A White Arrest

‘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.’