Unlikely lad
The man was sitting on a blanket and the woman was pacing. They had the uniform intimidation: combat jackets, Doc Martens and an air of menace. No dog, surprisingly. Brant looked up and down. Nobody about. He kept his head down and walked up to them, giving the London look of cowardly expectation. He saw the woman smile as she moved to block his path, whining: ‘Few bob for a cup o’ tea, mistah?’
As he drew level, he swung round and smashed his shoe into the man’s face, then whirled and ran her into the wall. Checking again for onlookers, he then pushed her down beside the man. A symphony of shocked groans came from them: ‘Whatcha do dat for, ya cunt?’
‘Ah…
Brant hunkered down. Grabbed the man by the hair, said: ‘What’s with the bandages, dudes?’
The man was hurt but still managed to look amazed: ‘What?’
‘The Band Aids Bros, what’s the deal?’
‘’Cos if I’m cut, she bleeds.’
Brant smiled and lashed out with his open palm into the woman’s face, said: ‘Hey, pay attention.’
She tried to spit, then asked: ‘Whatcha pickin’ on us for, mistah? We dun nothing to youse.’
He banged their heads together as a man entered the tunnel. Brant said: ‘You turned over a gaff, the wrong one, believe me. Now you have two days to compensate me for the damage, or I am talking major hurt. I’ll leave it to you guys to figure out how much it should be. Else… well, I’ll come looking for you.’
The man drew level and asked: ‘Anything wrong here?’ Brant stood up, said: ‘Naw, I’m doing a survey on urban deprivation.’
The man peered at the battered couple, said: ‘Good Lord, they’re bleeding.’
‘Yeah, but see, they have band aids, that should do it.’ As Brant strolled off, he calculated the pair’s collective age at about sixty. They had the air of a hundred and sixty.
Never-no-mind, he thought. Like all junkies, they’d been dead for years, the news just hadn’t reached their fried brains yet.
Shannon watched the cricket story fade from page one to back towards the horoscopes. His story! But unlike the ‘E’ outfit, he didn’t get angry. Time was on his side and he knew how to instantly pull it back. He’d been to military shops on the Strand and quite openly bought a crossbow.
The proprietor had said: ‘Alas, I’ve only three arrows.’
The Umpire smiled, said: ‘Then thrice shall I smite them.’
The proprietor couldn’t give a toss if he answered in Arabic, said: ‘Whatever.’ And he put the goods in a M amp;S bag, warning: ‘Careful how you handle ’em,’ and pocketed the money.Now the Umpire dry-tested the bow and found it slack. He tightened and tested for over an hour till it gave a taut
When he’d begun his crusade, he found most of the team addresses in the phone book. That strengthened his conviction and zeal. Three of them with south-east London homes. Better and better. The sheer power of the bolts enthralled him. As he saw the wicket-keeper stumble down the steps, he felt exhilaration. But cunning ruled. He quickly put the weapon in the M amp;S bag and simply walked away. Shannon began to reemerge as the two personalities roared: ‘Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.’
PC Tone was what used to be called a raw youth. He didn’t have acne but it was close. At twenty-three years of age, he looked seventeen. Not a big advantage in south-east London. But he had four O-levels and one A-level. The changing Met looked at exams, not faces. When Brant first clapped eyes on him, he’d said: ‘For fucksake.’
Tone worshipped the Sergeant. The rep of violence, rebellion and fecklessness was irresistible. That Brant despised him didn’t cool his devotion since Brant seemed to despise everyone. Tone figured if he could attach himself to Brant, he’d learn the real method of policing. Not an easy task, as most times he was told: ‘Piss off boy’ Until this morning.
He’d been summoned, so to speak. Brant was in the canteen, wolfing down a glazed doughnut. The only person to have his own drinking vessel, even the brass got plastic cups. His was a large chipped mug with Rambo on the side. A logo read:
Tone was 6’1” and awkward. Roger McGough might have used him for the PC Plod poems. He had his hair cut short and gelled. His face was made up of regular features and his whole demeanour suggested ‘unlikely lad’.
He sat.
Brant gave him a full look, then asked: ‘Tea or coffee, boyo?’
‘Ahm, tea, I think.’
Brant snorted: ‘Well, it won’t come to you lad, hop up there and gis a refill, two sugars.’
The canteen lady, named Doris, gave Tone a wink, said: ‘Watch ’im.’
When he returned, Brant said: ‘Lovely job’, and took a gulp, went: ‘Jaysus you never stirred it.’
Which was true. Then he took out his Weights, said: ‘I’d offer you one but it’s a smoke-free zone,’ and lit up. Tone tasted his tea. It was like coffee or turpentine or a cunning blend of both. Brant leaned over, asked: ‘Do you want to get on, boyo, eh? Are you ambitious?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, that’s good. I have a little job for you.’
‘I’m ready, sir.’
‘Course you are, a fine strappin’ youth like you. You’ll sire legions.’
‘Sir?’
‘Now, there’s two dossers, male and female. In their late twenties. They have their pitch in the Elephant and Castle tunnels. They wear band aids on their faces. I want their names, their squat, who they run with, any previous. Got that?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Well, don’t hang about lad, get crackin’.’
Tone stood up, perplexed, then: ‘But sir… Why? Have they done owt? What’s the reason?’
Brant held up a hand, palm outward: ‘Whoah, Sherlock, hold yer water. The reason is I asked you — d’ya follow?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s the job, and oh, Tome…
‘Tone, sir. It’s an ‘n’.’
‘Whatever. Mum’s the word, eh?’
When the constable had gone, Brant said, and not quietly: ‘Fuckin’ maggot.’
Room mate? A hammering likely to wake the very dead
Falls was dreaming of her father when the hammering began at her door. Awakening, she checked the time, 3.30am, and heard in disbelief: ‘Open up, this is the police.’
Throwing on a robe, she went to the door and opened it on the safety chain. Brant.
‘What the —?’
‘I bring you greetings.’
She could smell the wave of liquor and he looked demented. She said: ‘Sergeant, this is hardly an appropriate hour.’
‘I need a kip.’
And she figured: ‘Pay up time.’
Before she could protest, he said: ‘Don’t be a cow. I’ve been turned over. I’ll sleep on the couch.’
Reluctantly, she opened the door. He slouched in, muttering: ‘McBain, Hunter, all done in.’
‘Your friends?’
And he gave what she could only describe as a cackle and said: ‘Friends? Yes, yes. I believe they were, and
