“Three months ago.”
“You’re the picture of bloody health compared to the rest of us. We’ll watch you do the running.”
Some of the opposition emerged, Caprisi among them. The American was tying the knot on his shorts as he approached. “Ready for this, Field?” he asked quietly.
“I suppose so.” He hesitated. “The prints are in. They came up to me for some reason. They’re in my tray. No obvious match from the bedroom, Ellis says, and he’s still working through the living room, but at least we have them if we can find a suspect.”
Caprisi didn’t answer. He was looking at the referee, who had just ambled out of the tunnel. Field watched, too, as the man put his whistle slowly to his lips and blew loudly.
“The search begins,” Caprisi said.
“The search?”
“The search for knives.” Caprisi’s expression was a mixture of weary cynicism and amusement. “An Italian team got razors onto the pitch a couple of years ago, so now everyone gets frisked.”
Field’s captain was Eccles, the fly half, an Irish inspector from the Hongkew district with a fearsome reputation for drink and a nose to prove it. He exhorted them to “show the fuckers who’s in charge of this force.” His breath reeked of whiskey.
There was no discussion of tactics. Everyone automatically assumed his position as the whistle went and the ball was kicked high into the air in Field’s direction. He called “mine” loudly, caught it, and looked up to see the oncoming wall. He dodged an enormous lock forward and ran back toward the center of the pitch, only to see Caprisi sprinting toward him, his ears pinned back and his mouth open, like a predator closing in for the kill.
Field attempted to prevent the tackle, but Caprisi caught him around the middle and he lost his balance, hitting the earth hard. Both sides piled on top of them.
Field tried to free the ball but couldn’t. Caprisi tugged at it with one hand and pushed hard into his face with the other. Field was kicked in the leg, the knee, the groin, the stomach, and then the head. Someone grabbed his hair, someone else had an arm around his neck.
He waited for the whistle, but it didn’t come, and the ball was wrenched from his grasp. The figures on top stood and ran off one by one, leaving him facedown in the dirt in more pain than he could remember.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and was hauled to his feet. He turned to see Caprisi.
The American smiled and patted him on the back.
Two hours later Field was sitting in a chair in the corner of a tavern, clutching a full tankard of beer and feeling dizzy from exhaustion and alcohol.
Patrick Granger was standing on a table in another corner of the room, reciting, in full, Yeats’s “Easter 1916.” His melodic voice was resonant with emotion, as the last of the evening sun filtered through the frosted glass window, touching the side of his face.
“Now and in time to be,” he said, his eyes scouring the room, “Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.”
He raised his tankard. “To the martyrs!” He drained the contents and then burped loudly. “And to
As Granger stepped down from the table, the team captain broke into another rendition of a rebel song. It was quickly taken up by those around him.
“Drink up, Field,” Granger shouted as he stumbled toward him. He placed a protective arm around Field’s shoulder and waited for him to finish his tankard. “You may be English,” he said, slumping down on the seat beside him, “but you know, I forgive you.”
“You were there in 1916, weren’t you?”
“I was indeed. Michael and I were not important enough, thank the good Lord . . . a short spell in North Wales . . .” Granger was looking at him. Field could see how drunk he was. “But that’s enough about me.” He grabbed Field in a rough embrace. “Glad you’re one of us, Dickie. You should be one of us. You are one of us, aren’t you?” Granger was looking at him oddly.
“Of course,” Field said.
“Right! Fine player. Waiter!” Granger stood, holding up his tankard in the direction of the bar. He crossed back to the other side of the room and joined in the singing.
Field pushed his own tankard away and reached for his cigarettes. He looked up to see Caprisi smiling at him.
The American was leaning against the wood paneling on the far side of the room, on the periphery of the gathering, a long glass in his hand. When the singing died back down, he came over and took one of Field’s cigarettes.
“Well played,” Field said.
The American shrugged.
“You’re not drunk, I see. I thought it was mandatory.”
Caprisi didn’t answer.
“How come you’re here, anyway?”
“I’m a Catholic. It’s allowed.”
“Let me get you a drink.”
“No thanks.”
Field stood. “Come on, you can’t drink water all night.”
