The McDead

Falls was bubbling. She bounced into the canteen and wanted to shout, ‘Oh yeah!’

She saw Sarah sitting alone. Head down, the picture of misery. Walking over, she said, ‘The star’s a little dimmed.’

Sarah looked up, said nothing. The skin above her left eye was bruised.

Falls sat, asked, ‘What happened?’

‘Why, do you care?’

Falls touched her hand, said, ‘Wise up, I’m here.’

Sarah mumbled, ‘Thanks.’

‘Listen, we could do like in Cagney and Lacey.’

‘Go to the Women’s Room?’

‘No … cry.’

Falls stood up, went and got some tea and danish. On the way back she put four sugars in the tea, plonked it on the table, said, ‘Here.’

‘Oh I couldn’t.’

‘It’s for the sugar rush but it won’t last, nothing does. You can tell me on the upswing.’

Come the upsurge, came the story.

Like this: ‘I was having a drink with … with McDonald. He was getting me pina coladas. I’ve had them before but not like this. By the time we left, I was near legless. Next thing I know, we’re in the front seat of his car and he’s trying to push … his … thing in my mouth. I hit my eye against the door and then I vomited all over his … his, lower part. He got so angry, he pushed me outta the car. I was lying on the pavement, and this I do remember, he leaned over to shut the door and said, “Yah useless slag.” Then he drove off.

‘I dunno how I got home. Can I have some more tea, it was lovely?’

Falls got the tea, then asked, ‘What ya going to do?’

‘I dunno. Will you tell me?’

Falls took a deep breath, then, ‘You could charge him.’

‘Oh God.’

‘God won’t help and neither will the brass. They’ll drag you through it and make it impossible to stay in the job. You might-big might-make some trouble for him but they’ll massacre you.’

Sarah looked set to cry again, said, ‘So, he gets away with it?’

Falls grabbed her wrist, said, ‘I never said to let it go, I just told you about the official method.’

Hope now in Sarah’s eyes, ‘There’s another way?’

Falls gave a smile that Brant would have understood, said, ‘Course there is.’

Once we were worriers

Brant was drinking a Sauza sunrise. A close relation of The Eagles’ ‘Tequila S’, it consists of

two shots of Sauza Tequila,

and …

lightly carbonated orange juice.

Brant was able to tell this to Roberts with some expertise mainly because the barman had just told him. There’s a tapas bar on the corner where Kennington Road hits Kennington Park Road. Brant had arranged to meet Roberts there.

‘Why?’ asked Roberts.

‘Cos I’m feeling Spanish.’

‘You are a weird person, sergeant but, why not?’

Brant got there first. A barman in near flamenco gear, said, ‘Hi.’

Brant said, ‘Buenos tardes.’

‘Senor, habla espanol?’

‘Naw, that’s it, I do have another word but I’d like to ration it.’

The barman, not sure if this was humour, smiled. He was sure Brant was el polica. He’d be mucho cautious.

Brant said, ‘I dunno all this stuff from shit. What d’ya recommend?’ And thus he was enjoying his second.

Later, he told the barman he’d try taco, enchillados, cerveza, if he could stand up.

‘Bueno,’ said a very nervous barkeep. The waitress was in her late ambitious thirties. Her mileage showed but she’d made the best of it. A raw sexuality danced in her eyes. She said to the barman, nodding at Brant, ‘Now, there is a bull of a man, a real el toro.’

The barman sighed. He was going to apply for income support.

Roberts tasted his drink, said, ‘You could get a liking.’

‘Good man, that’s the spirit.’

Roberts, the only person who ever got to use Brant’s first name, said, ‘Tom, I hate to worry you but…

Brant was shaking his head, ‘I don’t worry.’

Roberts stood back from the bar, said, ‘My mistake. You’re a warrior, yeah.’

Brant had the grace to look ashamed, said, ‘Oh gawd, do I sound like a horse’s ass?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK … What’s worrying you?’

‘A new sergeant being transferred to us. Starts Monday.’

Brant shrugged. ‘I know.’

‘Do you? Oh shit, you’re still bugging the office.’

‘Course … might I add, they dislike me.’

‘That’s true.’

‘I hadn’t finished, but they outright hate you.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Yeah. The new guy’s named Porter Nash.’

‘All together?’

‘And he’s a good cop.’

Roberts asked for a beer. The barman got it, said, ‘Una cerveza.’

Brant lit up. ‘Ah, that’s beer.’

‘It’s Don Miguel, senor, mucho gusto.’

‘Yeah … later Juan.’

Roberts asked, ‘Are we gonna eat?’

‘Let’s get a bit pissed, then we won’t care what we eat.’

‘That’s your plan?’

‘For the moment. Anyway Porter Nash ain’t going no further than sergeant, despite having a degree in criminology.’

‘Christ, you’re well informed. What’s the matter with Porter Nash?’

Brant smiled. ‘His dance card’s not full.’

‘What?’

‘He’s a poofter, an arse bandit.’

Roberts took a nervous look round, said, ‘Jeez, sarge, keep it down.’

English graffiti

‘They’re Spaniards, they hate pillow-biters.’

They went quiet for a while, got some concentrated drink down, then Brant asked, ‘Any ideas on how to get