The Umpire smiled, said: ‘Then thrice shall I smite them.’
The proprietor couldn’t give a toss if he answered in Arabic, said: ‘Whatever.’ And he put the goods in a M amp;S bag, warning: ‘Careful how you handle ’em,’ and pocketed the money.Now the Umpire dry-tested the bow and found it slack. He tightened and tested for over an hour till it gave a taut zing. He couldn’t believe how easy it had been to kill his second cricketer. At the very least, he’d expected a uniform on the beat. But zip, nada, tipota.
When he’d begun his crusade, he found most of the team addresses in the phone book. That strengthened his conviction and zeal. Three of them with south-east London homes. Better and better. The sheer power of the bolts enthralled him. As he saw the wicket-keeper stumble down the steps, he felt exhilaration. But cunning ruled. He quickly put the weapon in the M amp;S bag and simply walked away. Shannon began to reemerge as the two personalities roared: ‘Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.’
PC Tone was what used to be called a raw youth. He didn’t have acne but it was close. At twenty-three years of age, he looked seventeen. Not a big advantage in south-east London. But he had four O-levels and one A-level. The changing Met looked at exams, not faces. When Brant first clapped eyes on him, he’d said: ‘For fucksake.’
Tone worshipped the Sergeant. The rep of violence, rebellion and fecklessness was irresistible. That Brant despised him didn’t cool his devotion since Brant seemed to despise everyone. Tone figured if he could attach himself to Brant, he’d learn the real method of policing. Not an easy task, as most times he was told: ‘Piss off boy’ Until this morning.
He’d been summoned, so to speak. Brant was in the canteen, wolfing down a glazed doughnut. The only person to have his own drinking vessel, even the brass got plastic cups. His was a large chipped mug with Rambo on the side. A logo read: I’m a gas. But the g had faded. Brant gave a big smile, particles of sugar in his teeth, said: ‘Have a seat, boyo.’
Tone was 6’1” and awkward. Roger McGough might have used him for the PC Plod poems. He had his hair cut short and gelled. His face was made up of regular features and his whole demeanour suggested ‘unlikely lad’.
He sat.
Brant gave him a full look, then asked: ‘Tea or coffee, boyo?’
‘Ahm, tea, I think.’
Brant snorted: ‘Well, it won’t come to you lad, hop up there and gis a refill, two sugars.’
The canteen lady, named Doris, gave Tone a wink, said: ‘Watch ’im.’
When he returned, Brant said: ‘Lovely job’, and took a gulp, went: ‘Jaysus you never stirred it.’
Which was true. Then he took out his Weights, said: ‘I’d offer you one but it’s a smoke-free zone,’ and lit up. Tone tasted his tea. It was like coffee or turpentine or a cunning blend of both. Brant leaned over, asked: ‘Do you want to get on, boyo, eh? Are you ambitious?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, that’s good. I have a little job for you.’
‘I’m ready, sir.’
‘Course you are, a fine strappin’ youth like you. You’ll sire legions.’
‘Sir?’
‘Now, there’s two dossers, male and female. In their late twenties. They have their pitch in the Elephant and Castle tunnels. They wear band aids on their faces. I want their names, their squat, who they run with, any previous. Got that?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Well, don’t hang about lad, get crackin’.’
Tone stood up, perplexed, then: ‘But sir… Why? Have they done owt? What’s the reason?’
Brant held up a hand, palm outward: ‘Whoah, Sherlock, hold yer water. The reason is I asked you — d’ya follow?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s the job, and oh, Tome…
‘Tone, sir. It’s an ‘n’.’
‘Whatever. Mum’s the word, eh?’
When the constable had gone, Brant said, and not quietly: ‘Fuckin’ maggot.’
Room mate? A hammering likely to wake the very dead
Falls was dreaming of her father when the hammering began at her door. Awakening, she checked the time, 3.30am, and heard in disbelief: ‘Open up, this is the police.’
Throwing on a robe, she went to the door and opened it on the safety chain. Brant.
‘What the —?’
‘I bring you greetings.’
She could smell the wave of liquor and he looked demented. She said: ‘Sergeant, this is hardly an appropriate hour.’
‘I need a kip.’
And she figured: ‘Pay up time.’
Before she could protest, he said: ‘Don’t be a cow. I’ve been turned over. I’ll sleep on the couch.’
Reluctantly, she opened the door. He slouched in, muttering: ‘McBain, Hunter, all done in.’
‘Your friends?’
And he gave what she could only describe as a cackle and said: ‘Friends? Yes, yes. I believe they were, and better than most.’ He flopped down on the couch, said: ‘Jay-sus, I need some sleep. Get the light would you?’ And within minutes he was snoring. She got a blanket from her bed and as she put it over him she saw the gun in his waistband. Afraid he’d do damage, she reached for it, only to have her wrist seized. He said: ‘Don’t handle my weapon.’
As she tried to regain her sleep, she wished: ‘Hope he shoots his balls off.’
Falls prided herself on the flat being a ‘smoke free zone’. Even her old dad, no matter how pissed, never had the bottle to light his ‘home-mades’ there. Now she woke to the stench of nicotine, clouds of it hung in the air. Storming out to the living room, she found Brant wrapped in her best towel, a cigarette dangling on his lips. He said: ‘Breakfast’s made. Well, sort of. I’ve boiled the water. Whatcha fancy, coffee all right?’
‘No thank you, I’m a tea drinker.’
As she went into the kitchen, he observed: ‘Jay-sus, you’ve got a big arse, haven’t you?’
The kitchen was a ruin. Used cups, stained teatowels, opened jars left everywhere. He strolled in after her, asked: ‘How’d it go then?’
‘What?’
‘The funeral.’
‘Oh. Great. No, I mean OK, it was small.’
‘He was a small man, eh?’
She glared at him: ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘Did Roberts go?’
‘Yes, him and Mrs Roberts.’
‘Ah, the lovely Fiona. I could ride that.’
She slammed a cup on the sink, said:
‘Really, Sergeant. Are you trying to be deliberately offensive?’ He gave a look of near-innocence.
‘Me? Listen babe, don’t get yer knickers in a twist, this is my good side.’
She looked at him with distaste, said: ‘Your chin is bleeding.’
He wiped at it with an end of the towel, her favourite white fluffy one, said: ‘Them lady razors, near tore the face offa me.’
Another item for the bin, she sighed. He stood up, said: ‘I need to ask your… co-operation.’
‘Oh?’
‘If certain items — shall we say information — about the big cases, arrive, I’d appreciate a nod before it gets to Roberts.’
‘I don’t know, Sarge, I mean…
‘C’mon Falls. I’m not asking much. He’ll be informed. Eventually.’ Without another word, he went into the sitting room, dressed, and presented himself, asking: ‘How do I look?’
‘Er…
‘Yeah, I thought so. I’ve got to go chat to a junkie.’
She felt she’d been a tad cold, nay harsh, and tried to pull back a bit. In the hall, she said in a soft voice: ‘Sarge, thanks for not, you know, trying it on.’
‘Hey, I don’t jump the help, OK.’
Roberts had watched a documentary on Francis Bacon. He especially liked Bacon’s cry when he entered a club in Soho: ‘Champagne for my real friends. Real pain for my sham friends’. He was about to experience some major pain himself. The Chief Super was having more than a piece of Roberts’ hide and kept repeating: ‘I’m not the type to say “I told you so”.’
He was crowing over the ‘solution’ to the cricket murder. Roberts was seething, said quietly: ‘Oh, it’s been solved?’
‘Don’t take that tone with me, laddie. It’s solved as far as we’re concerned.’