A White Arrest

Band aid

As Brant and Roberts headed for the pub, they passed a urinating wino. Delirium tremens hit him mid-piss and his body did a passable jig. Brant said: ‘A river-dancer.’

The pub was police-friendly. Meaning if you were a cop, they were friendly, if you weren’t, you got shafted. A blowsy barmaid greeted them: ‘Two officers.’

Brant smiled and said: ‘My kind of woman.’

‘Friendly?’ said Roberts.

‘No, big tits.’

Roberts ordered two pints of best and Brant added: ‘Two chasers, Glenfiddich preferably.’

Roberts said: ‘Cheers.’

‘Whatever.’

‘You know, Tom, we should do this more often.’

‘We’ve never done it before.’

‘Oh, are you sure?’

‘I’m positive, Guv.’

‘Hey, Tom, no need for that here, we’re not standing on rank.’

But he did not offer an alternative. Brant sank the short, said to the barmaid: ‘Maisie, same again.’

‘That’s her name?’

‘Is now.’

Four drinks passed. Roberts offered: ‘You’re a single man now.’

‘That’s me.’

‘No kids.’

‘None that I’ve admitted to.’

Six drinks later, Brant’s turn: ‘You and yer missus, Guv, doing all right?’

‘Well, she’s doing something, not that she tells me, mind.’

Eight drinks later, Roberts: ‘I think I’m pissed.’

‘Naw, it’s early yet.’

Closing time. Roberts: ‘Fancy a curry? I could murder a chapati.’

‘Yeah, let’s get a carryout. Molly!’

‘I thought she was Maisie.’

‘Naw, it’s Molly, they’re always Mollies.’

Midnight.

Sitting outside the pub attempting red hot curry, Brant said: ‘D’ya want to kip at my place?’

A passing bobby stopped, said: ‘What’s all this then?’

It took Roberts a few moments to focus, then he slurred: ‘Yer bloody nicked, son.’

When Brant finally got home he was beginning to sober up. A foul taste on his mouth, he blamed it on the early Cornish pasty. He never blamed whisky. His sobriety was sealed when he saw the door of his flat off its hinges. He roared: ‘Bastards! Not to me, not ever!’

The living room was destroyed. Ripped and gutted photos. But his beloved book collection: the McBains were shredded, the delicate Penguin covers torn to pieces. Piled on top were remnants of Matthew Hope and Evan Hunters. To cap it, urine had been sprayed all over. Tears blinded him and a sob-whisper: ‘Yah fuckin’ animals.’

He ran to the bedroom, tried to ignore the used condom on his pillow, went deep into his dirty laundry, extracted a bundle of undies, roared in triumph: ‘Ah, yah stupid bastards,’ extracted a Browning automatic, fully loaded, shoved it in the waistband of his trousers and stalked out. Left the door as it was, said: ‘Daddy’s gone a-hunting.’

Brant’s shoulder took the door off the basement flat. He felt that was poetic justice at the very least. Inside, the occupant began to rise from bed. But Brant was over and kneeling on his chest within seconds, saying: ‘Sorry to disrupt your sleep, Rodney.’

‘Mr Brant, oh God. Mr Brant, what’s going on?’

‘Someone turned my gaff, Rodders, someone very bloody stupid, and by lunch today you’ll have their names for me, else I’ll move in with you.’

‘Your gaff, Mr Brant? No one would have the bottle, unless it were junkies, yes, has to be, they don’t know from shit.’

‘The names, Rod, by lunchtime. Am I clear?’

He let his full weight settle and Rodders gasped, then managed: ‘OK Mr Brant, OK.’

Brant got up, asked: ‘Got any aspirin? My head is splittin’.’

As he left, Rodney asked: ‘My door, Mr Brant, who’s gonna see about that?’

Brant looked at it with apparently huge interest, then said: ‘Don’t leave it like this, it’s a bloody open invitation, know what I mean?’

Rodney rang Brant at 11.50, said: ‘I found the geezers who done yer, Guv.’

‘Yeah?’

‘They’re junkies, like I said. A guy and his girlfriend. Yer own crowd as it happens.’

‘What, they’re coppers you mean?’

Rodney didn’t know if this required a polite laugh. Brant’s humour was more lethal than his temper. He decided to play it straight, said: ‘Ahm, like Micks, you know, Oirish. But they’ve been here a bit so they speak a mix of Dublin and London.’

‘So where do I find these cultural ambassadors?’

‘They have a pitch at the Elephant and Castle, in the tunnels there. He sits and she begs.’

‘How Job Centre-ish, eh?’

Rodney felt sweat gather on his brow. Any dealings with Brant had this effect. He hoped to terminate the call with: ‘They’re easily recognisable as they wear a band aid under the left eye.’

‘Why?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘OK Rodders, you done good. Stay in touch.’

‘Definitely’

And he put the phone down. His heart was whacking in his chest. However bad he felt, he knew it was way beyond what a set of junkies would soon be experiencing. But he shrugged it off, saying: ‘For all I know, they’re Ben Elton fans.’

Brant found them in jig time. Sure enough they were in the tunnels, begging and band-aided.