Читать книгу Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans - Страница 19

If you’ve never been to London, just imagine grey and brown, four storey buildings stretching in every direction for a hundred miles. That tells you much about the homogeneous architecture, but little about the wild diversity of culture thriving in its ivory towers and seething in its catacombs. It was to the catacombs I was heading.

The mini-cab pulled up outside a fairly nondescript four storey building with a brass plaque advertising West Hampstead Sportsmen’s Club.

“Don’t forget what I said abaht them Pakkies!” wheezed the cabbie with a cheery wave as he disappeared in a cloud of monoxide and cigarette smoke.

I breathed deeply for the first time in 20 minutes (as much to clear my head as my lungs), then trotted down a few stairs and found myself in a large, dim lit room with the characteristic fume of stale beer and dead fags, the walls covered with hundreds of aging sporting pictures and paraphernalia. It was early in the day and the only blokes in the bar were a couple of heavies nursing pints of Guinness, and a stereotypical cockney barman, complete with apron and comb-over.

“What’ll it be, Guv?”

“Just a mineral water, if you’ve got one. I’m here to see Mervyn.”

Immediately, the two heavies were on their feet and the barman was displaying somewhat less in the way of stereotypical cockney cheer.

“No-one ‘ere called Mervyn,” he said. “Oo sent yer?”

“Erm,” I replied, as the heavies approached, and stood either side of me at the bar, making it difficult to concentrate. As I’ve said before, I’m pretty handy with my fists, but I know the type and these blokes were obviously first grade.

“Another focken skippy, is it?” asked the taller one, with black hair. Irish, from the sound of him.

“Looks like our Danny, so he does,” replied his shorter, more muscular companion with ginger hair and huge mutton chop side levers. Both were covered with Gaelic tatts - all cross-hatching and Erin Go Brae.

“Eric Judd, from Sydney,” I said.

I held out my hand but the two heavies ignored it and continued their appraisal.

“Looks tidy,” said the taller.

“Aye,” replied Mutton Chops. “But taken some recent damage. How bad was t’ other fellah?”

For the first time, I felt myself to have been addressed. It wasn’t really my style to go into the gory details of my various altercations, but I couldn’t help but feel that I was somehow on trial and needed to give a decent account of myself.

“Three other fellahs,” I said, with a slow smile as I remembered the Qantas Club. “But no match for Eric Judd.”

There was a bit of a silence as Tweedle O’Dum and Tweedle O’Dee considered me.

“Likes to boast, so he does,” observed the taller. “T’ree’s more ‘n a handful fer any man. And they’d know their business takin’ on the loiks o’ Danny Malone.”

“They didn’t know Eric Judd,” I replied, starting to get the shits with their vague interrogation. Fuck this, I thought and turned back to the barman, who was yet to lift a finger concerning my mineral water.

“Come on pal,” I said. “Where’s Mervyn? I haven’t got all fucking day.”

With my change of tone the two heavies suddenly closed and grabbed me by the elbow and scruff on either side, but for some reason, I wasn’t remotely concerned. Bernie had sent me, after all. Weren’t they expecting me?

Sure enough, like falcons awaiting the order to kill, the two heavies simply held me and awaited instructions - from the man who now stood in a doorway revealed by the sliding back of hidden walnut panels.

“Jayzus fock!” said the man. “So it’s focken true.”

Mervyn Night stared at me with the black eyes of a bad-but-friendly man. After a few seconds, he remembered the style expected of a London underworld figure and turned on the Irish charm.

“Don’t mind Paddy and Liam,” he chuckled. “They’re jus’ me Meeters and Greeters. They hate everyone.”

The two paddies let me go, smoothed my jacket for me, and retired to the end of the bar.

The urbane Mervyn seemed to fill the room as he strolled over to shake my hand.

“Tis providence ‘as sent you, Mr Judd. In our darkest hour, you’ve come ridin’ on wings of serendipitous steel to deliver us from a cruel and implacable foe. Or at least ter help us find the bastards,” he said, accepting a mineral water and a dry sherry from the barman and guided me towards a large round table at the back of the room.

Once again he looked me over and shook his head.

“So like our Danny. Hear yer’ve had a tough time.”

“Yeah, I seem to have stumbled into someone else’s adventure. And I wouldn’t mind getting out just quietly.”

Once again, I repeated the story of my troubles, but the more I spoke the more worried he seemed to get.

“The Blue focken Fury,” muttered Mervyn to himself. “‘Ad me suspicions, so I ‘ave. Looks like they’s puttin’ their cards on the table. Well, at least now we know.”

He sat silently for a moment, twisting the stem of his small sherry glass.

“So, do you reckon you can help me?” I asked.

“Help you?”

“That’s why I’m here, mate,” I said, pulling my keys from my pocket. “I wanna get this key back to the Blue Fury before they kill someone. That’s why they did over Danny. Tryin’ to get this key back.”

“Ahrrr … the key, yes,” said Mervyn. “Show us.”

Despite vaguely feeling like Frodo must have felt being confronted by Boromir at Amon Hen, I handed over the keys, and saw the beginnings of a plan glinting in the eyes of Mervyn Night.

“Looks like a locker key, so it does. A locker holdin’ somethin’ dey want … but which lockers?”

The same thing had occurred to me.

“I was given the key on a flight to Heathrow. Are there lockers at Heathrow?”

“Course there are,” agreed Mervyn. “Dat’s where we’ll look first.”

“Look?”

“Aye. If’n you’re doin’ business wi’ the likes o’ the Blue Fury, it’s best to go in with a strong bargainin’ position.”

“But I don’t want to do business with the fuckers. I just wanna get ‘em off my back.”

The steel in Mervyn’s eyes warned me that he was not a man to be lightly dissuaded from a course of action.

“Well I am doin’ business wi’ the fockers, much as I would have it otherwise. Dat means we do dis my way, okay?”

I knew better than to labour the point, but as he removed the key from my key ring Mervyn seemed to appreciate that he owed me something.

“Loik yer said Mr Judd, yer’ve stombled into someone else’s adventure. The adventure’s mine, strange as dat may seem from your vantage.”

I wasn’t really minded to argue. After all, I really did just want out of all the trouble. And, assuming possession of the key was uncontested, Mervyn slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. Frodo would’ve had a fit.

“It took guts to come back an’ explain it all Mr Judd … Eric,” said Mervyn. “Yer’ve saved the family a heap of bother. So tell me, is there anyt’ing I can do fer you? What are yer plans?”

“Well, back to Australia I guess.”

“What, right away?”

“I s’pose. Nothin’ to keep me here.”

Mervyn tapped his teeth considering.

“Truth be telt, I’d rather you was close by for the next little while, till t’ings is played out. D’ya need a job?”

“A job?”

They’d told me at the airport that I wasn’t allowed to work in the UK, but it occurred to me that such a prohibition would mean little to Mervyn.

“Not official on the books like,” he smiled, obviously reading my mind.

Fuck it, I’d come this far. Why not stay a while to experience the Old Dart? I still had £14,000 (the best part of $35,000 AUS ) but if I was to face Shona, it was best I arrived home with most of that intact. Also, I liked Danny - and Mervyn - and even Paddy and Liam in a funny sort of way.

“Be a shame to leave so soon. And yer’d be doin’ me a favour if’n yer stayed,” prompted Mervyn as my eyes trailed over some of the sporting pictures. Most of them black and white and yellow with age, but a large picture just to my right was colour and starkly fresh. A football team in red and gold were lined up for their annual portrait - and there in a suit at the end of the front row was a widely grinning Mervyn. The photograph was captioned: Bentham United - Southern Conference. And as I took in a little more of the room, I realised that numerous other photographs, banners and scarves adorning the walls also bore legends regarding Bentham United.

I drew a deep breath and said, “What sort of work have you got?”

Mervyn sat back in his chair and appraised me with the eye of a first class thoroughbred trainer.

“Yer look fit,” said Mervyn. “I know just the t’ing for ya.”