me to think of anything before he continued ‘you see I know people in this game Scott. I can make it so you never work a day in your life again’
‘Are you threatening me you doss c*nt?’. You can take the boy out of Dundee but you’ll never take the Dundee out the boy.
‘Oh no Scotty lad, no threats, just promises. Maybe I let you crack on in that shi*ty job you’ve landed in, see how you do, who knows you might actually do alright in it’ he said with another half laugh ‘I doubt it though. Let me give you a piece of advice, next time you steal something, make sure the reward is worth it. You could’ve gotten a decent job somewhere, somewhere like the actual Boca Juniors, not a job in the ar*e end of the football league in Gibraltar. Look at me and where I am, maybe one day you’ll have the ability to makes things happen’
‘And who the fu*k are you anyway’
‘Oh I thought you knew? The agent your boss knows, he’s the agent for my star forward Ramazotti. I’m Steve Kean, DPMM manager and currently on route to winning the league in Singapore again. Read the press and you’ll see I’m lined up for big things over here’
I let the anger flow out of me ‘hahah Steve Kean, that bell end that stuffed it at Blackburn and who’s ran to the other side of the fu*king world where no one knows how much of a sh*te you are’
He let the silence drag, just long enough to tell me he was still in charge of this phone call. I swear I could hear him breathing down the phone before he said ‘what happens now Scott, is that I’ll be in touch. Either letting you carry on the charade or putting you out of your misery’
And with that the line went dead. I sat there, holding the phone in the dim light, feeling the cold weight of the situation pressing down on me. The silence had settled in like a thick fog and outside in the small vibrant center of Gibraltar the faint sounds of the country's nightlife felt like a taunt or an insult, I couldn’t decide.
There was no way out now, Steve Kean, Steve fu*king Kean of all people had decided to ring me and get involved, no doubt Celtic or even Scott Brown himself would be next.
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