Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

from the MU Megastore.

      Away from the Theatre of Dreams.

      This time, I was all alone as I made my way back down the maze towards the station - no Bobbies on horseback - no chanting Blues. Occasionally, the stadium behind me would erupt with sound and fury but it meant nothing to me: a tired, old man, making his way slowly back to reality.

      If it would have me.

      FURTHER TROUBLE TO NEGOTIATE

      Graham McNowt did not like being interrupted on a Sunday morning. It was a time for quiet reflection and the music of Mozart, Wagner, Beethoven, Handel and Bach - Aryan music which filled his soul with the promise of White Paradise as he gazed through the conservatory into the pleasant autumn park behind his Belgravia manor, while Mozart’s Prelude and Fugue in C tinkled and soothed.

      It was also a time to go over his accounts.

      It was not a time to deal with incompetent fools. Vinnie Parsons shuffled from foot to foot behind the large oak desk while Barry and Bones slouched on the leather sofa. McNowt eyed them with unconcealed distaste and determined to get the sofa cleaned as soon as they departed.

      “You say the three of you were overcome by a single man?”

      Vinnie had been agonising over the matter for the past forty-eight hours as they’d waited for an alternative flight and then stewed in economy class all the way home (it was a week before a seat was available in first or business). Two days later his face was a mass of black and purple bruising. It would be at least a week before he could show himself on the streets of London, and a lifetime before he would get the shit-smell out of his brain.

      “‘E was well ‘ard,” pleaded Vinnie. “‘Ard as nails, yeah?”

      “An’ a professional goalkeeper,” piped up Barry from the sofa, trying to come to Vinnie’s aid.

      McNowt’s eyes never left Vinnie’s, and after an eternity of some eight seconds or so, he enquired: “And just why, precisely, did you get involved with this formidable adversary when you were overseas on my business?”

      “Formidable what?” asked Vinnie.

      McNowt continued to stare as Barry, unwisely, tried once again to rescue Vinnie.

      “Combatant Vin,” suggested Barry.

      Vinnie couldn’t believe his ears as he turned angrily on Barry.

      “Combat aunt? What the fack you on about?”

      McNowt ignored them and allowed a couple of bars of the Prelude to restore his equilibrium. He took a deep breath and said, “So you didn’t make contact with Bellson?”

      Vinnie was relieved that the discussion had moved on from the fight in the Qantas Club, but there was further trouble to negotiate.

      “No, Guv. I mean, we couldn’t when we missed the plane.”

      Vinnie felt his soul shrivelling under McNowt’s flat and unreadable gaze. No-one else in the entire world bothered him, but McNowt was scary - well scary - and the large portrait of Hitler which dominated the room was a definite turn-off. Didn’t we fight a war?

      “One of Bellson’s people phoned me yesterday,” said McNowt. “He says that he did make contact with you. He was displeased.”

      Vinnie the Shiv gazed blankly at McNowt. He understood each of the individual words, but put together they made no sense.

      “But I didn’t make contact wiv no-one. ‘Ow could I?”

      McNowt removed his rimless spectacles and rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers as the Prelude tinkled to its conclusion. He normally felt refreshed at the end of that piece but something was bothering him. Something was clearly going wrong, and there was a great deal riding. Everything was riding.

      “Bellson’s contact tells me that the man in the football shirt in first class was talking openly about the operation,” said McNowt, in the quiet voice which Vinnie knew always preceded a threat. “He confronted you in Bangkok. Are you calling him a liar?”

      Vinnie turned in mute appeal to Barry and Bones, who shrugged their shoulders. Vinnie felt like the whole world was going mad.

      “What can I say, Guv? We didn’t make the plane. Whoever ‘e spoke to, it weren’t me!”

      Then Bones came to Vinnie’s rescue.

      “Vin, Danny Malone was wearin’ a United shirt. Could it ‘ave been ‘im?”

      “Leave it out,” snided Vinnie, only too pleased to refer the pressure and abuse back down the pecking order. “I was wearin’ a Chelsea shirt for fack’s sake!”

      “It would make no difference to Bellson,” snapped McNowt. “How could he possibly tell one of your ridiculous tribes from another? There was one man in a football shirt in first class. He was looking for a man in a football shirt!”

      “I s’pose it’s possible,” said Vinnie, furious with Bones for making him look stupid.

      Bones, desperate to help Vinnie, spoke directly to McNowt for the first time in his life: “Erm … Mr McNowt. Couldn’t you get in touch with Bellson? It’d be simple enough to describe Danny Malone, or get a description of the bloke ‘e spoke to.”

      McNowt turned his bleak gaze upon Bones, then after a few moments, he shook his head: “Emil Bellson is not the type of man you just pick up the phone and call. He is an intensely private individual. I can only await his occasional contacts … usually via intermediar-ies. I’ve never met him. I can’t contact him, and in any case, I have no desire to report failure.”

      Once again, McNowt pressed his fingertips to his eyes and caressed away the burdens of his mission as another Mozart symphony reminded him of the delights that awaited in White Paradise.

      “I suggest you find this Malone,” said McNowt. “On top of everything else, Bellson gave him something in Bangkok. Something which belongs to me. Something of extreme importance and value.”

      A PORTAL FROM HEAVEN INTO PURGATORY

      Sunday afternoon in a BT phone booth stinking of piss and dead fags, the international call signal chirruped in my ear as I idly fiddled with something in my pocket. There was a silence, then a sound like wind whistling through a long tunnel, then a ringing: “Hello?”

      “Shona, it’s Eric.”

      “Eric?”

      “Eric Judd. We spent the last seven years together.”

      “Oh … Eric. It’s three in the morning!”

      I’d forgotten about the time difference, but the six pints I’d consumed in an Islington pub had convinced me that it was important to talk to Shona straight away.

      “Shona, I’ve realised something important.”

      “What’s that Eric? That 40-year-old goalkeepers are ten years too old?”

      “No.”

      What was that in my pocket?

      “Well, what? What is so important that you have to wake me up at 3 o’clock on a Monday morning?”

      I took a deep breath, and then I said it: “I love you, Shona.”

      “What?”

      “I love you. I’m coming home.”

      A part of me was screaming inside. Do I? Do I really love her? What is love anyway? Having been rejected so profoundly by England, I just needed acceptance. I needed to be understood and surrounded by my own kind. But my declaration of love did not have quite the impact I’d expected.

      “You