Excerpt 3 from Book 2 'It Came To Pass...'.

..."There was three of ‘em," said Mary, the landlord’s wife. "Strangers. Never seen ‘em in here before. And I’d know if I’d seen ‘em before ‘cos they're not the sort of blokes you’d forget, isn't it? All of ‘em as tall as you if not bigger. ‘Specially the big ‘un, he must have been seven feet high and twice as wide. But they was all very polite and well mannered. Bit strange though, they was all wearing thin summer shirts with short sleeves and in this weather too. I ask you, they must be mad." Then she looked at Oliver in his faded, grey T-shirt. "Well, as mad as you at any rate," she laughed nervously.

"Where are they now?" he asked.

Mary looked up to search the pub for Oliver’s visitors, she looked directly at Oliver but her eyes kept moving upwards.

"They're behind me, aren't they?" he said.

Mary nodded her head.

"I’ll get that," said a deep, friendly voice that was definitely not Welsh.

He spun around. Oliver was six feet six inches tall but the stranger towered above him; his head was touching the beams, his muscular bulk obscured other two who stood behind him. Although they were no midgets themselves; each of them as tall and as broad as Oliver; they paled into obscurity beside their colleague. The tallest man had long black hair tied into a ponytail and the swarthy, sun-tanned look of a South American gaucho.

"Hello Oliver," he said; his accent more Oxford than Orinoco. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sundance. Sundance D’Ward and my friends here are Dr Jaffel Herly and Mr Sherwani the Donjon. We have come a long way to find you and would appreciate a moment of your time."
The other two men stepped forward and offered Oliver their hands. Sherwani the Donjon had a shock of light brown hair that stuck out in all directions and a square face that made him look slightly Germanic but his smile was friendly and his handshake firm without being threatening. Dr Jaffel Herly was blonde; his tight curly hair was cut short. Oliver couldn’t help staring at Jaffel’s eyes; they were the same vivid orange as his own.

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance at last," he said as he shook Oliver’s hand and bowed very slightly.

Oliver couldn’t help thinking of the Russians, Zoltan Cziborski and Sergei Salenko, they had accosted him in a pub and seemed very genuine, friendly even, and they had tried to kill him. He was on his guard.

"You say you have come a long way and certainly your names and your accents would lead me to believe that you are not from these parts. So where exactly are you from? And what in God’s name could you want with me?" said Oliver.

"God?" said Sundance, a hint of surprise tempering his voice. "Don’t tell me he has contacted you already. He promised me I had complete control over this undertaking."

"Jesus!" Oliver exclaimed. "You're trying to sell me religion? Well don’t bother, I gave at the office. Who put you up to this? It wasn’t my wife was it? She never gives up."

"Sorry," said Sherwani. "Your wife? You mean Rachael? Has she been speaking to God? What did she tell you?"

"She speaks to him all the time," said Oliver. "But she never tells me what he says to her anymore. I thought she had given up trying to convert me. Ee, I don’t know, you're married to ‘em, you love ‘em, you think you understand ‘em but it’s like they're from a different planet. Especially ones who think that they can talk to God."

"So she has spoken to God!" said Sundance angrily. "We deliberately wanted to meet you here, on our own, so as not to alarm your family and now God has put his bloody oar in. He just has to be in control, doesn’t he?"

"Look, save your breath," said Oliver. "Nothing you can say will make me believe God exists nor his son Jesus or any of that lot. I’m sure there are plenty of other souls around here who wouldn’t mind being saved but I’m not one of them."

"Jesus? Do you mean Jesus Christ?" asked Jaffel. His face betrayed an odd look of puzzlement as if he didn’t understand the direction the conversation was taking. "He died hundreds of years ago but you're right, he was the Son of God. But we've had loads of Gods since then. Anyway, were not here to try to save your soul. In fact, quite the opposite, were hoping that you can save ours."

"Hang on a minute," said Oliver. "How do you know my wife’s name? I don’t like the sound of this, have you been spying on me? What else do you know?"

"Oh we know everything about you Oliver," said Sundance, quite unable to contain his enthusiasm. "We’ve been watching you ever since the day you were born. It really is an honour to finally meet you. You’ve led an eventful life; we’ve all been very impressed with you. Hardly anybody back home ever misses an episode; you had us glued to our visors when you ended up in that coma. Everyone was rooting for you and Rachael to make it and get married. There was hardly a dry eye anywhere on the day of your wedding. And…"

"What the hell is going on here?" Oliver was shouting. The pub fell silent and all eyes honed in on the group. "You three had better just Fuck Off and leave me and my family alone; or I will get everybody in this pub to beat the shit out of you. And they would do it too, if I asked, wouldn’t you lads?"

A deep, baritone, harmonious "Yes Oliver," reverberated around the Old Lime Kilns as every man in the bar stood squarely behind their friend.

"No, no, no, no, no!" said Jaffel, shaking his head. "This has all gone horribly wrong. We’re sorry, please can we start again?"

"No, just get on your bikes and get the fuck out of here. Go back to wherever it was you said you had come from and never show your faces around here again. Do I make myself clear?"

Oliver moved forward threateningly, secretly quaking in his boots but sure in the knowledge he had the support of his friends around him. He stumbled slightly and Sundance quickly put out one of his massive arms to support him. To everyone else it looked like he was throwing a punch and in a flash the pub erupted into testosterone fuelled mayhem. Twenty, burly ex-miners and their sons launched themselves as one towards the three men, kicking, spitting head-butting and punching.

Oliver swung his right arm up, his fist clenched into a tight knot and he connected with the jaw of Sundance D’Ward like he’d never connected with a punch before. He expected the man, big as he was, to crumple into a heap but he was wrong. Sundance just rubbed his chin gently. He then grabbed Oliver’s arms so that he couldn’t punch him again and with them pinned to his sides he lifted him off the floor and carried him through the mêlée of fighting men to a quieter corner of the room. Oliver had never felt such power in his life, it was as if he was being held in a massive hydraulic vice and struggle as he might it had absolutely no effect on his captor. Sundance dumped him down onto a bench in the alcove and held onto him.

"Look Oliver, I’m sorry about all this. I never meant to harm you or your pals. Just sit here with me for a minute and when the other two have calmed your friends down perhaps we can start our little chat again; okay?"

Oliver nodded but his attention was elsewhere. On the other side of the lounge Jaffel Herly and Sherwani the Donjon had taken ten men each and they were now pinning them to the wall and asking them very politely to calm down...

Excerpt 2 from Book 2 'It Came To Pass...'.

We need to change things around pretty damn quick if we hope to salvage our reputations. This club’s outgoings far outstrip its income and it doesn't take a genius to predict that this is a recipe for disaster. Both of us have a lot invested in this club and I’m not just talking about passion and desire. If we don’t start liquidating our assets soon we’re going to go down with it!"

"Look Charlie," Amos opened his arms in a gesture of affinity. "I started with nothing, not even a proper education and I built this empire up from rubbish and sweat. I’m not gonna abandon it now ‘cos things are looking a bit rough. I love this club; I am this fuckin' club and I’ll fight for it ‘til my dying breath. The fans are still hungry for success and I should know. Above all else I'm still one of them. I’m a fan Charlie; I’ll do everything I can to bring the glory days back to these terraces. I don’t want to hear no more talk of running away. We’re gonna face this crisis square on; and by God, we’re gonna win!" He thumped the table to emphasise his determination.
"I bought this club when we were in the dregs of the old 3rd Division, playing in front of two men and a dog in a leaky old barn, on a quagmire of a pitch. I built it with spirit, with devotion and fucking hard graft. With your help we became one of the best teams in Europe. We've got a stadium that's the envy of Wales and a squad of players any Chairman would kill for. We did it once and if we have to, we could do it again. But things aren't that bad; we can bounce straight back into the Premiership, you know we have the talent and I’m gonna make damned sure these overpaid tossers have the desire. We’ll be back in the black before the end of the season. And we’ll be back in the Premiership!"

"I too began with nothing," said Charlie. "And I am also, first and foremost, a football fan; so I know how you must be feeling. But consider this. If this club goes bankrupt - which it shows every likelihood of so doing - then we could go bankrupt with it. And even if both of us could ‘pull our sleeves up’ and start all over again, we’d have to do it from The Chilterns."

"What do you mean?" Amos’ eyes narrowed as he looked suspiciously at his Chief Executive.

"What I mean is; under section 427 of The Insolvency Act, 1986, we’d effectively be banned from politics and have to give up our seats in the Commons. You can't be an MP if you're a bankrupt!"

"Oh! I see…" the cogs in Amos’ brain clicked and whirred. "So, have you got any ideas?"

"Yes," Charlie's tone portrayed no emotion. "I own twenty-one percent of the shares in Ducaponddi City Plc. and you own thirty percent. Am I correct?"

"Yes."

"Fifty-one percent, a controlling interest. I think we need to sell all of our shares before they become completely worthless. The club is already £20 million in debt and that’s not counting the outstanding loan on the stadium; I’m afraid you may have to write that one off. The shares have dropped eighty percent since the beginning of the season and the longer we wait the worse it is going to get. By the start of next season, if we don’t get back into the Premiership, I doubt if we will be able to give the damned things away."

"Yes but how? As soon as it gets out that we’re bailing, the whole business is going to crash around our ears. We can't do that to the Ducks!"

"Think with your head for once and not with your heart, old chap. The markets close in a couple of weeks for the Christmas, New Year break; if we can sell our shares, secretly, during that break, nobody will find out about it until 5th January, and by then it’ll be all done and dusted. The longer we delay the less we will be able to salvage. I have already put out some feelers, in strictest confidence of course, and I think I’ve found us a buyer. But don’t hold out too much hope of making a profit. I believe you bought the club for £1? Well, if you're lucky you might just get that back."

"It’s that bad?"

"Nobody is investing in football anymore, especially outside the Premier League. If we can persuade our secret buyer to purchase our shares and take over the mounting debt, we might yet salvage our seats in parliament. It’s that bad!" Charlie nodded gravely.

"So, who is this mug who wants to buy the Ducks then?" Amos grinned. "Does he know how bad the situation is?"

"No, I don’t think he does; but as they say ‘Let the buyer beware!’ I’m not even sure he knows that much about Welsh football, I get the distinct impression he thinks he is buying Cardiff City and the Millennium Stadium."