Читать книгу Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans - Страница 26

The next night, before training, Ronnie Wellard looked me in the eye and said, “Right. Yer’ve been registered as Mervyn asked. But hell will freeze over before you set foot on the pitch for this club.”

I was stunned. A few days ago I was on my way to try out for Man United, and now I couldn’t get off the bench for Bentham Reserves.

“You can fahkin’ tell yer gangster pal that an’ all,” snarled Ronnie. “I’ve built this place up from fahkin’ squat! An’ some Paddy gangster finks he can come in an influence selection jus’ cause ‘e owns the fahkin’ club? It’s wrong, mate!”

We weren’t getting off on the right foot, Ronnie and I. I could feel his passion, and to tell the truth, I already had a fair bit of respect for the bloke after just one session. He was absolutely the kind of man I wanted to play for, but it’s hard to warm to someone who so obviously hates your guts.

“It’s nuffin personal, mate. It’s just that I’ve been buildin’ somefin ‘ere. We’ve made the second round of the FA Cup for the first time in 53 years. After all that pissin’ about qualifyin’, we made the main draw for the first time in 27 years … and now we’ve made the second round. We’ve never made the third round. But we’re fahkin’ gonna do it this year. You know ‘ow?”

“Well, mainly through discipline I would have—”

“Fahkin’ discipline!” shouted Ronnie. “That’s ‘ow we’ve made the first round. That’s ‘ow we made the second round, an’ that’s ‘ow we’ll make the third round. Do you know what your presence does to my team?”

“I guess you’ll say it affects the team discip—”

“It destroys discipline!” roared Ron. “I’ve been runnin’ fings a particular way,” he paused.

“In fours.”

“I run fings in fours, an’ the lads all know that. They know my meffods an’ they know what to expect. You, they do not expect. If the lads see that fahkin’ Mervyn can just pick oo ‘e wants in my fahkin’ team, what ‘appens to my position?”

“Well, I suppose you could feel undermi—”

“I’m completely undermined!” yelled Ronnie. “That’s bad enough for me, but what’s ten times - a fousand times worse: it’s bad for the team. I gather you’ve already got a couple o’ mates in the team?”

“I guess so.”

“You wanna do the right fing by yer mates?”

“Of course, I—”

“If you wanna do the right fing by yer mates, an’ by this fahkin’ club, what’s the proper course of action?”

“Well, I guess you’re gonna say I shouldn’t pl—”

“You shouldn’t fahkin’ play, mate!” interrupted Ron, the saliva totally flying by this time. He paused for breath, calmed himself a little. Then he said, “So what’s it to be?”

“Ron,” I said. “Mr Wellard. All I want to do is train. An’ if I’m good enough and the need arises, then maybe I can do a job for you.”

The contempt on Ronnie Wellard’s face was priceless.

“Yer see,” he snarled. “You ‘aven’t understood a word I’ve said.

* * *

He trained us really hard that night. None of the other blokes had heard our tete-a-tete but there were a few whispers and I felt more than a tad self-conscious when he upped the usual multiples of four for every exercise.

“I feel it slippin’,” shouted Ronnie as he strode among his sweating legion. “I sense the discipline we’ve built is bein’ e-fahkin’-roded.”

It was absolutely freezing. The first gropings of an early winter had slipped chilly fingers under our jumpers, but after a few minutes we never felt it. The sweat and steam poured off the boys like an outdoor turkish bath, and despite the pain - despite even the animosity of the manager, and his unsubtle attempts to make the other blokes dislike me - I realised I was happy. The jetlag was fading and I had my fitness back. My only concern was that Doreen expected to see me play, and all the indications were against it.

I determined that tonight I was gonna spend some quality drill time with Charlie and Cockie, but there was a complication - the lights. I’ve always hated training lights. Unless they’re full stadium power, they give off a kind of dreamy half-light in which it is difficult - for me at least - to assess direction and velocity. The Kentside Field lights were better than most local grounds back in Oz, but they weren’t full stadium power.

Finally, the fitness work was over and we got into a bit of ball work. It was mostly three-on-one grids and my estimation of Ronnie went up even further as he kept hammering into us exactly what he expected. Every now and then he’d stop the drill and emphasise the point: “It’s all about time!” he’d shout, striding among the witches hats and steaming bodies. “You’re s’posed to be makin’ time for the bloke off the ball! That’s the whole point of everythin’ we do. If we’re gonna score goals, we need to create time in the box.”

Intensity was another big thing with Ronnie. If he saw someone trying to sneak a rest, he’d haul them out of the drill and give ‘em 50 push ups. Nearly everyone copped this punishment at some point, except for Trevor, who was Roy Keane-like in his relentless determination, and the Santos brothers. I suspect Ronnie knew that there was no point trying to punish them, so he ignored their lack of intensity, but like everyone else, admired their effortless skill.

Finally, the keepers got a chance to get away for some separate drills and I just went with ‘em. They were both pretty good blokes, and rather than resent or fear my presence, as many would have done at other semi-professional clubs, they both welcomed me. They were genuinely concerned about the lack of cover (after young Chris had been arrested) and worried about what it might mean for the club.

“Goat ter be realistic,” said Cockie, a Scotsman from Stirling. “Ah’ve goat a dodgy shulder, ‘n Charlie’s fine, but ya nivvir know.”

They asked me a bit about what level I’d played back in Australia, but there was no real comparison in terms of league structure. I said I reckoned that I’d played, more or less, at the same level as Southern Conference, and if they looked skeptical then maybe that was just my paranoia.

“Let’s ‘ave a look at yer, then,” said Charlie, so I did a few quick stretches and then found myself between the traffic cones as Charlie and Cockie hit a few shots at me.

To my relief, the lights in this part of the field were fairly strong so my eyes were able to adjust quickly. And the first few shots were straight at me, which is the way you always start a keeping drill - hands first, then agility. But then Cockie mishit a shot about eight feet to my left.

“Sorry, mate,” he started to say, but before I knew it, I’d launched myself - all reflexes and adrenalin - and just got my finger tips to the ball.

“Farrr-kinell!” said Charlie. “That was top drawer, mate.”

I was a little stunned myself. I hadn’t taken off at training like that since I was about 30. It could only be the inspiring circumstances - and possibly my need to show Doreen that I wasn’t full of shit.

After that, the shots from Charlie and Cockie started coming in harder but I was equal to (just about) everything. My confidence grew and I even started a bit of showboating - turning on the style as well as making the saves. Soon Charlie and Cockie were just staring at me and rubbing their chins.

“Goalkeeping’s not just about shot stoppin’,” said Charlie. “There’s ‘eaps of other stuff just as important … positionin’.”

“Aye,” agreed Cockie. “Anticipation - timin’ oaf the line.”

“Takin’ crosses,” said Charlie.

“Oh aye, goat ter command the boax. Takes courage. What about communication an’ organisin’ defence?”

“Distribution,” added Charlie. “Turnin’ defence into attack …”

They trailed off as I wandered over to join them, bouncing and raring to go.

“Need ter see ‘im in a game,” said Charlie.

“Not much chance of that,” I said.

They just looked at me. So I filled them in on my conversation with Ronnie. The edited highlights at least.

“Och. Dinnae worry too much aboot yon Mr Wellard,” laughed Cockie. “Yer’ve jist goat ter show um yer love the team as much as he does.”

* * *

FROM: dbender@soulscapes.com.au

TO: mrcleansheets@hotmail.com

SUBJECT: Saturday football

Hi Eric,

I really enjoyed our outing yesterday. I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly, but that’s the nature of my work. When the professor suddenly finds time for me, I have to jump. I’ve come all this way to work with her after all. She’s actually dragged me up to Birmingham for a conference. I’m not scheduled to be back until Saturday night, but I’ll be trying to get back for the game. Maybe we could do something on Saturday night?

Love and kisses,

Doreen xxx

* * *

The Beast sat in a darkened bus shelter down the road from the chapter house, gnawing over his plans. It was clear that he’d taken a bit of dive down the pecking order, although he couldn’t think why. He’d never done the wrong thing by Vin, with the exception of quietly plotting to overthrow the fucker.

The only blokes he could rely on were Macca and Benny, and they were both outta fahkin’ action after that screw up in The Rose. Useless twats.

Yeah. The Rose.

The Beast had absolutely no doubt that the big fucker in The Rose was the one Vinnie was after. He did look like Danny Ma-fahkin’-lone, and there can’t be too many blokes in London who could take on three Blue Fury, twice, and live to tell the tale.

But 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?”