A White Arrest

Could you beat insanity? It only drives it underground. Teaches the art of stealth. The first time the Umpire burned a dog, he couldn’t believe the rush, enhanced by such discovery. In his mind the words were etched: ‘See it burn.’

As the years passed, he began to look on the England team. The fame, publicity, accolades he felt were rightly his. It began to foment in his mind: if he couldn’t have the prizes, why should they? When he read Day of The Jackal he was elated. Then on to The Dogs of War, and as his psychosis came to full bloom he imagined himself to be Shannon, the hero of the book. Later, he thought, Frederick Forsyth would base a book on him.

Roberts studied the growing pile of paper on the Umpire, said: ‘I’ll get the murderer sooner or later. It’s always simpler when they’re insane.’

Brant said: ‘That’s a hell of a positive attitude. Way to go, Guv.’

A selfconscious Roberts blustered: ‘It’s a quote.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Thomas Gomez in Phantom Lady.’

‘Those old movies again, Guv, eh? It’s black-and-white, it’s a classic.’

‘Don’t be a daft bugger, sergeant. It’s film noir, never better than in the forties and fifties.’

Brant, already losing interest, answered: ‘You know, Guv.’

It wasn’t that Brant was an ignoramus, Roberts thought, but that he revelled in ignorance. His sole passion was to win. In his mind he played Robert Mitchum talking to Jane Greer in Out of The Past:

‘That’s not the way to play it.’

‘Why not?’

“Cause it isn’t the way to win.’

‘Is there a way to win?’

‘Well, there’s a way to lose more slowly.’

‘Ahhh.’

‘Guv. Guv!’ Brant’s harsh tone cut through his movie.

‘What?’

‘You’re muttering to yourself. Doesn’t look good.’

‘A privilege of rank.’

Brant was tempted to add: ‘Madness, more like.’ But he’d tested his cheek enough. For now.

Slag?

Fiona had arranged a ‘coffee meet’ with Penny, her treat. She’d selected Claridges, to reach for the class she so desperately craved. It would have amused her to learn she shared a musical preference with WPC Falls. As she ordered a double cappuccino with cream, the words of ‘Misguided Angel’ ran through her head. The waiter was in his twenties and had the essential blend of surliness and servility. In short, a London lad. She admired his ass in the tight black pants and felt a flush creep across her chest. Since Jason, she was drenched in heat. He’d fit perfectly into the CA catalogue. The coffee came with all the prerequisites of the hotel. A mountain of serviettes with the Claridges logo, lest you lost your bearings, a bowl of artery-clogging cream and one slim biscuit in an unopenable wrapper. Penny arrived looking downright dowdy. Not a leg away from a bag lady. They exchanged air kisses. No skin was actually touched. Not so much consciousness of the age of AIDs as the fact that they were steeped in pretension.

Fiona led: ‘Are you all right?’

‘Don’t I look all right?’

‘Well, no… no, you don’t.’

Penny turned her head, shouted: ‘Waiter, espresso before Tuesday, OK?’

Fiona cringed. ‘They’re not big on shouting in Claridges. Discretion is such a form that they’d really appreciate you not showing at all. But if you must, then quiet, eh?’

Penny took a Silk Cut from her purse, said: ‘I’m smoking again, so shoot me.’

The waiter brought the coffee. No perks with this, just the basic cup and saucer. He waited and Penny snapped: ‘Take a hike, Pedro.’

He did. Then, no preamble, she launched: ‘The bastard’s leaving after twenty-six years of marriage. He’s off.’

‘But why?’

‘He needs space. Can you believe it, that he’d use that line of crap to me? Everyone’s in therapy and no one’s responsible anymore.’

‘You’ll have the house?’

‘I’ll have his balls, that’s what I’ll have.’

Then she rooted in her handbag, produced a boxed Chanel No. 5 and flung it on the table, said: ‘I got you a present.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry it’s not wrapped. Well, it’s not paid for either.’

‘I don’t follow’

‘I nicked it. That’s what I’m doing these days, roaming the big stores and stealing things I don’t even want. On Monday I took a set of pipes. You wouldn’t prefer a nice briar, would you?’

‘No. Oh, Pen, if you need help — ’

‘Go into therapy is it? Find my inner child and thrash it?’ She jumped up. ‘I’ll have to go. I’ll call you.’

And she was gone. It was a few moments before Fiona realised that Penny had pocketed the espresso cup. She gave a deep sigh, thinking: ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

But it was. Penny had a major effect on her life. She opened the Chanel, put a bit behind her ears, said: ‘Mmm, that’s class.’

The leader of the ‘E’ crew, Kevin, was singing at the top of his voice: ‘Tom Traubert’s Blues’, aka ‘Waltzing Matilda’. He was well pissed, empty Thunderbirds strewn at his feet. As the high point of the song touched crescendo, so did Kev. He was right moved to tears at the strength, nay, the majesty of the voice. For Christmas his brother Albert had given him Rod Stewart’s Greatest Hit Ballads, and now aloud he roared: ‘I love this fuckin’ album!’ And cranked open another Thunderbird, near drained it in one gulp. He’d followed Rod from the Small Faces all the way through ‘Killing of Georgie’ parts one and two, and fuck, never mind that Rod was an arrogant arsehole, the fucker could sing like a nicotinized Angel. Now Kev began to dance, to waltz, one two oops three with an imaginary Matilda. She was a combination of all the women he’d never had. Then, as is wont with the booze, it metamorphosed fuckin’ bliss to viciousness in the click of a beat. He stumbled and then pushed the dancing partner away, shouting: ‘Slag!’ Spittle lined his lips as hate fuelled by alcohol propelled him to a dimension where few would wish to be. Kev had done time, hard time. But he’d discovered books and found they provided a brief escape. His all-time hero was Andrew Vachss with the Burke novels. They were Kev’s speed, chock full of righteousness brutality, total vengeance. It never occurred to Kev that the very people Burke pursued were Kevin’s own. Not that he didn’t identify with the pure villains, the twenty-four carat psychos that scared even Burke. Wesley, the monster who signed his suicide note with a threat: ‘I don’t know where I’m going but they better not send anyone after me.’

Class act. Kev had copied it down, carried it like a prayer of the damned. Damnation was romantic as long as it didn’t hurt. When his brother Albert was born, they left something out, some essential connection that kept him two beats behind. Kevin was his brother and bully. The other two crew members were ciphers, their sole purpose being to fill prisons or football stadiums, and they were partial to both. Go in any bookie’s after the big race, they’re the guys picking up the discarded tickets, the human wallpaper. When God chose the cast, he made them spear carriers. Rage began early in Kev. A series of homes through Borstal to the one where the big boys play. Prison. In Wormwood Scrubs, he was made to bend over by a drug dealer and thus began his lock on their trade. Discovering