THE RACKETEERS
by Olly Wicken
CHAPTER ONE
They arrived in the half-light like the universe had coughed them out.
Three men. Dark suits. Power in the cut, money in the stitching. Tailoring that spared nothing. Worn by men who spared no one.
Occupation Road stretched ahead of them, empty. One side a wall. Gravel and brambles the other — and rust chewing through fences. Kind of street where dogs stand around and bark at nothing.
The men strolled up the slope like they owned it.
You wouldn’t have known which side of the law they were. Not from just looking. Maybe mobsters. Maybe ministers. The sort of men who sign papers and whole neighbourhoods disappear.
The one in the middle was the boss. You could tell. Face like stone. Eyes like cold iron. He’d been giving orders for years and never once had to repeat himself. Power clung to him like cigar smoke in a 1970s football boardroom.
He was Brazilian. The man on his left was English. Lagging half a step behind. Like he hadn’t received a formal invitation.
The boss said, low and sharp: ‘Continue assim, inglês. Você tem um trabalho a fazer.’
The English one frowned. Big frame. Military back. Looked like he’d marched men through Europe. White hair combed neat. Moustache trimmed sharp enough to cut stale bread.
‘What’d he say?’
He threw the question sideways. The third man answered out of the corner of his mouth. French vowels sliding over the words like blood on a tile floor.
‘E say keep up, English, you ‘ave a job to do.’
The Englishman got into line. Nobody wanted that voice pointed at them twice.
The boss grunted. Approval or approbation — hard to tell with men like that. He’d been getting his way as long as people could remember. Cities bent. Men folded.
And today was no different.
Today he was in Hornet Heaven to make the place pay what it owed.
CHAPTER TWO
They kept climbing.
The Englishman knew this road. Used to be a dump. Pot-holes big enough to drown a dog. Rainwater like oil slicks. Bricks tumbling out of the stadium wall — the ones that weren’t held in place by graffiti.
Funny thing was, there’d been good days here. And he’d been part of it.
Sort of.
On the left was a row of old turnstiles. Rusty. Crooked. Like old teeth in a prizefighter’s mouth.
He stopped. Announced: ‘We’ll take up position here. Set out our demands.’
The boss gave him a nod. That was praise. That was applause. That was a parade. The Brazilian never wasted anything bigger. He’d taken hold of the organisation years back. Took it the way you take a wallet — quick and quiet. You didn’t cross him. Never tried anything funny.
The Englishman looked up the hill. Wondered if someone would recognise him. Once upon a time he’d been somebody. Cameras, microphones, crowds. Handshakes that mattered. Every continent looked up to him. The English Gentleman they called him. Radiated authority like the map was still pink and everyone was late with the rent. But then the boss showed up and turned him into furniture, and the streets forgot.
Did this street forget? He’d been local once. Worked in the town before taking bigger jobs elsewhere. Place still tugged at him a bit. Watford was alright. But he had a job to do.
He saw an old man coming down the hill. 1940s raincoat. Match programme tight in his fist like it was something sacred.
The English Gentleman stepped forward. Said: ‘Halt!’
The old man didn’t slow. Called out with a voice like gravel in a tin: ‘Don’t order me around. Who the ‘ell do you think you are?’
The English Gentleman took another step forward. Lowered his voice. Loaded his voice. ‘We own this heaven.’
The old man barked a laugh. ‘Pozzo’s boys, eh? Well, listen — this place ain’t yours. It’s ours. The fans. The town.’
The English Gentleman felt a cold stare on his back — the boss’s. It felt like weather. Like winter. You didn’t argue with winter. You just tried to survive it.
He straightened up. Told the old man: ‘You’ll show respect to the federation.’
‘What federation?’
‘The federation that owns and runs all football heavens.’
The old man grunted. ‘Never heard of you. Now, move. I’m going through the turnstile to watch my match.’
Then — snap! The boss’s fingers. Soft. Sharp. Three heavies appeared. From nowhere. Big hands. Blank faces. They took the old man down fast. Boots thudded. Fists worked. No shouting. Just dull, wet sounds. Business.
The programme fluttered away. The English Gentleman’s jaw tightened. He told himself it was necessary. Order. Structure. The bigger picture. That’s what men like him always told themselves. Funny how the bigger picture always ended with someone small bleeding on the pavement. But he stomached it. Had to. The boss was watching. Always watching.
When it was done, the old man lay folded up. The English Gentleman stepped over him. Put the old authority back into his voice. The one he used to use on podiums.
‘We’re FIFA,’ he said. The name hung there like a warrant. ‘FIFA owns your heaven. FIFA owns football.’
His conscience felt as battered as the broken old man on the pavement, but he kept it out of his voice. ‘We’re here to collect our dues.’
Behind him, the boss said nothing. Didn’t have to. Winter never explains itself. It just kills the garden.
CHAPTER THREE
Bill Mainwood stood at the atrium window and forgot how to breathe. Just stared. Jaw slack. A single word dropped from the 92-year-old’s mouth — thin and lost, like a penny down a sewer grate.
‘Golly.’
They’d worked over Freddie Sargent. Way worse than anything Freddie did to 19th century goalkeepers. Early football was rough, but it stopped short of punishment beatings.
He couldn’t believe what he’d seen. But his eyes weren’t giving him any other options. Freddie Sargent, former club captain, Victorian man of principle. Now a coat someone had emptied the bones out of.
Bill didn’t think, didn’t plan. Just ran. Out of the atrium. Down Occupation Road. Fast.
He knelt over a groaning heap. A groaning heap that once set scoring records for Watford Rovers.
‘Freddie! Are you alright?’
The English Gentleman was combing his moustache. Slow. The way a gambler shuffles cards when he knows the deck’s dirty. Bill recognised the face. Couldn’t place it. But it didn’t fit a mafia hit.
‘Why would you do this to Freddie?’ — his voice fraught, accusing.
The English Gentleman answered — calm as a butcher wrapping a chop. ‘No one goes through these turnstiles until we’ve taken our cut.’
“Cut”. The word sat there. Greasy and wrong.
Then it clicked in Bill’s head. Sunglasses and blazer. The English Gentleman hosting a World Cup. Chile, 1962.
He said, sharp as vinegar on a paper cut: ‘Oh, I get it. You’re not mafia, you’re FIFA — as if there’s a difference. From FIFA Heaven, are you?’
He got back a thin smile.
‘Subsidiary heavens are required to use our official designation in all communications. “FIFA Paradise”, if you please.’
Now it came back to Bill. He’d met this man. Behind the scenes at Watford. Same man, but different then. Pats on the shoulder, stories, laughter. Honorary Vice-President. Cute move: establishment endorsement for Elton John’s upstart outfit.
But now Freddie Sargent was lying on the pavement like he’d tried to shake hands with a freight train.
‘We’re here to collect payment,’ the English Gentleman said. ‘You’re using our IP.’
‘Your what?’
‘Intellectual Property. Football belongs to us. You’re using it. We need a return.’
Bill saw it. Clear as a switchblade in a shaft of moonlight. Corruption had learned to wear suits.
‘What next?’ he asked. ‘Charging kids to kick a ball in the street?’
The English Gentleman sneered — the way the heel of a boot looks at a cigarette butt.
‘Funny you mention that. We’ll be piloting a subscription model — after we’ve counted this summer’s World Cup cash.’
Bill’s face went hard and empty. FIFA didn’t own football. The game belonged to the people. He said: ‘Football’s not yours to monetise.’
The English Gentleman’s voice went cold like a slab in the morgue. ‘My boss would disagree. Care to take it up with him?’
Bill knew the Brazilian was eyeing him. It was like the door of the morgue’s cooler had swung open.
‘You’re wasting your time here,’ he said. Voice firm — a lock turned twice. ‘There’s no money in Hornet Heaven.’
The English Gentleman smiled. Polite and reassuring. Like a surgeon before an operation. ‘We don’t want money. It’s a person we want.’
This hit. A different threat. Bill’s stomach dropped. ‘Which person?’
The English Gentleman stepped closer. Voice cut and dried, like a contract already signed.
‘You’re going to give us Graham Taylor.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The English Gentleman fixed Bill with a look. A look that used to send delegations packing. Hard and official.
He said: ‘Fetch Taylor. Now.’
But something was rattling the walls of his skull. Fear. The same fear that had slowed his stride on the way here. His brain was screaming at Bill: ‘Do what you’re told! Please!’ Because his boss had the patience of a Pit Bull on a chain that’s too short.
Then, for a moment, he blinked. The road peeled away like old paint. He was somewhere else. Years back. Vicarage Road, under the old wooden stand. The directors’ den. Whisky served with soda and backslaps. A younger Bill Mainwood — the programme guy at the club. Nervous as a schoolboy in the headmaster’s office.
‘Very nice to meet you, sir,’ Bill was saying. ‘And, if may be so bold, we’ve got something in common. Both referees, once upon a time. Only local leagues for me, though. Not an FA Cup Final, like you.’
He’d laughed then. Warm and easy. ‘Good man. Good man. The world needs more people like us, Bill.’
The memory snapped away. Now they had something else in common. If this went bad, the boss would grind them both into paste and not lose sleep.
Bill was staring back at him. No small talk now. No nerves. Just ice.
‘This is revenge,’ Bill said. ‘You want to punish Graham Taylor because we took your name off the stand and put his there.’
He took the hit. Easy to shrug it off. Wasn’t what this was about.
He reached for the line he’d rehearsed. The line he’d told the boss would work. ‘FIFA Paradise is the rightful home of the greatest names in football. England managers belong with us.’
Line didn’t work. Bill came back at him. ‘Then go and dig up Ramsey from Ipswich. Robson from Newcastle. GT’s ours.’
Silence. Then, for a second time — snap! Soft and sharp. Again. Three heavies stepped forward. Meat wearing shoes.
The English Gentleman felt a chill. Winter was closing in. He’d lost control. He threw out an arm. Barked: ‘Wait!’
He stepped forward. Grabbed Bill by the collar. Pulled him close. His voice dropped. Only Bill could hear. He hissed what his brain had been screaming. ‘Do what you’re told.’
Then, smaller: ‘Please.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Bill said he’d fetch GT. Then he bent down and raised Freddie Sargent up off the pavement. Freddie groaned like a door with broken hinges. Bill got an arm under him. Hauled him up. Half-carried him back to the atrium.
Inside, people gathered round. Recoiled. Like dockworkers who’ve seen the tide has brought in something human.
Bill didn’t waste words. ‘We’re not giving them GT.’
Silence. Faces frozen in terror.
Then someone spoke. Voice shaking and small. ‘But they’ll do to us what they did to Freddie.’
Henry Grover. Victorian gent. Founded the club. Built it from nothing. But builders aren’t always fighters. His voice edged sideways like a man avoiding his own reflection. ‘The best thing would be to hand GT over. To be fair, we managed without him before. For decades.’
Bill’s jaw tightened. ‘Graham Taylor is everything this heaven stands for. Everything Watford Football Club stands for.’
Henry’s voice went thin like concrete poured in the rain. ‘But if we try and stand up for ourselves, our afterlives won’t be worth thruppence.’
Bill gritted his teeth. ‘And what’ll our souls be worth if we don’t?’
That landed. Henry looked down at his shoes. ‘So what are you asking us to do?’
‘I’m not asking anything. It’s your conscience that’s got to do the asking.’
Bill let it hang. Then he said: ‘If we let GT go, what are we? Who are we?’
Nobody answered. All eyes on the floor. No one with the guts to stand up.
‘We need a plan,’ Bill said.
A voice cut through: ‘Give them me.’
Johnny Allgood. Born in London, grew up in Scotland. Appointed Watford’s first manager in 1903. Stayed in the town til he died. Elder statesman in Hornet Heaven.
‘I captained England. Maybe I’ll be enough for them.’
A murmur. Then another voice. ‘And me.’
Arthur Grimsdell. Started out at Watford. Went on to lead his country. ‘We’ll give them two England captains instead of one England manager.’
Bill stared. This wasn’t a plan. This was sacrifice dressed up as arithmetic.
He said: ‘We need to stand up to them. Just a few of us.’
A memory flickered. Home to Grimsby. 1994. Didn’t look much at the time. Just a handful of herberts spilling onto the pitch. But it shifted something. Watford’s owner — Jack Petchey — found out what just a handful could do. He scarpered.
Johnny Allgood said: ‘No. We need to give FIFA something. They want a big name. I was one once. I’ll get them to take me.’
Bill watched Johnny head for the atrium doors. Couldn’t see this working. FIFA would still want Taylor. Hornet Heaven’s figurehead. A community’s values and heritage meant nothing to FIFA.
Outside, in the eternal sunshine of Occupation Road, winter was waiting in a dark suit.
CHAPTER SIX
The English Gentleman heard the boss speak — calm and soft as a coffin lid closing. Someone was coming down the slope.
‘Este é Graham Taylor?’
The answer needed to be ‘yes’. For everyone’s sakes.
The figure got closer. Old. Bald. Moustache that lost its fight with gravity years ago. The English Gentleman knew the face: John Goodall. England’s best player when football still smelt of mud and railway smoke. Nice try. Wouldn’t wash. He’d sold the boss on Taylor. Big name. Big pull. FIFA didn’t collect antiques. FIFA collected future leverage.
His throat tightened. The little people weren’t playing ball. And the operation was his. When the bullets started looking for someone, they’d look his way.
He walked over to the boss, nice and calm. Went eye to eye. Close enough to feel the cold draught. You couldn’t show fear to this man.
He said, measured as a tailor’s cut: ‘I’ll deal with this.’
The boss’s eyes fixed him. Like frost grips a bare branch. Like the devil playing his hand slow, holding back his aces.
The stakes were high. Everything needed to go right — for his own safety. And because he was playing a longer game.
The boss was an enemy he was keeping close.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They first clashed years ago. June ’74. Frankfurt. Sky the colour of wet slate, emptying rain. Change in the air.
The Englishman had been in the chair for 13 years. Son of a village grocer. Polished shoes, tidy conscience, running for one more term. The Brazilian came up the other way. Son of an arms dealer. Hungry for power like a tide that doesn’t believe in retreat. He’d been round the world making promises, padding envelopes.
When it happened, it happened quick. A public embrace. The kind that looks like affection and feels like a blade. When they broke apart, power had changed hands.
Now they stood on Occupation Road, eyes locked. Inches apart.
But miles too. Leagues.
The English Gentleman hated what FIFA was now. When he’d run the shop, football had been a game. Mud on the boots, air in the lungs, team sheets neatly pinned on noticeboards. He’d started out as a sports master in Watford, whistle round his neck, teaching football as discipline, teamwork, fair play.
The Brazilian had other ideas. Deals instead of ideals. Hidden handshakes. He built a machine. Feed it money and it spat out power. Feed it power and it spat out more money.
The English Gentleman was done watching it chew up the game. He had a new plan. Bring Graham Taylor upstairs. Change FIFA from the inside. He knew GT from Watford days. Straight-talk; the guts to change things; integrity strong as a steel girder. Taylor would strip the machine. Clean it. Get the engine running honest. The boss would lose power.
He held the boss’s stare. Didn’t blink.
But when he heard Goodall arrive at the turnstiles, everything moved at once. A blur of suits. He turned and saw Goodall driven to his knees like a peg hammered into wet ground. Arms wrenched back. Rope around wrists.
The Englishman felt his boss’s breath in his ear. Cold. Close.
‘Escuta bem.’
You. Listen up.
‘Sem mais mancadas.’
No more screw-ups.
‘Me tragam o Graham Taylor.’
Bring me Graham Taylor.
Winter was advancing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nobody moved in the atrium. No noise. Just breathing. Fear has a sound if you listen close. Thin. High. It echoed off the glass walls.
Henry Grover came back from the window. Face drawn tight like piano wire in a gloved hand. ‘They’ve got Johnny and they’re coming for more. They’ll stop at nothing.’
Bill Mainwood knew what he was seeing. Fear’s a tool. Same as a fist.
He spoke up. ‘That’s what they want us to think, Henry.’
Henry wasn’t listening. Said to the crowd: ‘We mustn’t give them trouble.’
Leaders are meant to roar rebel yells, war whoops. This was surrender. The words landed like a towel and sponge on canvas.
Bill said: ‘Wrong.’
Like a razor in a steady hand — the word cut.
‘What we need to do is stand together. Stand up to them.’
Henry — eyes wide, face drained. ‘But that would be suicide.’
Another time, Bill would have smiled. They were all long dead.
He said: ‘Mobs rely on fear — on silence. They want us all to think we’re on our own.’
‘So what’s the answer?
‘One or two refusing to keep quiet. You’re The Father Of The Club. Tell them to come for you — and they’d better not miss.’
Murmurs. Small. Nervous.
Something worked in Henry’s throat before the words did. ‘Tell them to come for me?’
‘We’ll have your back. Act together, and we can finish this. For good.’
‘But that’s what the “Pozzo Out” lot say. And look how that’s going.’
Cheap shot. Bill didn’t flinch.
‘There’s strength in community. And strength in doing what’s right.’
He let the next words settle. ‘GT taught us that.’
Silence again. But different now. Thicker.
He stared at Henry. Henry broke first — studying his shoes like they’d have a better answer.
Bill let the silence sit there. Old Watford heroes dropped their eyes like parishioners who knew the sermon was about them.
Then he turned. Walked to the programme shelves. Slow. Steady.
Henry’s voice followed him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Fetching a programme.’
Bill picked one up. Smoothed its cover.
‘I’m going to carry on watching Watford.’
CHAPTER NINE
The English Gentleman was just inside the atrium doors. Motionless. Silent. And not there by accident. He studied the crowd the way a hunter studies the tree-line at dusk.
He saw men he’d sat with in the Director’s Suite, years back — Eddie Plumley and Bertie Mee. Good men. Movers, shakers. Saw players he’d watched: Andy Rankin and Alan Garner. Solid men, honest graft. But not who he needed. Where was Taylor? He needed Taylor.
He watched Bill Mainwood walk across the room towards him. Jaw set. With Henry Grover clinging to one sleeve like a father who knows he’s going to get a telegram. Henry cried out: ‘You think you’ve got to prove you’re not afraid, don’t you? You’ll walk straight into their trap just to show it, won’t you?’
Bill didn’t break stride.
‘Fine then!’ Henry said. ‘Go ahead! Get yourself killed, you stupid… pigheaded…’
Henry’s voice buckled.
‘…brave… lovely old thing.’
The room heard that. So did the English Gentleman. Softened something inside him.
He watched Bill shrug Henry off, clutching his programme like it was paperwork from a higher authority. ‘I’m going to go down there and get my rights.’
He heard murmurs again. Not frightened now. Different. Low, rising. And he saw the crowd get a little taller. Spines straightening. Chests lifting.
Fear doesn’t always win. Sometimes it just wakes people up.
A voice cut through: ‘Grab yourselves programmes! Everyone to the turnstiles! Bill walks through, we walk through with him!’
Now there was movement. He’d seen it before — on football terraces. A tide swelling. A chant catching, spreading, until it belonged to everyone. But this time there was urgency and purpose. Men handing each other programmes. Handing each other courage.
His jaw tightened. If the crowd moved together… If they flooded the turnstiles… The boss wouldn’t negotiate. He’d crush.
And the English Gentleman would get the blame.
He slipped away through the door.
CHAPTER TEN
The English Gentleman moved fast down Occupation Road. Heels striking hard. He needed to stay ahead of Bill — and the crowd swarming behind Bill.
One thought kept time with his footsteps. It wouldn’t leave him alone.
Which side are you on?
FIFA. Power in dark rooms. Money stacked high enough to blot out daylight. Greed dressed up as governance. Watching the game rot and calling it growth. No comeback. Just contacts and contracts. Gravy.
Or this place. This stubborn little community. People who knew right from wrong. Living the Watford way. The Graham Taylor way. Not for headlines, not for gain. For eternity. Just because it was right.
The choice should have been easy. He’d been a sports master. A referee. Blew a whistle when things crossed the line. But now he stood on the line. And didn’t know which way to blow.
He was caught. Caught between the machine he’d helped build — greasing the gears with silence — and his idea that Taylor could fix everything from the inside. Caught between fear — cold, practical, immediate — and something warmer coming down the hill behind him. Bill Mainwood. Not loud. Not grand. Just conscience in sensible shoes. Principle with a programme tucked under its arm.
He looked ahead. Saw he was caught in something else. A cold stare. His boss’s.
Winter doesn’t ask which side you’re on. It assumes.
This was no time to freeze.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The English Gentleman went and stood at his boss’s side. Two suits cut from different cloth, shoulder to shoulder.
The boss kept his eyes on Bill Mainwood and the crowd. No flicker. And no emotion in his voice when he said: ‘O que é isso?’
The English Gentleman glanced at the Frenchman. Got the answer: ‘He wants to know — what’s this?’
He watched the slow, steady advance and said: ‘This is what stupidity looks like. We’ll beat it out of them.’
He watched Bill reach a turnstile. No hesitation. No glance to the side. Just a man doing what he did every day. Doing what he loved. Going to a game of football.
The English Gentleman knew what was next. Snap! Soft and sharp. The heavies moved. Bill went down hard. Big hands got to work. Jabs, crosses, hooks. Toe-caps swinging into ribs. Heels crushing fingers. Powerful. Efficient.
Then it stopped. Bill lay on the pavement. Bruised. Bloodied. Pulped.
The English Gentleman glanced at the crowd. Saw the front rank flinch — step back. He stepped forward. The heavies had delivered a message. He had another.
He squatted over Bill. Bill was breathing. Just. Eyes swollen shut.
He made his voice loud. This was for everyone’s ears.
‘Did you hear them back there, Mainwood? Did you hear what they said?’
No answer. He leaned in closer. To penetrate Bill’s battered mind.
‘They said “Bill walks through, we walk through with him”.’
Bill tried to speak. Nothing came.
‘You lost the battle, Mainwood.’
And then. Leaning right down. Softening his voice. So only Bill could hear. ‘But you can win the war, Bill. All you’ve got to do is walk. Walk through the turnstile.’
Bill tried again to speak. Blood seeped from his mouth. ‘Help me on my feet.’
That was enough. Two men broke from the crowd. Henry Grover. Bertie Mee. Each grabbed an arm. Lifted Bill up. Careful. Gentle. The English Gentleman stepped out of their way.
‘Come on, old kitten,’ Henry said. Love in his voice. ‘You can do this.’
Bill blinked through swollen lids. Spoke through bubbles: ‘Am I on my feet?’
They steadied Bill. He staggered forward. Blind. The crowd closed in. Fists squeezing programmes. Courage as a spectacle.
Bill reached a turnstile. Propped himself against the wall. Straightened out his programme.
And went through.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The English Gentleman stood in sunshine. Watched the crowd pour through the turnstiles after Bill.
Young and old. Fans and players. Too many to frighten. Too many to stop.
Two of them bent and untied Johnny Allgood. Nothing the boss could do. The whole machine stalled because one man refused to stay down.
Then — not one snap, but two. The signal to retreat.
The heavies turned first. Then the Brazilian — Joao Havelange. Then the Frenchman — Jules Rimet. They crept away down the slope, suits dark against the light, like winter losing its grip on the fields.
The English Gentleman watched them thin into the gloom. Back to the afterlife they told people to call ‘Paradise’.
He didn’t follow. He’d made his choice.
Soon he heard footsteps. Henry Grover was beside him.
‘Sir Stanley Rous, I believe,’ Henry said. Clipped. Formal.
‘Yes,’ he said. Soft. Humble. The way he’d been on his first day at Watford Boys’ Grammar School. Recognition wasn’t important. What he needed was acknowledgement. That what he’d believed in all along was right.
Henry’s tone shifted. Warm now. Open.
‘Good man,’ Henry said. ‘Welcome to Hornet Heaven, old sausage.’
THE END
‘The Racketeers’ was written by Olly Wicken.
You can find out more about the Hornet Heaven series of stories here.
HORNET HEAVEN 