FREE STORY
Extra Time is a short story written by Robert H Page, Bolton born author and lifelong Bolton Wanderers fan. This story will be published on his next book - a collection of short stories combining crime, horror and a touch of sci-fi to boot. It tells the story of Danny, a Wanderer whose lucky streak comes to a sticky end. It is set in the forthcoming 2022/2023 season and as as the fixtures haven't yet been published those in the story are made up! Unless of course they are correct!?
It was the final game of the 2022/2023 season, not including the playoffs. Danny had managed to see every game bar one thanks to iFollow. The games he couldn’t make, like those tricky away fixtures, the day of his sister’s wedding and his girlfriend’s birthday, well he watched the game on iFollow. Well worth a tenner he thought, so long as the stream was good which wasn’t always the case! That just left the days whereby he we out and about with no access to iFollow. On these days he set an alert on his phone, using a football app, and his phone vibrated and alerted him to goals, red cards, penalties and end of half whistles. Danny had set up Bolton as a favourite team, so he never missed a thing. He left these alerts set all the time. The only annoyance was that if his iFollow stream was slow, he received an alert before he saw the action on his tablet, which was annoying for goals against but somehow quite exciting for Bolton goals. When he was at the game, the alerts usually came a few seconds after the event naturally. In this modern world it was possible to keep up with the action wherever you were, so long as you had a signal or Wi-Fi! It had been a great season; not only because his beloved Bolton Wanderers had finished second and secured an automatic promotion place, but that he had made a good few quid at the bookies. Unfortunately, he was now barred. Funny how they never bar the poor addicted folk who perpetually lose, only the ones like me who usually win. Anyway, word is out now and everyone wants to know how Danny managed to amass a fortune of over a million quid from betting on football – legally. He even got tweets from footballers. But it wasn’t skill, good fortune or divine intervention that guaranteed his predictions, it was a chance meeting at the start of the season. Bolton were hosting Sheffield Wednesday at the UNOB, but Danny still called it the Reebok as did most of the fans. Come half time it was nil nil and Danny had left his seat at the whistle to go for pee and to grab a chicken balti pie in the hope of getting back in time for the start of the second half. As he hurriedly ascended the stairs to his seat in the North Upper stand, amidst a sea of other Trotters doing likewise, one of the younger fans, who was running up the stairs two at a time to keep up with his bigger brother, accidentally collided with a tall, older gentleman. To anyone else it would merely have been a brushing of the shoulders but to this frail looking old man, who was climbing the stairs one at a time, slowly, aided by his walking stick, the slight contact knocked him off balance. Luckily, I caught him by the shoulder and managed to keep him upright. The old boy was a little shaken, but Danny held him by the arm until he regained both his balance and his composure. As they walked up the remaining stairs together Danny couldn’t help but notice that the old man was wearing a gold Rolex watch. Danny loved watches and he knew immediately that this was no copy watch but the real deal. It stood out in contrast to everything else about the old man. He wasn’t wearing new, branded clothes, just an old, frayed pair of cords, not even a Bolton top. Like many old folks, he was dressed like an onion – layers and layers of insulation to keep him warm in the biting, Bolton breeze. The old man assured Danny that he was good to return to his seat unaided and as Danny asked him if he was sure, the old man saw Danny looking at his timepiece. “This watch brings me good luck. If you touch it, it will bring you good luck too, in return for assisting me just now. Without your help I may have been trampled to death.” The old man said with a note of irony. Danny wondered if the old man was really quite so frail after all. Not wanting to offend Danny touched the glass of the old man’s watch with the index finger of his right hand, bade the old man farewell and returned to his seat. The game had already kicked off. The first half had been a battle of wits resulting in a tight game, played by two good teams. The attendance was bolstered by the impressive away contingency meaning over fifteen thousand football fans were supporting their respective teams, each and every one of them hoping their team scored the first goal. As always, the Bolton fans were quieter compared to the lesser volume of away fans. The ‘crazy corner’ lead the chants but by the time it reached North Upper only a handful of fans would make a noise. After another half an hour of deadlock Danny had completely forgotten about the old man. But as a stalemate looked increasingly likely, and with five minutes of normal time remaining, his attention waning a little with frustration, Danny started to look around to see if he could spot the old man. He must be sat close to where Danny left him, surely, he’d pick a seat close to the steps. That said, he’d chosen an upper stand which was very strange – all those steps…. Danny was still straining at the seats on the other side of the staircase when his phone buzzed. Were the game more exciting he’d have ignored it, but the currently there was a midfield tussle that had resulted in a free kick to Bolton and the ball wasn’t in play. He took his phone out of his pocked and checked the message. It was his football app and it indicated that Bolton had scored in the 90th minute. How strange. He looked over at the scoreboard at the opposite end of the stadium and it indicated that 88 minutes had been played thus far. Must be a glitch in the system. Maybe they’d send another message correcting the mistake. He’d seen it before when the app had gotten the scorer wrong and they’d issued a correction. He put his phone away just as the referee blew his whistle for the free kick to be taken. It looked like Sadlier was going to take the kick, which was on the outskirts of the centre circle in the opposition half. The kick went a bit wayward. Instead of heading into the box it went over to the right where Fossey ran at breakneck speed and managed to get to the ball just before it went out of play. This had taken Wednesday by surprise. It was nearing the end of a hard-fought game and their left back had assumed the ball was going out of play and had made no effort to retrieve it. When he realised Fossey had managed to get to the ball and keep it in play, he ran towards him, but it was too late. Fossey lifted a sublime cross into the box and straight onto Dion Charles’ head and the ball flew past the flailing keeper and into the top left corner of the net. The stadium erupted. Up to this point the Wednesday fans had been the loudest, but they fell silent now. Even if they were singing you wouldn’t hear them as every Bolton fan to a man was on their feet clapping and cheering. Danny wondered if the old man was also stood up, or if he had left early to beat the rush. If he had, then he'd missed a cracker. With only four minutes of injury time remaining, Bolton saw the game out in a professional manner ensuring the one nil victory. After the usual standing ovation for a minute or so, as the players walked around the ground saluting the fans, Danny started to make his way back to the stairs and heading for the pub. Once again, he glanced at the rivers of fans queuing to leave but there was no sign of the old man. The walk back to the pub in Horwich was a long and noisy one. Still there was some singing, chanting and lots of talk over the quality of Charles’ header, full of optimism for the season ahead, promotion seemed almost a certainty, even at this early stage of the season. The pub was heaving, full of Bolton fans naturally. Danny was always amused by the one family that seemed oblivious to the fact that Bolton was at home and the town centre pubs would soon be full of fans. This family drank up and left, making room for more fans! Instead of the usual late finish, Danny left around nine PM and went home via the Night Bar. Nothing like a mixed kebab to finish off a great day of football, beer and banter. It was only a short walk to his place from Longworth Road and he was soon seated in front of the telly tucking into his tea. When he had finally finished, he put his plate in the sink and retrieved a bottle of Stella from the fridge. He then returned to the sofa. Since the game had ended, he hadn’t checked his phone for any messages, so he retrieved it from his pocket and checked out his notifications. He had a couple of WhatsApp messages, one from his girlfriend India, a couple of spam emails and the notifications from his football app informing him of Charles’ goal. And then he remembered that this message had actually come in before the goal was scored. Only a minute or two mind, but nevertheless he remembered the fact that it had come in before the goal. Granted, he’d had a couple of pints before the game but surely he can’t have imagined it? Well, that was the only conclusion to come to – Danny was mistaken, his memory playing tricks. Still, he’d had a good day, his team had won, now it was time for a couple more drinks and a crap horror film just to finish his night off. By midnight he was asleep in front of the telly, a half empty bottle of Stella on the floor by his feet. Undoubtedly that would have been knocked over by the time the morning came. Sunday was a fairly quiet day. He met up with India and they walked around Middlebrook looking in the shops. They then had Sunday lunch in India’s favourite eatery and went their separate ways, another mundane week of work punctuating the football season. But Danny wouldn’t be travelling to the South coast the following weekend. Firstly, it was just a bit too far and too costly. Second, it was India’s birthday on the Saturday and they had planned a day out in Manchester. So next weekend would be one of those rare, footballess weekends for Danny. Still, he could keep up to date with the happenings so long as he had a phone signal and in Manchester he’d be fine. And so the working week came and went uneventfully. Friday night meant a few beers in town with the lads, but not too many as he was picking India up at 10am Saturday morning for their day out. Danny didn’t really like shopping. At least not clothes shopping. He got most of his stuff off the internet. But India was a retailer’s dream. She loved nothing more than looking in shop windows, going in all the clothes shops at least once, trying on clothes and then usually going back to the first shop they’d visited four hours earlier and buying the first thing she’d tried on. Not always but often enough to make the whole experience that bit less exciting. Lunch meant a curry. India loved curry, well she would with a name like that. She loved a chicken tikka masala with a plain naan. Danny went for something a little hotter like a madras, or occasionally a vindaloo or a chicken naga. There were rarely any leftovers and this was the highlight of the day for Danny – India’s birthday lunch. Neither of them was well off so they preferred a late birthday lunch followed by a skinful back in Horwich. Today India had chosen Bundobust. She’d eaten at their restaurant in Liverpool a few weeks earlier and wanted to show Danny what they had to offer. It was conveniently located next to Wetherspoons which was perfect! They arrived at around three fifteen. The waiter showed them to their table where he took their coats and they settled in. India picked up the menu, Danny retrieved his phone and looked at the Bolton score. Nil nil. Just then his phone vibrated and to his delight it informed him that Bolton had scored. He checked his watch and it was exactly three nineteen pm. Not bad, a goal within twenty minutes. A few seconds later his phone vibrated once again to tell him that it had been Dion Charles once again in the twenty-second minute. Danny looked at his watch again and it was approaching twenty past. Strange, the game must have kicked off a couple of minutes early – and that never happened. Ah well, time to choose his meal. India suggested a combo for two and, as it was her birthday today, he agreed, but asked the waiter for an extra portion of madras, or hot sauce. The service was really quick and their food arrived after around ten or fifteen minutes. By four PM they were both full up. Nevertheless, India ordered a kulfi and Danny ordered another pint of their own IPA. Craft beer with a curry, nice. By the time they had finished and paid the bill it was four thirty. As they were leaving Danny checked his phone to see the score – still one nil to Bolton. They were on target for their first away win of the season. They headed back to the train station to get the train back to Horwich where they were meeting up with a few friends to continue India’s birthday celebrations. There was a band on at the RMI, so they were meeting there to continue the celebrations. As they walked back towards the station Danny’s phone once again buzzed. He glanced at his watch as he clicked on the app – it was four forty. Bugger – Portsmouth had got an equaliser. Not happy, he plonked the phone back in his pocked, not bothering to wait to see who scored. They arrived at the station with time to spare. India went off to get two coffees and Danny once again checked his watch – it was now four forty-four – nearly full time. The second half usually kicked off a few minutes after the hour, but he knew there wasn’t much time left for Bolton to regain the lead. As he casually looked around the platform at the commuters, he felt his phone buzz. Could this be the Bolton winner? He quickly retrieved his phone from his pocket, almost dropping it and swiped the screen to check his notifications. Bolton had scored! Dapo in the ninetieth minute!! He instinctively looked at the time at the top of his screen – four forty-five. And Dapo had scored in the ninetieth minute. Surely it couldn’t be the ninetieth minute? There must have been no injury time in the first half. Ah well, just a few minutes to hold on to this lead and they had three more points in the bag! India returned with their coffees and they finished them off on the train back to Horwich. They walked all the way down Chorley New Road to the RMI. They had plenty of time and it would be nice to walk off the huge meal they’d eaten. When they arrived a few of their friends were already in there with drinks in hand. Danny went to the bar and got India a gin and tonic and a pint for himself. None of their guests this evening had been to the game – the travelling away fans wouldn’t be returning to Horwich until very late, so the conversation was mainly non-football related. India’s friends brought her gifts which included an Argos voucher, a bracelet charm and a bottle of wine. Why would anyone give you a bottle of wine? It meant that you had to keep hold of all night then walk home with it. Danny was spending the night at India’s place so he’d be the one carting the bottle of wine all the way home. Still it was another reason to get a taxi later on!! It was Sunday evening and Danny was relieved to be back home and away from India’s parents and sister, none of whom particularly seemed to like him. Her family were wannabe posh, but not posh enough if you know what I mean. They lived up Chorley Old road in a big, Victorian semi with a nice garden. Another winning weekend, next weekend Bolton hosted Accrington Stanley. Saturday soon came around after yet another mundane week at work. Danny was sat in his seat by two-fifty and discussing the team line-up with the other guys seated near him. Over the past week the messages he’d received the previous two weeks had played on his mind a bit. Had they really arrived early? He’d made enquiries about the kick off times the previous week and there was nothing unusual. This week he would keep an eye on his phone. He was there at the game – the only true way to know if the timing of these messages was out of the ordinary. And he didn’t have to wait long until his theory was proven correct. At exactly three forty-one his phone buzzed and upon checking the notifications it informed him that the Icelandic striker had scored on the forty-fourth minute. He checked the clock on the scoreboard – they’d played forty-one minutes and thirty seconds. The message was approximately three minutes ahead – but was it correct? He carefully watched the play, watching Jon Dadi Bodvarsson’s every move. The play started with a goal kick from Accy. It swiftly went across the pitch and into the Bolton goalkeeper’s hands. After pontificating for a while, he passed it out to Santos, who made a few yards then passed to Ireland. He in turn passed it to Kieran Saddlier. Saddlier took one look and launched the ball down the pitch and straight to the feet of Dion Charles. Charles went around one defender and as the second defender tried to make the tackle, he side footed it across the box to the feet of Bodvarsson who side footed the ball into the back of the net. Danny looked at the scoreboard – forty-three minutes and fifty seconds. It was indeed the forty-fourth minute. Suddenly he realised that he was the only fan still sat down, staring at his phone. He stood up and cheered with everyone else. The guy next to him made a quip about ignoring those messages from the wife and Danny laughed. But his mind was racing. Sure enough, he was now getting alerts to goals three of four minutes ahead of time. But only for the last three weeks. And then it hit him. The old man! The old man had told him that by touching his watch he would get good luck – could this be the good luck the old man was referring to? It was only after this encounter that the timelapse thingy, whatever it was, had started. He knew normal messages arrived in real-time, he got enough of them! It was just these football alerts. The following day Manchester United were on the box. Though he profoundly disliked Manchester United, he set his phone to receive alerts on the game to see if the timelapse thingy affected all games or just Bolton ones. Within ten minutes United were losing one nil to Wolves. He switched channels to another game and set an alert. Same thing – the alerts were in the proper time. The timelapse thingy only seemed to work for Bolton games. And now his mind started to work on ways to take advantage of this stroke of luck that the old man had possibly given him. The obvious way was betting, either online or in the bookies. But would they accept a bet three minutes before the thing you were betting on was to happen? He went onto his laptop and searched Google. He found the ‘Guide To Live Sports Betting’. It seemed that he could indeed place bets in real-time. After a bit more research he found that Bet365 offered real-time betting and live streaming of the game – result. Next week Bolton were away to Burton Albion. He would spend the afternoon at home both watching the match on iFollow and betting on it. Saturday couldn’t come soon enough for Danny. Bolton were sitting third in the table, only because of their loss on the opening day of the season to Wycombe of all teams. He’d already set himself up with an online betting account. And there was always the bookies if the worst came to the worst. It was only a ten-minute trot to town. Come three O’clock Danny was sat in his lounge, the match on his laptop and his phone in his hand. But when the halftime whistle went the score was still nil nil. Surely this wasn’t to be the first goalless game of the season? As it turned out it wasn’t. Not by a long chalk! Before the second half had even kicked off his phone buzzed informing him that Burton had scored in the forty-seventh minute – that was the second minute of the second half. He immediately placed a twenty-pound bet on Burton scoring first. The next sixty seconds dragged for Danny. What made it even worse was that iFollow also had a delay of a couple of minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds or so of Danny wondering why he had been stupid enough to believe such nonsense. But it wasn’t nonsense when Burton scored. The odds were favourable. He looked at his account and he’d won one hundred and sixty pounds! Magic! Quids in! But the game wasn’t over yet. And, of course, Bolton were losing and he didn’t want that. Luckily for Bolton and Danny in particular his phone buzzed again only ten minutes later with Bolton’s equaliser. Once again he put twenty quid on and once again he won. This time one hundred and forty-five pounds. At this rate, he could give up work! For the next goal, if indeed there was one, he would bet big – a hundred quid! Bolton were getting a reputation as late scorers – always putting the effort in until the last minute. And sure enough, with five minutes of normal time remaining Danny’s phone buzzed informing him that Bolton had taken the lead. On went Danny’s ton. And three minutes later, Danny was another five-hundred quid richer! What an afternoon. He’d made over seven hundred quid. Well, that was in his account, all he had to do was work out how to get some of the money out. The rest he’d use to bet with next weekend. To hell with going to the game, he’d stay at home and make wonga. That night he hit the town, the money sitting pretty in his bank account. He got even more leathered than usual and this didn’t go down well when he met up with the ladies for last orders. Danny could hardly stand up. When he bought a round for everyone, including the two drinks he had managed to drop when coming and going to the bar, India was beginning to wonder where he had gotten the money from. Naturally, she asked him. “I placed a little bet on Bolton and we won!” was his response. Despite the fact that Danny had never betted before whilst they’d been together, it didn’t seem that unusual. Most of his mates had a flutter now and then and they always stick a few quid on the Grand National and watched it on the telly. Sunday morning Danny had the hangover from hell. India had stayed over at his place and it was a tip. Even more of a tip than usual. There were beer bottles and a pizza box littering the lounge floor and dishes piled up in the sink. At least she’d managed to persuade him not to have a midnight kebab and all the ramifications of that on his lounge floor, or worse still, all over the bed! As Danny sat on his own on Sunday afternoon, his head still banging, he could think of nothing else but the time shift. How was this possible? Even sci-fi movies hadn’t thought of this phenomenon. But nevertheless, it was happening – and to him alone apparently. He decided that the worst risk to his betting was not getting the bet placed on time, so he decided to invest some of his winnings in a new phone with a bigger screen. He’s also seen an offer where you got a free smart watch. That should be able to also show the notifications from his football app thus informing him of upcoming goals in the most efficient manner. By the following Saturday Danny was fully equipped. It had taken him most of Friday evening and Saturday morning to get the phone and watch configured but it would be worth the trouble in the long run. He’d also decided to buy something nice for India as he hadn’t exactly been the perfect company for her last weekend and all. He’d bought her a matching smart watch. He knew she already had a good phone, like all the girls these days. It was white with rose gold, her favourite combination. That should get him back in her good books this evening. He’d booked a table at their favourite Indian in Horwich for 7pm after the game. For Danny, the passion of the beautiful game, the hopes and aspiration for the team he had followed all his adult life, had now dwindled into second place after this need to make money. He’d never make as much as the leading footballers but at least he could make enough to lead a comfortable lifestyle. During the past week he’d registered with another leading online betting site for use this week. He’d decided not to go to the game but to stay at home again. If he went to the game, then there would be lots of people within close proximity. He didn’t want to risk anyone spotting what he was doing or spreading the word. This was private. He wouldn’t even tell India. He’d open a new bank account and deposit his winnings into that account. It would remain top secret. He’d even cleared some space in a drawer for the correspondence relating to that account where India wouldn’t look. He’d got it all sussed. By the time they took their seats at the Indian, both Danny and India were gushing. Danny as he was five hundred pounds better off and India with her brand-new smart watch he’d bought her. Danny had told India that he wouldn’t go to so many matches any more but save his money so he and India could dine out every Saturday night. And this went on until the nights started drawing in. By now Bolton were still second in the league, but only on goal difference. Danny’s new account had over five-thousand pounds in it and they’d become closer as they spent more time together. But there was only one problem. By now it had become apparent to Danny that the time slip was reducing. At first, he had three or four minutes notice of a goal, now it was only two minutes. This was only just enough time to register his bet. Pretty soon the game would be up, his cash cow expired. As soon as he had realised this earlier that month, he had decided to start going to the home games again in an attempt to find the old guy whom he believed had given him the gift of the time slip. Maybe all he had to do was touch the watch once again and he would accumulate another three or four minutes? It was the only option open to him. India wasn’t too surprised when he started going to the home games again. They still ate out though and she wasn’t spending as much on Saturday afternoons shopping. Danny’s searches went on all the way to Christmas. By now the time slip had depleted to nothing. His phone beeped at the same time as everyone else’s. Life had returned to the mundane routine. His special bank account was empty and his usual one was overdrawn. Spending was a habit that was difficult to break. He could no longer afford all the dining out, the shopping trips and he’d continued to place bets on scorers, failing to win a penny now he was playing on a level field. It was the week before Christmas and Danny was panicking about how he could buy India something nice for Christmas. She’d gotten used to nice gifts over the past six months and he was in a hole. But the hole became much deeper with the visit of the postman. As Danny returned from work, he checked his post and found an intriguing letter. Upon opening it he learned that he was being investigated for unusual betting patterns in connection with match fixing. Match fixing? Shit! It took him a few minutes for this to sink in. As it did, he now looked at himself as others would see him and his actions. Match fixing - that’s what anyone would think given he’d predicted goal scorers so consistently. He’d never looked at it like that. How the hell could he explain his time shift? He’d sound like a lunatic. He might end up in jail, shit. His only real hope was to find the old guy, get him to explain how he had somehow empowered Danny with a time shift that meant his football alerts, and only his football alerts funnily enough, came through early allowing him to place bets. Nothing illegal in that. The law didn’t take into account time slips, surely? But he’d only ever seen the old guy once. He’d casually asked a few of the other fans if they recalled seeing him and none had. He’d even looked for the kids that nearly knocked him over and when he eventually traced them they denied any memory of the incident. One of them even said they supported Chorley – a likely tale. He had to step up his search for the old guy. But how? He decided to post on the Bolton Wanderers Facebook pages. He made a story up about a kind old man who had lent him some money for a pie at half time and he wanted to return the favour at the next game but he hadn’t seen the guy since. He described him and said the date of the match where they’d met earlier that year. Of course, by now many weeks had passed, and noone came forward with any suggestions. Strange, as had the old guy been a lifelong fan lots of people would have known him surely? The letters kept coming and Danny didn’t know what to do. He tried more forum posts to no avail. He’d tried asking people in town in the pubs and clubs. He’d tried the RMI, the Connie Club, the Heritage Centre everywhere! Yet noone claimed to know anything about this old guy. Finally, he received a summons. He couldn’t afford a solicitor, so he opted for the duty one. The guy’s face when Danny explained how he had managed to successfully place bets on scorers for Bolton and their opposition. The guy clearly wasn’t a football fan, he even commented about the hooligan’s spoiling the town centre of Manchester. A Manc to boot! The solicitor finally decided to claim that no crime had been committed whatsoever, Danny had merely been lucky. The fact that he had placed twenty-three bets, all winning bets was probably pushing it a bit. With hindsight, Danny should have also placed a few losing bets to make the numbers even up a bit, but it was too late now. If the going got tough, Danny had secretly decided to claim he was clairvoyant and his granddad, deceased but a lifelong Wanderer, was sending him messages. To make anything stick they’d have to link Danny with one or more players of Bolton. Plus, he’d also bet on their opposition, making it even more unlikely. If this was a setup it had to be the best setup in the world. Surely, they’d investigate the betting patterns of the players Danny had bet on, maybe the whole squad? Danny knew for sure that he had no ties whatsoever with any of the players. He didn’t even do Twitter and follow any of them like loads of other fans. There was nothing, diddly squat, sod all to tie him to any of the squad. Danny’s solicitor, Tom, had told him that Under the Gambling Act 2005, all bookmakers are required to share information with sporting governing bodies and to alert them to suspicious betting activities surrounding sporting contests. This condition is viewed as a crucial tool in preventing and detecting betting-related fraud and this was how Danny’s lucky streak had finally run out. When the date finally came, Danny wore his best suit, that reserved for weddings, funerals and now court appearances. He pleaded not guilty to the charges under the Fraud act of 2006 and the gambling act of 2005. He was even charged with activities relating to match fixing to boot. But Danny knew that none of this could be proved. All he had to do was sit it out. He had a plan if his solicitor’s plan was looking dodgy. He didn’t have any supporters in the court, India had left him at the first sniff of his nefarious activities. She was now going out with a guy called Gordon. Danny smiled as he imagined himself crying all the way to the chip shop. The smartly dressed usher, or whoever he was, shouted “All stand”. Danny stood up as did everyone else as the judge walked into court. Danny looked at the floor at first but when they all sat down and the noise abated, he sheepishly looked up at the judge and it was at that moment it hit him. He recognised the judge immediately, but the judge just looked down on Danny with a very stern, judgemental expression. It was the old man. Danny had been done over by a judge! How the hell could he explain this to his solicitor? It was the final whistle for Danny.