A White Arrest

you?’

She shook her head and knew the ‘no smoking’ edict hadn’t penetrated here. The food came, and after the plates were set down, Brant asked, ‘Where’s that smile?’

But his attention was diverted as two people entered the caff. He recognised the Band Aids, and they clocked him. Turned right about and legged it. He thought, ‘Later,’ and pared a wedge of sausage, nodded to Fiona.

‘Eat.’

She tried.

He poured scalding tea into mugs, raised his, said: ‘Get that down yah, girl.’

She tasted it and nearly threw up. It was greasy, seemingly heavily sugared and tasted of tobacco. She put the mug down, said: ‘OK, you’ve had your fun.’

‘What? I’m having me grub, but no, I’ve not had me fun. Not yet.’

‘What is it you want, exactly?’

He took out a surprisingly clean handkerchief, dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth, said:

‘I’d like to be your suitor.’

Maybe my future starts right now. John Garfield: Voice-over, The Postman Always Rings Twice

As Falls prepared her shopping list, she fantasised being a Goth. Just for one outing. She couldn’t stand The Cure and, if that was music… yeah. But the gear, all those black dresses and the death white make-up. Ah, dream on…

They’d love it down the nick. She could just hear Brant’s war cry: ‘I could ride that.’

The man would get up on a cat. She was dressed for shopping. Reeboks (off white) Tracksuit (one white)

And a large carrier bag. Black. Daren’t be seen to ‘Accessorise’, very ungothic. She’d been reading an article headlined ‘SO, WHAT KIND OF SHOPPER ARE YOU?’

Retail analysts divide shoppers into six types, they use this information to attract the shoppers they want, and deter others. Supermarkets will tempt the Comfortable and Contented with displays of minor luxuries. Mainstream Mercenaries will be deterred by supermarkets offering either lack of choice, or too much.

Falls was a sucker for quizzes. Forever completing News of the World magazine questions like ‘What kind of lover are you?’

She read aloud the first three types of shopper:

1. Mainstream Merchant: The retailer’s least favourite group — low budget shoppers who buy only the cheapest goods on sale. Impervious to the siren-call of exotic foods.

2. Struggling Idealist: scrutinise every label for contents, buy only eco-sensitive soap powder. Ozone friendliness very important.

3. Self Indulgent: self-explanatory. Very welcome in supermarkets.

‘Mmmm,’ she thought. ‘Alas, that first rings a bell. Then, the final three:

4. Comfortable and Contented: favourite with the retailer because these happy bunnies like to reward themselves with that extra tin of tuna (‘Well, we do use a lot of it, and it is very healthy.’) Delia Smith is their icon.

5. Frenzied Coper: fastest shopper in the west. Knows what she wants and where to get it, homes in on target sections at speed. Will not even spot the most seductive gondola or special-offer basket.

6. Habit-Bound Die-Hard: frugal but loyal; the mostly male section. Meat and two veg man, spuds and sprouts only, never mange tout. Buys six days’ worth of food for?20. This (surprise, surprise) is the type the analysts have also dubbed the ‘Victor Meldrew.’

As she scanned No. 6, she thought, ‘Oh God, I’ll end up married to one of those.’

Crumpling the article, she threw it in the bin. On a T-shirt she’d seen once, the logo was: ‘When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.’

It seemed about right.

She strapped on her Walkman and was ready to roll, Sheryl Crow blasting loud.

At the entrance to the supermarket, she bought the Big Issue and the vendor said:

‘Have a good one.’

She’d tried.

A gaggle of girls brushed past her, nearly knocking her over. One of them petulantly crying: ‘Oh… ex-cuse me!’ in that tone. What John L Williams describes as an ‘Angela’, a particular drawl that upper-class junkies seem to have patented: One part frightfully, frightfully; two parts frightfully fucked up. The type who insist on slimline tonic as they swill buckets of gin.

Falls got a trolley and turned off her Walkman. The supermarket had a loop tape, the same song 100 times. Today it was U2 with ‘You’re So Cruel.’

Killer tune, but over and over.

Reach for them razor blades or mainline Valium.

Falls knew the very next track should be ‘The Fly.’

Sounds like Bauhaus on speed. But course, due to the bloody loop, it never gets there.

She headed for the frozen veg.

If he was a colour, he’d be beige

Past toiletries and disinfectants to see a kicking. A man was on the ground and three teenagers were putting the boot in. And kicking like they meant it. Steel caps on the toes flashed like treacherous zips of empty hope.

‘Oi!’ she roared.

Reaching for a tin (it was marrowfats) she lobbed it high and fast. It bounced off the first kid like whiplash. He dropped like a sack of thin flower, and the others legged it.

People were shouting and coming up behind her. She got to the man on the ground and saw he was in uniform. Security. Blood was pouring down his face. He said: ‘I showed them, eh?’ She smiled and helped him up. His brown hair was falling into his eyes and she clocked startling blue eyes, big as neon. She felt her heart lurch and reprimanded herself mentally: ‘Don’t be daft, it couldn’t be.’

She said: ‘We’d better get you seen to.’

‘Like a cat is it?’

As he stood up she saw he was just the right height, a hazy six foot, and that they’d look good together. A man came striding up, all shit, piss and wind: the manager. He barked: ‘What on earth is going on?’ and glanced at the teenager who was stirring and moaning. Falls said: ‘The apprentice thug there was apprehended by your security, at great physical cost.’

The manager barked louder: ‘But he’s just a boy, what’s wrong with him?’

‘He got canned.’

Falls accompanied the security guard for aid. To the pub. He ordered a double brandy and she a Britvic orange, slimline. She put out her hand, said: ‘I’m glad to meet you. And you are?’

‘Beige. That’s how I feel, but put me on the other side of that drink, I’ll be, as Stephanie Nicks sang, “A Priest of Nothingness’’.’

His Irish brogue surfaced haphazardly as he lilted on some of the words, then he added: ‘I’m Eddie Dillon.’

‘Dylan?’

‘Naw, the other one, the Irish fella.’