A White Arrest

Albert’s face, said: ‘Grab some sky, pilgrim.’

‘What?’

‘Put yer bleedin’ hands up.’

Albert slowly did so and Kev leaned closer, whispering: ‘Make yer peace, Mister.’

‘Kev!’

The gun went up an inch above Albert’s head, then the trigger was pulled. The impact slammed the stock into his shoulder and knocked him back. The bullet tore into the wall, decanting a plastic duck. Albert stood in open-mouthed shock, and Kev, on his ass, on the floor, exclaimed: ‘Fuck me, now that’s fire power. What a rush.’

‘Like a bad actor, memory always goes for effect.’ James Sallis, Black Hornet

Brant comes to and hears the most awful screeching, like someone is tearing the skin off a cat. Someone is indeed tearing the skin off a cat, on The Simpsons, in the ‘Itchy and Scratchy’ cartoon. The noise is deafening and Brant reaches up to turn it off. Pain in the major league as his body moves. His arse naked and he shudders to think why. But thank fuck he didn’t go out… did he? His mind was careering in every direction. From one side surfaced a recent documentary he’d seen on the American Marine Corps. No matter what shit went down, they’d up, kick ass and shout: ‘Semper Fi!’

He gave a weak attempt at it now, but it came out like a piss — flat and narrow. Then he rolled onto his stomach and visualised a harsh five military push-ups, and tried.

‘Semp — ’

And collapsed, muttering: ‘Bollocks.’

Brant finally got to his feet, limped to the shower, caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Bad idea.

Pot belly. No, worse, a drooping one. Grey hair on his chest like sad brillo pads. He thought of the word ‘bedraggled’, said: ‘I’m bedraggled.’

Too kind. It just didn’t cut it. Call it fucked, more like. The shower was all he knew of heaven and hell, then to the medicine cabinet and two, no, fuck it, three Alka Seltzer. Ahh. Oh shit oh sweet Mary and Joseph, stay down. Nope. Up comes a technicolour yawn. Sweat pouring down his body, he couldn’t pull his head up and so saw the multicoloured spread. Yup, there’s the Seltzer. Useless fuckers, and be-gods, is that an E? Gimmie an E… gimme an… oomph-ah Paul McGrath. Now he tried again, with Andrews Liver Salt, and popped two soluble aspirin in the milk. Here we go.

Oh yes, there is a God, it stayed. Took one more shower. He knew a sharp belt of booze would fix him right up for an hour or less, and from there, it’s flake city.

True, he’d managed to get Sally back for a time. Had sworn all the promises. Would have done it on the bible if needed. But alas, he couldn’t make the pledge in his heart, where it most counted. Through work, booze and the sulking silences, he’d lost her all over again.

Then, as the caffeine danced along his nerve endings, he vaguely remembered young Tone. Oh shit, the kid had come to the door. Brant lit a shaky Weight, and tried to change mental tack. He couldn’t recall what he’d said to the lad, but oh, oh he knew it was rough. Was it ever otherwise?

He turned to shout for Meyer Meyer, then remembered that too.

Atonement in white

‘I like Jamiroquai,’ said Tone.

‘Yeah? Me, I like Tricky.’

‘Yeah.’

He knew if he said yeah a bit, it gave him cool. Not ice or brain-dead, but hip without pushing it. Like he had attitude without having to work at it. He badly wished he’d brought his Bans, just let those shades sit easy on his face. As it was, the smoke was killing his eyes. He’d decided to get a lead on the band-aid duo, prove to Brant that HE was the bollocks. To his surprise, he’d gained entrance to the club on Railton without any hassle. True, they’d charged him ‘instant membership’, a straight twenty-five and then admission. But hey, he was in — this was the place — the happening, he was Serpico, undercover, he was cookin’.

Clubs in Brixton change overnight. What’s hot on Tuesday is vacant city on Thursday. So it goes, they let Tone in ’cos he had cash, he was yer punter, yer John, yer actual Jimmy Wanker.

Shortly after he sat down, the girl put chat on him. Then he casually mentioned the band-aid people and she asked: ‘Whatcha want them for?’

‘Oh, nothing bad. In fact, I’ve a few quid owing them.’

She gave a mischievous laugh, said: ‘Give it here. I’ll see they get it.’

He laughed too. One of those clued-in jobs. Like he could dig it, yeah, go with the flow. She said: ‘See the new weapon of choice?’

‘What?’

‘Yer baseball bat, it’s passe. It’s clubs now, like golf clubs.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Sure, since the black kid won that big golf thing.’

‘The Masters.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Go on.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s what they’re bouncing off skulls now.’

‘Tee-off.’

‘What?’

He ordered two more drinks and felt he was really blending. She said: ‘Back in a sec.’

Which she wasn’t. More like an hour. During which a huge black guy took her seat and her drink, eye-balling Tone all the while. Finally he asked: ‘Now who I be?’

‘Ahm.’

‘I be the Archangel Tuafer.’

Tone tried to think of what Brant would say, something like: ‘Hot enough for yer?’ like that. What he said was: ‘Uh. Uh.’

Then the girl appeared, slapped the guy on the back, said: ‘Move on, big ass.’

He did. Tone said: ‘He thinks he’s an Archangel.’

‘He’s a divil all right.’

He tried to place her accent. I sounded like Dublin, but only sometimes. Then she said: ‘C’mon, I can show you where those people are squatting.’

When they found Tone’s body, he was naked, he’d been stabbed repeatedly and his head was bashed in. Roberts said: ‘Jeez, if I had to guess, I’d say someone put a golf club to him.’

Brant was too ill to be outright sick, but he sure wanted to be. He said nothing.

Roberts continued: ‘I saw him you know, that evening.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He was thinking of going to see you.’

‘Was he?’

‘Yeah. So did he?’

‘Did he what, Guv?’

‘Jeez, wake up man. Come to see you!’

‘I dunno.’

‘What?’