‘Is it good?’
‘Well, I’m only on the third acre but it’s boring the pants off me.’
She laughed, said, ‘Thanks for not treating me like an ignoramus.’
He offered the toast, saying, ‘It’s heaven.’
She took it, asked, ‘How’d you get toast like this?’
He only smiled, so she said, ‘I think we’re mates.’
Nod.
‘So, can I ask your opinion.’
He gave her the final slice, a true sacrifice and said, ‘I’m a good choice cos I tell people what they want to hear.’
‘Oh God, don’t do that.’
‘OK.’
‘There’s a man…
‘I hear you.’
She glanced around, she sure as hell didn’t want anyone to hear, asked, ‘How do I know if it’s … you know … love?’
This Nash could do. He smiled said, ‘A few questions will answer that.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you wanna go for it?’
‘Ahm…OK, I think.’
‘Do you think of him [here Nash did an American accent] like all the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got the runs?’
She laughed and nodded. ‘Is your appetite screwed? Do songs seem to be directed specifically at you? Do you want to do nothing but stare out the window?’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘Now for the biggie, the litmus test.’
Falls felt nervous, said, ‘I feel nervous.’
‘So you should, here goes.’
He went American again.
‘Would you, like, just
‘Oh yes.’
‘Then I must inform you, WPC Falls, that you are completely and irrevocably in love, and may God have mercy on your soul.’
Later, rearranging his CDs, he pulled out ‘Benediction Moon’. Its mix of keening loss, awareness, and wonder were the articulation of a heart on fire.
Let’s party
A warehouse near the Elephant had been transformed. A crowd had gathered outside to see the party-goers arrive. When Tommy Logan got there he gave two fingers to the crowd. That they understood. Gave him a rousing cheer. ‘My people,’ he said.
As fixed, security was provided by off duty cops. McDonald was on the door, he said to Tommy: ‘Good evening, sir.’
Tommy palmed him a ten, said, ‘Keep up the good work.’
Inside the band were tuning up. Tommy said to Mick, ‘Who are they?’
‘The band you requested.’
‘Can they play?’
‘They’re a spit from being famous, guv.’
The warehouse had lived many lives. At one stage it had been a cinema and a balcony ran along the back. The projection room was still intact. A flight of stairs led from it to the street. Mick moved up to the band, said to the surly Matt, ‘Get started.’
‘We’re artists man, we don’t just
Mick hopped lightly on to the stage, went nose-to-nose, said, ‘You’re history if you don’t and never, like fuckin’
He got it.
They kicked off with a cover of The Verve’s ‘Bittersweet Symphony’, the extended one.
Tommy said, ‘Sounds like the Rolling Stones.’
Mick was clued, said, ‘Based on “The Last Time”!’
‘It’s good, they’re OK.’
Mick said, ‘They’re keen as mustard, chuffed to play for you.’
A stir at the door as the Super arrived. Harry the solicitor behind. Their wives were interchangeable. Like models of Mrs Thatcher. Tommy moved to greet them, signalling to a waiter for champagne. Outside, to the left of the crowd, Brant was leaning on his car, cigarette going. Roberts drove up, rolled down his window, said, ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘You neither.’
‘You going to gatecrash?’
‘If you’re game.’
Roberts smiled, said, ‘Lemme park, I’ll get back to you.’
Brant flicked the cig away, said, ‘I’ll be here.’
When McDonald saw them approach, he went, ‘Oh, shit.’
Worse, they were smiling at him. Inside, the band were attempting ‘Working Class Hero’ as a touch of contempt.
But as usual, those who least understood the song were the ones who most appreciated it. Roberts said, ‘Bit of moonlighting, McDonald?’
‘Sir.’
They made to enter and he stepped in front of them, said, ‘Guv, I’ll have to see yer invites.’
Brant said, ‘Gee, we left them in the car.’
McDonald didn’t move and Roberts said, ‘S’cuse me son.’
He moved.
The first person they met was Tommy’s wife, Tina. She said, ‘I can’t believe you got invited.’
Roberts looked at her, said, ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
The Super glared at them across the hall. Brant waved. More people arrived and the place was becoming crowded. Brant asked Tina to dance, she said, ‘Get real.’
Tommy said to Mick, ‘I want them outta here.’
‘There’d be a scene.’
‘Are you saying let ’em be?’
‘For now.’
‘Fuckers!’
Food was served and Brant was first in line. Got double helpings. His plate overflowing, he moved back to Roberts, said, ‘The grub is good, guv, wanna try some?’
Roberts looked at it in disgust, said, ‘It would choke me.’
‘Food dunno from shit, guv … it’s like money.’
‘You’re getting very philosophical.’
‘Naw, just hungry.’
Like all shindigs worth the name, there was a raffle. Cops love them. Brant had a fistful of tickets, said to
