The Flea Bargain

In the weeks that followed Sergeant Suds’ death, the second floor of the Filtham Community Centre, the Sanitary Squad’s base of operations, was a sombre place. For the first week, only Clifford Cane (also known as the city’s leading grime fighter, Captain Clean) showed up. He didn’t do much. He spent most of his days staring at the walls, reading books, or cleaning things that were already spotlessly clean to begin with. The others, understandably, had stayed away to grieve – particularly Suds’ wife, Mary, who had taken the loss the hardest. Gradually, the others started to show their faces, but rarely said anything, resorting to sympathetic smiles and nods of understanding as they went about their duties, cleaning the base or tackling the odd crime that the police begged them to help with. The Filtham police force had been forced to pick up the slack, now handling many of the more unusual crimes that the Squad usually dealt with. After all, crime doesn’t stop for grief. The heaviness of the workload and strangeness of the cases even led to Chief Inspector Dovedale, who had always been quite against the idea of the Sanitary Squad, trying to convince Captain Clean to get the Squad going again, but was always met with aggressive grunts and slammed doors. Indeed, the last time he’d tried to convince the captain, the Chief Inspector had ended up with a bloody nose from a door to the face. The Chief Inspector was naturally angry at this, but also impressed at how someone could have the strength to rip a door of its hinges and swing it like a weapon to hit someone.
It was in the third week when something notable happened. HyJean had come into the base to work while her husband and son were away for the week. She’d found sitting at home watching TV all day was not as fun or distracting as it sounded. She had become confused at which episodes of soap operas were repeats and which were original broadcasts, so she’d ended up watching the same episodes over and over out of order and become very confused. She decided to finally clean the cells, as nobody had been near them since Suds’ death, and she knew a tiny part of the captain would be irked by them not being cleaned. The room was dark and haunting, like a ghost had taken up residence there, which would’ve been an odd place for a ghost to base itself, as there was very little to see or do there. When the lights were turned on, the room was brighter, but still just as uninviting. There were three small cells, no more than five foot squared, with only a small bench in each as any kind of furnishing. She cleaned two of the cells, leaving the one that had housed Lady Muck – Suds’ killer – until last. But when she entered the small cell, she was shocked to see something written on the cold grey wall in what looked like smeared grains of soil. She immediately went to Captain Clean’s office to tell him. When she opened the door and peered in, he was sat on the floor rearranging the books on his bookcase – something he’d been doing a lot lately.
‘Cliff, I’ve just found something in the cells, I think you should come and have a look,’ she explained.
For a moment, he seemed to have ignored her, but then he sighed and looked up at her. He spoke in a quiet, defeated tone, ‘I can’t.’
‘I know, I didn’t want to go in there either,’ she said sympathetically, ‘but you’ll have to face it at some point, and now seems like a perfect opportunity, especially given what I’ve just seen.’
‘What is it?’ he asked, tilting his head slightly, clearly intrigued.
‘I’m not telling, you’ve got to come see it for yourself,’ she replied, as if negotiating with a young child.
The captain made to protest, but he could see from the look of steely determination on HyJean’s face that it was futile. And there was clearly something of great interest here, or she wouldn’t have bothered him with it. He silently stood up and followed her, out of the office, across the base and down the short corridor into the cells. He hesitated at the cell door, but HyJean had gone in before him, and when she pointed at the writing on the wall, he understood why she was so keen to show him. Written on the wall were three letters: L.A.B.
‘Lab,’ the captain said quietly. ‘As in the lab we’ve been looking for that experimented on Faucet?’
‘Could be,’ HyJean nodded. ‘But look closer. It’s not lab, it’s L.A.B. It’s an acronym.’
The captain stepped further into the cell and inspected the dirty typography. HyJean was right, there were dots after each letter.
‘It must be a clue, left by Lady Muck. But… why would she tell us?’ asked the captain.
‘I’m guessing she was probably experimented on the same as Nelson was and wants revenge,’ HyJean said, taking a photo of the lettering on her phone for her records. ‘It certainly gives us more to go on. The question is, what does it stand for?’
‘It could be the names of the people that run it?’ suggested the captain. ‘Laura… Alan… and uh… Brunhilda?’
‘If that’s does turn out to be what it stands for, I’ll eat Will’s wig,’ HyJean chuckled.
The two stood there for a moment, just smiling. It was the first time they’d smiled together in weeks, and it was a welcome feeling.
‘I’m sure the guys will have some creative and colourful suggestions,’ said Captain Clean finally. ‘But right now, we need to do some research.’
‘Actually, I had a thought the other day,’ said HyJean, drumming her fingers on the side of her arm, as if wondering whether she should share her idea with the captain or not. ‘Do you think… Sal might be able to help? She knows everything that goes on in the local crime scene, she might have some idea who this L.A.B. is.’
‘I must admit, I did think about that before, but we didn’t have much to go on. And you know what she’s like; we’d have been thrown out for bothering her with so little information,’ said the captain. He had had dealings with the woman in question before, who was well known amongst the criminal classes – as was her temperament. He was always hesitant to approach her, but this seemed like a situation that she might have been able to offer then some help with.
‘It’s worth a shot,’ said HyJean with a shrug.
‘But Jean, I… I’m not sure if I’m ready to go another mission just yet,’ the captain said with a moment of vulnerability.
‘It’s not a mission,’ she reassured him. ‘We’re just going to go have a chat with her and see what she knows.’
‘I guess. That doesn’t sound too bad. Right then, let’s go see Sal Monella,’ said the captain, turning and leaving the cell.
‘Why did you use her full name,’ said HyJean as she followed. ‘I knew who you were talking about.’

Captain Clean and HyJean arrived a short while later on Shady Street, just off the high street, walking among the citizens that the captain couldn’t help but feel uneasy around. Perhaps it was because the street was well known for being home to underground criminal activity, or maybe it was just the trees that lined the street and blocked the sunlight, hiding the people in the shade. Either way, it created an eerie atmosphere and meant it was not a place that either of the grime fighters frequented often.
‘Do you really think it’s her real name?’ asked HyJean casually as they walked. ‘I mean Sal Monella, that’s a bit too neat, isn’t it? Especially working in a seafood restaurant.’
‘I heard she married in order to get the surname, then killed her husband,’ the captain replied. ‘Or it could be that thing, nonentity termination? Where people with certain names gravitate to those jobs. Like someone called Baker being a baker.’
‘Nominative determinism,’ HyJean corrected. ‘Could be. Seems to be a lot of that around here.’
‘Right, here we are,’ said the captain as they arrived at a small restaurant with an elegant sign that read Bistrot Voyou. ‘When we go in, let me do the talking.’
‘Fine by me,’ said HyJean. ‘She gives me the creeps.’
‘Wait, you’re not going to protest?’ asked the captain.
‘Nope, you do the talking,’ said HyJean, opening the door for the captain.
‘Damn it,’ he said as he went in first.
The inside was just as elegant as the sign promised, with lush brown walls and warm lighting that illuminated the small restaurant. Along one wall were booths with leather upholstery, while polished wooden tables filled the rest of the space. At the back, next to the well-stocked bar, was a door that neither the captain nor HyJean had ever seen behind. The woman they’d come to see was already sat in one of the booths. Her large, imposing figure filled up most of the seating area, but the plate in front of her seemed comically small, with a tiny portion of seafood in the centre. The face looking down at it appeared to be unimpressed, but this was actually just the default expression that was almost always present. As the grime fighters approached, she looked up so slowly that anyone watching might have thought she’d been slowed down by some kind of magic remote.
‘Hello Sal,’ said Captain Clean, standing in front of the booth.
‘Only my friends call me Sal,’ the woman replied.
As if on cue, a man walked into the restaurant behind them and called out in a cheery voice, ‘Hey Sal!’
At this, Sal whipped out a gun and shot the man directly in the leg. He let out a yelp of pain and collapsed against the wall.
‘He is not my friend,’ said Sal, with the same neutral look on her face.
One of Sal’s burly men in a smart suit and sunglasses leaned in and whispered, ‘That was your nephew, Miss Monella.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, without an ounce of emotion. ‘Then send flowers to his grave.’
‘I don’t think he’s dead, he’s just bleeding from the leg,’ the man explained.
‘Should we call an ambulance?’ asked HyJean.
‘No, no! It’s fine,’ groaned the nephew. ‘These things happen. My own fault, I shouldn’t have interrupted. I’ll be fine.’
With that, he staggered out of the restaurant. HyJean looked worried for him, but Sal continued to eat as if nothing had happened.
‘Excuse me Miss Monella, my name is Captain Clean and this is my colleague HyJean.’
‘I know who you are,’ said Sal without looking at them. ‘What can I do for you Mr Clean?’
‘Captain Clean,’ Captain corrected her, though she didn’t seem to acknowledge his remark. The captain gave an awkward nod and continued. ‘Mr Clean is fine. I was wondering if you might know anything about… lab. It’s an acronym. L.A.B.’
‘That depends,’ said Sal, finally putting down her fork and looking up with a hard, intimidating stare. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘Well… me. I’m asking,’ said the captain, pointing to his chest.
‘Then how much is this information worth to you?’ asked Sal.
The captain thought for a moment, a bit unsure what to say. ‘Um… £50? 100?’
‘I do not deal in money Mr Clean,’ said Sal, with an irritated sigh.
‘Oh, well uh… we’ve got a little robot mop you can have,’ the captain suggested.
‘No she cannot!’ HyJean said sternly, turning to her fellow grime fighter and slapping him on the arm. ‘She means you have to do a favour for her. That’s how these people work.’
‘Your colleague is right Mr Clean,’ said Sal, as she looked at HyJean with the tiniest hint of approval.
‘Ah, well you see the thing is, we’re kind of on a break at the moment,’ said the captain. ‘One of our friends just died, so we’re taking some time off.’
‘Well then, I suggest you end your break, or you won’t get your information,’ said Sal, picking up her fork as if threatening to return to her meal and end the conversation.
The captain looked at HyJean, then back at Sal and sighed, ‘Fine, what is it you want us to do?’
‘There is a man who is causing me trouble,’ said Sal.
‘Isn’t there always,’ HyJean said with a cheeky sidewards glance at the captain.
‘He has disrupted my affairs and now he has stolen something from me,’ Sal explained, pointing her fork at the grime fighters. ‘This man needs to be stopped. Bring him to me.’
‘May we ask what he stole exactly?’ asked the captain, but Sal just sat silent, like she was on pause, not even bothering to waste effort replying to a question. ‘Right, no, of course. You want to keep it private. I understand. But uh… it would help us if we knew what we were looking for.’
‘Once I have my vengeance, you’ll get your information,’ Sal said. She nodded to one of the suited men standing behind her and he stepped forwards, handing the captain a brown folder. He went to open it, but Sal slammed a fist down on the table.
‘Do not open it here!’ she snapped. ‘I do not wish to see his face again unless it’s at the end of a gun.’
‘Right, sorry,’ said the captain, stuffing the folder under his arm. ‘Do we have a time limit? Like twenty-four hours? That’s usually how it works isn’t it?’
‘Why would you say that?’ hissed HyJean as she nudged him in the ribs.
‘You have twenty-four hours,’ said Sal with a nod.
‘Oh great, well done,’ muttered HyJean with a roll of her eyes.
‘Now leave, I’m a busy woman,’ said Sal, waving her arm to shoo them away.
They thanked Sal and promptly left. Outside they saw Sal’s nephew being lifted into an ambulance, bloody bandages around his leg. A small crowd had gathered to help him and make sure he was okay, though he still continued to politely insist that he was fine absolutely fine nothing to worry about.
‘Let’s go in here,’ HyJean said, gesturing to the coffee shop next door to Sal’s bar. They slipped inside and made their way to the till to order, but to their surprise, they heard a familiar voice.
‘I told you to leave,’ said the unmistakably dry voice of Sal.
‘Huh? But, we did,’ said the captain, looking around. Though the sign outside had been an inviting green colour, the inside was still decked out in the same brown and reds as Sal’s place. As they looked closer, they noticed there was no wall separating the two buildings.
‘It’s the same place?’ said HyJean, a little confused.
‘Yes,’ said Sal, as if they had just pointed out that one plus one equals two. ‘But registered as two businesses for tax purposes.’
‘I see,’ said HyJean. ‘Well, we’ll just go then.’
They left the ersatz coffee shop and walked farther down the road to make sure they didn’t end up in another of Sal’s establishments. Inside Cool Coffee Co. – a name which confused people into thinking they only served iced coffee beverages, when in fact they were just trying to appeal to a younger demographic – HyJean ordered a drink and Captain Clean wiped the table and chairs down before taking a seat. The captain did not order drinks from coffee shops, as he didn’t trust that their cleanliness levels could be upheld when they were permanently busy. Instead, he had his own reusable water bottle. And when that was empty, he just resorted to sucking on a wet wipe.
‘Let’s have a look at our target then,’ said the captain as he opened the folder to reveal several documents and a photo. ‘Fleamont Brown. Calls himself The Flea. Urgh, I hate fleas. Runs a flea circus in Filtham park.’
‘I think I’ve seen him,’ said HyJean. ‘Let’s have a look. Yeah, I recognise him.’
The photo was of a strange looking man; tall and thin, with wispy brown hair and an impressive moustache. He was dressed smartly, with a brown waistcoat and matching bowler hat. Were it not for the smartwatch on his wrist, one might have thought he’d fallen through a portal from Victorian times.
‘Well, at least we know where he is,’ said Captain Clean. ‘I don’t know though, I still don’t feel up to a mission like this just yet.’
‘It’s not a mission,’ HyJean said with a sympathetic smile. ‘We’re just doing a job for Sal so we can get some information.’
‘Yeah, I guess that’s true,’ said the captain. ‘So, how are we going to stop him?’
‘I was thinking we just go and see his show then nab him,’ said HyJean, taking out a pair of handcuffs from her utility belt. ‘Officer Down left these behind last week. We could just distract him and cuff him.’
‘Why are we arresting a police officer?’ asked the captain.
‘Handcuff Fleamont Brown,’ HyJean said with a roll of her eyes.
‘Oh! I see. That makes much more sense,’ the captain nodded. ‘Let’s go then.’
‘Hang on, we can’t go like this,’ said HyJean. ‘We’re supposed to be regular people come to see his show. It’ll give the game away if we rock up in masks and capes. We’ll need to go back and get changed.’
‘Very well, to the base!’ the captain said triumphantly as he stood up, taking out his phone to summon their regular taxi driver.
‘And how do you think we’re going to get there?’ Asked HyJean. ‘The driver’s off this afternoon, remember?’
‘Very well, to the bus stop!’ said the captain.

The bus ride back to the base had been filled with the usual embarrassments. The driver initially refusing them entry, people staring, kids probing them about their lack of superpowers, and the captain’s cape getting caught in the bus door as it closed, causing him to be dragged a few yards down the street before the doors were opened and the sound of a bus full of laughter slowly passing them and drifting into a diminuendo as the bus drove off. They wasted no time in getting changed, both of them silent the whole time they were in the base. It was eerily quiet with just the two of them, a stark contrast from the usual lively atmosphere. Even the reception area downstairs seemed quieter. The two grime fighters kept expecting Sergeant Suds to appear, as he so often used to. But he never showed. He was too busy lying in a coffin a few miles away in Filtham cemetery.
Now dressed in civilian attire – and thus going by the names Clifford Cane and Jean Wilkes – the bus journey into town was much more pleasant than the previous trip, with none of the usual problems. Within fifteen minutes they’d arrived in the city centre and disembarked at the bus stop next to the park. As with the base, the park was uncharacteristically quiet that day; even the birds seemed to have lost their voices. The trees didn’t look as green as they usually did, and the usual brightly coloured flowers were being overshadowed by weeds and duller flowers that rarely got a chance to flourish. There were people quietly walking about, but not as many as usual. The only hint of normality was a pair of children in the distance playing happily in the playground. Children seem to deal with grief well, but that’s mainly because they haven’t a clue what’s really going on and don’t understand the social etiquette when someone dies.
‘Why is it when someone dies, the whole world suddenly seems quieter and gloomier?’ Clifford asked. ‘I swear there were nice flowers planted here a couple of weeks ago. And that water fountain was on. It’s like the world is mourning too.’
‘Maybe it is,’ said Jean as she looked around at the melancholy park.
A little way into the park, they came across a small wooden hut with a large sign that read: Fleamont Brown’s Flea Circus. There was a hatch on the front and a door on the side, but everything was shut. Clifford and Jean looked at each other. Jean gestured to the door, but Clifford shook his head. Too dirty, he was no doubt thinking. Jean rolled her eyes and knocked on the door. They waited a few seconds before the door opened slightly and a head poked out. The man had wild, foppish hair and a large, elegantly styled moustache, with a small goatee beard to finish off his bohemian visage.
‘Yes?’ he said in a voice that was not unfriendly but had a hint of not wanting to be disturbed.
‘Hello, Mr Brown. We’d like to see your circus, if we may,’ said Jean.
‘I’m sorry, I’m a bit busy at the moment,’ said Fleamont Brown, ducking back slightly to bang something in his hut with a hammer. ‘Could you come back later? In about say… three weeks’
‘Oh, I’m afraid we can’t,’ said Jean. ‘We’re only in town for the day and we really wanted to see this flea circus before we left.’
Fleamont looked at Jean for a few seconds and then let out a little sigh, before closing the door. Jean looked at Clifford with a disappointed expression and shrugged. He was just about to mouth a reply when the door burst open and Fleamont Brown bounded out with a grandiose leap.
‘Very well!’ he boomed. ‘Then allow me to welcome you to Filtham’s finest – and only – flea circus.’
It was as though he had never been interrupted and had flicked a switch to turn on the showman’s patter and charm. He now sported a brown bowler hat, and with his brown waistcoat he looked equal parts hipster and distinguished gentleman. Clifford and Jean followed Fleamont around to the front of the hut, where he pulled up the hatch to reveal a tiny circus, with miniature high wire, trapeze, diving board, cannon, ping pong balls and even a little unicycle. It was difficult to be impressed on this small scale, but nonetheless it was an intriguing setup.
‘Please, hold your applause,’ said Fleamont, even though there was no applause. ‘For what would a flea circus be without any fleas? Just a circus. And nobody wants to see that.’
‘Well actually, I quite like-‘ began Jean, but she was cut off.
‘Behold, my magnificently trained, highly skilled fleas,’ he continued as he pressed a button and a little hatch in the wall slid up. A small toy carriage rolled out, being pulled by four fleas and seemingly driven by another flea. Inside the carriage were several other fleas. When it stopped, they all bounced out and over to their respective positions.
‘Watch as they traverse the trapeze with perfect balance,’ said Fleamont as two of the fleas swung from tiny swings and then one leapt into the air to be caught by the other at the precise moment. The other fleas stayed surprisingly still as they waited for their tiny to shine. Fleamont continued to narrate as the fleas did their acts in turn.
‘Amazing,’ said Jean as she watched a flea cross the highwire with tiny little bounces.
‘Incredible,’ said Clifford as another flea hopped up a little ladder and bounced off a diving board into a small bowl of water.
The show continued with fleas flying out of a cannon, kicking a ball into a goal and riding around on a unicycle. By the end, all the minute performers were performing in perfect unison to the sound of a tinkling piano song that played in the background. Clifford and Jean were so impressed by the spectacle that they’d completely forgotten why they were there. It was only as Fleamont turned his back on them to encourage the fleas back into the carriage that they remembered.
Clifford took out the handcuffs and handed them to Jean, but she refused to take them. She pushed his hand back towards him and mouthed ‘you do it’, but he pushed back and insisted ‘no, you’. They went back and forth like this for a while, with Jean silently arguing that he was the one who wanted the information off Sal and Clifford countering that Fleamont seemed too nice to be a criminal.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Fleamont, who they had neglected to notice had turned around and was watching them tussle.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Jean, quickly hiding the handcuffs and thinking on her feet. ‘We were just debating about how much we should pay you for the show.’
‘It’s ten pounds,’ he said, tapping a sign on the wall of his hut.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Jean. ‘But you were so kind to put on the show when you were busy, we’d like to give you a little extra. Give him the money, dear.’
The captain begrudgingly took out a small wallet and looked inside it. HyJean quickly grabbed a twenty pound note and handed it to Fleamont, who looked genuinely grateful as he took it and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
‘Well, thank you very much, I’m glad you enjoyed the show,’ he said with a tip of his bowler hat.
‘Oh, it was wonderful,’ said Jean. ‘I’m so glad we got to see it.’
‘It really was quite extraordinary,’ Clifford added. ‘How on Earth do you get them to do all of those tricks?’
‘I’m afraid that is a secret I cannot share,’ said Fleamont with a tap of his nose. ‘For if my techniques were discovered, anyone could steal my act.’
With the mention of this word, the captain quickly passed the handcuffs to Jean behind his back. Jean took them and wavered for a moment, which was just long enough for Fleamont to close up the hatch and return to his door.
‘Thank you both for coming, but I really must get back to my work now,’ he said, raising his hat and giving a grandiose bow before disappearing back behind the door.
Clifford and Jean stood awkwardly silent for a moment, before turning to each other.
‘You were supposed to cuff him,’ said Jean, pushing the handcuffs back into Clifford’s hands.
‘I know, but I couldn’t,’ Clifford replied sheepishly. ‘He seemed like such a nice guy. I can’t imagine him steeling anything.’
‘That doesn’t matter, we had a job to do,’ said Jean.
‘Well, you didn’t cuff him either,’ Clifford pointed out. ‘Why didn’t you do it?’
‘Because I liked his fleas,’ said Jean quietly, looking down. She looked back up at Clifford, who looked completely bemused. ‘They were cute okay!’
‘Mick would’ve been able to cuff him,’ Clifford replied with a sigh.
‘Yes, well, I’m sure he would have,’ said HyJean a little awkwardly. She sighed and nudged him on the arm. ‘Come on, let’s go into town and have some retail therapy, we’ll figure this out later.’
‘Alright, fine,’ said Clifford, shrugging and following her back out of the park. ‘And let’s see if we can find the park keeper too, give him a talking to about these weeds.’

Filtham Shopping Centre was always busy, filled with shoppers every day at all times. It often made the squad question if anyone in the city other than shopkeepers actually worked. A strange phenomenon. But the shopping centre was an exciting place to shop. Or at least it used to be. It used to offer a wide range of different shops that sold all manner of things, meaning you only ever had to go to the one place to buy a whole shopping list of items. But these days, most of the shops had become clothes shops and card shops. So much so that the card shops actually started stocking cards that read “Congratulations on the opening of your new clothes shop”. But among all the purveyors of shirts and sentimentality, at the heart of the shopping centre, stood Asco. The city’s largest supermarket proudly served the city’s grocery, entertainment and – importantly for the squad – cleaning product needs.
Clifford Cane was to be found, as ever, in the cleaning products aisle, piling floor wipes into his already overflowing trolley. Jean, meanwhile, had gotten bored after twenty minutes of discussing the benefits of each kitchen roll and wandered over to the home and entertainment section for something more stimulating, like a cushion. It was here she saw one of the televisions that was showing a news bulletin.
‘… inside the bank. CCTV footage shows a man on a pogo stick entered the building and released a swarm of fleas that began attacking people while he broke into the vaults.’
Jean dropped the cushion she was holding – which fell to the floor with a very undramatic puff – and watched in shock at the footage of a man in a brown waistcoat and bowler hat striding through the foyer of the bank while everyone around fell to the floor, scratching and squealing loudly. She quickly ran back to Clifford, who by now was testing out the mops to see which covered the most surface area, nudging other shoppers out of the way as he did so.
‘Cliff, we’ve got to go,’ she said as she skidded to a halt on the slippery floor. ‘Fleamont Brown is robbing the bank across the road.’
‘What? That nice young man?’ asked Clifford.
‘Yes, that nice young man!’ said Jean with a roll of her eyes. ‘Come on, it’s just over the road, we’ve got to go help them.’
‘Okay, just let me pay for these first,’ said Clifford, pointing to the trolley full of cleaning supplies.
‘We haven’t got time for that,’ Jean groaned. ‘This is our fault. If we’d captured him like we were supposed to, he wouldn’t be robbing the bank.’
‘But… but… what about the supplies,’ Clifford said, pointing to the trolley full of cleaning supplies like a disappointed child.
‘Forget the bloody supplies!’ she snapped. She could see the disappointment in Clifford’s face – after all, this was supposed to have been a trip to make him feel better. She grabbed a nearby shop assistant and pulled him over the trolley. ‘I’ll give you fifty pounds if you stay here and look after this trolley for half an hour.’
‘Uh, yeah, alright then,’ said the shop assistant, who was a young, cash-strapped teen that had been having a slow day anyway and was happy for something to do.
‘There, sorted,’ said Jean, turning back to Clifford. ‘Now come on!’
The rushed out of the supermarket, through the shopping centre and out onto the main road. The police car and small crowd gathered outside the bank confirmed that the news story was true, and as they crossed the road, they saw the familiar faces of Chief Inspector Dovedale and Officer Sid Down.
‘Ah, Captain Clean, am I glad to see you,’ said the Chief Inspector, who, since their recent encounter with Lady Muck, had grown in respect for the captain and the squad, and had given in to acknowledging his self-appointed captaincy.
‘What?’ cried Clifford. ‘But I’m not in my costume. How did you… you know my secret identity?’
‘Captain, I’m the chief inspector, I’m not a flipping idiot. It’s obvious it’s you,’ said the Chief Inspector, before turning to Jean. ‘And who’s this woman with you?’
‘That’s HyJean,’ Clifford pointed out. ‘From the Sanitary Squad.’
‘Is it?’ said Dovedale in surprise. ‘I hardly recognise you.’
‘You look so difficult… uh, different,’ added Officer Down.
‘What’s the situation, Chief Inspector?’ asked Jean, ignoring the weird stares that both the Chief Inspector and Officer Down were giving her.
‘Well, we sent a couple of officers in just now and they were attacked by the fleas, so to be honest, we’re not sure what to do next,’ said Chief Inspector Dovedale. ‘It’s hard to stop a hoard of fleas.’
‘Swarm,’ Clifford corrected.
‘If only I had some of my sprays with me,’ Jean sighed. ‘We don’t have time to go back and get them. We’ll just have to go in and try to talk to him. We know Mr Brown, we might have some luck getting through to him.’
‘You know him?’ asked Officer Down.
‘Well, we’ve met him once,’ Jean admitted. ‘For about ten minutes. But he seemed to like us.’
‘I see. Well, good luck,’ said the Chief Inspector, quickly retreating before they could change their minds.
‘Jean, I don’t know about this,’ said Clifford. ‘I still don’t think I’m ready for a mission just yet.’
‘It’s not a mission. We’re just going to go inside and talk to him,’ Jean assured him. ‘We’re not even wearing our uniforms. We’re just two regular citizens trying to help.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ Clifford nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

It wasn’t difficult getting into the bank itself. If anything, the only resistance came from the large wooden door that hadn’t been oiled in years. Inside, they were greeted by a strange sight. Everyone in the building was scratching and itching, some writhing around on the floor while others were slamming themselves into the walls to try and rid themselves of the fleas. Sounds of yelps and squeals echoed around the room, like a Yoko Ono song being played on a faulty surround sound system.
‘I didn’t think fleas were this bad,’ said HyJean with a gasp as she watched a man swatting his wife with a leaflet.
‘They’re not,’ said the captain. ‘They must be some sort of genetically altered super-fleas.’
‘Oh nice. Just what we need,’ HyJean replied. ‘Come on, let’s find Fleamont.’
The captain turned to a woman – who, to anyone watching, appeared to be doing a rather unimpressive highland fling as she bounced around on the spot – and tapped her on the shoulder, ‘Excuse me. Did you see where the man who did this went?’
The woman said nothing, just continued to shake and scratch as she let out whines of frustration and pain.
‘Look, the sooner you stop messing about and cooperate, the quicker we can resolve this,’ the captain said, raising his voice.
‘Come on!’ said HyJean, dragging him away.
They headed farther into the bank and through an open set of double doors, following the trail of flea-ridden customers and workers. As they reached a corridor, they saw Fleamont Brown himself walking up it. He was carrying two duffel bags crammed full of money and had a strange-looking metal pole attached to his back.
‘Fleamont Brown, stop right there,’ said the captain in his most authoritative voice.
‘Oh, it’s you two,’ said Fleamont with a tone of surprise. ‘I thought you were leaving the city today?’
‘Yeah, well… we’re not,’ the captain replied, the authority in his voice diminishing.
‘If you’re after another show, I’m afraid I’m a little busy at the moment,’ said Fleamont, lifting the bags in his hands as proof. ‘But there’s plenty of action going on out there for you to enjoy.’
He smirked and continued to walk towards them confidently, as if he expected them to part and let him pass.
‘Hand over the money,’ said HyJean, standing firm.
‘Very well,’ said Fleamont, throwing a bag into each of their arms. ‘Very kind of you to help.’
‘We’re not helping,’ said HyJean.
‘We’re stopping you from getting away from… wait, what are you doing?’ asked the captain.
As he’d been talking, Fleamont had swiped on a smartwatch on his wrist and pressed a button.
‘It’s called an escape plan,’ he said, as he pointed his watch at each of them in turn. ‘And now we wait.’
‘For what?’ asked HyJean.
‘For them,’ said Fleamont, a maniacal grin forming on his face.
HyJean looked behind and saw a small swarm (not hoard) of fleas bouncing towards them.
‘Fleas!’ she cried.
‘Genetically modified super-fleas!’ cried the captain.
‘Close, but way off,’ said Fleamont, who was now leaning against the wall casually.
Captain Clean and HyJean looked at each other and nodded. They both knew what they needed to do. HyJean dropped her bag and lunged forward at Fleamont, while the captain legged it down the corridor.
‘Where are you going?!’ HyJean shouted after him.
‘I think he’s trying to avoid the fleas,’ Fleamont pointed out. ‘Very wise.’
He pushed her back and she fell towards the swarm. In a second, she was shrouded in a mist of tiny fleas, all attacking her body. But their bites were not as expected. Each stab of their razor-sharp teeth was accompanied by a little electric shock – not enough to incapacitate, but enough to make thinking about anything else, like stopping a criminal with a silly name, almost impossible. She watched, through the mask of fleas on her face, as Fleamont picked up the two bags and carried on down the corridor back towards the entrance. She managed to muster up enough strength and focus to reach into her pocket and grab a device. She pressed a button and it emitted an electromagnetic pulse that momentarily fried the killer fleas. She raced down the corridor, just in time to see Fleamont take the metal pole off his back and open up two handles at the top and release a bar and spring at the bottom.
‘A pogo stick?’ she gasped.
‘The fleamobile,’ Fleamont replied with a finger in the air.
‘It’s a pogo stick,’ HyJean repeated.
‘Whatever,’ Fleamont said as mounted his pogo stick and grinned at her. ‘Time to flea!’
He bounced a few short steps and then, like a rocket exploding, the spring fired him up into the air and he smashed through a high up window. The tiny fleas all followed suit, bouncing along the floor, up the wall and out of the window. As HyJean composed herself and swatted a single remaining flea off her arm, Captain Clean peered around the doorway.
‘Is it safe?’ he asked.
‘Safe?’ HyJean growled. ‘Not for you, it’s not. I’m going to rip your stinking head off!’
‘Jean, I’m sorry, I thought the plan was to run,’ he said, holding his hands up.
‘You knew that wasn’t the plan, but you ran, like a coward,’ she said as she walked over to him.
‘Well, you said this wasn’t a mission!’ he replied, now getting heated himself. ‘You keep saying it’s not a mission, but it feels distinctly like a mission to me.’
‘Of course it’s a bloody mission,’ HyJean replied, throwing her hands into the air. ‘Because, like it or not, you’re Captain Clean, and I’m HyJean, and this is what we do. It’s what we’re paid to do.’
‘I know, but…’
‘But what? You’re still grieving?’ she asked. ‘Well guess what, I’m still grieving too. But the criminals of this city aren’t going to stop because we’re grieving. Mick is gone, Cliff. He’s not coming back. But if he were here right now, he’d tell you the same thing, to keep fighting in his name.’
‘To be fair, if he were here, I wouldn’t be grieving,’ the captain pointed out.
‘You know what I mean,’ HyJean groaned.
‘Yes, I do. And you’re probably right. You usually are,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry, I just… I got scared. I’ve been doing this for so long and sure there’s been scrapes and injuries, but nobody’s ever gotten killed. It made me realise just how dangerous being a grime fighter is.’
‘Oh my god! You’re the Sanitary Squad?’ came a voice from behind them.
Captain Clean and HyJean had quite forgotten that there were other people in the bank. Though many of them had been incapacitated when they arrived, they had now recovered and were stood around watching the drama like it was free theatre. The young man who had shouted out was even eating a packet of popcorn as he watched.
‘Huh? No, no we’re not,’ said Clifford, realising that they were still in civilian clothes.
‘You stopped Lady Muck!’ cried a little girl.
‘No, that was the Sanitary Squad, which is definitely not us,’ said Clifford.
‘They stopped a boy who had been littering in my garden too,’ pointed out Mrs Begonia, who was there to collect her pension.
‘They stopped my boss who was planning to blow up a load of council toilets,’ added a man who had been working in Bog’s toilet factory.
‘They trashed my book shop,’ said another, older man. ‘But she was chasing a criminal at the time… who got away. But they caught her eventually.’
‘You guys are so cool!’ said a young boy of no more than eight years old who was looking up at them with admiration.
It was this last comment that seemed to stir something in Clifford. A feeling, a realisation that what they were doing was all worth it. They were making a difference. They had done a lot of good. And Jean was right, Sergeant Suds would want them to continue their fight for cleanliness and justice. Clifford stood up a little straighter, pushed his chest out and walked over to a man in a pinstriped suit and bowler hat who was holding a briefcase.
‘Sir, we will get your money back and make sure Fleamont Brown is arrested,’ he said confidently. ‘You can count on us.’
‘Well, that’s jolly good of you,’ said the smartly dressed man. ‘But I’m not the bank manager.’
‘Oh, sorry. I just assumed because of the… you know…’ his voice trailed off as he gestured to the man’s attire. ‘Still, I shall not let you down. Do you know why?’
‘Because you are Captain Clean of the Sanitary Squad and you’re going to keep this city clean?’ the man guessed.
‘Because I am Captain Clean of the… yes… what you said,’ the captain replied, disappointed by the anticlimax of his triumphant statement. ‘But please, everyone here has to keep our identities secret, otherwise it’ll cause loads of problems.’
‘Don’t worry Captain Clean, we’ll keep your secret safe,’ said the young boy.
‘And with my memory, I’ll probably forget by this evening anyway,’ chuckled Mrs Begonia.
The whole room laughed in unison for a moment at a comment that wasn’t even that funny, but gave them an opportunity to stand about laughing for a moment. Jean and Clifford left the bank, slower than they’d have liked due to the police and paramedics all bustling through the door. But once they were out, they negotiated a lift from Officer Down and headed back to the community centre.

Captain Clean felt happier now that he was wearing his trademark marigold gloves and microfibre cape. He wrapped the special toilet paper mask around the top half of his face as he wandered back out into the main room of the base.
‘Do you think he’ll have gone back to his hut in the park?’ he asked HyJean, who was now wearing her grime fighting attire too. ‘Not much of a secret hideout with his name plastered above it, is it?’
‘I doubt it, but we’ll try there first,’ she replied. ‘If not, I think I have a way we can track him.’
She held out a flea between her forefinger and thumb. It was considerably larger than the average flea, closer to the size of a 1p coin. But the captain wasn’t thinking about the size as he jumped back with a squeal.
‘A flea!’ he cried.
‘Or so you’d think,’ said HyJean as she held it up closer. ‘It’s actually not a flea at all. It’s a tiny robot.’
‘A robot flea?’ the captain repeated in surprise.
‘Yep. I managed to open it up, it’s incredible technology.’
‘Well, that explains the secret behind his circus then,’ said the captain, looking closer at the robotic flea. ‘He hasn’t trained them at all, just programmed them to perform.’
‘To be fair, normal flea circuses aren’t much different,’ HyJean pointed out. ‘The fleas are glued to things or made to look like they’re moving objects. It’s quite cruel really.’
‘Then that’s two things we’ll have him for,’ said the captain, punching his palm. ‘Stealing and cruelty to fleas.’
‘No, he didn’t do that, it’s other people that are cruel to fleas,’ HyJean explained.
‘One thing at a time, Jean,’ said the captain. ‘So how do we use this to track him down?’
‘It looks like there’s a homing device built in,’ she explained. ‘Makes sense, wouldn’t want to lose any of them. So, we just reboot the flea and it should lead us back to its owner. We’ll go to the circus first; I can’t imagine he’d stray too far away from there.’

As expected, Fleamont Brown’s hut was deserted. They’d prised the door open and found the inside empty. Even the fleas were missing from the tiny circus.
‘He’s exactly as smart as we thought he’d be,’ said the captain, closing the door to the hut. ‘Luckily we’ve got our plan B.’
‘Or should that be plan flea?’ said HyJean with a grin.
‘No, that doesn’t make sense,’ the captain replied, shaking his head. ‘Plan B is what you call the backup plan, hence B for backup.’
‘Yea, but he’s got fleas, so… oh, never mind,’ said HyJean with a roll of her eyes as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a clear plastic bag with the captured robotic flea and a small pair of tweezers inside. She took them out and prepared herself. ‘Ready?’
‘Of course I’m ready, I’m waiting for you,’ the captain replied.
Using the tweezers, she carefully wiggled a tiny switch on the tiny flea and it sprang into life. After a few seconds, a blue light started flashing and the flea’s legs started to move, as if it were jumping in midair. She let it go and it leapt out of her hand onto the floor, then started bouncing away from them. She turned to see the captain was busy reading a leaflet he’d picked up on the way into the park. She slapped it out of his hand.
‘Come on, we’ve got to follow it!’ she cried.
‘Follow what?’ asked the captain.
‘The flea!’
‘Oh right, yes. Of course.’
They set off down through the park, chasing the robot flea that was bouncing along the path, past the trees and flowers, which now seemed a little brighter again, like the world was purposely adjusting itself to fit their mood. Fortunately, the flea was big enough for them to keep track of and small enough that they could keep up. But the flea had set its course and cared not for what was in its way. It jumped easily over a bench, which Captain Clean and HyJean had to scramble over. It dived into a bush, which the two grime fighters dived into as well, only to see it bouncing off on the other side while they were covered in leaves and twigs. At one point, it even landed inside a woman’s shopping bag, causing the captain to snatch it out of her hands and throw it down onto the floor, kicking it and dropping down to smother it before the flea could escape. Whilst the woman screamed and kicked the captain, HyJean pointed out that the flea had already left the bag and was getting away. After many hasty apologies, they continued their pursuit. It strayed off the pathway and into the trees, and the pair momentarily lost track of it. They looked around frantically, but thankfully a dog spotted the robotic flea and started barking at it. They followed the dog, who followed the flea, which bounced out of the park and onto the busy street. Captain Clean and HyJean pushed past people, bumping into them and apologising as they followed the flea. They dodged traffic as they ran across the road to keep up with it, and almost knocked a cyclist off his bike when it leapt over him and they ran straight into him. The worst part was when the flea jumped into a baby’s pram. HyJean was too far behind to stop the captain from diving his hands into the pram and making the baby burst into a very loud fit of tears as he felt around for the flea. When he spotted it jump out, a part of him wondered if the flea was doing this with intent, purposely trying to shake them off with obstacles. His musings were quickly cut off by a hefty smack from a handbag as the baby’s mother screamed and shouted at him. HyJean dragged him away and apologised profusely to the woman. They continued to follow the flea farther down the road, and when it turned off into a side road and the path became less busy, they knew they were getting close. Finally it reached a small, shabby building and jumped expertly through a small hole with “Flea Flap” written above it.
‘He must be in there,’ whispered HyJean.
‘I bloody hope so,’ the captain panted. ‘I don’t think I could run anymore. I really need to get back into my exercise routine.’
‘So, what’s the plan?’ HyJean asked.
‘Usually half an hour on the treadmill, twenty minutes lifting weights…’
‘Not your exercise plan!’ HyJean groaned. ‘I mean the plan once we get inside here.’
‘Oh, I see,’ the captain replied, still catching his breath. ‘My plan is to follow your plan.’
‘Of course it is,’ she sighed. ‘Right then, let’s see. He’s bound to have more robotic fleas in there, but I’ve got this that should short circuit them for a few minutes.’
She held up a little black device with a button on that she used whenever she needed to scramble signals.
‘Then we just need to corner him and cuff him,’ she continued. ‘We can take him back to the base and de-flea him before we call the police.’
‘Okay, let me just think of my pun first,’ said the Captain.
‘What?’ asked HyJean.
‘I need a clever bit of wordplay to say when I go in,’ he replied. ‘Something to do with fleas. Just give me a minute.’

‘Thought you’d get the jump on us, did you?’ the captain called out as they burst through the door.
‘Ten minutes he spent thinking that up,’ HyJean grumbled as she pressed the button on her device to deactivate the fleas.
A clang echoed around the room as Fleamont Brown dropped a spanner in surprise. The room was small and shabby, probably cheap to rent. There was little in the way of furniture save for a workbench that was covered in bits and bobs, metal pieces and tools. There was something large and metal at the back of the room, and a door which led to a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom that were all in the same room. Told you it looked cheap.
‘How did you find me?’ Fleamont gasped.
‘We followed one of your fleas,’ grinned HyJean.
‘Damn it! A traitor!’ he cried, as if it were a real animal and not a robot that had given his game away. ‘Not to worry, I have plenty more.’
He tapped his watch, but nothing happened. He tapped again. Nothing.
‘I’ve disabled your fleas,’ HyJean pointed out.
‘Damn you!’ Fleamont groaned as he stomped his floor on the foot, like a child having a tantrum.
‘Look, we’re not here to hurt you,’ the captain explained. ‘We’re just here to tell you that Sal wants to see you.’
‘Sal? Sal Monella?’ Fleamont snorted. ‘Of course she does, I should’ve known. But she’s too lazy to find me herself, so she’s sent two jumped-up janitors.’
‘Hey, that’s a bit offensive you know,’ said the captain.
‘She said you stole something off her?’ asked HyJean. ‘What did you steal?’
‘Ah, now that would be telling,’ Fleamont said with a playful grin. He reached down and picked a long screwdriver up off his desk. ‘But I’m afraid I won’t be going anywhere near Sal Monella. Not today!’
He ran at them, brandishing the screwdriver as if it were a mighty sword. The captain quickly pulled out his toilet brush with the mace-like tip and swung it. Fleamont blocked the hit with his screwdriver and the two duelled for a few moments before HyJean picked up a book and hit Fleamont over the head with it. He stumbled back and dropped his screwdriver. He wasn’t going down easy though, and charged at them, hoping to barge past and out the door. However, the two grime fighters grabbed him and wrestled with him briefly before throwing him to the floor. He let out a defeated sigh, panting heavily as his brief spurt of frantic energy wore of. When he finally looked back up at them, they saw that his confidence and sneering bravado had vanished. His face now wore a look of worry and desperation, his hair all messy and sticking to his sweaty face.
‘Please, don’t take me to Sal,’ he pleaded. ‘She’ll kill me.’
‘Why? What did you steal?’ asked HyJean, trying not to show any sort of compassion, though he clearly needed some.
‘A… a muffin,’ he replied, pulling himself up slightly.
‘A muffin?’ HyJean repeated with a chuckle. ‘You mean all this is over a muffin?’
‘Yes. I had a meeting with her, she wanted me and my fleas to work for her,’ he explained. ‘I refused of course. On the way out I took one of her muffins. Blasted woman.’
Captain Clean turned to HyJean, a look of concern in his eyes. ‘We can’t take him back to Sal.’
‘Why not? It was just a muffin,’ HyJean replied.
‘Just a muffin? Have you not heard the stories?’ said the captain. ‘One guy went to take one of her chips and she sliced his hand off. She doesn’t forgive thieves you know. Especially when it comes to food.’
HyJean thought for a moment, looking from the captain to Fleamont and back again. This was unexpected. She wanted to take him back to Sal so they could get the information needed, but not if it meant sending him to his death.
‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘We’ll take him back to the base to keep him safe and let the cops can deal with him.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Fleamont, scrambling to his feet. ‘Anything to keep away from that mad woman. But please, would you allow me to first find my hat? If I am to be arrested in public, I should like to look presentable.’
‘Of course,’ said the captain with a smile. He was just glad this was all going so smoothly. But HyJean was not so convinced. She made to voice her opinion, but the captain stopped her.
Fleamont exited the room through the door and there were sounds of rustling and furniture moving.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed HyJean.
‘Well, he’s coming quietly. The least we can do is let him look presentable,’ shrugged the captain.
‘He’s clearly going to try and escape through a window in there,’ she pointed out.
‘Oh crap, you’re right!’ cried the captain.
They ran across the room and flung open the door, expecting to see an open window with the curtains flailing a little in the wind to draw attention to it. Instead, they found Fleamont Brown leaning over a pile of boxes and bags holding a brown bowler hat.
‘Oh! Sorry, we uh…’ said the captain, his voice trailing off.
‘You thought I was escaping, didn’t you?’ Fleamont said with a disappointed tone.
‘It did cross our minds, yes,’ HyJean admitted.
‘I can hardly blame you,’ said Fleamont, putting on his hat and rolling his sleeves down, fastening them with a pair of flea-shaped cufflinks. ‘But I was brought up to accept punishment for one’s actions. Religious parents, you see. So, shall we go?’
‘What about your fleas?’ asked HyJean.
Fleamont looked down at his fleas, scattered around the floor. They looked so small and harmless like this. His grand army. Taken out in one fell swoop.
‘Whatever you did has disabled them. They are as good as useless,’ he sighed.
‘That’s good, we can just leave them then,’ said the captain with a pleased grin.
‘No chance,’ said HyJean. ‘That distortion is only temporary. Give me the watch.’
She held out her hand and gestured to the smart watch on his wrist that he used to control the fleas. Fleamont grumbled, clearly having hoped they would forget about the device.
‘You don’t need this,’ he said, covering the watch with his hands.
‘Come on, HyJean, it’s just a watch,’ said the captain.
‘It’s how he controls the fleas,’ she reminded him. ‘We can’t let him keep it. Now hand it over.’
Fleamont let out an angry huff as he undid the strap and handed the watch over. As he did, HyJean seized the opportunity and whipped out a pair of handcuffs, snapping one around his wrist.
‘Just a precaution,’ she said with a fake friendly smile. ‘Come on then, let’s get you out of here.’
They led Fleamont out of the room and back through his workshop, but just as they were about to leave, Captain Clean suddenly stopped.
‘Oh wait, I just got it!’ he said, clicking his fingers. ‘Plan flea. Because it sounds like plan B. Good one.’

‘Afternoon captain,’ said Carol the receptionist, who was munching on a supermarket own-brand biscuit as Captain Clean entered the Filtham Community Centre, with HyJean and Fleamont Brown following behind him.
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, madam,’ the captain replied as he walked past, barely acknowledging her.
‘Cheek, it’s only a biscuit!’ she called back after him.
‘Afternoon Carol,’ said HyJean with an apologetic smile.
‘Good afternoon, mon cheri,’ said Fleamont, lingering a little so he could flash one of his charming smiles to the receptionist. She caught it and it had the desired effect.
‘Ooh, good morning sir,’ she replied with an excited little giggle in her voice. ‘You look very smart, I must say.’
‘That’s very kind,’ he replied. ‘One likes to make an effort.’
‘Well, I think you look lovely,’ Carol continued, her eyes looking dreamier every moment she stared at Fleamont.
Captain Clean stepped back and grabbed Fleamont by the arm, pulling him forwards and giving a stern look to Carol. ‘It is not wise to flirt with criminals, madam.’
‘Criminals?’ she gasped. ‘He doesn’t look like a criminal.’
‘Oh, really? And what would you expect a criminal to look like? Striped jumper and a swag bag?’ he asked impatiently. She’d set him off now.
‘Well, no, I don’t really know,’ she stuttered, having not expected this confrontation.
‘Criminals come in all guises, madam. They could look like you and me, which is why we must be vigilant,’ he explained. ‘Like that man over there, the one with the glasses…’
‘Colin?’
‘Yes, Colin. He’s been taking your biscuits when you weren’t looking,’ said the captain, pointing accusingly at the shocked man. ‘But I bet you didn’t suspect nice old Colin with the glasses and penguins on his tie.’
Colin in the background shrugged and laughed nervously, knowing full well he’d been caught out, but trying to act innocent. While Carol got up to go and have a go at him, the grime fighters and their captured criminal continued up the stairs and into their base.
‘So, this is your secret headquarters?’ asked Fleamont as he looked around the base – the large central table, the little hub of computer screens, the door to the captain’s office. ‘The second floor of the community centre?’
‘Damn it, I knew we should’ve blindfolded him,’ said the captain, snapping his fingers.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not like I’ll be able to tell anyone is it, being locked up in Rottenhell,’ Fleamont replied, adding under his breath, ‘Except all the criminals you’ve put away.’
‘Speaking of which, this way,’ said HyJean, leading him through the doorway and down the corridor to the three scantily furnished cells – people never usually stayed in them for long, it was more of an intermediary holding cell for them until the police arrived. Captain Clean followed them down shortly after and, once Fleamont was behind one of the reinforced glass doors, sat on the bench.
‘The police are on their way,’ he informed them. ‘So, what’s your story? How did you end up being a flea-themed criminal.’
‘Haven’t you guessed? I thought the name would’ve made it obvious,’ sneered Fleamont. ‘I have my parents to thank for that. I mean who calls their child Fleamont? Do you have any idea how much I was bullied at school? Everyone calling me Flea, making jokes, saying I was apparently so dirty when I was born that I came out with fleas on me. My parents wouldn’t let me change it or use another name. No, I had to pay them no attention and be proud of my unique name.’
As he spoke, his eyes glazed over and he stared at the wall. His words painted the scenes he described, and the grime fighters could almost picture them projected onto the wall of the cell.
‘Even when I was an adult and tried to go by another name, too many people knew or they’d find out. So, I decided one day to own it. To learn everything I could about fleas and prove there was good to them. And I did. I even started a flea circus, but they were… uncooperative, so I used my knowledge of technology and robotics to fashion my fleabots. But a flea circus doesn’t pay well, and I needed money to fund my advancements in technology. Sal Monella tempted me with criminal activities, and I was curious. Could I pull off a heist without being recognised, let alone caught? And I almost achieved it. Were it not for you two.’
Fleamont stared disdainfully at Captain Clean and HyJean. The captain blinked a few times and then cleared his throat.
‘Sorry, I was thinking about when we put Suds in that cell,’ he said. ‘You said something about being born with fleas?’
‘And there we have it,’ scoffed Fleamont. ‘You don’t care about my background at all, do you? It’s all fun and games when you’re chasing criminals and fighting bad guys, but you don’t even bother to listen to the backstory!’
‘Sorry, we do care,’ said HyJean, walking over to the cell. ‘It’s just our good friend was in that cell recently, just before he died.’
‘He doesn’t haunt it, does he?’ asked Fleamont.
‘Not that I know of,’ said HyJean. ‘I’m sorry, for what you went through. Truly, I am. Nobody should suffer bullying because of a name. But that’s no excuse for robbing a bank. The police will be here shortly, you can tell them your story.’
HyJean left the cells, taking the captain with her. She made a cup of coffee and the two of them discussed Fleamont’s story at the central table.
‘What are we going to tell Sal?’ asked HyJean. ‘I doubt she’ll be happy if we turn up without him.’
‘She wanted him caught, that’s what we did,’ said the captain. ‘We can get a box of muffins to take with us, hopefully that’ll please her.’
‘Well, you said she likes her food, so ho- ouch!’ cried HyJean, slapping her neck.
‘What is it?’ asked the captain.
‘I think it’s…’
‘A flea!’ came the voice of Fleamont Brown from the doorway. ‘And he’s not alone.’
He grinned sinisterly as he tapped a watch on his wrist and a small swarm of about nine fleabots jumped forward and lunged at the captain and HyJean. They immediately started biting into their skin, emitting electric shocks and stinging them. As the grime fighters tried to swat them off, they fell to the floor, writhing and squirming as they yelped and squealed.
‘But h-how?’ asked HyJean between yelps. ‘Your… aaargh! … watch.’
‘Oh, this?’ said Fleamont, holding up his wrist. ‘I switched it with a decoy while I was in my bedroom. I figured you’d try and confiscate it.’
‘We… d-disabled your… aaargh! … fleas,’ she continued.
‘That you did, very clever,’ Fleamont replied, brushing his hand though his wispy brown locks. ‘But I always keep a spare set in my hair, deactivated until I need them and kept on a different frequency to the others..’
‘The… aaargh! … EMP,’ the captain grunted, pointing to HyJean’s pocket.
‘Out of… aaargh! … juice,’ she replied.
‘Don’t worry, they won’t kill you,’ said Fleamont as he crossed the room and stood looking down at them. ‘But they will paralyse you. Long enough for me to make my escape.’
He watched as the two grime fighters wriggled around on the floor, their bodies jolting with each electric shock. He grinned and raised a pointed finger. ‘Time to fl-urgh!’
Before he could finish his catchphrase, he was struck on the back of a head by something heavy. As he collapsed down onto the floor next to the captain and HyJean, and his attacker was revealed. A middle-aged woman wearing a floral dress, a domino mask and a short cape that looked like it was made from a pair of old curtains. She was holding a black leather handbag that was bulging due to the large brick that lay inside it.
‘Mary!’ cried Captain Clean and HyJean in unison, their attention momentarily distracted from the fleas still attacking them.
‘How do I stop them?’ asked Mary in a tone that they’d never heard from her before. It was serious and confident, with a hint of darkness behind it.
‘The wa- aaaargh! … The watch,’ said the captain.
Mary bent down and tried to take the watch off of Fleamont’s wrist, but couldn’t get the strap off, so she just held the limp wrist up while she leant into the watch.
‘Deactivate,’ she said in a confident tone.
‘It’s no voicet… aaargh! … press the screen!’ HyJean cried out.
Mary tapped the screen on the watch and buttons appeared. She pressed one and that just seemed to make things worse, with the captain and HyJean’s cries of pain growing louder.
‘That’s just made it… aaargh! … worse!’ shouted the captain.
She tapped another button on the screen and the swarm of fleas started emitting a high-pitched instrumental version of Spanish Flea. It filled the room like a dozen mobile phones going off at once in a quiet fancy restaurant.
‘Not… uuurgh… helpful!’ groaned HyJean.
‘Ooh, why do these things have to be so complicated?’ sighed Mary as she tapped another button.
It was third time lucky. As soon as she tapped the button, the fleas all froze and collapsed down onto the floor or grime fighter they were on. The two brushed away the ones that were still mid-bite and pulled themselves up. Mary dropped Fleamont’s wrist, which flopped down onto the floor next to him.
‘Thanks Mary,’ said HyJean as she brushed herself off.
‘Perfect timing as always,’ added the captain as he fixed his unravelled mask.
‘I’m just glad you’re both okay,’ said Mary, giving HyJean a hug. She knew the captain would rather not hug, so she just gave him a pat on the arm.
‘What’s with the outfit?’ asked the captain, gesturing to the cape and mask. HyJean had already worked it out and was looking concerned, but the captain, as ever, was clueless.
‘I’m going to be a grime fighter,’ Mary said proudly, puffing her chest out as she put her hands on her hips. The room seemed to encourage her, as a slight breeze wafted over her, making her cape flutter a little in the air. There was a moment of brief silence before anyone spoke again.
‘No,’ said the captain quietly but sternly. He held his arms up to form an X shape to emphasise his point. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘But you promised Mick you’d teach me to defend myself,’ she reminded him.
‘I know, but I didn’t say I’d teach you to be a grime fighter,’ he replied. ‘That’s a very different thing, Mary. Being a grime fighter is dangerous.’
‘I’m with Cap, Mary,’ said HyJean with a sympathetic smile. ‘I don’t think you should be going out on the field.’
‘Why?’ Mary asked. ‘Because I’m too old? Because I’m a woman?’
‘What?’ said the HyJean. ‘No, it’s just…’
‘I’ve proven myself three times that I’m able to handle myself,’ said Mary.
‘Wait, three times?’ asked HyJean. She remembered her beating up a mugger and stopping Fleamont, but she couldn’t recall a third time.
‘I hit a teenager on the way here,’ Mary shrugged. ‘He was laughing at my outfit. I probably should’ve put it on when I got here, to be honest, but I was pumped up.’
‘Mary, I can’t allow you to become a fighter,’ said the captain.
‘For what it’s worth, I actually think she’d be quite good,’ came Fleamont’s weary voice from below.
‘Shut it, you,’ said the captain, giving him a firm kick to the ribs. ‘I owe it to Mick to keep you safe.’
‘Captain, this is something I need to do,’ said Mary, a determined tone in her voice. ‘And I’m going to do it, with or without your help. And I think I’d stand a better chance being part of this team than doing it on my own.’
There was a silence, during which Captain Clean and HyJean looked at Mary. They saw the desperation and determination in her face. She’d been quiet since her husband had died, and had no doubt been thinking hard and training herself up. It probably would’ve made an entertaining montage to watch, but they’re had been too caught up in their own grief to see it.
‘Maybe we could have her come along on some of the smaller missions?’ HyJean suggested. ‘See how she gets on?’
‘Fine,’ the captain said with a heavy sigh. ‘But nothing dangerous. Just like the litter picking and public bathroom patrols.’
Mary smiled widely and lunged at the captain, giving him a rib-threateningly tight hug. She knew he wasn’t a hugger, but in this moment she didn’t care. She was just grateful that he was letting her follow her new dream.
‘Thank you, captain,’ she said as she let go and straightened his cape down. ‘I won’t do anything stupid, I promise, I just want to do some good and continue Mick’s legacy.’
‘We’ll look after you, Mary,’ said HyJean, stroking Mary’s arm.
‘Oh, and I want to be called Marigold,’ said Mary. ‘That’s what Mick used to call me, and I thought it’d make a good alias.’
‘I think it’s perfect,’ said HyJean with an approving smile. ‘Cap?’
‘Yes, fine, whatever,’ mumbled Captain Clean, who was still clearly unhappy about the idea – and the hug hadn’t helped either.
‘Aww. Well, a nice happy ending all round,’ said Fleamont, who had used the distraction to crawl along the floor and was now standing at the door. ‘I’ll just leave you to your training. Time to fl-‘
For the second time that evening, he was cut off as the door burst open and slammed him against the wall.
‘Captain! I heard you caught the tea… uh, the flea,’ said Officer Down as he stumbled into the room. ‘Where is he?’
Captain Clean, HyJean and Mary all pointed in unison at the squished man pinned between the door and the wall.
‘Oops, sorry,’ said Officer Down, looking down at him sheepishly.

It was with some trepidation that Captain Clean and HyJean returned to Sal Monella. They knew that showing up without Fleamont would anger her, and she got quite trigger happy when she was angry. For this reason, the captain wore a bullet proof vest under his shirt. Or rather he’d stuck a frying pan under his shirt, and a tied two metal pipes to his legs. The plan was to ensure at least a basic level of protection from bullets, but it mainly just made him walk oddly. HyJean had prepared by buying a box of muffins on the way. She’d grilled Fleamont for the exact details of size and flavour before he’d been taken away by the police, so she knew to buy four large chocolate muffins. It was very tempting to eat one on the way, as they did look very tasty, but she managed to resist.
And so, they entered Sal’s restaurant and were frisked down by the burly henchmen. The one patting down the captain looked at him curiously when his legs started to clang and a frying pan handle flopped out of his shirt.
‘I refuse to pay thirty pence for a shopping bag,’ said the captain with a shrug.
Once they were happy that they had no weapons or children hidden among their person, Sal was informed and came out to sit at her usual seat in the private booth.
‘I do not see Fleamont Brown with you,’ she said as she tucked into a bowl of pasta that had been waiting patiently for her to come and devour it. She didn’t bother to swallow before she continued talking, so her words were somewhat muffled. ‘I hurgh yoush hurgh wuff goosh nush.’
Captain Clean visibly winced at the uncivilised display but restrained himself from saying anything for fear of denting his frying pan.
‘Fleamont Brown has been captured and arrested,’ announced HyJean.
This time, Sal finished chewing and put down her fork.
‘That was not the deal,’ she said, her air of displeasure overwhelming that of the tomatoey pasta’s scent.
‘Well, yes… but you see,’ stuttered the captain.
‘We were asked to stop Fleamont Brown and bring him to justice, which we did,’ said HyJean, stepping forward and putting the box of muffins on the table. ‘And we’ve recompensed you for your loss.’
Sal looked down slowly at the muffins and then up at the captain and HyJean. For what felt like minutes, there was an awkward silence in which Sal was clearly trying to decide what to do. They’d failed to bring back Fleamont. HyJean had spoken back to her. But they had brought muffins. And gotten rid of Fleamont.
‘Very well, you may go,’ said Sal.
‘Great, thank you,’ said the captain, turning to leave.
‘Aren’t we forgetting something?’ said HyJean. ‘You said you had information on L.A.B for us?’
Sal gave them one of her trademark stares for a moment and then sighed defeatedly. ‘Very well, give it to me boys!’ she said, raising a hand and clicking her fingers.
The three men, who had only been half listening to the conversation, suddenly burst into an a Capella rendition of Killing Me Softly. This was clearly their usual cue that they’d misinterpreted. Captain Clean and HyJean looked at one another, surprised but also a little impressed by the grunts’ harmonies. Sal quickly waved them down with an annoyed grunt of her own.
‘No, stop!’ she growled. ‘I was telling you to give me the L.A.B. file.’
The three henchmen all turned a wonderfully unthreatening rosy hue as they apologised and one of them handed Sal the file.
‘Here you are,’ Sal said, handing it to HyJean. ‘They’re a very secretive organisation, so little is known about them. But there are whispers. Mentions. These are the details of Dr Sebastian Shoal, who I believe once worked for L.A.B. He will be able to tell you much more.’
‘Wow, this is so exciting,’ said the captain, unable to contain his glee at finally making a breakthrough and having an actual contact to pursue.
‘Thank you, Miss Mollena,’ said HyJean, who had the advantage of being able to retain her composure. ‘Enjoy your muffins.’
‘I shall,’ said Sal.
Without another word, Captain Clean and HyJean left the restaurant. They could see, as they looked through the window behind them, that Sal had waited until she thought they were out of sight before diving into the box of muffins with a less than graceful pounce.
‘Job well done,’ said the captain. ‘And nobody got hurt.’
‘Well, a lot of people got hurt by the fleas, including us,’ HyJean pointed out.
‘You know, I don’t know what I’d do without you to bring the mood down,’ the captain replied.
‘Sorry,’ said HyJean. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a sponge on the way home.’
‘Oh my god! Our shopping!’ exclaimed the captain, suddenly remembering the young man they’d hired to wait with their shopping hours ago. ‘We forgot all about it.’

A short sprint later, they were back in the supermarket and found the shop assistant where they’d left him, stood next to the trolley and drumming his fingers on a box of laundry detergent with a faraway expression on his face.
‘We’re so sorry to leave you waiting,’ said HyJean breathlessly as they skidded to a halt by the trolley.
‘Oh, your back,’ he replied, in a surprisingly cheery tone.
‘Have you been standing here the whole time?’ asked HyJean.
‘Yep, just like you asked,’ the assistant replied proudly.
‘We’ve been gone for five hours,’ the captain pointed out.
‘Have you really?’ said the assistant with a light chuckle. ‘Well, doesn’t time fly.’
HyJean took out her purse and gave the young man one hundred and fifty pounds, three times what he was promised, wanting to recompense him for his time and avoid any arguments later down the line, especially if his manager found out.
‘Right, come on, let’s go pay for this,’ said the Captain as he took control of the trolley.
As if on cue, an announcement came over the tannoy system, ‘The tills are now closed and the shop is now closing. Will all customers please vacate the store.’
Captain Clean’s face dropped in horror and he collapsed onto the mound of items in the trolley and burst into tears.
‘It’s been a long day,’ HyJean explained to the shop assistant as she patted the captain’s back.