Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

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      “Look, I suppose it’s a tad inconvenient for Sir Ally right now. But what about John Argyle … is he around?”

      The manager scanned the Letter and handed it back to me.

      “I’ve never heard of John Argyle. And this letter was written more ‘n 20 year ago.”

      “So? It says to come when I’m ready. I know it’s taken a while, but it says I can have a trial, so I need to see John Argyle, or whoever’s running the Youth Team these days.”

      The Manager was incredulous, and I was aware that a bit of a crowd had gathered, sensing a scene.

      “You want to play in Youth Team?” asked the Manager, and my confidence took a further dent as a ripple of sniggering burst out among the supporters lined to pay for their hats and scarves and tacky, plastic flags.

      “Well, not the Youth Team. They might start me in the Reserves, but first I just need to make contact.”

      “Need to make contact with reality, mate!” observed a large fat bloke with his arms full of merchandise. “Joost buy summat or fook off!”

      “I’m afraid I have to agree,” advised the pimply, young manager. “We really can’t help you with this. Maybe if you try tomorrow you might get to see Sir Ally?”

      “And maybe there’s pixies at bottom o’ fookin’ garden?” said the fat bloke.

      “‘E’s got letter, though,” suggested a middle aged woman surrounded by her squabbling grandchildren. “If they’ve offered ‘im trial they ought to do the right thing.”

      “You’re as mad as he is,” sneered another bloke in a raincoat with bicycle clips around the bottom of his trousers. “Letter was 25 years ago. ‘E wouldn’t be coovered by our insurance!”

      “Looks a bit like Danny Malone, though,” said the middle aged woman.

      “Too bad ‘e don’t look like soomone oonder 30,” said the fat bloke, and something inside me all but snapped as my vision cleared. The Pethidine had finally worn off after six weeks of madness and I seemed to see myself through their collective eyes - a ridiculous old fart who’d travelled 10,000 miles to make a complete prick of himself.

      “We’ll give yer a fookin’ trial, mate,” said the fat bloke, “at the Old Bailey fer football fookin’ fraud!”

      It wasn’t a particularly clever or funny joke, but it set them all off - roaring with laughter as I folded The Letter and walked away from the checkouts.

      Away from the MU Megastore.

      Away from the Theatre of Dreams.

      This time, I was all alone as I made my way back down the maze towards the station - no Bobbies on horseback - no chanting Blues. Occasionally, the stadium behind me would erupt with sound and fury but it meant nothing to me: a tired, old man, making his way slowly back to reality.

      If it would have me.

      FURTHER TROUBLE TO NEGOTIATE

      Graham McNowt did not like being interrupted on a Sunday morning. It was a time for quiet reflection and the music of Mozart, Wagner, Beethoven, Handel and Bach - Aryan music which filled his soul with the promise of White Paradise as he gazed through the conservatory into the pleasant autumn park behind his Belgravia manor, while Mozart’s Prelude and Fugue in C tinkled and soothed.

      It was also a time to go over his accounts.

      It was not a time to deal with incompetent fools. Vinnie Parsons shuffled from foot to foot behind the large oak desk while Barry and Bones slouched on the leather sofa. McNowt eyed them with unconcealed distaste and determined to get the sofa cleaned as soon as they departed.

      “You say the three of you were overcome by a single man?”

      Vinnie had been agonising over the matter for the past forty-eight hours as they’d waited for an alternative flight and then stewed in economy class all the way home (it was a week before a seat was available in first or business). Two days later his face was a mass of black and purple bruising. It would be at least a week before he could show himself on the streets of London, and a lifetime before he would get the shit-smell out of his brain.

      “‘E was well ‘ard,” pleaded Vinnie. “‘Ard as nails, yeah?”

      “An’ a professional goalkeeper,” piped up Barry from the sofa, trying to come to Vinnie’s aid.

      McNowt’s eyes never left Vinnie’s, and after an eternity of some eight seconds or so, he enquired: “And just why, precisely, did you get involved with this formidable adversary when you were overseas on my business?”

      “Formidable what?” asked Vinnie.

      McNowt continued to stare as Barry, unwisely, tried once again to rescue Vinnie.

      “Combatant Vin,” suggested Barry.

      Vinnie couldn’t believe his ears as he turned angrily on Barry.

      “Combat aunt? What the fack you on about?”

      McNowt ignored them and allowed a couple of bars of the Prelude to restore his equilibrium. He took a deep breath and said, “So you didn’t make contact with Bellson?”

      Vinnie was relieved that the discussion had moved on from the fight in the Qantas Club, but there was further trouble to negotiate.

      “No, Guv. I mean, we couldn’t when we missed the plane.”

      Vinnie felt his soul shrivelling under McNowt’s flat and unreadable gaze. No-one else in the entire world bothered him, but McNowt was scary - well scary - and the large portrait of Hitler which dominated the room was a definite turn-off. Didn’t we fight a war?

      “One of Bellson’s people phoned me yesterday,” said McNowt. “He says that he did make contact with you. He was displeased.”

      Vinnie the Shiv gazed blankly at McNowt. He understood each of the individual words, but put together they made no sense.

      “But I didn’t make contact wiv no-one. ‘Ow could I?”

      McNowt removed his rimless spectacles and rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers as the Prelude tinkled to its conclusion. He normally felt refreshed at the end of that piece but something was bothering him. Something was clearly going wrong, and there was a great deal riding. Everything was riding.

      “Bellson’s contact tells me that the man in the football shirt in first class was talking openly about the operation,” said McNowt, in the quiet voice which Vinnie knew always preceded a threat. “He confronted you in Bangkok. Are you calling him a liar?”

      Vinnie turned in mute appeal to Barry and Bones, who shrugged their shoulders. Vinnie felt like the whole world was going mad.

      “What can I say, Guv? We didn’t make the plane. Whoever ‘e spoke to, it weren’t me!”

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