‘Oh.’
He rummaged in his pockets, dumped a pile of notes on the table, said: ‘I’ve called a cab for you, you stay, finish the grub,’ and then he was gone. Fiona wanted to weep. For whom or why, she wasn’t sure, but a sadness of infinity had shrouded her heart.
As Brant approached the car, his mind was in a swirl of pain through memory. He’d let his guard down, and now he struggled to regain the level of aggression that was habitual. As a mantra, he mouthed Jack Nicholson’s line from A Few Good Men: ‘The truth, you can’t handle the truth — I eat breakfast every day, four hundred yards from Cubans who want to kill me.’ For a moment he was Jack Nicholson, shoving it loud into the face of Tom Cruise.
It worked. The area of vulnerability began to freeze over, and the smile, slick in its satanic knowledge, began to form. He said: ‘I’m cookin’ now, mister.’ And he was. As the Volvo lurched towards south-east London, Nicholson’s lines fired on: ‘You come down here in your faggoty white uniforms, flash a badge and expect me to salute.’
Last train to Clarkesville
As Roberts was resigning himself to a haul to Pentonville, the phone rung again. He considered ignoring it, but finally said: ‘Damn and blast,’ and picked it up. ‘Yes?’
‘Is that the police?’
‘Yes.’(very testy)
‘This is the nursing sister at St Thomas’.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I don’t know if I’m being fanciful, but we have a man here who… I don’t know how to say this.’
Roberts exhaled loudly and said: ‘You have the cricket murderer, am I right?’ He could hear her amazement and it was a moment before she could say: ‘Yes. Yes, at least it might be.’
Roberts couldn’t contain his sarcasm, said: ‘Confessed, did he?’
‘Not exactly, no. A man was brought in after being hit by a bus, and in his sleep, he was shouting things that were peculiar.’
Roberts felt he had been hit by a bus himself, said wearily: ‘I’ll get someone over there toot sweet.’
‘Toot what?’
‘Soon, sister, OK?’
‘All right, I’ll expect you.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
And he rung off. He rooted in his pocket, took out a coin, said: ‘Heads the ’Ville, tails the other monkey.’
Flipped it high.
It was heads.
Officers had blocked off Electric Avenue. Brant could see armed officers lining up along the roofs. Falls came running, said: ‘You got my call?’
‘I owe you, babe. Is this what I think it is?’
‘Someone reported a barrage of shots and a local PC went to investigate. He narrowly escaped having his head shot off.’ Brant approached the officer in charge, said: ‘I think I know who’s inside. What’s the status?’
‘A bloody shambles. We know it’s a dope pad, and four white men were seen going in. Then the shooting started. Nobody’s come out. We have a negotiator on the way and we are trying to set up a phone link.’
Brant turned and said to Falls: ‘Watch this.’
Before anyone could react, he walked across the street and into the building. The scene-of-crime guy exclaimed: ‘What the hell?’
Brant made no effort to sneak up the stairs, but walked loudly, turned into a dimly lit corridor. The smell of cordite was thick, and something else, the smell of blood.
Kev was slouched against a wall, his legs spread out. He held a gun in each hand, not aimed but lying loosely on his chest. He was covered in blood.
Brant said: ‘Shop!’
A lazy smile from Kev, then: ‘You should’ve seen it, mate. We got in and told the fucks not to move. You know what they did?’
‘They moved?’
‘Started bleedin’ shouting. At me brother, he got it in the neck. And Doug, well, he got it everywhere. I dunno about Fenton, I kinda lost him in the excitement.’
‘Are you hurt bad?’
‘I dunno, I don’t feel nuffin’… bit tired I suppose.’
‘You are the ‘E’ mob, right?’
‘Yeah, that’s us.’
‘Tell you son, you done good, had us going a bit.’
‘We did, didn’t we?’
Brant edged closer, said: ‘Thing is, whatcha gonna do now?’
‘I dunno, mate.’
A little nearer. ‘If you give it up boyo, you’ll be famous. Lots of press, movie rights, mini-series, books. Jeez, you’ll be on T-shirts.’
Very close now.
Kev began to move the gun in his right hand, and Brant smashed his foot into Kev’s face. Then bounced his head against the wall a few times, pulled the guns away, said: ‘That’s all she wrote.’
He straightened up and slowly approached the flat, took a peek inside, muttered: ‘Jesus!’
Moved in and stepped carefully over bodies. Saw a heavy wedge of banded cash and said: ‘I’ll be ’aving that.’
He pushed open the window, let himself be clearly seen, and shouted: ‘All clear!’
After the clean-up process had begun, Brant was sitting in a police van, sipping tea from a styrofoam beaker. Falls walked over, said: ‘Hear the buzz?’
‘What? No, is it sirens?’
‘No, sarge, it’s a White Arrest.’
Brant said: ‘I’ve been accused of all sorts of stuff. Some of it stuck, some of it’s even true and none I’ll admit to. But, hand on my heart, I’ve never been a racist. So, I can honestly say, you’re the first nigger I ever liked.’
Falls didn’t know whether to assault him or plain ignore him. Instead: ‘Well, Sergeant, perhaps you’re not as black as you’re painted.’ It was the closest they’d come to camaraderie.
Roberts emerged from Pentonville spitting anger. The suspect was a complete wash out. So loaded on Thorazine he confessed to being Lord Lucan.
It took all of Roberts’ patience not to wallop him. Worse, he had had to brown-nose the Governor, who said: ‘Can’t be too careful, eh?’
‘Exactly.’
As he got in his car, he thought he’d have time to swing by St Thomas’, then said: ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers.’
Fiona answered the phone, wondered if it was Brant, said: ‘Yes?’
‘Fiona, this is Penny.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Oh Fiona, I’m so sorry, but I had no choice.’
‘That’s not quite right, you chose, but you chose to save yourself.’
‘Can you ever forgive me?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘What can I do to make up for it? Anything. I’ll do anything.’
‘Would you?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Then go fuck yourself, you’ve done it to everybody else.’
Two weeks later
At St Thomas’ hospital, the doctor was releasing his patient. ‘Now Mr Shannon, will you take it easy?’
‘Is sport OK?’
‘Purely as a spectator, is that clear?’
‘Crystal,’ and the Umpire smiled.
The furore of the Brixton shoot-out was ebbing. Commendations, awards, lavish praise, expected promotion: all followed Brant’s way. The George Medal was being mentioned.
Brant was coming home after yet another evening of liquid congratulation. Outside his building, he let back his head and muttered: ‘Ain’t life grand?’
A woman approached and asked: ‘Change for tea, mistah?’
Too late he registered the band-aid, and a knife went deep into his lower back.
As he fell to his knees, he thought: ‘Ahh… bollocks.’
Roberts checked again in the full-length mirror. He was dressed in a tight black shirt, homburg on his head, and dark shades. Oh yeah, and white socks, meeting the too-short pants. Brant had finally talked him into the idea for the fancy dress at the Met dance. When Fiona saw him, she gasped: ‘What on earth?’
‘I’m a Blues Brother!’
‘You look like a spiv.’
And she’d retreated in gales of laughter. When Brant had explained, it seemed more feasable. How they’d burst into the hall, light shining behind them. Before anyone could recover, they’d launched into an improvised version of a) ‘Rawhide’ or b) ‘Stand By Your Man’ (‘As long as it’s loud, Guv’).