Taming the Alien

‘Fenton, last of the fuckin’ Mohicans.’

‘The Alien. You should be flattered — means you got their attention.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I am. Flattered.’

Roberts drained his tea and wondered if he’d have another. Thing was, you always regretted it.

Brant asked, ‘Want ’nother brewski?’

‘Love one.’

They did, and sure enough it had that stewed taste which British Rail have raised to an art. A sour tang of metal and over-indulgence.

Roberts said, ‘You’re going to leave it alone now.’

‘Mm … phh!’

‘C’mon Tom, walk away.’

Brant looked like he was seriously considering this as an option. They both knew otherwise, but as Roberts was the senior officer, he at least had to dance the charade.

Then Brant said, ‘I was watching a documentary on the New York cops, it was on BBC2.’

‘Yeah, any good?’

‘When a drug dealer gets killed, the detectives say “Condition Corrected”.’

Roberts smiled in spite of himself, stood and asked, ‘Can we expect you at work any time, son?’

‘Absolutely, soon as Regis and Kathy Lee finish.’

‘Like them, do you?’

‘Naw, it’s just I can’t distinguish one cunt from the other.’

Black as he’s painted

When Falls had joined the force, she had near perfected a neutral accent. If the situation demanded, she could ‘street’ with ease, or float the Brixton patois … and twist her vowels to blend into south-east London like a good un.

Early on she’d fallen in love with a bloke from CID. He said he adored her blackness and appeared to have no hang-up of being seen with her. There were no derisory comments, as he had the ‘cop face’. The one which says: ‘Fuck with me and you’ll fuckin rue the day’. Like that.

Finally, the time came when she had to know how he felt, and she asked, ‘Jeff, how do you feel about me?’

Risky, risky, risky.

He said, ‘Honey (sic), I really like you. And if I was going to settle down it would definitely be with you.’

Yeah. Sayonara sucker.

After Roberts’ departure, Brant remained in front of the TV, schemes of mayhem and destruction flicking fast through his head.

Dennis The Menace came on, an episode where the Menace was camping in the woods. A wild gorilla was loose and Dennis’ father asked: ‘Who’ll warn the gorilla?’

Brant smiled. If he’d believed in omens he’d have called it a metaphor of fine timing.

Next up was Barney. Brant said aloud, ‘I can’t friggin’ believe I’m watching an eight foot purple dinosaur with green polka dots … singing. And worse, tap dancing.’

Then, as if a cartoon light bulb went on over his head, Brant said, ‘Wait a mo!’ And knew how to proceed.

Over the past few years, he’d begun to acknowledge his Irish heritage. He’d begun to collect a motley pile of Irish paraphernalia, including ugly leprechauns, bent shillellighs, horrendous bodhrans and — yes, he still had it — a hurley.

Hurling is the Irish National game. A cross between hockey and murder. Now he pulled out the stick from beneath a mess of shamrocked T-shirts. Made from ash, it fits like a baseball bat. He gave it a trial swing and relished the swoosh as it sliced the air.

He shouted, ‘Cul agus culini for Gaillimh!’

And added, ‘Way to fuckin go, boyo!’

Exporting aliens

The Alien had one last look round his gaff, saw nothing he’d particularly miss. When you do hard time, it’s nigh impossible to ever make a home. You get it all comfy, the screws come and move you or toss it or piss all over the floor.

Keep it simple. Keep it mobile.

He’d packed two pairs of black 501s — they were the old full-faded jobs he’d got in Kensington Market. In the days when people still spoke English in that part of London. Four Ben Sherman knock-offs and two white T-shirts. A pair of near new Bally loafers he’d found in Oxfam at Camden Lock. Did they fit like a glove? Put them on and they whispered, ‘Is this heaven or what?’ They were.

For travel, he’d a pair of non-iron khaki chinos and a blazer. Slide one of the white T-shirts inside, you were the Gap ideal.

Casual

Smart

Hip

He thought, ‘Asshole! … Right.’

At the airport he bought a walkman and The Travelling Willburys. It reminded him of a mellowness he might have achieved. In Duty Free there was a promotion for Malibu. Caribbean rum with coconut.

Yeah.

Plus, he kinda liked the bottle. The sales assistant said, ‘Boarding card?’

‘We can do that.’

‘Cash or charge?’

He smiled — this was not a south-east London girl — and produced a flush of crisp readies. ‘Just made ’em.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Hey, no need to beg, these are the jokes.’

She produced a garish T-shirt. ‘It’s free with purchases over twenty pounds.’

‘Tell you what, hon, you wear it — help yah to loosen up, get the bug outta yer ass.’

The flight was delayed and Fenton said, ‘Fuck.’ Sat on a couch-type seat and unscrewed the Malibu.

He was about to sample when a voice said, ‘I sincerely hope you’re not thinking of drinking that.’

‘What?’

He turned to see a yuppie guy of about thirty. Dressed in a spanking new Adidas tracksuit, he had a fifty quid haircut and cheap eyes. Said, ‘One is not permitted to open Duty-Free before departure.’

Fenton put the cap back on the bottle, asked, ‘If I drank it — just supposing I went ahead and took a swig — what exactly is it you’d do, then?’

The guy pursed his lips. Fenton had always thought it was only an expression, but no, the guy was doing just that. Then he gave a tight smile. ‘Alas, one would feel it obligatory to inform someone of authority.’

‘Ah!’

‘If every chap flouted the rules, where would we be?’

Fenton didn’t think it required an answer so he said nowt. Eventually the guy pushed off and Fen tracked him with his eyes. Sooner or later, the guy had to piss, right?

Right.