A White Arrest

‘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.

Loyalty

Durham, 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.’

To work on an egg

The 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.

BASIC SURVIVAL ‘How much more can they not talk to me?’ (d.B)

Kev’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