Case File #12: The End of an Error

He may no longer play for United,
but we have managed to get our grubby
little hands on the archived, top-secret,
investigations he undertook while he was
still under our employment...

At Manchester United, without regular football as a distraction Micky Owen, with the help of his trusty side-kick and personal punch bag Berba (and spirit guide Eric), provided the club and SAF with a couple of daylight crooks, who were bleeding the club dry. This whole investigative thing had gone so far into the realms of the surreal that you could literally write anything and it would pass for an instalment … *Light bulb*

It was a typical midweek afternoon: I’d just finished jumping off the train bridge round the back of my absolute massive mansion and under the on rushing train, to my death. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, or anything like they say, in fact it was all pretty straight forward and fairly disappointing if I’m honest.

My step dad, Alan ‘Alan Shearer’ Shearer, called for a national day of mourning and Agent Lineker put on an extra solemn and crackly voice whilst introducing MOTD that weekend. He’d watched an episode of ‘Friends’, in preparation, where Joey explains how to make yourself cry by pulling a pube out or something like that. It was really very good. I almost believed him. MOTD2 did one of those cartoon things in my honour. I ruddy love those cartoon things. My wife has compiled a tape of all of those back-to-back for me to watch before bed, for when I’ve done all my chores. If ever there was a case for rubbing my hands together – like I used to do when I scored – it’s when that compilation VHS is being loaded into the player. The minute silence around the ground was observed impeccably. Someone commented that silence was exactly the right way to celebrate my time on the planet. I’m not sure what he meant by that exactly. It doesn’t really make sense in terms of the usual put down that Brett writes, so I’m going to take it as a positive, pointing towards how I carried myself with a quiet dignity.  Finally, the Kop unveiled a full length picture of me, you know the ones, where they make it up out of bits of card that all the fans hold up? Yeah … well it was offensive! My bum is not half that big!

 I was moving in the shadows, hiding in hedgerows, dodging taxi fares, trying to keep the dark, dark secret entirely under wraps. Okay, okay, the taxi bit I do all the time. I might be pretending to be dead, but I’m not paying someone ten quid to take me wherever I want. Yes … STOP THE PRESS! You guessed it, or possibly just read it, I staged my own death!! It was easy really. I nicked the ‘Michael Owen suit’ (regular readers, will note that reference from the previous case) from the kit room, stuffed it with a dead pony from my stable and then gave it a good shove when the 13:47 came past. The rest takes care of itself really, when you’re as famous as I am.

I’ve been hiding out here, in this derelict shed, in this allotment for the past few weeks waiting for word from SAF, as to what we do next. Berba’s been bringing me Gui … Goivatech … Guviiaatchhh … some foreign muck to keep my strength up and all the papers and that, so I can keep abreast of all the mourning and eulogising since my “passing”. I hope SAF tells me what to do next and fast?!

 As I was re-reading the article on Carro’s ‘Tears for My One and Owenly’, I heard the familiar sound of the daily irritant, Eric. “Micky, Micky, Micky!!” “What now?” I replied. “Oh, nothing” said Eric laughing to himself. He’s such an idiot, that’s the umpteenth time he’s done that while I’ve been hiding out. Come to think of it Berba’s been doing the same. Muffling laughter, whispering with Eric, sharing in-jokes. Pah, it’s probably nothing. I mean what could be so funny that I hadn’t come out with.

 

Two years passed and still no word. I’d started making some improvements to the old shed, using garden tools and some things Berba had brought for me. I decided to give the place a lick of paint, so began laying down the newspapers, making sure not to use the ones mentioning me. BUT WAIT A GODDAMNED MINUTE! That newspaper article is just handwritten … AND SO IS THAT ONE!!!!! AARARARARARARARARAGGGHHHHHHHHHHH! They’re all hand-RUDDY-written! “You were blinded by your ego Micky” said Eric smugly. I burst out of the shed in tears and ran towards Old Trafford.

 When I got there I saw Berba talking to SAF, and as Berba turned to see me he held up his hands in protest! *THE REST OF THIS IS CENSORED – IN CASE THERE ARE ANY CHILDREN PRESENT*

To get the contract at the end of that season, Berba had faked the whole ruddy thing, there was no SAF message to pretend to kill myself, and he wrote all those newspaper articles to keep up the elaborate rouse. No-one even noticed I’d gone. I was now unbeknownst to me, employed by Stoke. STOKE!

 No need to destroy this sensitive information: I’ve left Brett with strict instructions not to publish this one. Think I might just head on back to the shed. This shed is my only friend now. “I hate you!” creaked the door as it closed behind me. I’m so hurt I can’t even muster the strength, in this, the final post of this excuse for a series,  to say “Case Closed”. That doesn’t count.   

 

 

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