A White Arrest

‘I was a small time crook until this very minute, and now I’m a big-time crook!’ Clifton Young in Dark Passage

Fenton, of the ‘E’ gang, was becoming less wallpaperish. He was beginning, for the first time in his life, to follow the plot. Not completely, but definitely in there. Now, coming off a football high, he challenged Kevin, said: ‘See that young copper got done?’

‘Yeah.’

‘The papers are saying we done it.’

Kev was dressed in urban guerrilla gear. Tan combat pants with all the pockets, tan singlet and those dogtags they sell in the arcade. Desert Storm via Brixton. He sensed Fen’s attitude and squared off. A Browning automatic peaking from the pocket on his left thigh. He smiled, said: ‘Fuck ’em.’

Fenton, less sure, wanted to back off, but had to hold. Asked: ‘Did ya, Kev? Did ya do him?’

Kev was well pleased. It kept the troops in line if they believed the boss was totally not to be fucked with. He said: ‘Whatcha fink Fen, eh… what do ya reckon, matey?’ Now Albert and Doug were on their feet and the air was crackling. Fen fell back into a chair, saying: ‘Aw Jeez, Kev, you never said nuffing about doing the old bill. Jeez, it’s not on. It’s not… And he groped in desperation for a word to convey his feeling. ‘It’s not British.’

Kev gave a wild laugh, then pulled the Browning out, got into shooter stance, legs apart, two-handed grip, swung the barrel back and forth across his gang, shouted: ‘Incoming!’ and watched the fucks dive for cover.

He could hear hueys fly low over the Mekong Delta, and vowed to re-rent Apocalypse Now.