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.
‘Hand jobs’ Kev called them. He’d go: ‘Suckin’ on yer hand job. I don’t see Mickey Dolenz smokin’, eh?’
Not a lot.
In truth, Albert didn’t like Mickey all that much. He reminded him of their father and that was the pinnacle of mean. The full down-in-the-gutter vicious bastard. Kev was forever sliding in anti-Monkee propaganda, to rattle the cage. As if he researched it! Like: ‘Hey Albert, you dozy fuck, that Mike Nesmith, the one with the nigger hat, he’s not hurtin’. His old lady invented Liquid Paper which crafty Mike sold the patent for. Yeah, the old lovable chimp got forty-seven million from Gillette. How about that for bucks, just a carefree guy, eh? No bloody wonder.’
And cloud city when Peter Tork went to jail for drug possession; Kev was delighted. Kept needling. Kept singing:
‘We’re just goofin’ around.’
When
‘From the Monkees!’
The guy took a hard look at Albert to see if it was a wind-up, then had a quick scan around, said: ‘Yeah, yeah, this is Mike Neville’s hat, the actual one.’
Albert got suspicious, said: ‘It’s Nesmith’s?’
‘Course it is son, but he uses Neville as a cover. Know what I mean, to avoid the fans like.’
‘Oh.’
‘Straight up, son. Any road, I couldn’t let it go.’
Albert had to have it, pleaded: ‘I have to have it.’
‘Mmmm. I suppose I could let you have it for twelve.’
‘I’ve only got this, a fiver.’
Which was fast snapped up, with: ‘It’s yours son, much as I hate to let it go.’
Later, the guy wondered if it was that tea commercial with the chimps, but he didn’t remember a hat. As if he gave a fuck anyway. He got out another dozen of them. Kev burnt it the same evening.
To die for
Falls said to Rosie: ‘You know how much it’s gonna cost to bury Dad?’
‘Uh-uh. A lot?’
‘Two and a half grand.’
‘What? You could get married for that.’
‘And that doesn’t even include flowers or the vicar’s address.’
‘You have savings, right? You do have savings?’
‘Ahm…
‘Oh Lord, you’re skint!’
Falls nodded. Rosie searched for alternatives, then: ‘Could you burn him?’
‘What?’
‘Sorry, I mean, cremate him.’
‘He was against that.’
Rosie gave a bitter laugh. ‘C’mon girl, I don’t think old Arthur has really got a shout in this. He couldn’t give a toss what happens now, eh?’
‘I can’t. I’d feel haunted.’
‘Typical. Even in death, men stick to you. What about the Police Benevolent Fund?’
‘I’ve been. They’ll cough up part of the dosh, but seeing as he wasn’t one of the force…
Rosie knew another way but didn’t wish to open that can of worms. Or worm. She said: ‘There is one last resort.’
‘Anything. Oh God, Rosie, I just want him planted so I can move on.’
‘Brant.’
‘Oh no.’
‘You’re a desperate girl. He does have the readies.’ Then Rosie, to change the subject, patted her new hairstyle. It was de rigueur dyke. Brushed severely back, right scraped from her hairline to flourish in a bun. She asked: ‘So what do you think of my new style? I know you have to have some face to take such exposure.’
Falls gave it the full glare. She couldn’t even say it highlighted the eyes, a feature that should be deep hid, along with the rest. The eyes were usually a reliable cop-out. To the ugliest dog you could safely say: ‘You have lovely eyes.’ Not Rosie.
Falls blurted: ‘You have to have some bloody cheek.’ But Rosie took it as a compliment, gushed: I’ll let you have the address of the salon, they’ll see you on short notice.’ Falls wanted to say: ‘Saw you coming all right.’ But instead: ‘That’d be lovely’
Brant came swaggering in and Rosie said: ‘Oh, speak of the devil… Sergeant.’
And over he came, the satanic smile forming: ‘Ladies?’
‘WPC Falls has a request. I’ll leave you to it.’
And she legged it. Brant watched her, then said to Falls: ‘What the Jaysus happened to her hair?’
Shannon was in a cafe on the Walworth Road, not a spit from the old Carter Street Station. He’d ordered a large tea. As it came, an old man asked: ‘Is this seat taken?’
‘No, sir.’
The man was surprised, manners were as rare as Tories on that patch. He sat down and was about to say so when the young man said: ‘No umpire should be changed during a match without the consent of both captains.’
‘Eh?’
‘Before the toss the umpire shall agree with both captains on any special conditions affecting the conduct of the match.’
‘Ah, bit of a cricket buff are you?’
‘Before and during a match, the umpires shall ensure that the conduct of the game and the implements used are strictly in accordance with the laws.’
The old man wondered if he should move but there were no other seats. Plus he was gasping for a brew. He tried: ‘Day off work, ’ave you?’
The Umpire smiled, reached over and with his index finger, touched the man’s lips, said: ‘Time to listen, little man, lest those very lips be removed.’
Before the man could react, the Umpire stood up and came round the table, put his arm over the old man’s shoulders, whispered: ‘The umpire shall be the sole judge of fair and unfair play.’
The waitress, watching, thought ahh, it’s his old dad, isn’t that lovely? You just don’t see that sort of affection any more. It quite made her day.
As Brant sat with Falls, the canteen radio kicked in, Sting with ‘Every Move You Make’. Brant grimaced, said: ‘The stalker’s anthem.’
Falls listened a bit, said: ‘Good Lord, you’re right.’
He gave a nod, indicative of nothing. She got antsy, didn’t know where to begin, said: ‘I dunno where to begin.’
