The McDead

He repeated.

When they got to the station, Brant said to Sarah, ‘When you’re bookin’ him, check his arms.’

‘For tracks?’

‘Not exactly.’

Coup

Sarah was the heroine of the hour. To such an unprecedented extent that the Super emerged from his office and addressed those gathered.

‘Today we have reason to be proud. A rookie applied the tried and tested methods of policing and got a result.’

He flourished the Cartier in all its gleaming glory, continued, ‘If this is an indication of the standard of new blood entering the service, then I say the Met has very little reason for concern for the future.’

Cheers, congratulations, and camaraderie filled the station. Quite overcome, Sarah retreated to the ladies. Falls already there, said, ‘You’ve arrived in style.’

‘Beginner’s luck.’

‘Or the hand of Brant, perhaps.’

Sarah was tempted to ask, ‘Touch of the sour grapes?’

Falls looked directly at Sarah, said, ‘Is he fucking you?’

‘My God, of course not.’

‘Yeah, he’s doing it to you one way or another, he puts it to everyone.’

Now Sarah went for it, ‘Don’t worry, no one’s moving in on your manor.’

Falls laughed, ‘Well, you’ve got spunk, I’ll give you that.’

Sarah eased up, said, ‘Maybe we can have a drink sometime.’

‘I doubt that.’

And was gone.

Brant and Roberts were in the pub. Drinking vodka because it doesn’t smell of desperation, leastways, not for a while. Roberts said, ‘I’ve been warned off.’

‘I know.’

‘What?’

‘I told you, I’ve got it taped.’

‘Was it the Masons?’

‘Yup.’

‘Fuckers.’

‘What now, guv?’

‘I dunno.’

‘But you’re not like … giving up?’

For an answer, Roberts just looked at him and Brant said, ‘Good, I’d hate to chase him on me lonesome.’

Roberts laughed. Of such moments are the best friendships sealed. They ordered some more vodka and Roberts said, ‘Shouldn’t we eat something?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Want something?’

‘Naw.’

‘Me neither.’

Let the silence build a while and allow the booze to do its number. Then Brant said, ‘The woman’s the key.’

‘His missus?’

‘Yeah, get ’im through her.’

Roberts was uneasy, said, ‘I kinda like her. I wouldn’t want her to get hurt.’

‘There’s always fall-out, guv.’

Roberts chewed on that. Then, in an exact imitation of Brant, said, ‘You’re right, fuck her.’

Despite the best efforts of the vodka, they didn’t get any further along. Then, as is the wont of alcohol, it flipped sides and Roberts thought about Smokie, thought, At least Brant won’t have heard of them either.

Aloud, he said, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard of Smokie?’

‘The group?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sure, “Living Next Door To Alice”.’

‘You know that, too?’

Brant looked almost happy. ‘They were like a cross between the Small Faces and The Hollies. Their lead singer got killed a time back, I was sorry.’

And he looked it.

The past

Next morning, Brant was sick as forty pigs. That’s real bad. Dragging himself to the shower he swore, ‘Never again.’

Yeah. Fragments of the night returned.

How when the pub closed, that’s when they got hungry.

Off to the Chinese where they drank bamboo wine … Could that be right?

Leaning against the toilet bowl, Brant begged, ‘Please let me not have had the curry.’

As he threw up, he thought, ‘Damn, I had the curry.’

Afterwards, they’d come back to Brant’s place and played neo-whine songs. All the great torches. Barbara Streisand, ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers’; Celine Dion, ‘Theme from Titanic’; Bonnie Tyler, ‘Lost in France’; Meatloaf, ‘Two Outta Three Ain’t Bad’.

And if the debris in his living room was any indication, they’d drank:

Beer,

More vodka

and

Cooking sherry.

‘Jaysus … please, not cooking sherry.’

Threw up again. Yup, the sherry.

Got in the shower and blitzkreiged.

Coming out he felt marginally better. Then to the living room, muttered, ‘Fuck,’ as he surveyed the carnage. How many cigarettes, exactly, had he smoked? Shuddered to think, and he needed one now. Took a stubbie from an ashtray, lit up.

Rough.

Once he got past the coughing jag, the bile and nausea bit, it wasn’t too bad. Said aloud, ‘Hey, it’s not as if I had to have a drink.’

Got his clothes on and checked out the mirror. Mmmm … least he hadn’t slept in them. Still, looked like somebody slept on him.

In the kitchen, made the coffee, two heaped spoons. Jolt himself into the day. Added a ton of sugar and then surveyed it, said, ‘I am not, repeat not, drinking that shit,’ and slung it down the sink. Then he physically shook himself and left.