Читать книгу Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans - Страница 28

After hearing Eric’s story, it had taken Mervyn Night about three seconds to realise that if a member of the Blue Fury was supposed to receive a key on a first class international flight from a mysterious stranger, then that key was intended for Graham McNowt.

For his part, McNowt was surprised to receive an invitation from Mervyn, but that Saturday afternoon the two men found themselves sitting at high tea in the Ritz, with much to discuss.

“‘Ow’s business?” asked Mervyn as the waitress poured from the Royal Doulton tea pot.

“None of yours,” replied McNowt.

Mervyn gave a tight little smile as the waitress served scones with silver tongs, and then 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 age of six.

“I can just imagine the wind music that would ‘ve come out of that hole,” she said, and I grinned. There’s no way Shona would ever make a fart joke.

“Okay, maybe I get the experimental tonalities,” I continued. “… a bit. But what about the primal beats?”

“Well, what is beat?”

“Eh?”

Doreen laughed, not remotely elitist about her knowledge, happy to share.

“What is beat?” she repeated.

“Jeez, I’ve never thought about it. I guess it’s like … a rhythmic basis for music?”

“Excellent!” she exclaimed. “But why do we like it?”

“Why do we like beat?”

Doreen started squeezing my hand rhythmically, sort of offbeat to the cars swishing past us on the Piccadilly Road.

“Why do we prefer music that has a beat?” she asked.

We walked on, and I couldn’t help but notice that the rhythm of our walk now matched the offbeats of the passing cars.

“There are lots of theories,” she continued, “but it comes from deep within us. Possibly from breathing, possibly heart beat … possibly something even deeper.”

It was such a simple idea, and yet quite profound. I was staggered that an idea so simple could be the basis of a university thesis, and said so.

Doreen looked embarrassed as we paused at a red light.

“It’s not that original an idea,” she clarified. “Maybe my musical interpretation is original, but the theory and science isn’t new.”

“It’s new to me,” I said, and she hugged my arm, smiling as the light turned green.

For some reason, we just stopped in the middle of the intersection, momentarily lost in each other’s eyes …

And then her fucking phone rang.

* * *

Vinnie was jubilant, exulting in a manner that had the top boys bemused. It certainly meant a lot to him: “We’ve got the fahker!” he kept shouting, in between waves of maniacal laughter that was, well, unseemly coming from the boss of the Blue Fury.

“Shit on my fahkin’ head, will yer?” he muttered as the top boys eyed one another in bafflement.

The key had not yet been recovered, but its whereabouts were known and its return was imminent, conditional on the Blue Fury remaining outside Paddy Night’s domain. But that was incidental as far as Vinnie the Shiv was concerned. The Malone Clone, as they now referred to the cunt, was, in all likelihood, part of fahkin’ Mervyn Night’s network. Therefore in London, nearby and findable.

“Oh we got you, cunt,” chuckled Vinnie. “Got you by the fahkin’ nads, not that you’ll ‘ave nads much fahkin’ longer!”

The only problem was that McNowt had ordered them to stay out of Mervyn Night’s area - fer the time bein’ - when just two weeks ago he’d told them to start makin’ their presence felt. Fahkin’ toffs! Can’t make up their fahkin’ minds, yeah?

“Stay outta Maida Vale?” asked Finnsy. “You won’t mind that will yer, Beastie Boy?”

A couple of the top boys sniggered at the Beast, who had a large bruise on the left side of his face and still found breathing painful.

The Beast, in normal circumstances, might have reacted violently, notwithstanding Finnsy’s fearsome reputation for hand-to-hand combat. But tonight he just smiled sweetly and remarked that no, he would be quite happy to stay out of Maida Vale.

The remark was so out of character that all the boys studied him; even Vinnie paused in his hilarious triumph to look at the fat cunt and wonder what he was on about. Finnsy looked harder at the artless Beast and felt the merest thrill of - well, of things not being exactly as they ought to be.

The moment passed, and Vinnie composed himself: “Right. Tell the young lads to step up the Ebonefone campaign. I want it fahkin’ everywhere.”

“What for?” asked Georgie Boy, voicing the question in all their heads.

“‘Ow the fack would I know?” answered Vinnie. “McNowt wants it fahkin’ done, yeah?”

“What abaht Paddy Night’s territory?” asked Barry. “‘E said not to go there, but he said to paint ‘Ebonefone’ all over Lahndan.”

“No problem,” said Vin. “The Blue Fury won’t be goin’ into Paddy’s area, but we will.”

The top boys nodded sagely, with the exception of the Beast.

“Yer mean goin’ abaht the streets wivout colours? That’s never been our way, ‘as it Finnsy?”

Finnsy looked hard at the Beast, again feeling a small thrill of - he wasn’t sure what.

“What you fahkin’ on abaht?” he demanded.

The Beast laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Just tryin’ to uphold our traditions, mate. Thought yer might support me.”

Finnsy gave the Beast his patented “battle ready” stare, but inside he was worried. The Beast was challenging him - but why? Was it just because he’d made the odd joke at the fat prick’s expense? Everyone did that.

“Know what I mean?” persisted the Beast. “Our precious traditions, like always wearin’ our colours.”

Vinnie started to bridle, feeling that the fat cunt was disputing his authority, going on abaht colours.

“Like never missin’ a home game,” continued the Beast raising his voice slightly. A couple of the others smiled wryly. None of them had been to any game, home or away, for at least a year.

“And most important of all,” said the Beast, suddenly almost shouting: “not bein’ a member of MI-fahkin’-5.”

Finnsy probably had a window of about half a second to make the right response to such an accusation. But it was so unexpected that his incredulous derision, when it finally came, was just marginally too late.