Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

“Loik fockin’ twins so ye are.”

      * * *

      Getting past the nurse was simple enough with Bernie vouching for me: “‘E’s me sister’s only brother,” he smiled as we trooped past her and into a private ward festooned with flowers and Man United scarves. Two women sat at the bedside: one was clearly his mother, and the other, rather stunning creature, was probably his wife. They looked up as we entered the room and stared at me.

      “Danny lad?” asked Bernie.

      I could see no resemblance so far. The man in the bed was covered in bandages with only his eyes and nose showing. He continued to stare out the window for a few seconds and then murmured: “Allroight, Da?”

      “Foin lad, foin. I’ve brought someone fer you to meet.”

      “Fock’s sake, no visitors. Not today,” slurred the invalid, and I realised he was probably on very high doses of industrial strength pain killer.

      “This is a very special visitor, all the way from Australia. He’s got somethin’ important to tell yer.”

      The bandaged head of Danny Malone swivelled slowly in my direction. The green eyes, surrounded by purple bruising, trained on me and did not waver.

      “Focken Jayzuz.”

      “That’s focken blasphemy, son,” his mother chided gently.

      “Aye, but fock. Where’d you come from?”

      “G’day mate,” I said. “It’s a bit of a long story.”

      I recounted, once again, the story commencing with the Qantas Club, the stranger in Bangkok, and the constant references to me looking like Danny Malone.

      “I mean, I must’ve seen you a thousand times on telly back in the 80s and 90s but I never noticed the resemblance.”

      Danny was silent for a moment. The drugs must’ve been strong; it was painful watching him try to think. At last he said, “Bloke in Bangkok … yer said he give ya key?”

      “He did.”

      I fished my keys out of my pocket and showed them the small silver key with K242 inscribed on it.

      “Blokes in ‘ouse kept askin’ me, where’s the focken key? Didn’ know what they wuz talkin’ about.”

      “Tell yer whut,” said Bernie. “This is more ‘n just revenge. Yer’ve been mistaken fer our Danny, but it’s plain yer’ve also been mistaken fer someone else. Someone’s givin’ yer something yer not s’posed to ‘ave. An’ now they want it back.”

      I had guessed as much myself.

      “I guess we need to talk to the coppers,” I said, and the room temperature cooled instantly. Several pairs of Irish eyes flickered back and forth, then Bernie said, “No polis. It’s erm … it’s not our way. Best just ter give the key back.”

      I just stared at him for a moment - then at Danny’s mutilated body. Then I said, “Okay, I’m perfectly happy to give it back to the bastards, if that’s what you want. But how do you contact the Blue Fury? No offence,” I said, nodding at Danny, “but it looks kinda dangerous. And I don’t think I’m their favourite person.”

      “Yer’d best see Mervyn,” said Bernie, at which the women looked up sharply.

      “Not yer brother in law,” muttered Danny’s mother (whose name, I’d learned, was Iris. The younger woman was Danny’s sister, Kathleen). “There’s been enough violence!”

      “So there has,” agreed Bernie, “an’ if there’s to be no more, then these matters need to be handled properly by qualified men. Your brother is the most qualified man in North London.”

      There was an uncomfortable silence in the room as an unspoken argument raged, but Danny seemed beyond it all and I found myself staring at him, heedless of the debate, the events of the last few days, and even our uncanny resemblance. This was Danny Malone, for fuck’s sake! He’d actually lived the life I’d dreamed of and I said to him: “So Danny, what was it like?”

      He knew exactly what I was talking about, and to the puzzlement of his family said, “Focken paradise.”

      ERIN GO BRAE

      If you’ve never been to London, just imagine grey and brown, four storey buildings stretching in every direction for a hundred miles. That tells you much about the homogeneous architecture, but little about the wild diversity of culture thriving in its ivory towers and seething in its catacombs. It was to the catacombs I was heading.

      The mini-cab pulled up outside a fairly nondescript four storey building with a brass plaque advertising West Hampstead Sportsmen’s Club.

      “Don’t forget what I said abaht them Pakkies!” wheezed the cabbie with a cheery wave as he disappeared in a cloud of monoxide and cigarette smoke.

      I breathed deeply for the first time in 20 minutes (as much to clear my head as my lungs), then trotted down a few stairs and found myself in a large, dim lit room with the characteristic fume of stale beer and dead fags, the walls covered with hundreds of aging sporting pictures and paraphernalia. It was early in the day and the only blokes in the bar were a couple of heavies nursing pints of Guinness, and a stereotypical cockney barman, complete with apron and comb-over.

      “What’ll it be, Guv?”

      “Just a mineral water, if you’ve got one. I’m here to see Mervyn.”

      Immediately, the two heavies were on their feet and the barman was displaying somewhat less in the way of stereotypical cockney cheer.

      “No-one ‘ere called Mervyn,” he said. “Oo sent yer?”

      “Erm,” I replied, as the heavies approached, and stood either side of me at the bar, making it difficult to concentrate. As I’ve said before, I’m pretty handy with my fists, but I know the type and these blokes were obviously first grade.

      “Another focken skippy, is it?” asked the taller one, with black hair. Irish, from the sound of him.

      “Looks like our Danny, so he does,” replied his shorter, more muscular companion with ginger hair and huge mutton chop side levers. Both were covered with Gaelic tatts - all cross-hatching and Erin Go Brae.

      “Eric Judd, from Sydney,” I said.

      I held out my hand but the two heavies ignored it and continued their appraisal.

      “Looks tidy,” said the taller.

      “Aye,” replied Mutton Chops. “But taken some recent damage. How bad was t’ other fellah?”

      For the first time, I felt myself to have been addressed. It wasn’t really my style to go into the gory details of my various altercations, but I couldn’t help but feel that I was somehow on trial and needed to give a decent account of myself.

      “Three other fellahs,” I said, with a slow smile as I remembered the Qantas Club. “But no match for Eric Judd.”

      There was a bit of a silence as Tweedle O’Dum and Tweedle O’Dee considered me.

      “Likes to boast, so he does,” observed the taller. “T’ree’s more ‘n a handful fer any man. And they’d know their business takin’ on the loiks o’ Danny Malone.”

      “They didn’t know Eric Judd,” I replied, starting to get the shits with their vague interrogation. Fuck this, I thought and turned back to the barman, who was yet to lift a finger concerning my mineral water.

      “Come on pal,” I said. “Where’s Mervyn? I haven’t got all fucking day.”

      With my change of tone the two heavies suddenly closed and grabbed me by the elbow and scruff on either side, but for some reason, I wasn’t remotely concerned. Bernie had sent me, after all. Weren’t they