A White Arrest

Then he rooted in his jacket and produced a few notes, apologising: ‘It’s a bit short, Jacko.’

Jacko Mary gave a huge laugh. ‘You’re talking to me about short?’

Clue like

Penny was losing it. Tried not to scream at Fiona Roberts as she asked: ‘You’re saying you won’t come to the CA with me?’

‘Not today Pen, I’m up to my eyes.’

‘I need you, Fiona.’

‘I can’t, honestly. Let me call you tomorrow, we’ll arrange coffee.’

‘Jeez, I can’t wait. Thanks a bunch, girlfriend!’

And she slammed the phone down and thought: I could hate that cow. Well, OK then, I’ll go shoplifting.’

Thing was, she was a very bad shoplifter. But if she resented Fiona, she out-and-out loathed Jane Fonda. She had admired Jane as the American Bardot and heavily envied her. Then she’d held her breath during the hard Jane bit. Had been in awe during the years of ‘serious’ actress. Had the hots for her when she was fit and forty. Began to resent a tad how fabulous she was at fifty. Screamed ‘bitch’ when she sold out at sixty to a billionaire and became one more trophy wife in the Trump tradition.

Penny had been in Hatchards of Piccadilly when a hot flash hit and she’d fled in search of cool air. Outside the Trocadero, she realised she’d stolen a book. There was Jane on the cover. A cookbook. Oh shame! And worse. She hadn’t even written it but borrowed recipes from her THREE chefs. THREE! Count ’em and weep. She’d slung the book at a Big Issue vendor. The man had taken it well, shouted: ‘Saw the movie.’

Restless, irritated, pacing, she tried to watch breakfast TV. A gaggle of gorgeous blonde bimbos were discussing the merits of being ‘childfree’.

‘Hold the bloody phones/ she screeched. ‘When did we go from being childless to this hip shit?’

A child, the woe of her aching heart and the biological clock hadn’t so much stopped as simply run into nothingness.

Upstairs she had a wardrobe full of baby clothes. These weren’t stolen. She’d bought each item slow and pained, and paid a lot of money.

‘E’ is not for Ecstasy

In a house on Coldharbour Lane, four men sat round a coffee table. Open cans of Heineken, Fosters and Colt 45 crowded a batch of black and white photos.

Two of the men were brothers, Kevin and Albert. The others were Doug and Fenton. All were white. Kevin said: ‘I don’t think they take us serious.’

Albert sighed: ‘It’s early days, and besides, the cricket thing’s got priority.’

Doug joined in: ‘Yeah, c’mon Kev, who’s gonna get the six o’clock news — a batsman or a dope dealer?’

Kevin slammed the table.

‘You think this isn’t important?’

Fenton got his oar in: ‘Take it easy, Kev.’

Kevin rounded on him, slight traces of spittle at the corners of his mouth. ‘Was I talking to you Fen? Did I say one fuckin’ word to you, mate?’

‘I was only — ’

‘You were only bollocks — this is my plan, my show.’

‘You don’t tell me shit, mate.’

Fenton knew the danger signs: up ahead was the twilight zone. He shut up. Kevin grabbed a beer, drained it in a large, loud swallow. The others watched his Adam’s apple move like a horrible yo-yo. Finished, he flicked the can away, then:

‘Now, as I was saying, before I got interrupted, they ain’t taking us serious. Think we’re just a one-off. I’ll show ’em — the next hanging I’ll also torch the bastard. Eh? Whatcha fink o’ that? Be like a beacon in the Brixton night sky’

The others thought it was madness. What they said was: ‘Good one, Kev — yeah, torch ’em, that’ll do it.’

Kevin sifted through the photos. ‘Who’s next then? Here’s an ugly looking bastard — who’s he?’ Turned over the photo, read out the details: ‘Brian Short, twenty-eight years old, dope dealer, rapist, and lives on Railton.’

‘Shit, he’s practically next door.’

Albert looked at the others, then said: ‘Kev, there’s a problem.’

‘What, he’s moved, that’s it?’

‘No. He’s… I mean…

‘What? Spit it out.’

‘He’s white.’

‘He’s scum and what’s more, he’s gonna burn, and tonight.’

‘Kev…

‘Don’t start whining, go get some petrol — get a lotta petrol.’

Policing, like cricket, has hard and fast rules. Play fast, play hard

Picture this. Brant is seven years old. The Peckham estate he lives on is already turning to shit. A Labour legacy of cheap contemporary housing is exactly that; Brant has been fighting. But he’s learning, learning not to cry and NEVER to back down. At home his mother is bathing his cuts and beatings. He doesn’t hear her. Dixon of Dock Green is on the telly: ‘Evening all,’ and Brant whispers a reply. Z Cars flames the call and ten years later he answers it fully. Through the years he’ll wade through Hill Street Blues right along with homicide. But they don’t give him the rush. His is an English version of the bobby and for some perverse reason he finds that Ed McBain in the police procedural comes closest to the way it should have been. Long after he’d dismissed Dixon as a wanker, his heart still bore the imprint of Dock Green. In Brant’s words, television had gone the way of Peckham. Right down the shitter.

Brant was mid-quiz, deliberately misquoting: ‘and the herring shall follow the fleet.’

A constable sneered: ‘That’s too easy — it’s that wanker, the kick-boxer Cantona.’

Brant tried not to show his dismay. He’d been sure it was a winner. A clutch of uniforms was gathered round in the canteen. He said: ‘OK wise-arse, try this: “Do you care now?”’

The group laughed, shouted: ‘De Niro to Wesley Snipes in The Fan.’

Free tickets had been left at the station. Brant stood up in disgust. ‘You bastards have been studying. It’s meant to be off the cuff.’

He marched away resolving never to play again. Near collided with a galloping Roberts who shouted: ‘Another one, they’ve gone and done it again.’

‘The Umpire?’

‘No, the other lunatics — the lamppost outfit. C’mon, c’mon, let’s roll.’

Outside the library in Brixton, the dangling corpse was still smouldering. Brant asked: ‘Got a light?’

Roberts gave a deep sigh: ‘This will hang us too.’

Brant nudged him, asked: ‘Did you read McBain yet?’

‘Oh sure, like I’ve had time for that.’

Unfazed, Brant launched: ‘The 87th Precinct, there’s two homicide dicks, Monaghan and Monroe. At the murder scenes they crack a graveyard humour. In Black Horses the — ’