The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (11 page)

P
C TONE WAS ALSO
‘encore une fois-ing’. But like Roberts’ daughter, it wasn’t doing a whole lot for him. He was determined to be cool. But already, even Oasis were on the slide. Never-no-mind, he put on ‘Champagne Supernova’ and felt connected. On the door of his flat was a full-length poster of Clare Danes, his ideal woman. He’d first stumbled upon her in the defunct series,
My So-called Life,
and he was lost, smitten, entranced. Her part as Juliet in her first full-length movie sealed his fate. Once being interviewed, she’d admitted to listening to ‘Wonderwall’, ‘Like one hundred times.’ And he’d shouted: ‘Me too!’

Then he got dressed, imitating the words of Brant: ‘Let’s rock ’n’
roil.’
Like that.

A pair of tan Farah slacks, tight in the ass and crotch so the babes could ogle. But his courage faltered and he pulled on a Nike long sweat, then a shirt loosely buttoned to highlight the sweat’s logo:
No. 1.
All right!

Then a pair of market trainers designer-soiled so he wouldn’t appear an asshole, like the new kid on the block or something. Shades of cool. A short denim jacket, black lest he appear obvious. Final touch, the Marlboro Lights in the top right-hand pocket. Looked again in the mirror, said: ‘My man,’ and headed out. Then sheepishly, he had to return a few minutes later to check the gas was off. Worry and cool didn’t blend. Shit, he knew that. If Brant didn’t check the gas, he’d say: ‘Let it blow.’ Tone hadn’t reached that plateau of recklessness yet. Deeply suspected he never would.

He went to the Cricketers on Thursday, it was darts night. Maybe Falls would show and he felt his heart palpitate. A wino waylaid him outside the Oval, whining: ‘Gis a pound.’

‘I’m the heat, fella.’

‘Gis two pounds, Mr Heat.’

Tone checked round, then handed over 70p. The wino, indignant, said: ‘What am I supposed to do wif this, yah wanker?’

‘Call someone who gives a toss.’

He left near dizzy with the macho-ness, but quickened his pace lest the wino follow.

The pub was jammed. Trade was ‘aided and abetted’ by the ‘blue hour’. A police version of the happy one. Two drinks for the price of a single, drink them blues away. It was working. Tone had to elbow to the bar. Tried in vain to get noticed and served. The staff knew rank and knew he hadn’t any. So he could wait.

Till: ‘What ya want, son?’

Chief Inspector Roberts.

He wanted a tall shandy to motor his arid mouth. ‘A scotch, sir.’

And hey, jig time, he’d got it. Roberts nodded, then said: ‘Park it over here, son.’

The blue sea parted to reveal a vacant stool. He climbed on, took a slug of the scotch, thought: ‘God!’ as it burned. Did it ever. Roberts eyed him, asked: ‘Got some new clobber there?’

‘Oh no, sir, just old stuff.’

The Farahs were so new they sparkled, and no way would they lighten up that crease. Tone had a horrible thought: would the Guvnor think he was on the take? He asked: ‘Is Sergeant Brant about, sir?’

Roberts sighed, signalled the barman, and in a terse voice, told of the Meyer Meyer incident.

‘Good grief,’ said Tone.

If Roberts thought that cut it, he said nothing. Falls and Rosie brushed past, said: “Night, Guv.’

He didn’t answer. Tone shouted: “Night’, and tried not to look after them.

Roberts said: ‘She’s getting hers, eh?’

Tone prayed, crossed his fingers, then said: ‘Rosie?’

‘Naw. Falls, some security guard’s putting it to her.’ Tone died.

R
OBERTS SAW THE YOUNG
man’s face in tatters. He felt a sense of such loss that he could almost no longer recall what power a yearning could be. He touched the bar, said: ‘Whatcha say to a double?’

‘Ahm, no, sir, I mean... I thought I might call on Sergeant Brant.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Just to see if he needed anything.’

‘I dunno son, he’s a man best left to sort himself.’

Tone got off the stool, said, near defiant: ‘All the same, sir.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t expect a warm welcome.’

After Tone had gone, Roberts thought he should have offered some advice on the woman. But what could he tell him? That everything would be fine? Whatever else things turned out to be, fine was almost never one of them. As he left the bar later, brown-nosers called ‘Goodnight’. He neither acknowledged nor quite ignored them. It just didn’t matter, not when you’d lost the magic of yearning.

PC Tone was more than a touch apprehensive about calling on Brant, but he composed himself, said: ‘How bad can it be?’

He heard the music from the street, as if all the cruising cars in Brixton had a Rap convention. That loud. That annoying. When he reached Brant’s door, the noise was massive, and he thought: it sounds like house. It was.

Earlier, Brant had gone into HMV, said: ‘Gimmie all the hits of house.’

The assistant, in ponytail and zeiss bifocals, joked: ‘Bit of a rave, eh?’

‘Bit o’ minding yer own bloody business.’

The assistant, who in kinder days would have gravitated from mellow hippy, was now on job release from DHSS in Clapham. He shut it.

Tone had to hammer at the door till eventually it was flung open. A demented Brant before him. Dressed only in maroon Adidas shorts and trainers, sweat cascading down the grey hair of his chest, he sang: ‘C’mon ye Reds.’

Tone asked: ‘Are you OK, sir?’

‘Whatcha want? See if I’ve a dog licence? Well cop this, I’ve no bleeding dog, not never more.’

‘Sir, sir, could you lower the music?’

‘Whats-a-matter boyo? Not
tone
deaf are yer?’ Brant laughed wildly at his joke. Tone was lost, didn’t know how to leave or stay, tried: ‘We’ll get him, sergeant.’ And Brant lunged forth, grabbing him by his shirt front, the fabric tearing, and roared: ‘Oh will you? Didn’t I already ask you to find them Dublin fucks with the band aids. Didn’t I?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Ah, you couldn’t catch a child’s cold. Go on, hoppit, fuck off out of it, ya cissy!’

And slammed the door.

As the young copper crept away, he fingered the ripped clothing, saying: ‘Didn’t have to do that, cost me a tenner in the market that did.’ He wanted to bawl.

I
NSIDE, BRANT RETURNED TO
his evening. He’d busted enough raves to get the gist. You stripped to your shorts, took the E and bopped till you dropped. What Brant had felt was, they didn’t feel. No one hurting at all.

And that’s what he wanted. Because of the dehydration factor, he’d a line of Evians along the wall, and for lubrication, a bottle of Tequila.

New to drugs, he had the booze as insurance. The E he’d bounced from a dealer in Kennington Tube Station.

Letting back his head he howled: ‘Had us a time, Meyer.’

Towards the close of the night’s festivities, the sergeant, way down on the other side of the ecstasy moon, began to munch the doggie treats, intended as a surprise for Meyer, whispering: ‘Bit salty, but not bad, no.’

Albert was miming before the mirror: ‘I’m a believer... and occasionally he’d give what he believed to be an impish grin like Davy Jones. Till a shadow fell across him.

Kevin.

‘What the fuck are you doing? And turn off that shit.’

He aimed a kick at the hi-fi and the Monkees screeched to a halt. Albert rushed across to rescue the album. Sure enough, it was deeply scratched. He wailed: ‘Whatcha want to do that for?’

Kevin gave a nasty laugh. ‘Don’t be so bleedin’ wet. It can only improve those wankers, give ’em that unplugged feel. Now pay attention, I want to show you somefin’.’

He bent down and pulled out a long box from under the couch. He flipped the lid off and took out a rifle, said: ‘Feast yer eyes on this, isn’t it a beauty?’

‘Is it real?’

‘Real? You friggin’ moron. It’s a Winchester 460 Magnum. See that scope? Pick the hair outta yer nose from a rooftop.’

He pulled the bolt all the way back. A cartridge in the chamber slid home and he swung the barrel round into Albert’s face, said: ‘Grab some sky, pilgrim.’

‘What?’

‘Put yer bleedin’ hands up.’

Albert slowly did so and Kev leaned closer, whispering: ‘Make yer peace, Mister.’

‘Kev!’

The gun went up an inch above Albert’s head, then the trigger was pulled. The impact slammed the stock into his shoulder and knocked him back. The bullet tore into the wall, decanting a plastic duck. Albert stood in open-mouthed shock, and Kev, on his ass, on the floor, exclaimed: ‘Fuck me, now that’s fire power. What a rush.’

B
RANT COMES TO AND
hears the most awful screeching, like someone is tearing the skin off a cat. Someone is indeed tearing the skin off a cat, on
The Simpsons,
in the ‘Itchy and Scratchy’ cartoon. The noise is deafening and Brant reaches up to turn it off. Pain in the major league as his body moves. His arse naked and he shudders to think why. But thank fuck he didn’t go out... did he? His mind was careering in every direction. From one side surfaced a recent documentary he’d seen on the American Marine Corps. No matter what shit went down, they’d up, kick ass and shout: ‘Semper Fi!’

He gave a weak attempt at it now, but it came out like a piss – flat and narrow. Then he rolled onto his stomach and visualised a harsh five military push-ups, and tried.

‘Semp –’

And collapsed, muttering: ‘Bollocks.’

Brant finally got to his feet, limped to the shower, caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Bad idea.

Pot belly. No, worse, a drooping one. Grey hair on his chest like sad brillo pads. He thought of the word ‘bedraggled’, said: ‘I’m bedraggled.’

Too kind. It just didn’t cut it. Call it fucked, more like. The shower was all he knew of heaven and hell, then to the medicine cabinet and two, no, fuck it, three Alka Seltzer. Ahh. Oh shit oh sweet Mary and Joseph, stay down. Nope. Up comes a technicolour yawn. Sweat pouring down his body, he couldn’t pull his head up and so saw the multicoloured spread. Yup, there’s the Seltzer. Useless fuckers, and be-gods, is that an E? Gimmie an E... gimme an... oomph-ah Paul McGrath. Now he tried again, with Andrews Liver Salt, and popped two soluble aspirin in the milk. Here we go.

Oh yes, there is a God, it stayed. Took one more shower. He knew a sharp belt of booze would fix him right up for an hour or less, and from there, it’s flake city.

True, he’d managed to get Sally back for a time. Had sworn all the promises. Would have done it on the bible if needed. But alas, he couldn’t make the pledge in his heart, where it most counted. Through work, booze and the sulking silences, he’d lost her all over again.

Then, as the caffeine danced along his nerve endings, he vaguely remembered young Tone. Oh shit, the kid had come to the door. Brant lit a shaky Weight, and tried to change mental tack. He couldn’t recall what he’d said to the lad, but oh, oh he knew it was rough. Was it ever otherwise?

He turned to shout for Meyer Meyer, then remembered that too.

‘I
LIKE JAMIROQUAI,’
said Tone.

‘Yeah? Me, I like Tricky.’

‘Yeah.’

He knew if he said yeah a bit, it gave him cool. Not ice or brain-dead, but hip without pushing it. Like he had attitude without having to work at it. He badly wished he’d brought his Bans, just let those shades sit easy on his face. As it was, the smoke was killing his eyes. He’d decided to get a lead on the band-aid duo, prove to Brant that HE was the bollocks. To his surprise, he’d gained entrance to the club on Railton without any hassle. True, they’d charged him ‘instant membership’, a straight twenty-five and then admission. But hey, he was in – this was the place – the happening, he was Serpico, undercover, he was cookin’.

Clubs in Brixton change overnight. What’s hot on Tuesday is vacant city on Thursday. So it goes, they let Tone in ’cos he had cash, he was yer punter, yer John, yer actual Jimmy Wanker.

Shortly after he sat down, the girl put chat on him. Then he casually mentioned the band-aid people and she asked: ‘Whatcha want them for?’

‘Oh, nothing bad. In fact, I’ve a few quid owing them.’

She gave a mischievous laugh, said: ‘Give it here. I’ll see they get it.’

He laughed too. One of those clued-in jobs. Like he could dig it, yeah, go with the flow. She said: ‘See the new weapon of choice?’

‘What?’

‘Yer baseball bat, it’s passé. It’s clubs now, like golf clubs.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Sure, since the black kid won that big golf thing.’

‘The Masters.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Go on.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s what they’re bouncing off skulls now.’

‘Tee-off.’

‘What?’

He ordered two more drinks and felt he was really blending. She said: ‘Back in a sec.’

Which she wasn’t. More like an hour. During which a huge black guy took her seat and her drink, eye-balling Tone all the while. Finally he asked: ‘Now who I be?’

‘Ahm.’

‘I be the Archangel Tuafer.’

Tone tried to think of what Brant would say, something like: ‘Hot enough for yer?’ like that. What he said was: ‘Uh. Uh.’

Then the girl appeared, slapped the guy on the back, said: ‘Move on, big ass.’

He did. Tone said: ‘He thinks he’s an Archangel.’

‘He’s a divil all right.’

He tried to place her accent. I sounded like Dublin, but only sometimes. Then she said: ‘C’mon, I can show you where those people are squatting.’

When they found Tone’s body, he was naked, he’d been stabbed repeatedly and his head was bashed in. Roberts said: ‘Jeez, if I had to guess, I’d say someone put a golf club to him.’

Brant was too ill to be outright sick, but he sure wanted to be. He said nothing.

Roberts continued: ‘I saw him you know, that evening.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He was thinking of going to see you.’

‘Was he?’