A White Arrest

‘I was out of it’

‘Christ, keep that to yourself.’

‘Okay.’

Roberts knelt down, stared at the battered face, said: ‘He’d a pair of Farahs, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Those smart pants, Jeez, I hope they didn’t do him for a bloody pair of trousers.’

‘Round here, Guv, they’d do you for a hankie.’

‘Too bloody right.’

Brant thought, what a slogan for a company: Would you kill for a pair of Farahs?

But said nowt, he didn’t think Roberts would appreciate it. He did half want to tell him about the wreath. How, when he opened his door that morning, there it was. A poor excuse of a wreath, but plainly recognisable. The flowers were withered, wilted and wan. In fact it seemed as if someone had first trampled on them. Even the ribbon was dirty. And get this, someone had bitten it.

Was it for him or Meyer, or both, or fuck? No big leap of detection to deduce, it was from The Umpire. Roberts would ask, if he’d been told: ‘How do you know it was him? Mebbe kids took it from the cemetery, decided to wind you up.’

Then Brant would pause, look crestfallen, humbly take his hand from behind his back, and dah-dah! A cricket ball. Say: ‘’Cos this was nestling smack in the centre. Deduce that, ya prick.’

‘That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons even death may die.’ HP Lovecraft, The Necronomicon

How the Umpire giggled as he laid the wreath at Brant’s door. He’d had to bite down on his hand to stop, lest he be heard.

The Euro-hit from a few years back, ‘Hey Magdalene’, was jammed in his head and he hummed with forced repetition. Had he known the wild abandon the ordained had danced with in hordes on Ibiza to this song, he might have taken pause.

Deliriously oblivious to past trends, he hummed as if he meant it. He couldn’t believe the rush it was to tease, torment and outright taunt the police. When the cricket mob were done, he’d have to have a serious look at the Met. So much work, so little time.

He hummed on. Shannon felt so wired, he couldn’t stop walking. He saw sparks light up his steps and found himself in the middle of Westminster Bridge. On impulse, he threw the Marks amp; Spencer bag over. It contained the crossbow.

Then he decided to suddenly cross the road. Without pause, he walked out into the traffic and a 159 bus lifted him about six feet and he fell back onto the pavement. As if the bus had said: ‘Get back there, asshole.’

Passers-by gathered round, and a buzz of observations danced above him.

‘Did you see that?’

‘Walked right out in front of it.’

‘Pissed as a parrot.’

‘What a wanker.’

An ambulance was eventually called, but it got caught in the rush. Its siren wailed uselessly, but loud enough to irritate the shit out of the stalled motorists.

And speaking of wreaths

They buried Jacko Mary on a cold November morning long after A White Arrest was concluded. There was the grave-digger, Roberts and a shabby woman. When the coffin was down, she said: ‘Rough enough to die alone.’

‘You’re here.’

‘I’m not a friend. He owed me money’ Roberts tried to temper his anger. ‘Thought you might still get it, eh?’

‘’Ere, don’t be sarky. You must be that copper.’

Roberts looked round, said: ‘Yeah. Keep it down, OK?’

‘He liked you, he did.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yeah. Were he any good as a snitch, like?’

Roberts considered. Jacko Mary had cracked the ‘E’ case, sort of, but he said: ‘No.’

‘Didn’t fink so.’

As a cop, Roberts had to do lots of dodgy things, came with the territory. But this denial was to be one act he felt forever ashamed about.

At a squat in Coldharbour Lane, a woman was stirring. ‘Tony.’

She raised her voice. ‘Tony!’

‘What? What’s going on?’

‘Brew us a cup o’ tea, two sugars.’

‘Fock off.’

She got up and gave him a smack on the head with an old copy of the Big Issue. If she’d checked, Tricky was on the cover. He got up and moved over to the gas ring. Near tripped on a number nine club. The grip was worn, well used. The woman watched him as he tried to get it together to light the gas, said:

‘Jaysus, yer arse looks great in them Farahs.’

‘They’re a bit tight, cut into the crack of my hole.’

And he moved his right leg to demonstrate. She said: ‘Naw, I like ’em.’

‘D’ya think I’m sexy?’

‘Yeah, dead sexy.’

In Coldharbour Lane, Kevin had called a meet. He was dressed in combat gear, and wired to the moon. Doug and Fenton exchanged wary glances. Albert arrived late and got a bollocking.

‘What is it, Albert, yer getting tired of our crusade, that it?’

‘I had to sign on, Kev. I was up the DHSS.’

‘Yer head is up yer ass, is what. Time to get yer attention, fella. Time to get everybody’s attention.’

He threw three black-and-white photos on the coffee table, said: ‘We’re moving up.’

Albert felt his heart thump, tried: ‘Like another area?’

Kevin crossed to him, began to jab his chest with his fingers, jabbed hard, spitting: ‘No shithead, we’re staying put, no scum’s running me outta my manor. We’re gonna off three fucks at once.’

Fenton was on his feet: ‘What? C’mon Kevin, how the hell are we gonna pull that off?’

Kevin didn’t look at him, but continued to jab at his brother, said: ‘See these three, yeah in the photies, they’ve set up shop together. Got a co-op in Electric Avenue and that’s where we’re gonna take ’em.’

Doug sighed, asked:

‘And the three guys, they’re just gonna say, “Hey OK, we’ll come with youse — oh, nice rope.”’

Kevin’s eyes gleamed, his moment, said: ‘That’s it Douggie, we’ll do them in their gaff.’

A week later…