Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

We was sent by Herr McNowt to pursue a business opportunity, an’ while we was there we did a little business of our own. There is now a Sydney chapter of the Blue Fury.”

      Barry (who had far too much education for his own good) grinned at the incredulity - the incomprehension. It must’ve been the same way for Darwin, he thought, addressing the Royal Society on the Origin of Species.

      “‘Ow can there be a Sydney chapter?” asked Georgie Boy. “They don’t live in West London. ‘Ow can they follow Chelsea?”

      “‘Ow indeed?” replied Vin. “But they fahkin’ do. An’ jus’ fink abaht it: ‘ow long ‘ave they been importin’ players over ‘ere? Craig Johnston back in the 70s, he’s opened the door an’ now it’s floodgates, mate. If we can have Aussie footballers, why not Aussie football ‘ooligans? Stands ter fahkin’ reason, mate.”

      “An’ we get paid,” said Barry.

      Vinnie flashed him a look, but nodded.

      “We get paid an’ all. Every new chapter we set up, reportin’ in to London, we get another spotter’s fee plus a cut of any business they do. Sky’s the fahkin’ limit.”

      Maxwell voiced the thought in all of their heads: “‘Ow much do we get?” he asked, nodding at the pile.

      Maxwell was a fair bit older than the other top boys. Must be over forty, thought Vinnie, which was considerably older than most of those who fell by the wayside due to the hazards of gaol, death or a matur-ing sense of social responsibility. Maxwell was a survivor, and a man of unspeakable tastes if the rumours were correct.

      Vinnie looked about the room, doing a quick head count. “Two fousand pounds each for all top boys. That leaves eight fousand in the pile.”

      “What we do wi’ the pile?” asked Finnsy.

      Vinnie nodded at the room beyond where the young lads were still carrying on like the excitable fuckers they were.

      “Some fer the lads, but I’m givin’ most o’ this as a reward.”

      “Reward?” asked Georgie Boy. “What for?”

      Vinnie opened up an old copy of the Telegraph, with a picture of Danny Malone on the cover.

      “For those oo came in late: a certain ex-United goalkeeper came into possession of somefin that don’t belong to ‘im. Or so it seemed. Myself and my two colleagues, Baz an’ Bonesy ‘ere, paid a visit to Mr Malone and discovered, eventually, that he was the victim of a mistaken identity situation.”

      The Beast was staring hard at the newspaper, as Vinnie continued: “It seems that there is another bloke who bears a very similar resemblance to Mr Malone.”

      “A Malone Clone,” said Barry, but as usual, no-one laughed at his jokes - especially the clever ones.

      “We need to find the gentleman quickly,” continued Vinnie. “Chances are ‘e’s in London, but we’ve got to get the word out. I want this cunt an’ I want ‘im bad.”

      “‘Ow much is the reward?” asked the Beast.

      Vinnie glared at him, disliking the facially tatted, fat fuck even more than usual.

      “Two fousand for information that leads us to ‘im. Five fousand for a body and a small silver key in ‘is possession.”

      The Beast grinned - never a pleasant sight.

      HOLE CONFIGURATION

      I met Doreen at Tottenham Court Road just before lunch time on my 40th birthday.

      Lady Shite at Maida Vale had lodged a complaint about Jaffa and me, and in any case, Mervyn didn’t want us around that area. He’d given us both £200 and a couple of days off until a job was due to start in a safer part of North London. Nice work if you can get it.

      But the reality of turning 40 - something I’d resisted so pointlessly for the last few weeks - could no longer be denied. I kept sighing as we strolled down Great Russell Street towards the British Museum until Doreen whacked me in the arm.

      “What is wrong with you, Eric?”

      “Nothing,” I moaned, like Marley’s Ghost making light of his chains.

      “Well stop sighing like that. You’re making me nervous.”

      Before I could help myself, another huge sigh welled up from the depths of my soul.

      “Eric!”

      This time I laughed, as we walked in through the huge iron gates towards the enormous faux Classical facade of the Museum’s south front.

      “Sorry. It’s just that I’m coping with the facts of life.”

      “Not coping, from the sound of it,” remarked Doreen, but I could sense she was uneasy. And why not? She hardly knew me after all.

      “I hope you’re not coping with a guilty conscience,” she said, with a sidelong glance. “You’re not about to tell me you’re married are you?”

      “No.”

      “Because I am,” she said, and I nearly tripped on the giant flag steps.

      “You’re kidding!” I said, suddenly feeling more than a tad deflated.

      “Why, is that so impossible?” she enquired, pleasantly. “Am I that ugly that the idea of me being married is completely ludicrous?”

      “Well, no. I’m just surprised you hadn’t mentioned it.”

      Paused on the steps, we were suddenly in everyone’s way and the flow of people adjusted around us like a stone dropped into a small stream. A moment passed, as we eyed each other, then Doreen grinned and said, “Come on. I’m dying to see the Near Eastern collection.”

      * * *

      I wasn’t usually that interested in museums, to tell the truth. But Doreen was keen and I gathered it had something to do with her work. Something to do with atonal musical scales as evident via an analysis of the hole configuration of ancient wind instruments - whatever the fuck that meant.

      The Museum had been completely done up in the recent past and I had to admit, there was a nice feel about the place - very light and airy. But all I could think about was Doreen’s bombshell.

      “So, where’s your husband?” I asked, as we trotted up the stairs towards Antiquity.

      “In Sydney,” she replied.

      “Why isn’t he here?”

      “You’d have to ask him,” said Doreen. “But I’m glad he’s not.”

      I found myself contemplating Shona once again. My God! Only a few days ago I’d rung her and told her I loved her. In fact, come to think of it, I hadn’t rung to tell her I was delayed. She was expecting me home at any moment.

      “So, what are the facts of life?” enquired Doreen.

      “Eh?”

      “You were sighing like a pissed poet and trying to cope with the facts of life.”

      “Oh, right. It’s my birthday.”

      Doreen whirled about and stopped me, and once again we were a rock in the stream for others to negotiate.

      “Your birthday! Why didn’t you tell me?”

      I was surprised at how upset she seemed over such a trifle. But that’s women for you, one moment blase about the existence of a husband, the next moment carrying on about a notch on a calendar.

      “It’s no big deal,” I said, rather enjoying the fact that to her, it was.

      “Birthdays are important, Eric. They need to be celebrated.”

      “Turning