Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 - a lion and the words Blue Fury.

      “I’ll give you Blue Fury, cunt,” I snarled, pressing the button to flush the toilet - not giving a fuck about the possibility of him drowning.

      There was still no-one else coming in, so I washed my face and calmed myself - determining to leave the vicinity before the incident was discovered. I strode from the room and left the Qantas Club, silently raging that opulence and privilege were no less randomly dangerous than the rest of the fucking jungle.

      But my back felt great.

      A lONG WAY DOWN ALREADY

      By the time I’d boarded the plane, nearly two hours later, I was starting to relax.

      I’d been keeping my head down, expecting a tap on the shoulder from security at any moment, but it seemed there were to be no re-percussions. I stowed my pack in the overhead locker, settled down in the window seat with Sir Ally’s biography on my lap and took a peek out the window. It was a long way down already.

      “Glass of champagne, sir?”

      I looked up at a smiling hostie with a shock of red hair and a tray of champagne, orange juice and mineral water. I wasn’t usually much of a champagne fan (despite its aphrodisiac effect on Shona), but, as champers was the only available sedative…

      “Yes thanks,” I said, selecting the fullest glass on the tray. “Oh and erm… if you don’t mind, I get a bit nervous before a flight, so uh… keep ‘em coming.”

      “I quite understand sir,” smiled the hostie, as I skulled the champers and reached for a second.

      I hate being called ‘sir’ and I hate being waited upon, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself after the fracas. So, sipping the free champers, I focused on Sir Ally. He’d debuted for Scotland against Australia - another omen? But my mind kept returning to the skinheads in the Qantas Club bathroom. The only positive spin I could put on it was that surely I’d had my fair share of arseholes for the next few months.

      “Excuse me. I believe you’re in my seat.”

      I glanced up at an imperious young woman who was looking down her well-bred, English nose at me, taking in the trackie dax, T-shirt and trainers and obviously wondering whether this scruffy lout had accidentally wandered up from economy. I pulled my boarding pass from the back of the book where it had been СКАЧАТЬ