A White Arrest

Atonement in white

‘I like Jamiroquai,’ said Tone.

‘Yeah? Me, I like Tricky.’

‘Yeah.’

He knew if he said yeah a bit, it gave him cool. Not ice or brain-dead, but hip without pushing it. Like he had attitude without having to work at it. He badly wished he’d brought his Bans, just let those shades sit easy on his face. As it was, the smoke was killing his eyes. He’d decided to get a lead on the band-aid duo, prove to Brant that HE was the bollocks. To his surprise, he’d gained entrance to the club on Railton without any hassle. True, they’d charged him ‘instant membership’, a straight twenty-five and then admission. But hey, he was in — this was the place — the happening, he was Serpico, undercover, he was cookin’.

Clubs in Brixton change overnight. What’s hot on Tuesday is vacant city on Thursday. So it goes, they let Tone in ’cos he had cash, he was yer punter, yer John, yer actual Jimmy Wanker.

Shortly after he sat down, the girl put chat on him. Then he casually mentioned the band-aid people and she asked: ‘Whatcha want them for?’

‘Oh, nothing bad. In fact, I’ve a few quid owing them.’

She gave a mischievous laugh, said: ‘Give it here. I’ll see they get it.’

He laughed too. One of those clued-in jobs. Like he could dig it, yeah, go with the flow. She said: ‘See the new weapon of choice?’

‘What?’

‘Yer baseball bat, it’s passe. It’s clubs now, like golf clubs.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Sure, since the black kid won that big golf thing.’

‘The Masters.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Go on.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s what they’re bouncing off skulls now.’

‘Tee-off.’

‘What?’

He ordered two more drinks and felt he was really blending. She said: ‘Back in a sec.’

Which she wasn’t. More like an hour. During which a huge black guy took her seat and her drink, eye-balling Tone all the while. Finally he asked: ‘Now who I be?’

‘Ahm.’

‘I be the Archangel Tuafer.’

Tone tried to think of what Brant would say, something like: ‘Hot enough for yer?’ like that. What he said was: ‘Uh. Uh.’

Then the girl appeared, slapped the guy on the back, said: ‘Move on, big ass.’

He did. Tone said: ‘He thinks he’s an Archangel.’

‘He’s a divil all right.’

He tried to place her accent. I sounded like Dublin, but only sometimes. Then she said: ‘C’mon, I can show you where those people are squatting.’

When they found Tone’s body, he was naked, he’d been stabbed repeatedly and his head was bashed in. Roberts said: ‘Jeez, if I had to guess, I’d say someone put a golf club to him.’

Brant was too ill to be outright sick, but he sure wanted to be. He said nothing.

Roberts continued: ‘I saw him you know, that evening.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He was thinking of going to see you.’

‘Was he?’

‘Yeah. So did he?’

‘Did he what, Guv?’

‘Jeez, wake up man. Come to see you!’

‘I dunno.’

‘What?’

‘I was out of it’

‘Christ, keep that to yourself.’

‘Okay.’

Roberts knelt down, stared at the battered face, said: ‘He’d a pair of Farahs, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Those smart pants, Jeez, I hope they didn’t do him for a bloody pair of trousers.’

‘Round here, Guv, they’d do you for a hankie.’

‘Too bloody right.’

Brant thought, what a slogan for a company: Would you kill for a pair of Farahs?

But said nowt, he didn’t think Roberts would appreciate it. He did half want to tell him about the wreath. How, when he opened his door that morning, there it was. A poor excuse of a wreath, but plainly recognisable. The flowers were withered, wilted and wan. In fact it seemed as if someone had first trampled on them. Even the ribbon was dirty. And get this, someone had bitten it.

Was it for him or Meyer, or both, or fuck? No big leap of detection to deduce, it was from The Umpire. Roberts would ask, if he’d been told: ‘How do you know it was him? Mebbe kids took it from the cemetery, decided to wind you up.’

Then Brant would pause, look crestfallen, humbly take his hand from behind his back, and dah-dah! A cricket ball. Say: ‘’Cos this was nestling smack in the centre. Deduce that, ya prick.’