Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

of my recovery, the decision I’d made on a Pethidine whim had hardened in my own mind, and I’d begun to plan, keeping my movements secret from Shona, for the sake of peace.

      My first ever passport had arrived and I’d booked the flight. Early October was off-season, so there’d been a special on business class. It was less than $1000 more than standard economy, so what the fuck?I’ll be making heaps of money when I sign my contract.

      To my great surprise, Shona burst into tears.

      “I don’t want your money, Eric! I want you … and a normal life. I thought this money was our big chance, to be a normal couple!”

      “I have to have a go, Shona. If I didn’t take up this chance, I’d spend the rest of my life wondering.”

      “But you’re 40, Eric … 40 years old!”

      “I’m 39. For six more days.”

      “You’re 40! You’re a middle-aged crock with a broken back. When are you going to face reality?”

      “Shona, this is reality. It’s always been my reality.”

      She just stared at me, eyes red and puffy from tears, the cheque scrunched within her white-knuckled fist.”

      “I can’t believe how selfish you are, Eric!”

      HERE WE GO, ‘ERE WE GO, ‘ERE WE GO…

      It was a rough night. There were tears, and I have to admit: I was starting to doubt my resolve. But I kept rereading Jimmy’s letter and, let’s face it, it was clear I wasn’t making Shona happy. I managed to find the strength to go.

      But after the pain, there was a growing sense of freedom as I approached the international airport in a taxi - hoping that Jimmy was watching and approving from somewhere.

      Despite my unfamiliarity with getting through Customs, it all happened fairly quickly and I made my way towards the Qantas Club, to which my business class ticket entitled me. But just before I got to the green marble entrance, I saw something which stopped me in my tracks.

      A Manchester United goalkeeper’s shirt - 50% off. Another omen? Less than five minutes later, I was wearing the shirt with JUDD ironed onto the back and self-consciously presenting my boarding pass to the girl on the desk of the Qantas Club.

      “Thank you, Mr Judd. Enjoy your flight.”

      As a bloke who’s mostly earned his living carrying beds and boxes and getting paid about twelve bucks an hour, I have fairly hard-wired views about the exploitation of workers and the bastions of privilege set up for the exclusive enjoyment of the privileged elite.

      That’s why I felt such a cunt when I walked into the Qantas Club. It was like Aladdin’s Cave. Tasteful and composed, soft lights and sofas arranged discreetly to maximise privacy and comfort - generous quantities of complementary food and drink - and immediately, I was guilty about the fact that I wasn’t queuing and bluing with the rest of the sweaty masses in the dayglo glare of the terminal proper.

      Nevertheless, I found myself a Carlsberg lager, made a selection from the antipasto buffet, and ensconced myself in a quiet corner where I could enjoy the hour and a half before boarding.

      I was halfway through Sir Ally Bergsen’s biography. With such a famous temper, I thought it might pay to know a bit about the boss. But after half a page, it was suddenly time to check out the bathroom.

      * * *

      As Eric stood, three shaven heads snapped around in unison, and three pairs of narrowed eyes followed him as he walked, gradually quicken-ing his step, towards the bathroom.

      “Fahkin’ United,” muttered the largest and ugliest of the three, with a head so fat it seemed to melt into his shoulders without the need for a neck. “Is that Danny Malone?”

      “Leave it, Vin,” replied the taller of his associates. “We’re on business, yeah?”

      “It’s the fahkin’ point, mate,” insisted Vin. “Are you tellin’ me you’d wear that in Lahndon?”

      “Chill, Vinnie!” muttered the shorter of his associates, on the very edge of his courage.

      “I’ll chill you, ya cunt!” warned Vin. “That’s Danny Malone, that is. Him that saved a fahkin’ penalty an’ put us out a few years back. I’ll ‘ave ‘is fahkin’ kneecaps.”

      “We’re not in London, Vin,” interjected the taller. “And we’re s’posed to be keepin’ a low profile, yeah?”

      Vin settled back in his chair, judiciously magnanimous in allowing the United shirt wearer to remain unmolested. For the moment.

      “I just fahkin’ hate United,” he peeved to his associates - Bones, the taller and Barry.

      Barry, for all his fear of Vinnie Parsons, was incapable of keeping his trap shut at important moments.

      “Didn’t you used to follow United, Vin?”

      “Do what?”

      The mollified judiciousness was suddenly replaced by something much more hard and dangerous.

      “I erm … must’ve dreamed it,” back-pedalled Barry.

      “You tellin’ me you ‘ave dreams about me?” enquired Vinnie, eyes boring into his junior lieutenant.

      “No, Vin!” Barry almost squeaked with terror. Then Bones sighed and came to his rescue.

      “Come to fink of it, Vin, you’re probably right.”

      “Abaht what?”

      Bones jerked his chin at the rest room door.

      “Danny Malone may be long retired, but can’t let United twats go marchin’ about like they fahkin’ own the place.”

      * * *

      The bathroom was extremely pleasant - green marble, charcoal tiles and reeking of wealth and privilege. I breathed deeply and contemplated my new life. I was going to have to get used to all this - international travel and shitting in clean toilets.

      But in the midst of my quiet contemplation I became vaguely aware of some laughing and shuffling outside. A hoarse voice shout/whispered: “Here we go, ‘ere we go, ‘ere we go”, then the cubicle door crashed open, and I was confronted with three grinning skinheads.

      “Awright, Danny?” enquired the biggest and ugliest, and before I could move or defend myself, a steel-capped boot caught me a glancing blow on the jaw.

      “What the fuck?” I roared, clenching my cheeks as I snapped into combat mode.

      Valuable time was saved by two of my assailants getting stuck in the doorway as they came at me simultaneously. But then the big, fat fucker launched at me and I ducked under a murderous haymaker - then straightened up as he flew over my back with a smash and a splash. Another stray boot caught me on the knee and the pain filled my mind with evil, red rage. I grabbed the nearest flailing boot and pushed the tall guy backwards onto his arse, where his head connected with the base of the urinal. Half a second was all I required to yank my travelling trackies up, and I burst from the cubicle like Old Testament vengeance.

      It was over quickly.

      There was only one skinhead still on his feet and I was too furious to play with him. He went down under a lightning barrage of rights and lefts, with the tall fucker getting a couple of kicks for good measure where he lay snoring with his head in the piss trough.

      “Fuckin’ pricks!” I seethed, standing over them heaving for breath, and wiping blood from the side of my face. “What the fuck was that about?”

      I glanced back into the cubicle and laughed out loud when I saw the big, fat ringleader slumped with his head stuck in the unflushed toilet, and gave him a kick up the arse for his trouble, noting a tattoo on his forearm