The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (6 page)

Then he rooted in his jacket and produced a few notes, apologising: ‘It’s a bit short, Jacko.’

Jacko Mary gave a huge laugh. ‘You’re talking to me about short?’

P
ENNY WAS LOSING IT
. Tried not to scream at Fiona Roberts as she asked: ‘You’re saying you won’t come to the CA with me?’

‘Not today Pen, I’m up to my eyes.’

‘I need you, Fiona.’

‘I can’t, honestly. Let me call you tomorrow, we’ll arrange coffee.’

‘Jeez, I can’t wait. Thanks a bunch, girlfriend!’

And she slammed the phone down and thought: I could hate that cow. Well, OK then, I’ll go shoplifting.’

Thing was, she was a very bad shoplifter. But if she resented Fiona, she out-and-out loathed Jane Fonda. She had admired Jane as the American Bardot and heavily envied her. Then she’d held her breath during the hard Jane bit. Had been in awe during the years of ‘serious’ actress. Had the hots for her when she was fit and forty. Began to resent a tad how fabulous she was at fifty. Screamed ‘bitch’ when she sold out at sixty to a billionaire and became one more trophy wife in the Trump tradition.

Penny had been in Hatchards of Piccadilly when a hot flash hit and she’d fled in search of cool air. Outside the Trocadero, she realised she’d stolen a book. There was Jane on the cover. A cookbook. Oh shame! And worse. She hadn’t even written it but borrowed recipes from her THREE chefs. THREE! Count ’em and weep. She’d slung the book at a
Big Issue
vendor. The man had taken it well, shouted: ‘Saw the movie.’

Restless, irritated, pacing, she tried to watch breakfast TV. A gaggle of gorgeous blonde bimbos were discussing the merits of being ‘childfree’.

‘Hold the bloody phones/ she screeched. ‘When did we go from being childless to this hip shit?’

A child, the woe of her aching heart and the biological clock hadn’t so much stopped as simply run into nothingness.

Upstairs she had a wardrobe full of baby clothes. These weren’t stolen. She’d bought each item slow and pained, and paid a lot of money.

I
N A HOUSE ON
Coldharbour Lane, four men sat round a coffee table. Open cans of Heineken, Fosters and Colt 45 crowded a batch of black and white photos.

Two of the men were brothers, Kevin and Albert. The others were Doug and Fenton. All were white. Kevin said: ‘I don’t think they take us serious.’

Albert sighed: ‘It’s early days, and besides, the cricket thing’s got priority.’

Doug joined in: ‘Yeah, c’mon Kev, who’s gonna get the six o’clock news – a batsman or a dope dealer?’

Kevin slammed the table.

‘You think this isn’t important?’

Fenton got his oar in: ‘Take it easy, Kev.’

Kevin rounded on him, slight traces of spittle at the corners of his mouth. ‘Was I talking to you Fen? Did I say one fuckin’ word to you, mate?’

‘I was only –’

‘You were only bollocks – this is my plan, my show.’

‘You don’t tell me shit, mate.’

Fenton knew the danger signs: up ahead was the twilight zone. He shut up. Kevin grabbed a beer, drained it in a large, loud swallow. The others watched his Adam’s apple move like a horrible yo-yo. Finished, he flicked the can away, then:

‘Now, as I was saying, before I got interrupted, they ain’t taking us serious. Think we’re just a one-off. I’ll show ’em – the next hanging I’ll also torch the bastard. Eh? Whatcha fink o’ that? Be like a beacon in the Brixton night sky’

The others thought it was madness. What they said was: ‘Good one, Kev – yeah, torch ’em, that’ll do it.’

Kevin sifted through the photos. ‘Who’s next then? Here’s an ugly looking bastard – who’s he?’ Turned over the photo, read out the details: ‘Brian Short, twenty-eight years old, dope dealer, rapist, and lives on Railton.’

‘Shit, he’s practically next door.’

Albert looked at the others, then said: ‘Kev, there’s a problem.’

‘What, he’s moved, that’s it?’

‘No. He’s... I mean...

‘What? Spit it out.’

‘He’s white.’

‘He’s scum and what’s more, he’s gonna burn, and tonight.’

‘Kev...

‘Don’t start whining, go get some petrol – get a lotta petrol.’

P
ICTURE THIS. BRANT IS
seven years old. The Peckham estate he lives on is already turning to shit. A Labour legacy of cheap contemporary housing is exactly that; Brant has been fighting. But he’s learning, learning not to cry and NEVER to back down. At home his mother is bathing his cuts and beatings. He doesn’t hear her.
Dixon of Dock Green
is on the telly: ‘Evening all,’ and Brant whispers a reply. Z
Cars
flames the call and ten years later he answers it fully. Through the years he’ll wade through
Hill Street Blues
right along with homicide. But they don’t give him the rush. His is an English version of the bobby and for some perverse reason he finds that Ed McBain in the police procedural comes closest to the way it should have been. Long after he’d dismissed Dixon as a wanker, his heart still bore the imprint of Dock Green. In Brant’s words, television had gone the way of Peckham. Right down the shitter.

Brant was mid-quiz, deliberately misquoting: ‘and the herring shall follow the fleet.’

A constable sneered: ‘That’s too easy – it’s that wanker, the kick-boxer Cantona.’

Brant tried not to show his dismay. He’d been sure it was a winner. A clutch of uniforms was gathered round in the canteen. He said: ‘OK wise-arse, try this: “Do you care now?”’

The group laughed, shouted: ‘De Niro to Wesley Snipes in
The Fan.’

Free tickets had been left at the station. Brant stood up in disgust. ‘You bastards have been studying. It’s meant to be off the cuff.’

He marched away resolving never to play again. Near collided with a galloping Roberts who shouted: ‘Another one, they’ve gone and done it again.’

‘The Umpire?’

‘No, the other lunatics – the lamppost outfit. C’mon, c’mon, let’s roll.’

Outside the library in Brixton, the dangling corpse was still smouldering. Brant asked: ‘Got a light?’

Roberts gave a deep sigh: ‘This will hang us too.’

Brant nudged him, asked: ‘Did you read McBain yet?’

‘Oh sure, like I’ve had time for that.’

Unfazed, Brant launched: ‘The 87th Precinct, there’s two homicide dicks, Monaghan and Monroe. At the murder scenes they crack a graveyard humour. In
Black Horses
the –’

‘Shut up! Jeez, are you completely nuts? Anyone know who this victim might be?’

The uniformed sergeant said: ‘Brian Short, twenty-eight years old, dope dealer, rapist, lives on Railton Road.’

Both Roberts and Brant gaped, gave a collective ‘what?’

The sergeant repeated it. Roberts said: ‘Now that’s what I call impressive police work. In fact it’s miraculous.’

Brant looked at the corpse, asked: ‘Fuckin’ hell, you can tell all that from here?’

The sergeant indicated the item he held, said: ‘It says so here.’

‘Here?’

‘Yeah, on the back of this photo.’

‘Hey, gimme that.’ Brant looked at it and smiled. ‘How did you get his snappy, Sarge?’

It was pinned to this notice.’

‘“E is for EXTREME measures”.’

The police had come prepared this time and two ladders were used to bring the body down. The medical examiner arrived, hummed and hawed, then whipped off his glasses and said: ‘This was not a boating accident.’

Brant laughed out loud. Roberts said: ‘Wanna share the joke fellas or shall I just continue with my thumb up my arse?’

Intriguing as the picture was, Brant decided not to elaborate and said: ‘It’s from
Jaws,
sir. Richard Dreyfus said it.’

A press photographer grabbed a series of shots before Roberts cried: ‘Get him outta here!’

The evening paper ran a full photo of them apparently laughing delightedly over the body. The caption read: WHAT’S THE JOKE, OFFICERS?

And the accompanying article gave them a bollocking of ferocity. Burned them, so to speak.

D
URHAM, A RISING CID
star, had been sent to Roberts’ station to conduct a full assessment. Now, in front of the whole force, he berated WPC Falls, his voice laden with syrup.

‘Ladies and Gentleman, we have here a policewoman who demonstrated yesterday how NOT to handle a case. She went alone to a potentially explosive situation, near invoked a riot and did uncalculated harm to community relations.’

His voice was rising progressively as he built to his finale. He knew his punchline would be hilarious and it showed that tough, stern, he was not without humour. Leadership qualities on display, he got ready.

‘But worst of all – to quote the poet, ‘The dog it was that died.’

Silence. Rattled, he figured the morons didn’t get the reference and repeated it. Nope. Nada. Angry, he tore further into Falls and lost it a bit. Murmurs from the ranks finally halted him. A crushed Falls felt the tears blind her, groped her way out of the room. Durham shouted: ‘I don’t recall dismissing you, WPC.’

T
HE UMPIRE RAISED HIMSELF
from the floor and stretching, folded away the killer. Blinked, opened wide his eyes and was SHANNON, not exactly ordinary citizen, but he had done some of the moves. Even psychos have to eat. He showered and then carefully shaved, using a pearl-handled open razor from his dad. In truth, he’d bought it at a car boot sale but now believed the former. With long, slow sweeps he cut the bristles, and as he reached the Adam’s apple he paused. The eyes reflected and for a minute the Umpire had control, whispered: ‘gut him like.’ Then he was gone and Shannon began to whistle. All spruced up, he said: ‘let’s get booted and suited.’

For breakfast he boiled two eggs and buttered three slices of bread. Then he cut the slices into thin wedges and lined them up neatly: ‘Stand easy, men.’

When the eggs were done, he took a felt marker and did this

to the eggs. Wrote Jack ’n’ Jill on the tips. Ready to nosh down, he sat and crossed himself. He’d seen this on
The Waltons
and felt it was really cool. Evenly, he removed the tops from the eggs, saying: ‘Hats off at the table, kids.’

Taking one bread soldier, he dipped it in Jack and ate. To and fro, Jack through Jill, he ate with gusto.

It was DHSS day. Standing quietly in line, Shannon replayed
The Dogs of War
movie in his mind. The window lady looked at his card, said: ‘Mr Noble wants to see you – desk number three. Next!’

Shannon waited for two hours before Noble got him. Time for the Umpire to uncoil, begin to flex. Noble had a thin moustache, like a wipe of soot, and he fingered it constantly. With a degree from one of the new polys, Noble had notions. Scanning through the file, he clicked his tongue, said: ‘Mr Shannon, we seem to have had you for rather a long time.’

Shannon nodded.

‘And... Mmm... you completed the Jobclub, I see.’

Nod.

‘No prospects on the horizon – no hopeful leads from there?’

A giggle.

Noble’s head came up: ‘I said something amusing?’

Shannon spoke, huge merriment bubbling beneath the words: ‘I’m seeking a rather specialised position.’

‘Oh, and what would that be, Mr Shannon, pray tell?’

The Umpire looked right into Noble’s eyes, and the man felt a cold chill hit his very soul.

‘I’d like to participate in cricket – a position of influence, ideally.’

And now the laughter burst. A harsh, mocking sound like a knife on glass. Shannon stood up and leaned across the desk, whispered: ‘I expect there to be vacancies soon.’

And he was gone.

An ashen Noble sat rigid for several minutes until the tea-lady arrived. ‘One or two biccies, Mr N?’

Later in the day, Noble contemplated a call to the police. The loony definitely had a fix on cricket. But what if they laughed at him? It would be round the office in jig-time. Worse, he might have to shave his tash, total horror, resign and sign on. Probably here in his very own domain. A shudder ran through him. No, best leave well enough alone. He’d just put it out of his mind. Right! That’s what he’d do. See how decisive he was. Let his ’tache reign supreme.

Falls was twixt laughter and tears, hysteria fomenting. She said: ‘You know what the ambulance guy said when he saw how Dad was lying?’

Rosie didn’t know, answered: ‘I dunno.’

‘I do love a man ON a uniform.’

Pause.

Then they cracked up.

K
EV’S BROTHER ALBERT HAD
a grand passion, the idea fixed almost – the Monkees – as they’d been. And due to syndication, in fifty-eight episodes, they would forever be condemned by celluloid to Monkee around – with shit-eating grins for all eternity. A hell of mammoth proportions, proof indeed that God was deep pissed. To Albert, it was bliss. He knew all the lyrics and worse, lines from the TV series, and horror, repeated them.

When the ‘guys’, in their fifties and looking old, had a reunion tour, he was appalled. Peter Pan can’t grow up, and seeing Davy Jones at fifty-three you knew why. Albert could do the Monkee walk, but had learned the hard way that it’s a kink best kept private. When he’d first shown it to Kev, he got a merciless beating. Albert’s dream was to visit that beach house where the Monkees had such adventures. When he was nervous, which was often, he’d hum ‘Daydream Believer’ and believe the fans were fainting outside. The ‘E’ crew could be like the guys, he thought. He coiled a cog and lit it with a Zippo.