Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

after all. Looked like ‘im, but … at least we gave ‘im a proper slappin’. Teach ‘im to save penalties in the Cup semi,” said Vinnie.

      Bones and Barry grinned proudly, but McNowt was in no mood to be complimentary.

      “Do you have any idea what I am trying to accomplish here? Do you have any comprehension of what is at stake?” he asked quietly.

      “Well, not really,” said Vinnie. “You ‘aven’t told us much. Somethin’ ‘bout deliverin’ a package. I was presumin’ some sort of drug deal.”

      McNowt’s eyes went black and Vinnie knew he’d guessed wrong.

      “Find the key, Parsons. Find it soon, or I’ll find someone who can.”

      BUSINESS

      Jaffa was right. The lady of the house was a total cow with a class disdain for labourers I’d heard about but never experienced in Australia.

      She pointed and prompted as we did her bidding in mild subservi-ence while taking our revenge at every opportunity. Jaffa’s favourite thing was to pick his nose or his ear before touching anything made of fabric, while I tore the last page out of the novel on her bedside table. That’ll fuck her.

      Halfway through the morning, she informed us that she was going to lunch and to please be finished by the time she returned.

      “We’ll do our best,” said Jaffa. “But it’s a big job, yeah?”

      “Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted. “Everything’s crated and stacked. You simply need to shift a trifle more quickly than you have done so far. And do be careful. Some of the Oriental vases are worth more money than you’d see in a lifetime!”

      With that she was gone, in a flash of Prada and Gucci, while Jaffa stood in her wake with clenched fists.

      “Farrr-kinell. No wonder ‘er ‘usband went sniffin’ after fanny,” he said. “Can yer imagine pokin’ that? I’d rather stick me nob in a hornet’s nest!”

      He dropped the carton of books he was carrying and walked over to the buffet upon which three rather delicate blue and white vases stood.

      “Worth more ‘n I’ll see in a lifetime, yeah?”

      He scooped the largest vase off the buffet, flipped it into the air and caught it neatly on his boot.

      “Nice bit of skill, mate,” I told him, admiringly.

      “Piece of piss,” grinned Jaffa as he juggled the vase back onto his other boot - caught it - then drove it against the wall where it smashed into a thousand pieces.

      * * *

      After filling out the insurance form, Jaffa and I headed down to the High Street for a bite of lunch at The Rose.

      “So you’ve played a bit?” I asked him after the first sip of my pint of Carlsberg.

      “On and off.”

      “On and off?”

      “Well, in and out, really. There’s a pretty good prison comp.”

      “Oh yeah. I heard about Manslaughter United.”

      “Good side,” nodded Jaffa. “We played ‘em in the Prison Cup Final when I was playin’ fer the Scrubs. Least, I would’ve played but I suffered the greatest setback in me career.”

      Jaffa shook his ginger head in disgust as he munched into a pork pie.

      “Bad injury?” I asked him.

      “Injury bollocks!” he replied bitterly. “They let me out, the cunts. I was paroled two days before the game! Fahkin’ ‘ell, I felt like bashin’ a screw ter stay inside.”

      I laughed, enjoying Jaffa’s company.

      “Still playin’?”

      “Course I am. Bentham United - Mervyn’s team.”

      “Right. I thought I saw your picture at the club.”

      We sipped our beers in the pleasant gloom of the half full pub, then Jaffa said, “What about you mate, used ter play?”

      I nearly choked.

      “Used to?”

      Jaffa laughed.

      “Sorry, mate. Touch a raw nerve did I?”

      I glared at him over my lager, but it was hard to stay angry at the bloke.

      “Yeah, I still play, in goals. What about you?”

      “Striker.”

      I might have guessed. You don’t come across too many fullbacks with his swagger and style. And his blast against the wall displayed very much the technique of a man accustomed to shooting at goal - knee over the vase - excellent follow through.

      “So, tell me about Bentham.”

      At that moment, Jaffa looked over my shoulder and froze.

      “Fahkin’ ‘ell. ‘Ere’s trouble.”

      I glanced casually around and saw three blokes, all in ill-fitting Chelsea shirts, coming into the bar. One of them, a fat prick with 666

      tattooed on his forehead, quite deliberately shoved a man walking past with two pints so that he lost a fair bit out of each.

      “‘Ere, did you spill my pint?” he enquired as the bloke tried to ignore him and escape to a far corner. The three invaders laughed the forced laughter of puerile antagonists trying to make a scene and then loudly approached the bar.

      “Six Becks, Cunt!” ordered 666 and the intimidated barman leapt to comply.

      They were Blue Fury, but I was reasonably certain that none of these were the ones I’d previously encountered. Certainly none in the Qantas Club had been so clearly numbered.

      “Best get back ter work,” suggested Jaffa as he drained his pint. “Come on.”

      We got up to leave, as did several others, and the Blue Fury jeered us.

      “Leavin’ so soon?” mocked 666. “We’ve not ‘ad a chance to get sociable.”

      He skulled his first Becks and slammed the empty onto the bar.

      “Right,” he announced. “They call me The Beast, an’ from now on, this is my boozer. Anyone wants to do any business round ‘ere, they talks to me first, know what I mean?”

      There was a bit of a confused silence. The genteel lunching classes of Maida Vale were not accustomed to the territorial antics of football hooligans.

      “Come on,” repeated Jaffa, and we headed for the door. Naturally, we had to walk past the Blue Fury boys and, naturally, one of them took an interest in Jaffa’s red hair.

      “Where the fack you goin’, Ginger Minger?” inquired a sack of shit stuffed into a Chelsea shirt two sizes too small. “Why n’t you stop an’ buy us a pint, mate?”

      Jaffa tried to ignore him and keep walking but his mate flicked out a foot causing Jaffa to stumble, which the three Blue Fury seemed to find hilarious.

      “Sorry mate, accident,” explained the offender.

      “Yeah, like your face an’ all, mate,” replied Jaffa. “No mother could intend something that boot fahkin’ ugly.”

      I sighed, as the room held its collective breath …

      Time seemed to slow as the shocked expressions on the Blue Fury faces turned to a sort of delighted anger, and the Tripper threw out a ponderous right which Jaffa ducked effortlessly. At the same time, the Beast tried to charge me but I stepped aside like a matador and cracked him under the left ear as he went past and finished up face first in a bowl