Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

left them to it.

      “Jus’ bein’ polite, so I am,” said Mervyn, rather enjoying the fact that he had McNowt at a disadvantage.

      McNowt eyed Mervyn with unconcealed disgust. Paddies weren’t black, but they were much worse in some ways: all the lazy, degenerate traits of the negroid but with serendipitously white skin - black sheep in sheep’s clothing.

      “Well, delightful though the surroundings are,” he said, “I’m sure you didn’t invite me just for tea and scones.”

      “It’s true,” replied Mervyn, dabbing a scone with raspberry jam and reaching for the clotted cream. “I ‘ave an agenda. But before I get to dat, I just wanted to ask why you’re associating wi’ such low company these days?”

      “The answer’s simple: you invited me.”

      Mervyn laughed: “Always the one wid a glib response, so ya were.”

      McNowt had always detested the Irishman’s homely smugness and decided he’d had enough.

      “Listen you bog paddy, either tell me why you’ve asked me here, or I’m leaving.”

      Mervyn decided the time had come to get hard: “Alright. Yer’ve reneged on the London arrangement.”

      “That’s rubbish!” snapped McNowt.

      “Is dat so?” asked Mervyn. “Den why are the Blue Fury running amok on the edge o’ my territory wi’ de word on the street bein’ they’re in your pay?”

      “Rumours,” sneered McNowt, with a wave of his hand.

      “Rumours, is it?”

      Mervyn paused to sip his tea, savouring both the fine surroundings and the aces up his sleeve.

      “Well I t’ink it’s more ‘n rumours an’ I’ve called in all ma favours wid yer neighbours to the south an’ west. If it’s war yer want, it’s war ye’ll get.”

      Not so long ago, McNowt would have been appalled by Mervyn’s threat and hastened to reassure him that normal service would quickly be restored. But McNowt had new priorities and was unworried. He weighed the potential benefits of appearing either apologetic or unconcerned, and decided it would be more interesting to affect the truth.

      “Pity to go to war over a rumour,” he said, reaching languidly for his tea cup. “Still, I don’t think I’ve much to be concerned about.”

      Mervyn smiled, but was disappointed by McNowt’s response. He decided to play his Joker.

      “Onderstand I’ve got somet’in’ dat belongs to yer.”

      “Oh yes?”

      Mervyn paused. Something told him he was doing the wrong thing.

      McNowt waited mildly for Mervyn to continue, his curiosity inspired more by Mervyn’s manner than his partial revelation. He was gratified to know that that he was showing good self-restraint when the gormless Paddy so obviously wanted him to sweat. Just further evidence of the inherent superiority of Anglo-Saxon genes.

      Mervyn swallowed, and made the wrong decision: “Onderstand yer lookin’ fer a key.”

      * * *

      Doreen and I went to a place called Mamawagas near Hyde Park, not far from where she was staying. I’d never been to a Japanese noodle bar before, but it was okay. The beer was good. I had this funny sort of chicken noodle soup with lots of herbs and chilli. Much better than the Sportsmen’s Club.

      Doreen was strangely silent, and I found myself thinking about Shona. I’ve always been against the idea of having “affairs”. I’ve always believed that you have to be honest in a relationship, but what was the status of my relationship with Shona? Was it over? Or did I owe it to her to behave myself? A pang of guilt flashed through me as I realised that the best part of a week had gone by since I’d told Shona I’d be home any day.

      Fuck.

      It was clear I’d be here a bit longer.

      Then Doreen said, “Are you playing football next Saturday?”

      “Next Saturday? Probably not. It’s the Cup tie.”

      “Does that mean you have the weekend off?”

      There was no reason to protect her from the truth, so I told her I wasn’t playing and all about Ronnie Wellard and his apparent antipathy to me. And before I knew it, I was protecting the bastard.

      “He sounds like a total scumbag!” raged Doreen, getting all hot under the collar. I’d not seen her like that before.

      “Aah, you can’t blame him. I’m a blow-in really. Why should he change his team for me?”

      “Why?” asked Doreen, incredulous. “How many of his other players have been invited for a trial at Manchester United?”

      “Dunno. Not many, I’d reckon.”

      “So why aren’t you his biggest priority?”

      It was the kind of question that required a week’s answer, or none. Then Doreen’s eyes narrowed, and she asked me: “Does he actually know you were invited to trial with Manchester?”

      “Erm, no. It never came up.”

      “Eric! You only get so many chances over here. You’ve got to tell the bastards how good you are, which reminds me. You already said you weren’t playing next weekend, would you like to come to Glastonbury with me?”

      “Glastonbury? Where’s Glastonbury?”

      Doreen looked me squarely in the eye and asked, “Does it matter?”

      And in that moment, I knew absolutely that it didn’t.

      * * *

      After dinner we went strolling down past Hyde Park, continued through Green Park and found ourselves, eventually, at Piccadilly Circus. It was the most natural thing in the world to be holding hands and at first I hadn’t even realised we were doing so. But as soon as I did realise, I became all self-conscious about it and my hand began to sweat. As Bernice would say, we’d slightly raised the stakes affection-wise, all very nice but further complicating matters - for me at least.

      “So what’s on in Glastonbury?” I asked, breaking a long silence. “Presuming that it does matter.”

      “Oh, didn’t I tell you? It’s called Ley Lines. Sort of an alternative, druidic piss up. I’ve been invited to play the sunset show on the Saturday.”

      “Really? Does that mean you’re famous?”

      Doreen went all giggly-coy in a girly sort of way I’d also not seen previously.

      “Maybe a little bit. Not your meaningful … heaps of cash … useful sort of fame though.”

      We shared a laugh, but I felt extremely proud of her, despite the fact that I’d never heard her music. That wasn’t the point. I’d known her for over a week and only just found out she was famous. Now that’s humility.

      “So, tell me about your music,” I said, as the lights of Piccadilly Circus exploded around us. It was about 10.00 p.m. after all.

      “I’ve been telling you for days,” she said. “Experimental tonalities and primal beats.”

      “I’ve heard you say those words,” I conceded, “but I wouldn’t have a clue what they mean.”

      “But I explained it,” she laughed, punching me in the arm, “at the British Museum, when we saw the finger holes on the ancient wind instruments. Don’t you remember the ancient holes?”

      “I remember one of ‘em.”

      Dores gave me that thin-lipped-but-indulgently-patronising smile that all women learn from their mothers by the