Free Jacquot and the Waterman by Martin O'Brien Page A

behind him, an Englishman in hot pursuit. Just the two of them. And thirty thousand Frenchmen rising to their feet, raising their fists, letting their scrotums unwind and their voices loose from deep down in their bellies. Urging him on, realising what was happening here. La France has the ball. Only two men. A race for the line. Run, man. Run, run, run . . .
Jacquot never once looked back. Didn't dare. Just put his chin in the air and made those legs pump.
Just run.
For a moment, he wondered if the whistle had gone for some infringement. A knock-on? A forward pass? Some technicality he wouldn't know about. Maybe he should stop so he wouldn't make a fool of himself, going the length of the pitch when the whistle had blown. Or maybe it hadn't, and he'd make an even bigger fool of himself coming to a halt in the centre of the pitch for no good reason - handing the ball, and victory, to the English.
So he didn't stop. He kept running. And now he could hear Courtney coming up behind him, boots sucking the turf. Which was when he knew for certain there'd been no whistle. Not if Courtney was still after him.
Extravagantly he'd swung out into the centre of the pitch, wrong-footing his pursuer a second time, gaining a few more metres. Out in the open, you could really hear the crowd. French and English. Each baying for their man. But it was impossible to see them out there. Only the pitch he galloped over, the low grey sky and the wind gusting floodlit splatters of rain in his face.
Across the halfway line - Jesus, he'd never forget how that felt - and now the posts were coming up, coming up. Closer. It didn't look so far now. Possible. Suddenly possible. Home not so far away, and the ball in the crook of his elbow, pressed to his chest.
But somewhere behind him he heard a grunt, a final, desperate expulsion of air from the lungs as Courtney launched himself, five metres from the English line.
And Jacquot felt the man's fingertips clip the heel of his boot.
There was nothing he could do.
The next second his left foot hit the back of his right knee and he was tumbling forward, reaching out with his free hand, his right leg managing just a final, hobbled step.
But the Englishman had left it too late. Jacquot was close enough for that final, desperate hop to work and over the line he went, ploughing through the mud, the ball pressed against his ribs and a plug of English turf up his nose.
Five points. La France wins. On the touchline, the Dax band brought their instruments to their Hps and started up a triumphant Marseillaise.
'You'll never buy a drink again, ami,' said Touche, the other flanker, as he hauled Jacquot to his feet and hugged him.
Sixteen seconds, that was all it took. Jacquot timed it on the replay. Later he found out that Courtney was a solicitor. A solicitor chasing a policeman the length of England's home ground. Jacquot loved that bit.
But it was all a long time ago now. Deep in the past. Another country. Now it was a cafe off Tamasin. Sharing a beer with an old comrade.
'You see the others?' asked Jacquot, trying to recall the Chats. The names, the faces. Blanchard with the blond hair, Gouffrat, Kovacs, and Dee-Dee something. . .
Doisneau shook his head. 'Decousse one time. Watching Olympique. He ran a hot dog stall there. Did the races too, at Borely. And Didier, Dee-Dee Ronat? Remember him?'
Jacquot nodded. Didier Ronat, of course. 'Three-finger' Dee-Dee, the other two lost in the sawmill where his dad worked. An expert pickpocket even without the full complement.
'Dead now, Didier. Cancer.' Doisneau sighed, looked to the ceiling, shook his head.
The two men were silent for a moment, remembering.
'You need something, don't you?' said Jacquot gently, making it easy for the man across the table, an old friend he hadn't seen for close on thirty years. For all the memories, the chance encounter, Jacquot was certain they weren't there just to talk about old times. He was right.
Doisneau hooked his hands round his glass