13 - Property Magnet [T1] (Patreon)

13.

Saturday, September 16

Tadcaster Albion versus Chester City in the FA Cup

Three-nil up. Tadcaster were a good bunch of lads, friendly, doing their best, so we went about our business in a good way, passing the ball around, getting a few goals in the bag, then taking it easy. I hadn't told my lot to ease up. I worried the curse was somehow limiting our maximum score - we'd recently had that match where we'd scored four goals then stopped putting the work in.

"Why have they stopped?" I asked Jackie.

He grinned. "They're waiting for you, la. It's all about you, now. Your return. Your triumphant return!"

"You're right," I said, and ripped off my hoodie, revealing a glowing blue-and-white BEST 77 kit. Unusually, mine didn't carry the name of the sponsor. Instead it said, 'I'M BACK' which was funny because it was on the front.

I stepped forward near the touchline, but when the referee saw me, he blew the whistle. Like everyone else in the stadium, he knew what today was all about. No need to wait for the ball to go out of play naturally - let's bring on the star.

My players and the Tadpole guys sprinted to the side of the pitch, forming a yellow and blue guard of honour. Everyone in the stadium stood and applauded. I shook Henri's hand - he was weeping so much he kept having to relight his cigarette. I shook the ref's hand - his assistants had posters of me they wanted me to sign. "Later," I said, amused by their impatience. "We've got a match to play!"

It had taken months - rehab, a sun-drenched holiday, a lot of humiliating grinding - but now I was back. I was like a tadpole turning into a... I want to say frog? My glance swept across the pitch. Tadpole Albino were pretty rubbish, but there was no point humiliating them. I changed us to a conservative 2-3-5 formation, with me on the right wing.

As I went to my station, every fan in the stadium rushed from where they were sitting or standing and began following me up and down the space between the half-way line and the corner flag. There was only one show in this town. "Max!" screamed a leggy redhead. I waved at her; she fainted.

Magnus fizzed a pass to me. The Tadpole left back ran at me, but he was so, so slow, and I was so, so Max. I let my body twist so that my right foot would hit the ball while my left leg was already halfway through a line sprint. The ball touched my foot, obeyed, span seven feet high, came right back down to earth on the other side of the defender. He was tracking the ball, saying 'huh?' in slow motion.

But I was away!

I dashed fifteen yards in the blink of an eye. But who to pass to? I checked my mini-map. It showed me the location of every player on the pitch. Henri was there, on the shoulder of the left centre back. But as I cocked my right foot, he peeled away, between the two cavemen. Yes, mate!

I hit a sensational, eleven out of ten cross. Henri leapt, took the ball facing away from goal, on his chest. It bounced up, Henri landed, filled his leg with elemental energy, and trampolined himself back up. He acrobatically played the ball over his head - it sailed over the goalie and nestled into the back of the net.

We celebrated by forming up in a four by ten grid, including the Tadpoles, and line danced to Cotton Eye Joe.

"Max," said the referee, in a panic. "The scoreboard is broken." We turned and looked at the ancient, hand-cranked scoreboard that had suddenly appeared over the goal. "If we can't update the score, the goal doesn't count."

Jackie ran around, head in hands. "There are no ladders! There are no ladders!"

"I got this," I said. A button floated down my vision, and settled. It said: WINGS.

I clicked it, and my famous white, feathery wings emerged.

"Yes!" said Youngster, punching the air.

I smiled, flew up, turned the three to a four, then circled the stadium. But instead of landing, I kept going. Where did I want to go? Should go home. Where was that, again?

A flash of hair caught my attention. Smirking, I flew back to the stadium, picked up the redhead, then carried her, not home, but away.

***

Eeee! Eeee! Eeee!

I leapt out of the bed, enraged. I found the lamp switch, but mashed it so violently the whole thing toppled and shone sideways. Good enough to find my weapon. I picked up the old-fashioned broom that was leaning against the wall and whacked it into the ceiling again and again.

"Fuck you!" I cried. "Get fucking fucked, you fucking twat!"

The screaming paused, and for a time there was dead silence, save for the hundred-decibel pounding of my heart. There was something in the attic, or in the floor above my bed, and several times a night it would make incredibly loud, incredibly close screaming noises. Murdering a mouse, perhaps. Or its version of sexy time. It was at least a hundred and ten decibels, and somehow was always timed for when I was in the deepest phase of my sleep cycle.

Maybe this, time, I'd finally convinced it to -

Eeee! Eeee! Eeee!

I smashed the broom into the ceiling and the exposed wooden beams, screaming, "I am the apex predator! I am the apex predator!"

This went on for a while until the thing stopped of its own accord. Mouse eaten, wife porked.

I fell back onto the bed, lightly sweating, heart rate returning to normal.

What the fuck was it? I'd complained to Ruth, but she was away flying planes. I'd complained to the Brig and he checked the area and said there was no immediate threat to my person. I accused him of mocking me, an accusation he denied.

I took my phone and used its screen glow to creep downstairs. I killed the light and peered out of the windows but it was pitch black in all directions. I needed some garden lights so I could see what was out there.

What could it be? Some kind of fox? Did foxes move into abandoned dwellings? I would if I was a fox. One difference between me and this guy was that I wouldn’t scream at the kind-hearted human who had moved in and was trying to enjoy a rare football dream.

Still fuming, I went to the stairs and sat there while I fired off some angry texts.

To Ruth: We need to talk about the coven of foxes that have an altar one metre above my head. They do nightly summoning rituals powered by the bodies of freshly-killed rats. The weight of a hundred years of corpses in the cavity will soon come tumbling through the plaster, burying me in bones and viscera. Perhaps you have a less satanic house I could live in. You know where doesn't have NIGHTLY MURDERS just above my head? DARLINGTON.

To the Brig: Please source me some night vision goggles and enough infrared cameras to cover this house and its surrounds from all angles. Maybe a claymore mine or two. Spare no expense. Ruth said she'd take care of it.

I exhaled and turned the big light on. No more sleep tonight, I didn't think. I put the kettle on and got my new toy - a second-hand iPad Pro I'd got for a hundred quid. It was very much yesterday's model, but it had a bit of life in it, still. I enjoyed reading about myself on the big screen. I switched tabs to the match report from the Tadcaster Albion game, and poured hot water onto a ginger and lemon tea bag.

Magic of the Cup! Sensation as Max Best Makes Chester Debut!

by Gary Beswick

Chester FC's FA Cup Qualifying match against Tadcaster Albion should have been a non-event, and indeed, for seventy minutes it was. Goals from Dorigo, Hetherington, and May eased the Seals into a three-nil half-time lead, and from that moment the only area of intrigue was if Max Best would bring himself onto the pitch - a mere four and a half months since the attack that left him paralysed in intensive care.

The team sheets were passed around the Ings Lane media room with a palpable sense of disbelief. Best had named himself as a substitute. Mistake or prank? Insiders knew Best had been training with the under fourteens. The news spread; two hundred were tuned to the match on Seals Live. By the start of the second half, the audience numbered two thousand. The property magnate who owns Tadcaster Albion can only dream of attracting such numbers.

There was no sign of Best warming up, and the excitement began to fade. All at once, the assistant referee was holding aloft the number 77 and Best exchanged a simple high ten with Donny Dorigo and walked to the right midfield slot.

Best was called into action immediately, as a pass was sent forward by Magnus Evergreen. Tadcaster's number 3 didn't know whether to press or stand off, so he did nothing. That proved a wise choice. Best tried to flick the ball in some overly ambitious way, resulting in him falling, stumbling like a drunk, and knocking the ball from his knee onto his other knee - putting the ball out for a throw-in. Best thought this was hilarious, and so did his teammates. One wondered if Dorigo would be extended such latitude.

Best's next involvement was to play a simple five-yard pass to Raffi Brown - to celebrate his achievement, Best knelt and motioned like he was trying to start a pull cord lawnmower - a gesture last seen from the winner of the US Open.

His next two touches involved him immediately losing the ball to the left-back, followed by a mis-control that led to another throw-in, and a contested sprint that Best lost comfortably.

This reporter took no comfort from the abject performance, and with extreme reluctance began to pen a savage hit piece that was in no way recompense for Best's withering belligerence in post-match interviews. Three incidents happened in the last ten minutes that resulted in the hasty deletion of 500 words of scathing, hilarious, cathartic retribution.

First, as Pascal Bochum cut inside from the left-midfield position, Best sprinted square across the pitch offering himself for a pass. Bochum fired the ball into Best's path. The burst of acceleration that followed brought hundreds of spectators to their feet, but Best ran over the ball, bringing the entire right-hand side of the defence with him. The pass went straight to Hetherington, who touched it first-time to Lyons, who fired wide.

Next, Best embarked upon a grand tour of the pitch, wandering around, playing one-touch passes with his defenders, creating triangles, moving all the way to the left of the pitch where he stayed for some five minutes, leaving the right-midfield spot vacant. Best waved his team back, towards his own goal, infuriating the away fans.

The stratagem encouraged Tadcaster forward, and the left back, with nothing to do, ran forward to add pressure to a rare attack. When Chester's goalkeeper, Robson, caught the ball, he boomed a long punt towards the right of the pitch where Best had appeared, as if by magic. Best chased after the punt with no opponent within thirty yards. Chester's Director of Football appeared to be laughing.

But his glee turned sour as he was flagged for offside. Best, who famously never criticises referees, sprinted back to where he had been standing when the kick was sent his way - comfortably in his own half, from which spot he could not be offside. He spent a full minute receiving passes from the same spot, every time spinning to check whether the assistant referee's flag had been raised, feigning surprise when the decision was made correctly.

But the final moment was perhaps the epitome of the Max Best experience - puerile, imaginative, and effective.

Chester were awarded a free kick in a dangerous position a few yards outside the penalty area - perfect for a right-footed free kick specialist. As soon as it was given, the hundred or so Chester fans standing behind the goal rearranged themselves to be in line with the path of the ball, all the better to witness a piece of sporting history.

Dubhlainn, another second-half sub, came over to ask if he could take the free kick with his left foot. Best openly mocked the Irishman, who tried to walk away with his tail between his legs. Best forced him to stay and watch, finger pointing down like a pompous headmaster.

What Dubhlainn saw went something like this:

Best got down on his hands and knees, smoothed out the grass, and searched the ball for its nozzle, which he placed just so. He clambered to his feet, sucked in a couple of restorative breaths, and lined up his shot, all sidesteps and hand chops and deep, performative breaths.

This endless, farcical process culminated with Best 'sat' in a Johnny Wilkinson rugby kicker squat. Best wiggled his behind, took one step toward the ball, swung his right foot at it, missed completely, and crashed onto his back with his leg pointing straight up. In the quarter-second of confusion that followed, Dubhlainn caressed the ball over the motionless defensive wall, past the dumbfounded goalkeeper, and into the net for Chester's fourth goal.

Cue pandemonium - on the pitch, in the stands, and even in the press box.

Chester's name will be in the draw for the next round, and Max Best now cannot play for another team in the FA Cup this season.

The Chester fandom has recently been up in arms following comments Best made that hinted he may not stay in his post for long. Spreading consternation seems to be his stock-in-trade, whether the victim is a ninth-tier football team, a hard-working sports reporter, or his club's own fans. But while his physical recovery has some way to go, Best's talent for mischief and entertainment remains gloriously undimmed.

This reporter has decided to enjoy the ride, however long it lasts.

***

I smiled. Gary had blown off some of his cobwebs and put a bit of effort in. He was pretty pompous, though. I knew for a fact that this crowded press box he kept hinting at was him, Boggy from Seals Live, and a guy from Tadcaster.

Yeah, safely through to the next round and I'd made my Chester debut. Until the fox had shaved a year off my life by screaming bloody murder at me, it had been a pretty perfect day. Only 2 XP per minute when managing, and half that when playing. But a good twenty-minute runaround, and lots for people to talk about.

XP Balance: 1,639

Debt repaid: 2,078/3000

I'd probably fall just short of getting to 2,000 in the women's match tomorrow, but I'd be able to buy the Morale perk soon enough. I was also pretty sure I would use one of my discount codes to buy the Injuries perk. A ten percent discount would bring the cost down to 2,700 XP. Sure, I could save more XP if I waited to buy something more expensive, but getting my teams to higher leagues would generate more XP per week, and Injuries would surely boost my chances of getting promoted.

Seeing Tadcaster had got my head spinning. They averaged CA 9. My first thought was that I'd never get a better chance to get some game time against opposition who were probably around my level. As it turned out, I'd slightly overestimated my Current Ability. I skimmed Gary's match report again. Maybe I was closer to CA 1 than I thought! But if my players got big boosts from returning to competitive action, why shouldn't I? And the women's team had got a big boost from playing in the cup, so why shouldn't I?

My second thought was - huh. Tadcaster were playing in the ninth tier and had players ranging from CA 5 to 20.

When I was scouting five-a-sides, Sunday Leagues, youth tournaments, or used Playdar, I found loads of players in the CA 20-40 range. Players I generally wouldn't bother bringing to Chester. But what if I had a relationship with a club like Tadcaster? I could send them all the players I scouted from that level. They'd smash their league! They'd smash tier eight, too. But why bother? It wouldn't get me anything.

I checked what other tabs I had open.

One was a link to a story about a bunch of British YouTubers who had played a match at the London Stadium. The match sold out, and was streamed live, and since the top divisions were on a break, it was the most watched football match of the entire week. 60,000 spectators, tens of millions watching online, two million quid for charity, absolutely no players I'd ever heard of. Absolutely bonkers, but good luck to them. I swiped the tab away, never to think about it again.

A few tabs were about a former Tranmere player, Danny Prince, a dashing young left back. His contract had run out in the summer and he'd been snapped up by tier 2 Blackburn Rovers. For older players, that would have been the end of the story, but because Prince was under 24 years old, an independent tribunal would decide on a fair price for Blackburn to pay. (The tribunal system was intended to reward clubs for developing young players, and to stop their prized assets being poached for free.) Mateo had heard on the grapevine that the amount was likely to be much lower than Danny Prince was really worth, and he'd asked what I thought about it.

My thoughts were many and varied, but after the previous fox encounters I had been up all night watching clips and poring over all sorts of data. The main thing that would tell me about Danny Prince's true value was his PA, and to get that I'd have to get into Blackburn's training ground. Which they probably wouldn't be too happy about, at least, not before the tribunal had made its decision.

One YouTube video showed a row of houses that backed onto Blackburn's training pitches - all I needed to do was sweet talk some old biddy, go into her back garden, and I'd be able to see the profiles of all or most of the Blackburn players. Unless Danny Prince was injured, I'd see him, and no-one at Blackburn need ever know.

The Brig was usually up for anything slightly illicit, so we'd gone together on Wednesday morning, and I discovered that the Brig hadn't been joking when he said he was a housewives' favourite. A woman who described herself as a 'football widow' had been more than happy to let us into her garden when we'd explained we were from an insurance company and we thought one player was lying about an injury he'd picked up and we wanted to see if he was training or not.

Long story short, Prince was a hot prospect, PA 162, and if the rumoured tribunal fee was correct then Tranmere were getting dicked. I asked Mateo to bring me to the tribunal - maybe I could help out, but mostly I wanted to see how the process worked. Better now than when it involved one of my players!

Another iPad tab had the Northern Echo's match report for Darlington's FA Cup win. Bingo was positive about the performance and the result, but when I looked at the line up, I saw a lot of rotation. Players like Chumpy and Tim got a game, which either meant Folke Wester trusted them to get the job done, or he didn't care about the cup. My suspicion was the latter.

The next tab had the advert I'd posted to the jobsinfootball website. I read the text again, laughed, and decided I was in a good enough mood to get some sleep after all.

I lay down, turned the light off, and two seconds later, the ritual recommenced.

***

Sunday, September 17

Three unhappy people stood outside the so-called house that had brought so much so-called joy to Ruth and her family.

To her credit, Ruth had left her week of flying her stupid little planes to drive all the way back up north to deal with me and my latest tantrum. It might have been her being a good landlord, or it might have been the threat to quit Chester and blame it on her if she didn't do something.

I explained what was going on with calm words followed by a banshee wail as an attempt to imitate the sound.

"It's actually worse than a murder," I said. "I know what murders sound like. Murders are quiet. This... this is beyond anything you can imagine. Let's swap houses and see how it feels when someone tells you to ignore it."

She inhaled. "Max, I'm sorry."

That threw me. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I should have taken you more seriously, but... it's hard to tell when you're being a drama baby for attention. No-one's slept in there for years. The workers have been in, but no-one at night."

Just the fact that someone was listening calmed me. A lot. "What do you think it is? A fox?"

"A fox would love it, but it would have to be a pretty big hole. You didn't see one, did you John?"

"No, miss. But it's possible there is one."

"It's more likely to be birds. Bats. Rats, maybe. Relax. I don't think it's rats. More likely mice."

"Squirrels?" said the Brig.

Ruth nodded. She took her house keys and unhooked one. "Max. Stay in my guest room tonight. In the main house." She sighed. "We'll, er... deal with the squirrels."

"Yeah. Murder the bastards," I said, remembering how they had wronged me.

"Well," said Ruth.

"Whoa, now hold on. I was joking. I don't want you to murder a squirrel. Just block up the hole so he can't get in."

"Right," said Ruth, and she flashed a look at the Brig.

"What?" I said.

"Er... it's just... if there are any young in there. A family."

"We'd be trapping them in," I said. "Well, then, that's obviously not an option. What the fuck?" I kicked a stone.

"We'll find out what it is, then we'll decide what to do. But if it's a family of squirrels or the like, we'll have to wait for the spring. They'll go into the woods and return in the autumn. By which time we'll have found the hole and stuffed the cavities with insulation."

I nearly laughed. Spring was a long time away. The satanic squirrels were evicting me. "I'll find somewhere else."

"Safe houses don't grow on trees, sir. Especially not rent-free ones." Even with not paying rent for months, my bank balance was a mere six thousand pounds. Enough to splash out on a second-hand iPad. Not enough to live somewhere safe from Welly and his ilk. "Certainly not ones where you are free to show your face in the local stores."

I'd started to have more unpleasant encounters when in supermarkets. Idiots hassling me, asking for selfies, begging me not to leave the club. Some enthusiastically annoying, some borderline Wellies. The customers in the shop where Ruth lived didn't know who I was, and if they did, were tactful enough to leave me alone. If I wanted to live centrally, I'd have to stick to online shopping. Forever.

I paced around, ready to tear my hair out. "Why am I such a magnet for this crazy shit?"

"If I may, sir? My understanding with magnets is that opposites attract. If my surmise is correct, you attract 'crazy shit' because you are solid, stable, and most definitely uncrazy."

Ruth laughed, but put her hand on my arm. "We'll work this out. I promise. And really, I'm sorry."

I sagged, sort of defeated. Being mad at Ruth was stupid. "You didn't do anything."

"I know. But I'm sorry anyway." She rubbed my arm. "We're a team. Together we can achieve anything. Team," she repeated.

I smiled. "What the fuck is happening?"

She checked her watch. "Emma told me that always worked on you. Right, I'm off. Not spending the whole day ground pounding when there's clear skies and great visibility. Help yourself to what's in the fridge."

***

The Brig was supposed to have the morning off, so I let him dump me at the sports hub early so he could fuck off to do whatever people like him get up to. It wasn't the worst thing, because I got to watch three teams before my part of the day's entertainment started, which meant I’d be able to afford Morale by the end of the day.

First, the Knights had a friendly. I hid until the end because the players had a habit of rushing off the pitch to hug me mid-match. I needn't have bothered - half the team were players I'd never seen before. Terry told me some had aged out of the programme, some had moved up, some had been let go to create space for a new intake. He assured me it was good and normal and I didn't need to fret, but it sounded pretty brutal and ruthless. It was what I would have done with the men's team, and it was interesting to see what that kind of churn looked like. The rate of change was discombobulating.

Then it was the under twelves playing seven a side with no slide tackles and no headers. Very sensible rules! I was stunned to realise how good those kids were - the starting seven had an average PA of 63, while the backup goalie had PA 130. Absolutely mint! And many, many magnitudes better than their opponents. Spectrum was busy managing them, so I sent him a quick email saying we needed to challenge this group with top-level opponents.

Stephen Watson stole the show, as he normally did. He was the kid I'd found when taking Jackie to the knee specialist. His dad, a worrier by nature, came up to me after and said it was the first time he realised I'd followed through on my promise to surround his kid with talented peers.

"And," he added, "when you said Stephen would get personal attention from the Director of Football, I didn't think you'd actually train with them!"

I smiled. "That wasn't really the plan. But I enjoyed it. I learned a turn from him!"

"You did?"

"Yeah. The one where the ball's coming at him, he's got the defender tight, and he lets it come right to him and flicks it round. It's absolutely gorgeous. I can't do it as well as Stephen, but I'm working on it."

"You played in the cup!"

"I played in the cup."

"So... are you staying?" He licked his lips.

I put my arm around his shoulder and we watched as his child played passes to little Simon Black. Simon's passes were a little ragged, but the ones Stephen hit always went to Simon's shoelaces, as though pulled in by a magnet. "If Everton offer me the manager's job, and I'm stupid enough to take it, the first thing I'm going to do is call you and get Stephen decked out in royal blue. Actually, the first thing I'd do would be to buy a house where the walls didn't slope and there weren't loads of buttons that didn't do anything and that didn't have an infestation. And then I'd call you."

"I saw you're trying to get Jackie Reaper back. Is that to replace you?"

"No. He can't play right wing."

"What happened between you two?"

"Between us?" I wondered what rumours had been going around. Probably all kinds of improbable and impossible theories. "Honestly, nothing. If I hadn't... you know... he would have had a break at the end of last season. Let me do the rest of the matches while he rested his knee. He'd have had a lovely summer, Tenerife, maybe, while I scouted and got things ready. He'd have come back refreshed and I'd have gone on a break. It's fucking exhausting doing this all the time."

"I can imagine."

"I'd like him back tomorrow - that'd be great for everyone. But if he needs another couple of months, fine! Good for him. If I could have December off, that'd be incredible. But it's all good. Stephen's in good hands, I promise you that."

"Oh, I know. But I really liked Jackie."

"He'll be back. But if he goes somewhere else, that's good news for you."

"Is it?"

"That'd be two clubs where you know without a shadow of a doubt that your son would get looked after."

That struck a nerve. He visibly relaxed. "Thanks, Max."

***

The last match featured the under eighteens, and was a bit disappointing. We struggled against a team of randos.

The only player who had PA higher than 40 was Vivek. His CA wasn't increasing very fast, presumably because his teammates weren't much good and we didn't arrange tough games for them to play because they would only get mullered.

After their matches, the twelves and eighteens got sandwiches and drinks and whatnot. The idea was to keep them in the area for when all the coaches arrived, so we'd have a stock of players available to do whatever drills came up in the coaching event I had advertised.

***

Learn from THE BEST!

Are you a coach based in Cheshire?

Then you're cordially invited to the King George V Sports Hub on Sunday, September 17 before the first ever league fixture of the Chester FC Women's team. There, Director of Football, Manager, and mystery winger Max Best will put on a demonstration of his coaching methods and tactical acumen to amaze and delight all comers. You will SWOON as he demonstrates his famous 'Art of Slapping' drill. You will GASP as he recreates the motivational speeches that secured vital wins for Chester. You will SCRATCH YOUR HEAD PUZZLED BUT IN A GOOD WAY as he shows how the strategic thinking of Sun Tzu can be applied to a Tuesday evening away tie against, I dunno, Exeter City.

In-game management! Long-term planning! No topic is off-limits! Except Brexit lol.

Bring a pencil, trainers, and a smile. (Smile optional.)

There will be food! And drink! Plus free entry to watch Chester Women versus Wythenshawe Women.

BONUS! Chester FC will subsidise the continuing development of one lucky coach! Got a C license? We'll pay for you to do the B.

Chester FC - Committed to Coaches.

...

The idea was to get a bunch of local coaches into one spot. It was something of a switcheroo - I wouldn't be doing much coaching myself, but scamming anyone who came into coaching our players so I could scout them. After all, if they coached real players for a real club on a matchday, why wouldn't the curse show me their profiles?

MD found the whole thing cringeworthy, but also community-minded, so he was happy to give me a few hundred quid in budget, and he helped with the organising. Of course, me fluttering my eyelashes at Darlington had unnerved him, so he was curt and distant around me. Which was one part understandable to five parts annoying - every time I did something mad, ticket sales noticeably spiked. Fourth in the league, the talk of the town. What more did he want?

About twenty people turned up, which was way better than I would have thought. Eight weren't coaches, but randos who wanted to meet me and be part of the event and get free grub. I quickly filtered them out, but let them hang out in the area as long as they didn't take the piss on the sandwiches. The remaining twelve were a mixed bag, ranging from the tissue-thin transparent bags you put apples in if you could rub them open, to worn and faded hemp carriers beloved of tofu-eating liberals.

As an example of my method, I had some cones set out for a passing drill and got some of the kids lined up and explained it to them. Then I pretended to get a phone call 'from Bob Geldof' and handed the nearest coach a whistle and asked if they'd get it started. Yep - it was that simple to trick the curse, and it was child's play to make sure every coach got a few seconds of involvement. My favourite was pausing a drill, asking if anyone had any ideas for an upgrade, pretending not to understand the feedback and saying 'show me'.

So I had a lot of fun being a honeybee zooming from flower to flower, and I actually found a couple of decent coaches. One with Coaching Outfield Players 11, and one with 10. I got Jude to take their details so we could let them take half a session here and there for minimum wage. They were beyond ecstatic to be given the chance to get involved with Chester - it was a huge step up from their current levels. And it would help us out, too, by taking the pressure off the existing coaches. At first, the newbies would act like teacher's assistants, putting out cones and helping to give feedback and monitor groups. Later, they'd get the chance to run some drills of their own.

All in all, it was a very fractional gain for the club, that we'd paid for with a fuckton of online mockery aimed at me. Probably not quite worth it, on balance, but you never knew till you tried.

I said as much to MD, who said that a few coaches had called to ask if we'd be running the event again because they worked on Sunday and could we do it again on Saturday?

"Did we get their details?"

"We did."

"Do any of them have any experience dealing with invasive species and or satanic rituals?"

MD sighed and looked towards somewhere he'd rather be. "I don't know."

"Okay. Let's get them here next Saturday, nine in the morning. I'll do this again, then head down to Lincolnshire. Let me know if you want some sausages."

He mumbled something about being fine for sausages, so I asked if he'd let me know when the FA Cup draw was made. He cheered up a tiny fraction, asking who I wanted to play in the next round.

"Anyone except Darlington," I said, smiling. He didn't smile back.

***

The event was over, and now that I'd gone from fun-loving focal point to brooding and intense football manager, Spectrum came over with a couple of concerns.

"Boss. I finished my research into GPS tracker vests."

"Smack me in the face with knowledge."

"Yeah, well. The basic ones are 300 pound a pop. The ones the big clubs use are fifteen grand."

"Holy shit."

"I know. Maybe postpone those till we've got hot water in the bathrooms. So, I need to talk to you about Future."

"How is the little scamp?"

"Still little."

"Aww. Cute."

"There's more lads on their growth spurts, though."

I pulled a face. "Do we have to talk about teenage boys and use the word 'spurt'?"

"Other lads are on their growth gushes." He laughed. "Future is looking very, very tiny. I want to move him back down."

I had massively promoted the kid because he was just that talented. "Okay."

"Er... do I have your permission, then?"

"You don't need my permission. You're in charge of that." Teenage boys grew at different times. Some of it came flooding back to me. Kids in the changing rooms who were suddenly all hairy. Voices breaking. The first day a kid sprayed deodorant after a match, and the eight years it took to get the smell out of my nostrils. "Growth spurts. Wow. So many mad things I need to think about. Okay. The fourteens are pretty shit, though. Can Future deal with going right back to the twelves?"

"He could, but I don't think that's the right move."

"The fourteens, then. That's really not great for him. I'm going to a couple of schools next week. I'll try to find some talented kids his age. Er... in the meantime, bump John, Adam, and Big Sam up for a few weeks so Future has some talent around him."

"This is me being in charge, is it?"

I laughed. "Yep! You're in charge of all the things I don't specifically tell you to do. Let me know if any kids freak out about being moved up or down. I'll reassure them if they need it. And I'm thinking of letting Vivek train with the first team every now and then."

"Right," he said, dubiously.

I shrugged. "See if we can't shock him into improving. Right, be off with you. I've got to fill in my team sheet."

"You should let your assistant do that."

"My assistant is busy flirting with soccer moms."

***

Match 1 of 22: Chester Women versus Wythenshawe Women

Henri turned up to watch the coaching session - he loved a bit of weirdness after breakfast. I volunteered him to be my assistant manager for the day because he knew a lot more than me about the countryside and I had questions for him.

First, I needed to set my team up for the match. My players got changed and came out for their warm ups. Compared to the nice stadium from last week, this felt pretty shit. We were playing on what was basically a local park with a temporary stand at the side, but their excitement was undimmed.

The other team were Wythenshawe, which you might remember is where Manchester Airport is, and where the Yalleys lived. Pretty close to my heart, in fact, and 'Shawe' had a decent team. An average CA of 22, but very lumpy. Their keeper was terrible - good jumping but handling 2 - they had two players with shocking technique and passing, but they had a good spine. They were experienced, too. It was going to be a tough day.

We had a new addition to the squad - Julie McKay. She was the PA 53 striker with good movement I'd tried to sign before crashing into Welly, her much older, hooligan boyfriend. I'd recently had the wonderful, philanthropic, utopian idea to see if Julie still wanted to join the team. The Brig and Ruth had gone to talk to her, and had come to the decision she was a nice girl and a good person who had stumbled into a bad relationship and had tried hard to get out. Ruth said Julie was brave, which shocked me. She normally only used positive adjectives to describe horses.

I hadn't been to training, and the women had been told to turn up at one p.m., meaning the first time I'd see Julie since my attack was drawing near. And as it came closer, I felt weirder and weirder. The walls were closing in and there was evil in the ceiling. Soon... the screams.

When Julie walked past, I was showing the magic whistle to the referee. The ref had heard about it, and was keen to try it. I was holding it out, but wouldn't let go. My eyes were locked onto Julie's, and that's when I knew.

I knew.

Welly was the guy who'd tried to kill me. And it had all happened because of her. The guilt she showed made me nauseous and I started to feel dizzy.

When I came to my senses, the ref had wandered off, holding the armband and blowing the whistle, repeating the trick while her assistants had a go. I was moving. Floating away from our gear and equipment.

Henri's hand was on my back and he was pushing me, easing me, mumbling some sweet nothings. When we were some distance away, he gave me a few seconds to calm down. "What is it?"

I tried to think what I'd told him, and what I hadn't. I think he knew pretty much everything. "Inviting her was a mistake." I shuddered. "When I look at her, I feel there's a big hole in my head. All my brains leaking out."

"I see. Yes, I see. The Brig thinks the older boyfriend did it? Then, yes. I would feel the same. So... why did you give her this chance?"

I looked down. "Good question." I took my time. "I thought the worst was over. He'd already tried to get me. Whatever I do now, he'll try again, or he won't. The guy's fucking mental. It's nothing to do with Julie. Right? So I try to think that. But then, why's she got this murderous boyfriend? Why's she attracted to violent dudes?

"And I'm like, it's none of my business. Except, it is, because one of them tried to kill me. So I was right to be wary, I think. But now, is that it, forever? Do I say there's no second chances? How can Mr. Yalley forgive a man who tried to get him put away for the rest of his life, and I can't even look at this girl who did literally nothing to me?"

I sighed.

"I dunno. It's a mess. Honestly, Henri, I don't wake up every morning trying to make my life more difficult. But she's from Chester, she's talented, she's never done anyone any harm, and if this isn't her home, where is?"

"Oh," he said, in a weird way.

"What?"

"So you're really thinking of leaving."

I frowned. How had he got from what I said to what he said? "Why... what makes you say that?"

"She's not a problem to anyone except you. So you bring her in... because you might not be here for very long."

"I'll be here longer than you," I said. But I wasn't sure I meant it.

Talking about the situation calmed me down, and I knew Henri would be around to help me if things got a bit intense. I'd have the Morale perk, soon. What would it say about Henri? I was sure he'd have a good score - since I'd put myself on the team sheet and had my little cameo, the entire squad had been buzzing.

***

I filled in the team sheet, mentally totting up their CAs. Hoping to capitalise on their first ever taste of real, competitive football, I'd asked Jude and Spectrum to join the week's training sessions, and it had paid off. Everyone had increased by a point at least, while Charlotte, my midfield superstar, added two. Our 4-5-1 formation gave us an average CA of exactly 15.

A little bit off the standard, it seemed. Seven points behind Wythenshawe's average. But we'd catch up soonish, so then the question was: were Wythenshawe one of the better teams? And could we afford to lose many games while we got going? Last season's winners had drawn one, lost one, and won the rest. Only one team was promoted, so if there was a team that had something like CA 40, we were screwed.

My pre-match team talk consisted of me picking out three very weak Wythenshawe players and telling my ladies to press the two outfield ones, and to take potshots at the goalie.

"Lots of shots! Imagine you're on a night out in Manchester. Shots shots shots! Bea Pea, get on the rebounds."

The team clapped and Bonnie shouted 'come on ladies' and so on, only to pause while Dani started laughing - she had just read the text. She looked at me and signed. It was like two finger guns making a W in front of her chin.

"Good joke?" I said.

"Funny," she wrote in the chat.

"Max," said Maddy. "Are we going to talk about you?"

"About me? Er... I like canalside walks and if I ever buy a house I want to cover it from top to bottom in vandal paint."

"You played a match and didn't tell us. We would have come to watch!"

"Oh. Well I didn't realise how bad Tadcaster were until I got there. I thought, now's as good a time as any."

"But you're not ready."

I shrugged. "The first match I played was always going to be terrible. Next one, too, maybe. But it's a short cut."

Dani waved her hand, indicating she had an important question. I picked up my phone and saw she was being her usual blunt self.

Dani: Everyone said you were shit. People were laughing at you. Don't you feel embarrassed?

Me: No. I'd be embarrassed if I gave up. If I didn't try. I'll play in the next round, too, and I'll be shit again. No-one will ever work harder to put in a 4 out of 10 performance.

Dani: You're brave.

Me: I'm not brave. I just know there's only one opinion that matters.

We waited for Dani to reply, but she stared at her screen for a while, then nodded at Bonnie. They left, arm in arm, heading out onto the pitch.

***

I was offered Bench Boost and Triple Captain, but it didn't seem the right match for those. For a start, my bench options were weak. Erin, Susan, and Julie. The longer I waited in the season, the more useful those players would be. Maybe I'd get lucky and be able to spot who the best team in the league was, and try to surprise them. If we could beat the best team twice, that would make life so much easier.

The first half was tough.

In front of a sizeable crowd of almost 400 - which sounds good until you remember entry was free and Brits are pulled towards free food like dust to my copy of Foucalt's Pendulum - we went about our business of playing nice passing moves and controlling the ball. When we lost it, Shawe would counter, and fast, but half their breaks would end when one of their shit players got involved.

"We don't have much goal threat," said Henri. "We're struggling to move through the thirds." He meant it was hard for the defence to get the ball to the midfield, who found it hard to get up to the attacking line.

"I know. This is our struggle. We compete well, but find it hard to create chances. Last week the team went defensive and that helped. If we're a couple of goals down near the end, they might go into their shell and we can have a barnstorming late run. I'd prefer to be more proactive, though."

"Dani isn't the answer?"

"She is, but not yet. At the moment, she's neat and tidy but a bit... safe. She looks overcoached, but that's obviously not what it is."

"Coaching. The theme of the day."

"It's the theme of my life. We have talent everywhere. Now we need to unlock it." I stretched. The lack of sleep was kicking in. "It's hard to find good coaches. The ones I meet have all got jobs already. I can find a good player on any park or beach. But coaches don't go to Ibiza and start coaching passers-by."

"You should talk to Raffi."

"Raffi?"

"He's been working one-to-one with a coach. Talk to him about it."

"Huh. Okay. Will do, thanks." We watched as Charlotte tried to get a grip on the midfield. Shawe had quickly spotted that she was our main weapon, though, and were snapping into her as soon as she got the ball. I tried moving her to be the left of the three CMs - maybe it would draw Shawe towards that side of the pitch, leaving a bit more space for Dani and Maddy. "Henri. You know things."

"I do."

"I live in a barn, now. There's something in the attic. It fucking screams all night long. It's terrifying. I think it's a fox. Or an eagle."

"Merde," said Henri.

"I know. Very, very merde."

"I did not say merde. I said merde."

"I'm sorry, are you taking the piss, now?"

He raised his eyes to the heavens, and with a massive show of patience, exhaled. He took out his phone and went to a translation app he very rarely used. "Martin."

I slapped my hips. "Martin. Martin Keown? Martin Sheen. Chris Martin from Coldplay. What's the game? This isn't fun."

Henri showed me his phone. It said: marten. "In French we say, marten of the pines."

"Oh, pine marten. Yeah, I've heard of that. Marten. Huh. What is it?"

"Do you know what a weasel is?"

"I know the word weasel."

"Max, seriously. You are not equipped for life in the countryside. You are clueless." He huffed and puffed and showed me a picture. "This is what is in your attic."

It was a squirrel with the head of a racoon. I'd probably have found it cute if I didn't know it had a heart of darkness.

We watched quietly for a while. Moving Charlotte to our weaker side had, indeed, drawn Shawe's attention over there, for all the good it did us. "This team needs something."

"A second striker?" he said, glancing at our subs, one of whom was cute but had a heart of darkness.

"Something we don't have on the bench. Our midfield is good. They are technical. I love the effort they put in and it's satisfying to see them improve over time. But it's missing a spark."

"Speed," said Henri. "Dynamism. Exuberance."

"Oh," I said, surprised that he'd come to the same conclusion as me. "Yes, please."

He shook his head. "Those aren't my words, Max. They're yours. The answer you seek is standing over there."

"Where?"

"With her brother. And her father, who saved your life."

***

At half-time, I skipped the team talk so I could talk to Kisi. And so I wouldn't have to look at Julie for a second longer than I had to. Then I read about martens. They'd nearly been wiped out of the British Isles, but had recovered. I texted Ruth and she expressed surprise there were any near her.

So this little guy was branching out. Looking for a safe place to live, just like me.

***

In the second half, there wasn't much for me to do. I put Erin and Susan on to give us some fresh legs, and then it was simply a case of when I would bring Julie on. Probably five minutes from time - she was CA 3 and would have to catch up to the rest of the group before she was really useful.

"Max. I have an idea."

"Oh? Is it as good as your idea to fix our lack of experience by recruiting a fifteen-year-old?"

He smiled. "Kisi will be sixteen soon. No, mine is an off-pitch idea. I found a property in Chester. It is currently used as a Bed and Breakfast but the owner is retiring. Twelve bedrooms, ten bathrooms. Some original features. All surprisingly tasteful except for one room, which - Never mind."

"A French footballer running a BnB sounds like the pitch for a sitcom."

"I would run it as a digs."

"Oh!" A digs. Like where I stayed in Darlington before moving in to Henri's place. "Twelve bedrooms. Twelve horny young footballers. You'd need a Ghostbuster to come once a month to hoover out all the testosterone."

Henri gave me a strange glance. "I am only pitching the idea, you understand? But if my first two tenants were Pascal and Youngster... and if I took the biggest room. That would set the tone, so to speak. Serious and professional. Modern and classy. Affordable but civilised. European."

I smiled. "It sounds top."

He shuffled. "I need your approval."

We had a corner and I was wondering if I should use the free hit perk. It took me a second to realise what he'd said. "Approval? What? What for?"

"I believe players like Pascal and Youngster would come quite willingly. The Triplets, too. But you might sign an older player and that player might need a place to stay for a few weeks while he got settled. Or you might invite a player to come for a two-week trial. When you start your refereeing academy, or have one of your many madcap ideas, the participants slash victims will need a roof over their heads. Paid for by the club, of course. The permanent residents, let's say five or six of us, would have the space to ourselves most of the time. Then there would be periods when it was full. Those periods would make the financials stack up in my favour."

"What if I leave and the next manager doesn't want to send you loads of free money?"

"It isn't free money, Max. Hospitality is hard work! Washing the towels. Folding the towels. Unfolding and refolding the towels because there was an inexplicable little bump. Choosing a font. Having dinner with the font designer. Having a torrid affair with the font designer. Tiny bars of soap. Do you know where to buy seven thousand tiny bars of soap, Max?

"Do you know how to choose a shower gel that is both cost efficient and not repellant to women? Do you hoover behind the door, Max? You strike me as the type of person who regularly sleeps on a damp pillowcase because you threw them in the dryer with the bedsheets and covers. You know less about running a hotel than you know about the planet you live on."

He picked up a water bottle, but then immediately dropped it. He wasn't thirsty, but needed to make some kind of gesture.

"Of course it would be ideal if you stayed, but the model works without you. It works without me, too. I would simply need to discuss it with MD and the board. Have it all above board, so to speak."

"Well, I don't have a problem with it." I tried to imagine the digs in Darlington, but run by Henri. There certainly wouldn't be fucking empty Mars bar packets everywhere. Maybe he'd teach the kids to cook properly. Like, chopping vegetables dead fast and stuff like that. "I reckon you'd run the best digs in the country." Henri preened so much I couldn't resist a little dig at his motives. "And you'd make a killing."

He sighed. "Money is like an energy. It is attracted to me." He laughed, suddenly. "I mentioned this idea to the Brig and Vimsy, to see what they thought, and to see if perhaps the Brig would allow you to stay with us. The Brig approved, but not for you. Vimsy was equally in favour. He said he had heard that I was 'a right property magnet'."

I smiled. "These guys."

"These guys know the difference between a fox and an eagle."

"Good point."

I think Henri sensed that my mood had dropped when he'd said I couldn't live with him. He gave me a little push. "I'm no expert in martens," he said. "But I know they do not scream every night. They are probably... what was that disturbing phrase you used? Porking their brains out. They will stop soon enough. You will hear them scrabbling around up there, but mating season... is seasonal."

I wanted to believe him, but I needed something a little more reliable than Henri repeating something he'd learned when he was a kid. The on-pitch action didn't help. The match stats started to really pivot against us, and after sixty minutes, Wythenshawe scored from a corner.

I paced around, beating myself up for having no options. No comebacks. No way to influence the game.

"How much is it?" I asked, meaning the property Henri had found. I wouldn't normally have asked, but I needed a distraction.

"Nine hundred thousand."

I nearly fell over. "Right. Don't panic, Max. He made a mistake. He meant three hundred thousand. He meant four hundred thousand. He's still shaking his head; he really meant nine hundred. And the mortgage is..."

"Ten percent deposit, interest-only. Five thousand three hundred."

Over five grand a month! Just on the interest. Pay five thousand a month for 25 years and you'd still owe the 900K. It was bonkers. "Mate, no. Come on."

He grinned and slapped me on the back. "No risk, no fun."

"There's risk and there's that." We were coming back into the game, now. Pippa had the chance to launch a long-range strike, but thought better of it. She passed to Dani, who dribbled past a defender and hit a good cross that went through everyone, all the way to the other side of the pitch where the right back hacked the ball away.

Henri applauded, remembered that Dani couldn't hear, then applauded anyway. "No, no. It's not such a risk. There is a shortage of homes in this country. The worst case is not so bad - I sell at a loss. Thirty thousand in fees. Another thirty in lost equity. But the best case..."

"What?"

"I charge according to a player's means, yes? Youngster pays 500 a month. You sell him, you buy someone more premium. You pay him double, he pays me double." He grinned. "I'm placing the safest bet in town. I'm betting on you."

"What if I leave?" I said, but then I was pulled by an invisible force to the edge of the pitch. Scanning left and right confirmed what the curse had told me - the other manager had sounded the retreat. I couldn't believe this was happening again! A free invitation to camp in their half.

Seizing the chance to make something happen, I took our right back off and threw Julie up front in a 3-5-2. Suddenly the game came alive - we passed and threatened and pushed opponents out of position. Julie had great movement - she was like a magnet, drawing defenders like I'd asked Wilson to do the first time Henri was my assistant - and that opened space for the midfielders to run onto.

Now that she was finally in range, Charlotte tried out her long shots. The first came back off the goalie and Bea Pea latched onto the rebound. One-all! The second, the keeper got a hand to it again, but made an even bigger mess of it and it dribbled across the line.

We were winning two-one!

My rival manager fixed her mistake, made a few subs of her own, and tried to bombard us with long balls. My team was relatively short, young, and weak, and the tactic worked. Shawe scored, but Bonnie and Lucy reorganised the defence and our midfielders raced to stop those long balls being hit with any accuracy.

The end of the match came as a relief. Our first league match had finished two-all.

Henri considered the game. It had been pretty one-sided for eighty of the ninety minutes. "Well done, Max."

"It was all right, wasn't it?"

Henri nodded. "It was more than all right. I'm sure with any other manager, this team would have lost today." He slapped my back again. "Always bet on Max."

He hovered while I gave my post-match debrief. "Ladies, well played. You suffered, you sacrificed, and you earned the right to play your way for ten minutes, and in those ten minutes you slapped. Charlotte, we're going to get that contract signed this week. If City want you back they'll have to pay. And I'm going to bring another City player in this week. I think some of you know her, and you all know her brother. What else? Yeah... Julie."

This was the first time I'd really spoken to her. The curse had given her 7 out of 10 - not bad for a sub making her debut against much better players. Looking at her was weird - she was attractive, but she'd caused me, inadvertently, so much grief. It'd be a struggle to get past that. I wanted to try, though.

"Good job." I thought about the way she'd moved around. "Were you the right of the two forwards in your other team?"

She nodded. She was timid around me. "We mostly played one striker. But when we had two..." She pushed her right hand to the right.

"Yeah, Bea Pea has been doing that for us when we've played two. You made the same runs, today, sometimes. Coaches will give you some time to work on it this week. You've been on your own, doing well, but you'll have to learn to co-exist. That is, if you're going to stay."

She didn't reply. I mentally shrugged. On balance, I wanted her to stay. She was an asset to the club and a chance for me to learn and grow as a person.

"No match next week so go hard in training. All right? I'm off early. I have a date with someone who might turn out to be a stone-cold fox." I glanced at Henri. He didn’t like it. “I have a rendezvous and we’ll be up all night?” He shook his head and pushed me away.

Outside, away from the others, he leaned closer and murmured, "You've been on your own but you'll have to learn to co-exist. If you're going to stay. Did I hear that right?"

"Er... yes. Why?"

"Oh, no reason."

He walked off with a very smug look on his face. Nutjob! The Brig's idea was right. I attracted nutjobs because I was so sane and rational. But later I thought - was he comparing the marten to Julie McKay? I bit my thumbnail. Trick Williams had done more harm than Julie, and I'd found a way to co-exist with him.

MD rushed over, smiling. Finally! The miserable bastard had remembered how to do it. "Max! They're doing the FA Cup draw. We're away to Cray Wanderers. Isthmian League. That's er... seventh tier. Down in London. Win that and we're one step away from being in the real cup!"

"And we're fourth in the league and tickets are flying off the shelves. Huh. It's almost as though what I'm doing... is working."

He tutted and breathed in through his eyes. "Of course it's working. That's not..."

Whatever he was going to say, he never did. I'd stopped him by gripping his wrist. "Mike. You're great at walking around, scuffing your shoes, pretending to be consternated." I smiled from dimple to dimple. "I've just had an amazing idea. Let's put that grumpy, sullen face of yours to good use."

I don't think his morale improved when I told him my idea, but he promised to go along with it.

***

XP Balance: 2,088

Debt repaid: 2,126/3000

Thanks to the Brig dropping me off early, I could buy Morale. Not a moment too soon - I didn't have good man-management skills. The perk, hopefully, would tell me how to keep my players happy.

But I’d do it in the morning, hopefully after a good night’s sleep. Tired people made bad decisions.

***

I went into Ruth's house, just to satisfy my curiosity about the guest room and the state of her kitchen and whatnot. I found everything feminine and classy. Staying there for one night when she was away would be fine. But using her guest room when she was at home would be catastrophic. We would one hundred percent end up having noisy, wild, fantastic sex, and neither of us wanted that.

So after taking one of her premium Marks and Spencer tartlets into the barn, I lay on my bed, dressed like I was going to the arctic, and drifted off a few times. But then - the scrabbling! It was here!

I ran downstairs, grabbed the torch I'd taken from one of Ruth's many horse sheds, and dashed into the garden - AKA the mud around the house.

A hint of evening mist was in the air, and I found myself crouching slightly to make less noise as I walked. I flicked the torch on, shone it around the roof, around the drainpipes, along the gutters. How did this thing get in the roof, and where?

Then - there it was! Two bright eyes, shining down on me.

The thing was much smaller than I'd expected. It was like a long cat. Half the size of a fox. It was pretty majestic. Balanced and agile and way, way smarter than he looked. He'd be fucking amazing on the left-wing.

He took a long look at me, decided I was nothing, and walked off, swaying like he owned the place.

"Oi!" I cried.

He paused, and stared at me again.

"I could fuck you up," I said. "Go and live at Ruth's. Seriously. Fuck off my gaff."

He didn't blink, and with one last disdainful glance, pottered to the other side of the roof.

I sprinted round, but by the time I'd got there, he'd vanished. Into the roof, or off on his nightly adventures?

Back inside, I undressed and hopped into bed, and fell into a wonderfully deep and drooly sleep. At two a.m. the screaming started again.

***

In Ruth's guest room, I spent twenty minutes listening hard to every noise, and realised that the countryside was way, way louder than the city. Yeah, in the city you get cars, planes, people outside screaming at each other.

But in the countryside the floor creaks. Just creaks! On its own! And if you aren't scared of that, you're not watching the right movies.

Or a wooden beam will crack, or there will be an ominous rumbling that you can only hear in one little patch of one room and nowhere else. Totally freaky.

I started to get used to it, and drifted off towards sleep.

On my way down, I reflected that I was doing a pretty amazing job. I'd won two FA Cup matches, and the women's team I'd created was up and running. One of our youth teams was jam packed with talent.

But I was still homeless. I was still a million miles away from owning my own house. Meanwhile, Henri had, what, five?

I felt a tiny pang of jealousy and resentment, but only a little bit. Why couldn't I be a property magnet?

What I didn't realise until later was that the events of this week, stressful as the nights had been, had sent me hurtling down a path that would pretty quickly lead to me owning my first property. Not a house, or a barn, or a former BnB. Soon I would own a property that wouldn't have been in my top million guesses. A property I would have to share with a lot of animals.

...

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