mantra of darkness.
His father’s pride was a three-year-old setter named Fred Truman. Sleek and arrogant, it ruled with ease. The day of the Umpire’s transformation, he recalls it like a vision.
Falls sat opposite her, put the file on the table and decided to ‘Brant’ it. Said: ‘Well, Penny or Penelope, which?’
No answer.
‘Okey-dokey, let’s settle for Penny, shall we?’
No answer.
‘You’re going to jail, Penny.’
Gasp!
‘Oh yes. I see you’ve been up twice before but got off on probation. Says here you agreed to have therapy. I hate to tell you, it isn’t working.’
‘I can’t. I can’t go to prison.’
‘I’m afraid so, Pen. The courts are sick of rich middle-aged women wasting their valuable time. You’ll do six months in Holloway. The girls there, they’ll appreciate a bit o’ class. Get yerself a nice lez, knit away the winter.’
Penny began to smile, said: ‘Oh, I don’t think so, you see, I have something to trade.’
‘This isn’t the bloody market, we don’t barter.’
‘Don’t be so sure. I need to see someone in authority.’ Here she gave extra dimension to the smile as she added: ‘I don’t think it’s really a decision for the indians. Go get the chief, there’s a good girl.’
Falls came close to clouting her, and realised that Brant might have the right idea. She rose and left the room, still wondering whether or not to go to Roberts. Two factors determined her next move: one, her anger at Roberts; two, almost colliding with Brant.
He said: ‘Whoa, little lady, don’t lose yer knickers.’
She told him, watched his face and calculated. He said: ‘I’ll have a word, shall I? You keep watch outside.’
‘Shouldn’t I be present?’
‘Outta yer league, darlin’. Tell you what though, I could murder a cuppa.’ And he opened the door, looked back and said: ‘Two sugars, love.’
Brant sat down slowly, his eyes on Penny. She said: ‘You’re a senior officer?’
He gave the satanic smile, asked in his best south-east London voice: ‘Whatcha fink, darlin’?’
‘I think you look like a thug.’
‘That too! So, honey — ’
She snapped. ‘Don’t you dare call me that. I’m not your honey.’
‘Leastways not yet. Whatcha got?’
She got foolish and attempted to slap him. He caught her wrist and with the other hand double palmed her. The marks of his hand ran vivid on her cheeks. He asked: ‘Have I got your attention now?’
She nodded.
‘Okey-dokey, babe. What’s cooking?’
She told him about the CA, about Fiona. The whole shooting match. He listened without interruption until: ‘You pay for sex?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck me.’
‘Actually, it’s to avoid that very possibility that we do pay.’
He liked it, said approvingly: ‘Cheeky’ Then: ‘Run it all by me again, hon.’ She did.
He thought for a while, took out his Weights and absent-mindedly offered her one. She took it and waited for a light. He finally noticed, said: ‘Jaysus, do you want me to smoke it for you too?’ A knock at the door. Falls peered in, said: ‘The Chief Inspector is due this way.’
‘Shut the door.’ She did.
Brant drew on the last of his cigarette, sucked it till his cheekbones hit his eyes, leaned over close, said: ‘Here’s the deal. It’s not negotiable.’
‘When the first side has completed its innings, the other side starts its own. A match may consist of one or two innings by each side. If the match is not played out to a finish, it is regarded as a draw.’
The blues
The funeral for the first cricketer was a massive affair. The coffin was carried by his team mates and they’d donned the blazing whites. Even the Devon Malcolm racism storm was temporarily shelved. David ‘Syd’ Lawrence had called for Ray Illingworth to be banned from every TV and radio in the country. The former chairman of selectors was alleged to have called the Derbyshire paceman a ‘nig-nog’. Officers at Lords prayed the funeral would distract from the whole sordid affair. It did.
A huge police presence blocked off most of south-east London. It was feared the Umpire might try to annihilate the remaining nine in one fell swoop. Sky had obtained exclusive rights and was considering a whole series devoted to dead cricketers. It was rumoured that Sting was composing a song for the occasion, but this was proved to be only scare-mongering. It scared a lot of people.
Brant and Roberts were positioned on the roof of St Mark’s Cathedral, a tactical position according to the Super.
‘Out in the bloody cold,’ snapped Roberts.
Brant, lowering his binoculars, said: ‘Good view, though, the
‘We’re out of it Tom, the big boys are running the show. The game is a total media event now. See, we’d be on our arses altogether if they didn’t need local background.’
Brant didn’t care. The more the investigation built, the less notice he attracted. He asked: ‘Think they’ll get him?’
‘They have as much chance as you do of understanding cricket.’
‘I know a bit.’
Roberts opened a thermos, refilled their cups and asked: ‘Oh yeah? Who’s Allan Donald?’
‘Urn?’
‘Like I thought.’
‘Tell us, Guv, go on.’
‘The South African paceman offered mega bucks by Warwickshire to break the hundred-wicket barrier.’
‘He’s good then, is he?’
‘Good good? He claimed eighty-nine first class victims for the country in ’95. In ’96, in a summer off from country cricket, he took a hundred and six wickets to help Rishton retain a League title.’
Roberts’ voice had risen and he self-consciously pulled back, said apologetically: ‘I get a bit carried away.’
Brant found a sandwich, took a bite and said: ‘Don’t mean shit to me, Guv.’
Roberts went quiet, watched the funeral halt briefly, and he imagined all went still, a suspended moment when past glories, the sound of bat against ball and the hush of the crowd are recalled.
Brant said: ‘At a guess Guv, I’d say you haven’t suffered from the Paradise Syndrome.’
