A White Arrest

Slag?

Fiona had arranged a ‘coffee meet’ with Penny, her treat. She’d selected Claridges, to reach for the class she so desperately craved. It would have amused her to learn she shared a musical preference with WPC Falls. As she ordered a double cappuccino with cream, the words of ‘Misguided Angel’ ran through her head. The waiter was in his twenties and had the essential blend of surliness and servility. In short, a London lad. She admired his ass in the tight black pants and felt a flush creep across her chest. Since Jason, she was drenched in heat. He’d fit perfectly into the CA catalogue. The coffee came with all the prerequisites of the hotel. A mountain of serviettes with the Claridges logo, lest you lost your bearings, a bowl of artery-clogging cream and one slim biscuit in an unopenable wrapper. Penny arrived looking downright dowdy. Not a leg away from a bag lady. They exchanged air kisses. No skin was actually touched. Not so much consciousness of the age of AIDs as the fact that they were steeped in pretension.

Fiona led: ‘Are you all right?’

‘Don’t I look all right?’

‘Well, no… no, you don’t.’

Penny turned her head, shouted: ‘Waiter, espresso before Tuesday, OK?’

Fiona cringed. ‘They’re not big on shouting in Claridges. Discretion is such a form that they’d really appreciate you not showing at all. But if you must, then quiet, eh?’

Penny took a Silk Cut from her purse, said: ‘I’m smoking again, so shoot me.’

The waiter brought the coffee. No perks with this, just the basic cup and saucer. He waited and Penny snapped: ‘Take a hike, Pedro.’

He did. Then, no preamble, she launched: ‘The bastard’s leaving after twenty-six years of marriage. He’s off.’

‘But why?’

‘He needs space. Can you believe it, that he’d use that line of crap to me? Everyone’s in therapy and no one’s responsible anymore.’

‘You’ll have the house?’

‘I’ll have his balls, that’s what I’ll have.’

Then she rooted in her handbag, produced a boxed Chanel No. 5 and flung it on the table, said: ‘I got you a present.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry it’s not wrapped. Well, it’s not paid for either.’

‘I don’t follow’

‘I nicked it. That’s what I’m doing these days, roaming the big stores and stealing things I don’t even want. On Monday I took a set of pipes. You wouldn’t prefer a nice briar, would you?’

‘No. Oh, Pen, if you need help — ’

‘Go into therapy is it? Find my inner child and thrash it?’ She jumped up. ‘I’ll have to go. I’ll call you.’

And she was gone. It was a few moments before Fiona realised that Penny had pocketed the espresso cup. She gave a deep sigh, thinking: ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

But it was. Penny had a major effect on her life. She opened the Chanel, put a bit behind her ears, said: ‘Mmm, that’s class.’

The leader of the ‘E’ crew, Kevin, was singing at the top of his voice: ‘Tom Traubert’s Blues’, aka ‘Waltzing Matilda’. He was well pissed, empty Thunderbirds strewn at his feet. As the high point of the song touched crescendo, so did Kev. He was right moved to tears at the strength, nay, the majesty of the voice. For Christmas his brother Albert had given him Rod Stewart’s Greatest Hit Ballads, and now aloud he roared: ‘I love this fuckin’ album!’ And cranked open another Thunderbird, near drained it in one gulp. He’d followed Rod from the Small Faces all the way through ‘Killing of Georgie’ parts one and two, and fuck, never mind that Rod was an arrogant arsehole, the fucker could sing like a nicotinized Angel. Now Kev began to dance, to waltz, one two oops three with an imaginary Matilda. She was a combination of all the women he’d never had. Then, as is wont with the booze, it metamorphosed fuckin’ bliss to viciousness in the click of a beat. He stumbled and then pushed the dancing partner away, shouting: ‘Slag!’ Spittle lined his lips as hate fuelled by alcohol propelled him to a dimension where few would wish to be. Kev had done time, hard time. But he’d discovered books and found they provided a brief escape. His all-time hero was Andrew Vachss with the Burke novels. They were Kev’s speed, chock full of righteousness brutality, total vengeance. It never occurred to Kev that the very people Burke pursued were Kevin’s own. Not that he didn’t identify with the pure villains, the twenty-four carat psychos that scared even Burke. Wesley, the monster who signed his suicide note with a threat: ‘I don’t know where I’m going but they better not send anyone after me.’

Class act. Kev had copied it down, carried it like a prayer of the damned. Damnation was romantic as long as it didn’t hurt. When his brother Albert was born, they left something out, some essential connection that kept him two beats behind. Kevin was his brother and bully. The other two crew members were ciphers, their sole purpose being to fill prisons or football stadiums, and they were partial to both. Go in any bookie’s after the big race, they’re the guys picking up the discarded tickets, the human wallpaper. When God chose the cast, he made them spear carriers. Rage began early in Kev. A series of homes through Borstal to the one where the big boys play. Prison. In Wormwood Scrubs, he was made to bend over by a drug dealer and thus began his lock on their trade. Discovering Burke gave a hint of crusade to his vision and the seeds of vigilantism were sown. The Michael Winner Death Wish series was a revelation. When Bronson eliminated a guy, the audience stood up and cheered. Kev began to see how he could become famous, heroic and use a gun. If he got to settle personal scores, well hell, that was just how the cookie crumbled. The first weapon he got was a replica Colt and he spent hours in front of the mirror striking poses. Mouthing defiance: ‘Bend over! You fucking bend over now… Hey, arsehole… Yeah, you!’ He got Taxi Driver on vid and finally came home. Here was destiny, and in his movie he’d insist George Clooney played him. Get the chicks hot. At times, standing by Brixton tube station, he’s see black guys come past in cars whose names he couldn’t even pronounce. Rap music pouring from the speakers and arrogance on the breeze. He’d grit his teeth and mutter: ‘You’re going down, bad-ass.’ When he got the crew together, he laid it out as a blend of Robin Hood meets Tarantino and how they’d be front page of the Sun. Doug and Fenton didn’t care either way and, if it provided cash, why not? Albert did what Kevin said, as always. The ‘E’ was born and ready to rock ’n’ roll.