Brant was on a roll. He and Roberts had gone to meet with Caz, the snitch. Met him in a pub; as usual he was wearing a garish shirt. He wasn’t happy that Brant had broken the rules and brought along Roberts. The whole fragile basis of snitching depended on one-to-one.
Brant was unfazed, said:
‘So I broke the rules, get over it.’
Roberts was unimpressed with Caz and expected it to be a waste of time. He was wrong. When Brant asked about the car-ring, Caz not only knew about it but provided the address of the garage where the operation was and the names of the three central villains. Brant sat back and said:
‘Nice one, Caz.’
Caz, fingering his gold medallion, asked:
‘Do I get paid now?’
Brant nodded, said:
‘The cheque’s in the post.’
And they were out of there. Roberts had been scoring a hundred out of a hundred of his cases recently. No matter what he turned to, it seemed he had the Midas touch. Now, yet again, he was about to look gold. When the cops raided the garage for the hot cars, the first one they recovered was the Super’s. He took Brant for a celebratory drink a few nights later. They went to a place on Charing Cross Road, newly opened. The owner was an ex-cop, and, whatever else, they’d drink free.
Roberts, to celebrate his success, had splurged on a new suit, bought in Marks and Spencer. He felt it was only right as their fortunes had recently taken a turn for the best. Winners together. He selected a brown pin-striped number as the salesgirl, who appeared to be from Bosnia, assured him it was the style of the season. He winced a little at the price, but what the hell, the sale of his house had given him a little extra and promotion was surely but a stripe away.
Brant appeared in a sweat-shirt that bore the logo: EAT SHIT.
And stone-faded jeans that had a tiny hole in the knee. Roberts said:
‘You’re bloody kidding.’
‘What?’
‘I thought we were doing a class number?’
Brant fingered a tiny pin of a silver bird on his sweat-shirt, mocked:
‘Ah, Guv, you think class is about clothes?’
He was forever hectoring Roberts that class was about exactly that, which was one of the reasons Roberts had laid out the small ransom for his suit. The ex-cop, waiting patiently behind the bar, smiled at the exchange. He knew all about Brant. Mainly that he was a contrary fucker. He was appalled that Roberts was wearing what appeared to be a shit-coloured suit. Brant looked to him, went:
‘Jim-bo, a pint of your best ale for the star of the Met and a large Jameson.’
Roberts whined: ‘I’m drinking beer?’
Brant, who was reaching for his Peter Jacksons, said:
‘Sir, in that outfit, I’m afraid it has to be beer.’
Roberts was offended, asked:
‘You don’t like the suit?’
Brant gave it a full, intense scrutiny, and, his lip curled. He said:
‘You really shouldn’t buy stuff in the market.’
‘Market? This is from Marks and Spencer. Do you know how much this cost?’
He could hardly get the words out from rage.
Brant reached over, felt the lapel, said:
‘No wonder the shop is gone down the tubes. Was it on special offer?’
Roberts gulped down half the pint, said:
‘Well, at least I’m not wearing torn jeans.’
Lame, he knew it was a poor retort. Brant fingered the hole in his jeans, seemed delighted with it, said:
‘Bullet-hole, sir, line of duty and all that.’
There were times Roberts truly hated Brant, wanted to put a fist hard in his mouth and beat on him for an hour. This was one of those times. He said to the barman:
‘Give me a large Bells and another of those Irish things for him.’
Brant was still staring at the suit, said:
‘Don’t worry, sir, the light in here, people won’t see it too well.’
Roberts lashed down the scotch, said:
‘Gee, that’s a real help. What’s with the bloody silver bird on your sweatshirt?’
Brant touched the pin with what appeared to be real affection, said:
‘That’s the laughing kookaburra.’
Roberts was seriously sorry he’d asked, went:
‘Like that is supposed to make sense?’
‘Aussie, sir, gets its name from its call, which sounds like mad laughter, a member of the kingfisher family, lives off snakes, mice, and lizards.”
Roberts thought it was a good description of Brant. They took a seat and Brant immediately put the chat on two women nearby. As always, Roberts was amazed at how women responded to him, couldn’t they see what a pig he was.
Nope.
Next minute they’d joined them and Roberts was sitting beside a fine woman with a see-through blouse. He could never figure out if you were supposed to look or keep your eyes averted. Brant solved the dilemma by saying:
‘Lady you are stacked. Is that the wonders of Wonderbra or just you?’
She was delighted and Roberts knew if he’d ever in his wildest dreams said anything similar, he’d have had a drink flung in his face. The second woman seemed as wild as Brant, which is saying something. She asked what they did. Brant said they were accountants to huge laughter from the women, which encouraged Brant to add:
‘A suit like my mate’s, one of the perks of the job.’
A long, dizzy conversation focused on the merits of said suit and Roberts resolved to burn the bloody thing. When the women excused themselves to go to the ladies, Brant said:
‘You’re in for a ride there, sir.’
Roberts, determined to score some point in the evening, asked:
And what if I don’t want-as you so delicately term it-the “ride”?’
Brant was middrink, putting away double Jameson’s like a good ‘un, paused, seemed puzzled, then:
‘You’ll have to, just to prove a point.’
‘Point? What bloody point?’
‘To prove you’re not gay’
‘What the hell are you saying?’
Brant seemed genuinely confused, said:
‘I told them you were gay, and they said you’d have to be to get away with such an outrageous suit.’
Roberts was reeling. There were so many reasons to wallop Brant he didn’t know where to begin, so he weakly croaked:
‘Why on earth would you tell them I’m gay?’
‘Tactics, sir. See, women love a challenge, you owe me, pal.’
The women returned, more booze and then a late-night dancing club.
Dancing.
Yeah, Roberts attempting to revive the dying art of jiving, Brant at the edge of the dance floor, a sardonic smile in place and his hand up the woman’s dress, almost as an afterthought. Then Soho for dawn kebabs, which is the very worst idea on a feast of booze but seemed mandatory. Later, Roberts would recall hot, sweaty sex and veritable gymnastics from himself. When he surfaced the next day, around two, the very first thing he saw was his crumpled suit looking like elephants had stampeded it, and in the lapel a shining beacon, the bloody kookaburra, and he was definitely laughing. Roberts had bought a tiny maisonette on the Kennington Park Road, with a minute
