He went to the Cricketers on Thursday, it was darts night. Maybe Falls would show and he felt his heart palpitate. A wino waylaid him outside the Oval, whining: ‘Gis a pound.’
‘I’m the heat, fella.’
‘Gis two pounds, Mr Heat.’
Tone checked round, then handed over 70p. The wino, indignant, said: ‘What am I supposed to do wif this, yah wanker?’
‘Call someone who gives a toss.’
He left near dizzy with the macho-ness, but quickened his pace lest the wino follow.
The pub was jammed. Trade was ‘aided and abetted’ by the ‘blue hour’. A police version of the happy one. Two drinks for the price of a single, drink them blues away. It was working. Tone had to elbow to the bar. Tried in vain to get noticed and served. The staff knew rank and knew he hadn’t any. So he could wait.
Till: ‘What ya want, son?’
Chief Inspector Roberts.
He wanted a tall shandy to motor his arid mouth. ‘A scotch, sir.’
And hey, jig time, he’d got it. Roberts nodded, then said: ‘Park it over here, son.’
The blue sea parted to reveal a vacant stool. He climbed on, took a slug of the scotch, thought: ‘God!’ as it burned. Did it ever. Roberts eyed him, asked: ‘Got some new clobber there?’
‘Oh no, sir, just old stuff.’
The Farahs were so new they sparkled, and no way would they lighten up that crease. Tone had a horrible thought: would the Guvnor think he was on the take? He asked: ‘Is Sergeant Brant about, sir?’
Roberts sighed, signalled the barman, and in a terse voice, told of the Meyer Meyer incident.
‘Good grief,’ said Tone.
If Roberts thought that cut it, he said nothing. Falls and Rosie brushed past, said: “Night, Guv.’
He didn’t answer. Tone shouted: “Night’, and tried not to look after them.
Roberts said: ‘She’s getting hers, eh?’
Tone prayed, crossed his fingers, then said: ‘Rosie?’
‘Naw. Falls, some security guard’s putting it to her.’ Tone died.
In this world, you turn the other cheek, you get hit with a wrench. Brian Donlevy, Impact
Roberts saw the young man’s face in tatters. He felt a sense of such loss that he could almost no longer recall what power a yearning could be. He touched the bar, said: ‘Whatcha say to a double?’
‘Ahm, no, sir, I mean… I thought I might call on Sergeant Brant.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Just to see if he needed anything.’
‘I dunno son, he’s a man best left to sort himself.’
Tone got off the stool, said, near defiant: ‘All the same, sir.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t expect a warm welcome.’
After Tone had gone, Roberts thought he should have offered some advice on the woman. But what could he tell him? That everything would be fine? Whatever else things turned out to be, fine was almost never one of them. As he left the bar later, brown-nosers called ‘Goodnight’. He neither acknowledged nor quite ignored them. It just didn’t matter, not when you’d lost the magic of yearning.
PC Tone was more than a touch apprehensive about calling on Brant, but he composed himself, said: ‘How bad can it be?’
He heard the music from the street, as if all the cruising cars in Brixton had a Rap convention. That loud. That annoying. When he reached Brant’s door, the noise was massive, and he thought: it sounds like house. It was.
Earlier, Brant had gone into HMV, said: ‘Gimmie all the hits of house.’
The assistant, in ponytail and zeiss bifocals, joked: ‘Bit of a rave, eh?’
‘Bit o’ minding yer own bloody business.’
The assistant, who in kinder days would have gravitated from mellow hippy, was now on job release from DHSS in Clapham. He shut it.
Tone had to hammer at the door till eventually it was flung open. A demented Brant before him. Dressed only in maroon Adidas shorts and trainers, sweat cascading down the grey hair of his chest, he sang: ‘C’mon ye Reds.’
Tone asked: ‘Are you OK, sir?’
‘Whatcha want? See if I’ve a dog licence? Well cop this, I’ve no bleeding dog, not never more.’
‘Sir, sir, could you lower the music?’
‘Whats-a-matter boyo? Not
‘Yes.’
‘And did you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Ah, you couldn’t catch a child’s cold. Go on, hoppit, fuck off out of it, ya cissy!’
And slammed the door.
As the young copper crept away, he fingered the ripped clothing, saying: ‘Didn’t have to do that, cost me a tenner in the market that did.’ He wanted to bawl.
He who laughs last usually didn’t get the joke
Inside, Brant returned to his evening. He’d busted enough raves to get the gist. You stripped to your shorts, took the E and bopped till you dropped. What Brant had felt was, they didn’t feel. No one hurting at all.
And that’s what he wanted. Because of the dehydration factor, he’d a line of Evians along the wall, and for lubrication, a bottle of Tequila.
New to drugs, he had the booze as insurance. The E he’d bounced from a dealer in Kennington Tube Station.
Letting back his head he howled: ‘Had us a time, Meyer.’
Towards the close of the night’s festivities, the sergeant, way down on the other side of the ecstasy moon, began to munch the doggie treats, intended as a surprise for Meyer, whispering: ‘Bit salty, but not bad, no.’
Albert was miming before the mirror: ‘I’m a believer… and occasionally he’d give what he believed to be an impish grin like Davy Jones. Till a shadow fell across him.
Kevin.
‘What the fuck are you doing? And turn off that shit.’
He aimed a kick at the hi-fi and the Monkees screeched to a halt. Albert rushed across to rescue the album. Sure enough, it was deeply scratched. He wailed: ‘Whatcha want to do that for?’
Kevin gave a nasty laugh. ‘Don’t be so bleedin’ wet. It can only improve those wankers, give ’em that unplugged feel. Now pay attention, I want to show you somefin’.’
He bent down and pulled out a long box from under the couch. He flipped the lid off and took out a rifle, said: ‘Feast yer eyes on this, isn’t it a beauty?’
‘Is it real?’
‘Real? You friggin’ moron. It’s a Winchester 460 Magnum. See that scope? Pick the hair outta yer nose from a rooftop.’
He pulled the bolt all the way back. A cartridge in the chamber slid home and he swung the barrel round into
