[b]4:15 PM
31 Minutes Left in Regulation[/b]

“A beautiful turn from Charlton sends Beckenbauer the wrong way and … Gosh! What a save from Tilkowski. The German goalkeeper acrobatically parried away the Manchester United man’s shot at the very last second. We’ve a corner incoming.”

Coach had near leapt from his seat as he listening along to the BBC radio broadcast of the final. It had been a nervy game all around. The kind that made Coach wish he’d never quit smoking. Instead he’d taken to gnawing on his worn-down fingernails to relieve himself of tension. It wasn’t working. The Germans striking first had all but shattered whatever confidence Coach might have had before the game.

He took a glance down at the clock. By now Bobby ought to have let those bangers of his off in the crowd. At least, Coach hoped he had. There’d be enough money sat in those counting rooms to change Coach’s life for good. He’d be able to take the kids on that holiday he’d been promising them – there’d be no more Bognor Regis or Devon, this time it would be sunny Spain.

With what was left over he’d pursue the dream he’d harboured in secret for the best part of two decades. He’d trade in the old cab for a whole fleet of cars – nice ones, too – and start his own private hire firm. There’d be no more driving. Hell, if he had it his way he’d never touch a steering wheel again. Coach would be the guv’nor for once. He’d be the one wearing the big, double-breasted suits with pinstripes on them.

He’d make more money legit than the crew had ever done robbing banks and jewellery stores. And he’d use it to give his children the chances he never had – see to it that they went to those public schools the toffs all sent their kids to.

“[i]Another[/i] brilliant save from the German,” the BBC announcer bellowed. “What a performance we’re seeing from him this afternoon. If the Three Lions are going to get another past Tilkowski, it seems it’s going to take something special.”

This time Coach slammed his fist down in frustration on the steering wheel. It gave a sudden beep and a passing crowd of England fans leapt back in shock. Coach’s cheeks turned a blushed red and he removed his hat with an embarrassed smile by way of apology.

“Come on, boys,” he muttered in the direction of the stadium, clearly unsure as to whether it was directed at Lewandowski and Enfield or the men on the field.

[center][b]***[/b][/center][b]4:28 PM
18 Minutes Left in Regulation[/b]

Cecil could feel his heart pounding in his throat. He was running late. Alf had told him that he needed to be at Gate L for ten past four and a good fifteen minutes or so had passed since then. [i]The coast hadn’t been clear[/i], Cecil told himself, though had he been honest with himself it was more that he’d been having second thoughts about the entire thing. He should never had said yes to Turner – he’d only agreed out a sense of gratitude for all of the help that Alf had given him over the years. Now Cecil was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

The two convenient obstructions were none other than George and Jonno Thursgood. They were older than Cecil by a good two years, but you would have been hard-pushed to believe it. Despite the fact he’d only started working the turnstiles since the quarter-finals, Cecil had been made the Thursgoods line manager of sorts. They hadn’t taken too kindly to that.

They were huddled between a crack in a wall, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening on the field. Cecil doubted they could see anything from where they were stood, but when a roar came from the Wembley crowd, George, the older of the two, let out a shout of his own.

“Bloomin’ heck, that was close.”

“What’s going on? Move out of the way, George, I can’t see,” Jonno muttered as he attempted to jostle for his position with his older brother.

“Never you mind what’s going on,” Cecil called over to them. “You two are meant to be working. There are still some late-comers arriving that need letting in.”

The Thursgoods stepped back from the crack nervously and looked to one another in search of an explanation. Once it became clear they didn’t have one, they chose a different tack instead. George shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

“Yeah, well if they can’t be bothered to show up on time for the World Cup Final, they can bloody well hang for all I care. What do you reckon, Jonno?”

“Yeah, they can bloody well hang."

“Alright,” Cecil sighed. “Well, I’ll let Gladys know that you won’t be wanting paying at the end of the day then, shall I?”

He’d managed a half step before George bound over to him and place an apologetic hand on his sleeve.

“Steady on, Cecil.”

[i]The Battleaxe claims another set of scalps[/i], Cecil thought triumphantly. Gladys was sixty-eight and had a reputation for running the Wembley staff ragged before, during and after matches. She’d near deafened Cecil during his first shift at the stadium. And he was sure that she was onto him and Iris. 

That didn’t matter now – all that mattered was getting the Thursgoods as far from here as possible and fulfilling his end of the bargain. Even if it had taken him slightly longer than it had meant to.

“The gates,” Cecil commanded.

With a wounded look they did so and Cecil took a few moments to make sure that there was no one else around. He reached for the ring of keys around his belt, thumbing his way through it in search of the right one, and upon finding it nervously slid it towards the keyhole. His hands were shaking. There was the faint taste of iron in his mouth. Once he opened that door, he was [i]officially[/i] a criminal. But the way he saw it, he had no choice. He’d made assurances. Heck, maybe Iris would write to him in prison.

Finally he slid the key in and began to turn it. Before Cecil had realised it was even unlocked, two black gloved hands came barrelling through it and he found himself knocked to the ground. Looming over him was a heavy-set man in a policeman’s outfit. His dark features almost purple with rage. One of the man’s gloved hands wrapped itself tightly around Cecil’s collar and the other was cocked back into a fist.

In the distance the Wembley crowd let out a howl. A look of recognition flashed across Cecil's assailer and slowly the purple drained away from his face. With embarrassing ease, he dragged Cecil to his feet.

“Move,” the man barked. “Or I swear to God – I don't care who the hell your goddamn uncle was – I’ll do more than [i]pretend[/i] to shoot you.”