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| Chapter 3 - Do They Know Its Christmas? Derek Good slumped in the shiny nylon of a Thameslink seat. Mandy had her head in his lap. Where it belongs, snorted Good to himself. Dear, dear Mandy. Scooped from behind the bar of Harry's, his favourite watering hole. Sadly she was asleep now, but when they got to his luxury maisonette in Harpenden, he'd give her an appropriate wake up call! He brayed gently to himself, the Asti working it's old magic, helping him doze. He didn't notice the obese, dishevelled wreck who had slid into the seat behind him, blood all over his expensive Donaghy et Gabbiadini suit. Grundy's piggy eyes kept watch. When Good and his squeeze got off, he would follow. He was a desperate man, and would go to any lengths to keep his life. Good was his prey, he the primaeval hunter. The prize was worth any humiliation. He had to succeed. He WOULD succeed... Harvey Nicholls banged on the door. Nothing. He banged and kicked the door. The door slowly opened to the length of the security chain. Peter Holmes peered out. "Alright Harv?", he asked, nervously. Nicholls booted the door open, bursting the chain, whacking Holmes in the head. Holmes stumbled, fell. Nichols leaped into the hallway, gave Holmes a kick, then cuffed him round the head for good measure. Holmes cowered. "Cam on, ya sack of shit", boomed Nichols, "get up and fight like a real man" "Naagh, Harv, leave it out", whimpered Holmes, covering his face. Nichols left him alone. "I fackin' hate the close season", he shouted, leaping on the stairs and chewing the bannisters, "fackin' borin'" "Yeah Harv, but we're off to Corfu next week. That'll be nice, wunnit?", said Holmes trying to humour Nicholls. "Yeah, I 'spose" Nicholls said, breaking a pint glass to chew, "but I don't want you showin' me up, ya poofy cant." "Well, two weeks, then it's nearly preseason again, Harv", ventured Holmes. Preseason. The chance to inflict pain and suffering upon oneself and others. Nicholls loved it. He spat a shard of glass at Holmes. "Next season's the big one, Homo", he bellowed, "and you better be up for it. Or your fackin' dead. Understand?" Holmes nodded. Nicholls cuffed him again. "Coom on then, ya poof, last one down the snooker club gets a good cueing" roared Nicholls, bounding down the path to his Opel Manta. Holmes rolled his eyes. He knew he would be last. Again. Grundy sat nervously inside Emma
Chan's office. 46 hours had elapsed, and he was sweating. His cheap
Vilstrup shirt was drenched. He reckoned he had a chance - the Triads
would love to kill him, but they loved a gamble more. Ever been inside
a Grosvenor Casino, he thought. Full of the buggers. And he had a
gamble for them. A big, full-on, £25 million gamble. If he played this
right, he could escape with his life and a few quid besides. The yacht,
the fine wines. The women! They would all be his for the taking. Not
bad for the son of a Warrington dockworker! In his hand was the
document from Derek Good. It promised access to the potentially most
lucrative bit of land this side of Port Talbot. He had two worries. The
Triads might not go for it. And the land was tied into a stadium
complex for some football team or other. The former worried him. The
latter- well, he was an old hand at taking sports clubs to the
cleaners. Convince Emma. Focus. He could do this! He was back!
Sherry Newbury-Bypass allowed herself to daydream. Soon be off for my holiday, she thought. A whole two weeks in Sidmouth! She could almost smell those fumes of the gridlocked M5, Sprite caravan proudly on the back of the Cavalier. Season over, just the end-of-season formalities to do. Order next years kit, order Marvins new boots from the blacksmith, get the vermin controller in for BFJ's office. He really shouldn't leave those 56-pack of donuts lying on the floor. The end-of-season bash had been a strange affair. The Wilson-Dallas' and Derek Good had spent the evening hidden from the public in the VIP room of The Zone. Knocking back the club's best Asti Spumante, they had roared with laughter every time Sherry had suggested mixing with the fans and players. In fact, Mark Wilson-Dallas became positively hysterical when she mentioned that next season would be a major stepping stone to getting back to the big time. "Grand Prix!" he had roared, waving a sheaf of paper. She had seen the handwriting on the paper looked like Good's self important script. Puzzling. The phone rang. "Sherry, you old tart" It was Wilson-Dallas. "Yes Mark", she replied, used to his bluff manner. "Just to let you know, I've sold the club. I'll be life-president, new bloke will be in next week. Let the web geek know, and get a statement out to the local rags." "But...", began Newbury-Bypass. She thought she heard a another Asti cork pop in the background. Ice clinked in glasses. Was that Good laughing like a braying donkey? "Nice knowing you, sweetheart, but it's time to move on. Love you lots. Byeee" The line went dead. The fax machine began to whirr. It was from a company called Pro Football Jamaica Ltd. Mr.y let down the arm of his gramaphone. Wishbone Ash crackled to life. He popped the top of his bottle of Waggledance, and eased himself into his favourite armchair. He did a quick check. Kids? At the park. Wife? At the mothers. Slippers? Firmly on. CAMRA membership card? He tapped his shirt pocket. Safe! As he poured the golden liquid into his favourite Pink Floyd mug, he mused on the days events. Well, events was a bit strong. All he had done was keep hitting Refresh while Internet Explorer displayed the lutonfc.com messageboard. All day. Coo, he thought to himself, I'll get caught one day. Then I might have to do some work! The news was odd though. His beloved Luton Town had been sold, apparently. Not much info, just a terse statement on the website. MWC to be life president. New consortium. Stadium to go ahead. "Believe it when I see it", he muttered, having seen it all before in the 87 years he'd been watching the Town, "nothing ever happens during the close season". His head drooped onto his chest, drool fell from his open mouth onto the new red trousers. "Nothing ever happens during....". He began to snore, and slept the sleep of the innocent. |
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