The boardroom was silent for a full minute following Lisa’s presentation.
It was Callum, one of the Runners in the TV company, who broke the silence. “You’re the producer so you know best…” he said.
A bit over-confident for one so young, Lisa thought. But he had the good grace to blush when he spoke, which was kind of cute, so she let him continue.
“…But what sort of person would want to watch a football match like this?”
Lisa peered over her glasses and allowed a smile to spread across her face. “Exactly,” she said.
*
“What?” Jim almost choked on his Sunday roast. “A football match where the losing team is, quite literally, slaughtered by the winning team? This goes against everything you stand for!”
“I don’t expect you to understand, Dad,” Lisa sighed. “Just tell James from me, he can have free tickets to the live match.”
Jim tilted his head and regarded his eldest child as though she were a puzzle. It had been twenty years since Simon, his youngest, had died during a post-match fight outside Stamford Bridge following a defeat against Man United. In all that time, Lisa had been vehemently against football, equating it with violence, and had shunned her brother James for continuing to support Chelsea. James saw it as honouring Simon’s memory, Lisa saw it as the ultimate betrayal.
*
“Well, you can tell Lisa from me…” James began.
“Do you want the tickets or not?” Jim snapped, sick of being their messenger.
“Of course! Any tips on who’s gonna win? I assume it’s rigged.”
“Apparently what’s-his-face, Olan Mask, is funding this thing, so you’re probably right…” muttered Jim, his sentence petering out as something tapped at the edges of his consciousness. What was she up to? He ached with hope that this might mean an end to his children’s feud. That this was some kind of twisted olive-branch from Lisa.
In the photo above the fireplace his three children smiled down at him, all dimples and gappy teeth, in blue and white school uniform- Chelsea colours as it occurred to him now. And he pictured the tumour currently eating its way through his body. All he wanted was for Lisa and James to support one another after his death.
He handed James the tickets.
*
Jim put down his sandwich and lowered the volume on the TV. He prided himself on his strong constitution, but the chilling sound of the baying crowd turned his stomach. Machine guns propped up around the perimeter of the pitch cast ominous shadows over the first few rows of spectators.
At the final whistle, the stadium fell silent. A last-minute equaliser. What now? No-one had talked about a draw. Jim held his breath.
“Final score 1-1. Audience loses!”
Jim clasped his face. “Oh, Lisa, what have you done?”
The players marched towards the guns and turned to face the stands, weapons raised.
Jim felt a sudden jolt in his chest and slumped to the floor.
