Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

the Beast hadn’t made the information public. Why give every other cunt a look-in when he already had the inside running to land a cool five grand, plus get himself back in Vinnie’s good books?

      Fahkin’ Vinnie. Not the sharpest tool in the shed but he knew how to play to the gallery. Last night had been masterful the way he’d walked out into the main lounge and just started chuckin’ fivers and tenners into the air. The young lads had all dived for the cash like their lives depended on it, not that they really needed it. The BF had a fairly sophisticated network of house breakin’, menaces an’ dealin’ - especially now that McNowt was lookin’ the other way.

      Aaahhh, McNowt. Maybe he was the answer?

      But how do you contact the bloke when you ‘aven’t been invited like Barry and Bones, an’ even fahkin’ Finnsy goin’ by the smug look on ‘is well-chiselled-but-unhammered face in recent times.

      Almost on cue, the Beast was surprised to see Finnsy walking past quickly on the other side of the road, casting the odd look back behind him.

      Where are you goin’, Cunt? wondered the Beast.

      Just, somethin’ about Finnsy’s manner inspired his curiosity, and after a few moments he slipped out of the bus shelter to follow.

      * * *

      Finnsy didn’t usually leave so early.

      Usually, everyone was pissed or stoned out of their tiny brains by the time he pulled up stumps, but tonight he’d gone early when some of the blokes were still sober enough to be curious. Fortunately, someone had made a ribald comment about his (no doubt) carnal intentions, and he’d escaped to the accompaniment of a few dirty chuckles without having to go into long-winded explanations.

      Suddenly, something made him stop and look back. But there was only the empty street, lined with parked cars, stretching back to the chapter house on the corner. He turned again and increased his pace, wanting more than usual to put some distance between himself and that godforsaken place.

      * * *

      The Beast was feeling the pain of his broken ribs scratching against his lungs and restricting his breathing. Fahkin’ Finnsy was a fit fucker at the best of times and the Beast never walked further than the nearest pie in normal circumstances.

      “Fack this,” he thought, just about making his mind up to quit, when something rather bizarre occurred.

      Finnsy took his shirt off.

      You weak prick, thought the Beast. We’re not even out of our own back yard. Fahkin’ Chelsea go without fear in this neck of the woods, mate. What you goin’ mufti for?

      * * *

      Finnsy felt much better without the colours. He checked behind him once again, then redoubled his pace - more or less yomping down the footpath, as he’d done in Southern Iraq only a year before. So much had happened since then - seconded to military intelligence, then out of the service and into MI5. Infiltrating the Blue Fury was his first operation on home soil and, he had to admit, he found the minds of his BF cronies far more alien than the minds of the Sunni tribesmen who’d been trying to kill him.

      And they were British for God’s sake!

      It’s a sad world when you respect your enemies more than your countrymen. Mind you, he wasn’t sad about Souha. He’d met her in Iraq, a formidably brave woman who’d worked for years beneath the burkha to undermine the Saddam regime in the name of enlightenment and freedom. She’d married him, and inspired him. And he hadn’t seen her for nearly a fortnight.

      * * *

      He felt himself shudder as she tightened around him - clutching him like a wild, exotic animal - tearing chunks of his flesh and draining his soul.

      Then they lay together, their breathing in unison, sharing inarticulate memories of perfumed sweat and the smell of sand. She always reminded him of hot sand.

      “You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered, her eyes all black and opal adoration.

      “I had to.”

      “I am flattered my darling, but it was unprofessional.”

      In some quarters, “unprofessional” was a grave insult, but he didn’t care in this moment, lying next to her in a kind of dreamy half-light before the dawn.

      “There’s nothing to be concerned about. They don’t have a clue,” said Finnsy (whose real name was John Brigden-Fforbes) in an accent quite different from the snide cockney he affected in different company.

      “It is always safest to presume that they suspect,” she said. “Otherwise you can become careless. I have seen this.”

      He had no doubt that her experience had been far more dangerous than his own. She would have faced no mercy had she been discovered in her activities by her first husband, or his brothers, or even the other women of the household who were more devoted to the cult of Saddam than the men. Or so she had thought. Maybe, like her, they had a face for the world and a face for themselves - there are burkhas and burkhas after all.

      “John, my heart. Please promise that you will not do this again until the work is complete.”

      He buried his face in the angle between her shoulder and her neck, breathing her essence.

      “John?”

      “Mmmm …”

      “Will you promise me?”

      He sighed and rolled onto his back, hands behind his head.

      “It won’t be long now. The leadership group have been constantly in touch with McNowt. And it’s been confirmed that McNowt is taking his orders from Bellson.”

      She caught her breath.

      “Bellson? This must be a far bigger matter than we suspected.”

      “Whatever it is, I don’t think Vinnie knows yet. Apparently Vinnie screwed up in Australia and lost a key … an important key. Maybe McNowt is wondering whether the Blue Fury can be trusted to carry out his plans.”

      “Bellson,” she repeated. “He is not interested in petty crime. Why would he be working with the Blue Fury?”

      “McNowt wants us to start spraying graffiti. He wants the word ‘ebonefone’ written everywhere.”

      “Ebonefone - what does it mean?”

      “No idea, but we’re supposed to start writing it all over London.”

      Souha’s hand caressed his hard, flat stomach, lingering over the bullet wound in his side.

      “Promise me you won’t come back until it’s over?”

      “Mmmhh.”

      “Was that a yes?”

      NO FAVOURS

      Saturday dawned cool and pale. The sky was a weird shade of cloud-less grey, and it stayed that way all day.

      I’d eaten another one of those depressing pastas at the club last night (with bugger all ‘erbs an’ chilli) but had limited myself to one pint of Carlsberg and a bottle of sparkling mineral water. Not many of the team were there. The only one I knew reasonably well was Trevor, but he was asleep in a booth. Jaffa was out with Dennis and a couple of birds (as he called them) so I left fairly early to sleep off the last of the jet lag.

      Despite the unlikelihood of me playing, I had my usual pre-match breakfast of muesli, fruit and black coffee and read the local paper from the day before which had a short article on the game against Havant and Waterlooville (well, the first team’s game). We were expected to win. We were second in the league, but, having qualified for the second round of the Cup for the first time in 53 years, Bentham was “on a high” and expected to make light work of the visitors. There was no preview of the Reserves game.

      About 11.00