Taming the Alien

Convict

If you turned right on the Clapham Road, you could walk along Lorn to the Brixton side.

Few do.

Brant had his new place here. The irony didn’t escape him.

Lorn … forlorn.

Oh yeah.

Since he’d been knifed in the back, he’d been assigned to desk duty, said: ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers.’

His day off, he’d go to the cemetery, put flowers on PC Tone’s grave. Never missed a week. Each time he’d say, ‘Sorry son. I didn’t watch for you and the fucks killed you for a pair of pants.’

What a slogan — Trousers to die for.

The Band Aid couple had gone to ground or Ireland. No proof it was them. Just a hunch. Some day, yeah … some day he’d track ’em.

Only Chief Inspector Roberts knew of Brant’s hand in the murder of the boy. He wouldn’t say owt. Brant’s own near death had somehow evened it out for Roberts.

Odd barter but hey, they were cops, not brain surgeons.

Chief Inspector Roberts was aging badly. As he shaved, he looked in the mirror, muttered: ‘Yer aging badly.’

Deep creases lined his forehead. The once impressive steel grey hair was snow white and long. Clint Eastwood ridges ran down his cheeks. Even Clint tried to hide them. Wincing is cool … sure … maybe till yer dodgy forties, but after that it comes across as bowel trouble.

Roberts loved the sun, nay, worshipped it — and cricket. Too many summers under long hours of UV rays had wreaked havoc. Worse, melanomas had appeared on his chest and legs. When he’d noticed them he gasped, ‘What the bloody hell?’

He knew … oh sweet Jesus did he ever … that if them suckers turned black, you were fucked. They turned black.

The doctor said, ‘I won’t beat around the bush.’

Roberts thought: Oh, do … if necessary, lie to me — lie big — beat long around any bush.

‘It’s skin cancer.’

‘Fuck!’

After he thought, I took it well.

Was ill as a pig when he heard about the treatment.

Like this: ‘Once a week we’ll have radiation.’

‘We? You’ll be in there with me?’

The doctor gave a tolerant smile, halfways pity to building smirk, continued: ‘Let’s see how you progress with the ‘rad’, and if it’s not doing the business we’ll switch to laser.’

Roberts wanted to shout, ‘Beam me up Scottie! Signpost ahead … The Twilight Zone.’

He let the doctor wind down. ‘Later on, we’ll whip some of those growths away. A minor surgical procedure.’

‘Minor for you, mate.’

The doctor was finished now, probably get in nine holes before ops, said: ‘We’ll pencil you in for Mondays, and I’d best prepare you for two after effects:

1. You’ll suffer extreme fatigue, so easy does it.

2. It leaves you parched — a huge thirst is common.’

He had a mega thirst now.

Right after, he went to the Bricklayers. The barman, a balding git with a pony-tail and stained waistcoat, chirped, ‘What will it be, Guv?’

‘Large Dewars, please.’

‘Ice … water?’

‘What, you don’t think I’d have thought of them?’

‘Touchy.’

Roberts didn’t answer, wondering how the git would respond to rad. As if abbreviation could minimise the trauma. Oh would it were so. Dream on.

Robert’s other passion was Film Noir of the forties and fifties. Hot to trot. Now, as he nursed the scotch, he tried to find a line of comfort from the movies. What he got was Dick Powell in Farewell My Lovely:

I caught the blackjack right behind my ear.

A black pool opened up at my feet.

I dived in. It had no bottom.

Yeah.

He’d given the git behind the bar a tenner, and now he eyed the change. ‘Hey buddy, we’re a little light here.’

‘Wha …? Oh … took one for me. I hate to see anyone drink alone.’

Roberts let it go. Londoners … you gotta love them. Bit later the git leans on the bar, asks, ‘You like videos?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Fillums, mate. Yer latest blockbuster — see it tonight in the privacy of yer own gaff. Be like ’aving the West End in yer living room.’

‘Pirates, you mean.’

‘Whoa, John, keep it down, eh?’

Roberts sighed, laid his warrant card on the counter.

‘Whoops …

Roberts put the card away, said, ‘I thought in your game you could spot a copper.’

‘Usually yeah, but two things threw me.’

‘Yeah, what’s those then?’

‘First, you have manners.’

‘And …?’

‘You actually paid.’

Fenton got his nickname thus: During the movie Alien, he killed a guy — the scene where the creature crashes outta John Hurt’s chest. He’d used a baseball bat. Near most, it was his weapon of choice. The guy, Bob Harris, had stitched up his mates. They were doing life-plus on the not so sunny Isle of Wight. Mind you, the ferry over had been scenic. Fenton was offered two large to payback. He did it gratis. What are mates for?

Oh, Bob liked his horror flicks and was a particular aficionado of Ridley Scott’s work on Alien. Could wax lyrical about the used hardware look of the scenes. Shite talk.

Fenton had called round, six pack of Special and some wacky-backy. They’d done a tote, got munchies and cracked the brewskis. Fenton asked, ‘Yo, mate, still got Alien, have you?’

‘Oh yeah, good one. Wanna see it now?’

‘Why wait?’

Indeed.

Fenton said he’d grab some cold ones from the fridge as they got into the flick. Bob was on the couch, glued to the screen, yelping about the ‘vision’ of Allen Dean Foster. Fenton unzipped the Adidas hold-all and took out the Louisville slugger. It had black tape wound tight on the handle, tight as cruelty. He gave the bat a test swing, and yeah, it gave the familiar whoosh of long and comfortable use.

The crew of The Nostradome were sitting down to their meal and John Hurt was getting terminal indigestion.

Bob shouted, ‘Yo … Fen! You don’t wanna miss this bit!’

Fen came in, put his weight on the ball of his right foot, pivoted, and swung with all he had, saying, ‘I won’t miss, buddy.’

And wallop — right outta the ball park.

The crew on the TV screen gave shouts of horror and disgust at the carnage. Fenton let the movie run, he hated to leave things unfinished.

Fenton had a meet with Bill in The Greyhound near the Oval. It’s always hopping, but no matter how tight, Bill gets to sit on his tod down the end. All the surrounding seats are vacant. Not free but empty, like McDonalds cola. A time back, a pissed Paddy decided to have a seat right up close to Bill, said, ‘Howya.’

Bill didn’t look, said, ‘You don’t wanna perch there, pal.’

‘Pal? Jaysus, I don’t know you. Buy us a double, though.’

A muscle man outta the crowd slammed Paddy’s ears in a simultaneous clatter. Then had him up and frog marched out to the alley. There, his arm was broken and his nose moved to the right. After, sitting against the wall, he asked, ‘What? … What did I say?’

Bill and Fenton went way back. Lots of cross referenced villainy. Masters of their respective crafts. Bill asked, ‘Drink?’

‘Rum ’n’ coke.’

‘Bacardi or …?’

Fen smiled, ‘Navy up.’

An old joke. Just not a very good one. Bill was drinking mineral water — Ballygowan Sparkling.

The drinks came and Fen said. ‘I dunno Bill, I must be getting old, but I could never get me head round paying for water.’

Bill took a sip and winced. ‘What makes you think I pay?’

‘Nice one.’

They sat a bit in silence. You could nigh hear the bubbles zip, like pleasant times, like fairy tales.

Then, ‘We found her.’

‘Great.’

‘You’re not going to like it.’

‘Gee, what a surprise.’

‘She’s in America, like you thought — San Francisco — living with a teacher, name of Davis.’

‘A teacher … wow.’

Bill said, ‘Let it be, Fen,’ and got the look, boundaries being breached. He sighed. ‘Sorry … you’ll need a wedge.’

‘Big time.’

Bill rooted in his jacket, took out a fat manila envelope, said, ‘There’s a cop, name of Brant, needs sorting.’

‘When?’

‘Soon as.’

‘How far in?’

‘Not fatal but educational.’

‘Can do.’

Fen got up and Bill said, ‘Oi, you didn’t touch yer rum.’

‘Hate that shit.’

And he was gone.

Brant had taken Falls with him to interview a suspected arsonist. No proof had surfaced but the Croydon cops swore he was the man. Now he’d moved to Kennington and, hey, coincidence, a warehouse was gutted on the Walworth Road. He was in his early thirties with the eyes of a small snake. He’d answered his door dressed in a denim shirt, cutoffs, bare feet.

Brant said, ‘If you’ll pardon the pun, we’re the heat.’

The guy smiled, let them know he could be a fun person, asked, ‘Got a warrant?’

‘Why? You done somefing?’

And everybody smiled. The guy was enjoying it, said, ‘What the hell, c’mon in.’

The flat was a shithole. The guy said, ‘It’s a shithole, right, but I just moved in and …

Brant said, ‘From Croydon.’

‘Yeah!’

‘We heard.’

He stretched out on a sofa, waved his hand. ‘Park it wherever.’

Brant parked it right next to the guy’s head, still smiling. The guy sat up, decided to pull the ‘blokes’ routine and nodded towards Falls. ‘You didn’t need to bring a cunt with yah.’

And got an almighty wallop on the side of his head.

Brant said, ‘Here’s how it works, boyo — you call her names, I’ll wallop you … OK?’

Too stunned to reply, the guy looked at Falls, thus failing to see the second sledgehammer punch to the back of his head. It knocked him out on his face and he whinged, ‘I didn’t say nuffink that time.’

Brant hunkered down, said, ‘I hadn’t finished explaining the rules. See, if you even look like you’re going to call her a name, I hammer you. Get it now?’

The guy nodded.

Falls had long since despaired of Brant’s methods. She owed him three large for her father’s funeral and was obliged to suffer in silence.

When they were leaving, Brant said to the guy, ‘They think you’re an arsonist. Me? … I dunno, but if there’s another fire soon, I’ll put you in it.’

Back on the street, Falls said in exasperation, ‘I need a holiday.’

‘Yeah? Anywhere nice?’

‘Some place far, like America.’

‘And you need money, is it? How much?’

She was too enraged to answer.

Brant was humming a Mavericks tune as he put his key in the door. He felt fucked and looked forward to a cold one — lots of cold ones — and maybe a sneak peek again at Beavis And Butthead Do America.

Stepping inside his flat, his inner alarm began.

Too late.

The baseball bat tapped him smartly on the base of his skull and two thoughts burned as the carpet rushed to meet him.

a) Not this shit again

b) The carpet sure is worn

When he came to, many pains jostled for supremacy — his head … the rope round his neck … the ache in his lower back …

The Alien said, ‘I wouldn’t move if I were you. See, what I’ve done is tie a rope round your neck and connected it to yer feet. You move either, you slow strangle. But, don’t sweat it — you’ll catch on quick.’

Brant tried to move and the strangle hold tightened. He went: ‘Urgh … uh …

And Fenton said, ‘Exactly! I think you’ve got it.’

Brant’s pants and Y-fronts were around his ankles and he felt a baseball bat lightly tap his bum. For a horrific moment, he envisaged rape of an American variety.

Fen said, ‘I hear you’re a hard ass. Time to change that. For the next few weeks when you try to sit, remember: keep yer bloody nose outta people’s business.’

A whistle began to scream from the kitchen and Fen said, ‘I put the kettle on. Handy, those whistle tops, eh? No boiling over. Excuse me a mo!’

Brant was awash in cold sweat. Rivers of it coursing down his torso. Fear was roaring in his head.

Then, ‘Okey-dokey … here we go. I’ll pour …

And white hot pain electrified Brant’s brain.

Fiona Roberts was stalled in traffic. Cars were blocked all the way down to the Elephant. Her husband had many proclamations, most of a police bent. Among them was, ‘If you’re caught in traffic, keep the windows shut.’

Yeah, yeah.

She could hear a blast of rap from a nearby car and glanced over. A man with dreadlocks was giving large to a mobile. How he could hear anything above the music would be nothing short of miraculous. He caught her eye and gave a huge dazzling gold capped smile. Not too sure about her response, she looked away. Didn’t do to encourage the game. A woman’s head appeared at her elbow and a distinctly Irish accent whined, ‘Gis the price of a cuppa tea, missus, and I’ll say a prayer for ya.’

Fiona had never mastered the art of street encounters. As a cop’s wife she’d learned zero except the response of confusion.

Like now. She muttered, ‘I’ve no change.’

And the woman spat in her face.

The shock was enormous. As the spittle slid down her cheek, a symphony of horns began and shouts: ‘Eh, get a bloody move on!’ ‘Shift yer knickers darlin’!’

She did. As the Americans say — ‘Who ya gonna call?’

Her husband would crow, ‘What did I say? … Didn’t I tell you about windows, eh? Didn’t I say?’

The Ford Anglia 205E saloon is a classic. You gaze at it, you can almost believe the fifties and sixties had some worth. See your reflection in the chromed wing mirrors, you can almost imagine you have a quiff stuck in Brylcreem heaven with sleek brushed sideburns. The wheels are a collectors wet dream — rubber tyres with separate chrome hubcaps. Note that word ‘separate’. The difference twixt class and mediocrity. Ask Honda as you whisper British Leyland. Throw in Harley Davidson and you’ve got one pissed off Jap. Roberts called his Anglia ‘Betsy’. In the fifties, it was easier to name the car than the child. Roberts was financially strapped. A mortgage in Dulwich, a daughter in boarding school. And he was hurting big time. Now that he’d been diagnosed with skin cancer, he’d flung the lot — caution, care, budget — to the cancerous wind.

The car was a bust. It didn’t overstretch his finances so much as shout BLITZKRIEG.

He wasn’t sorry, not one little bit. He loved — nay, adored — it. Kept it in a lock-up at Victoria. The garage belonged to a mate of Brant’s and he was glad to oblige the police. Well glad-ish. Come a pale rider. In the nineties in London. Come joy riders. Bringing anything but joy.

Patience isn’t high on their list of characteristics. They opened the lock-up no problem, but couldn’t get the Anglia to start. So … so they burned it where it was. The fire took out three other garages.

When Roberts arrived, the blaze had been brought under control, but too late to save anything. The fire chief asked, ‘That your motor in there?’

‘Was.’

‘You’ll be insured?’

Roberts gave him the look. ‘I’m a cop — what do you think?’

‘Uh-oh.’

‘Yeah.’

They watched the flames for a bit and then the chief said, ‘There’s a cup o’ tea going … fancy one?’

‘I don’t think tea will do it.’

‘You could be right. Me, I take comfort where I find it.’

‘Gee, how philosophical … maybe I should be glad the fire gives heat to the neighbours.’

‘See — you’re sounding better already.’

Before Roberts could respond to this gem, his bleeper went and the Chief said, ‘Could be a long night.’

‘It’s been a long fuckin’ life, I tell you.’

But the Chief already knew that.

As Roberts sighed and turned away he ran a turn through his favourite noir movies. Always from the forties and fifties. What surfaced was Barbara Stanwyck to Keith Andes in Clash By Night:

‘What do you want, Joe, my life history? Here it is in four words:

BIG IDEAS, SMALL RESULTS.’

Yeah, the story of it all.

Brant had passed out from shock. Now, as he came to, he curled up in anticipation of horrendous pain.

Curled up?

He thought — What? — and rolled easily onto his side. No pain. No rope.

Trembling, he moved his hand to his ass … wet and cold.

Cold water.

He’d been suckered with the oldest psych trick in the book.

Rage and relief fought for supremacy as he got shakily to his feet. Stumbled to the cupboard and got a bottle of Black Bushmills. He’d been keeping it for a four star moment like getting the knickers off Fiona Roberts. Twisted the top savagely, let the cap fall and chugged direct. Did this bastard burn … oh yeah!

He leaned against the cupboard and waited for the four stars to kick in. They did. Fast. And he muttered, ‘Jaysus.’

After a few more slugs, he moved to the armchair and with a steady hand, lit a Weight. He knew who his assailant was. The so called ‘Alien’, the legendary fuck. Only one person would have the balls to set him loose. With Fenton it was just a job, but to the one calling the shots, it was personal. Brant began to savour how he’d boil the two of ’em together. Not with bloody cold water either.

Leigh Richards was a snitch. What’s more, he was Falls’ snitch, passed on by Brant who said, ‘The most vital tool for police work is a grass. One of their own who’ll turn for revenge, spite or money. But mainly money. Fear, too, that helps. I’m giving you this piece of garbage, ’cos I can no longer stomach ’im.’

After meeting Leigh, Falls could understand why. Years ago, Edward Woodward made his name playing a character called Callan. He had a sidekick named Lonely. Leigh was the Lonely of the turn of the century. No specific reason that made him distasteful. Everything about him was ordinary. So much so that he looked like a photo-kit. Everybody and nobody. If there’s such a thing as auras, then his spelt ‘repellent’.

He said to Falls, ‘This is a new departure for me.’

‘What?’

‘Working with a woman.’

Falls had a constant urge to lash out at him. Ordinarily, she was no testier than your average Northern Line commuter, but once in Leigh’s presence, she felt murderous. She said slowly, ‘Listen, shithead, we’re not working together. We never have, never will — am I getting this across?’

He had his hair cut in a French crop. This is a crew-cut with notions. His eyes never met yours, and yet, he never ceased watching you. That’s what Falls felt — she felt watched.

He put up his hands in mock surrender, said, ‘Whoa, little lady! No offence meant.

I like niggers, anyone will tell you Leigh Richards isn’t a bigot. Go on, ask anybody … you’ll see. Live and let live is my motto.’

If Falls had sought Roberts’ advice, he’d have said, ‘Never trust a grass.’ He knew from bitter experience. More, he could have recounted the lines from The Thin Man:

‘I don’t like crooks.

And If I did like them, I wouldn’t like crooks who are stool pigeons.

And if I did like crooks who are stool pigeons, I still wouldn’t like you.’

Roberts would have liked to rattle off the lines anyway because he liked to. Plus, he’d love to have been Nora Charles’ husband. But she didn’t ask and the lines stayed on celluloid — unwatched and unused.

Instead, Falls counted to ten and then she smacked Leigh in the mouth. His feelings, not to mention his mouth, were hurt.

He said, ‘My feelings are hurt,’ and he figured it was time to rein Falls in. Let her see a little of his knowledge, know who she was dealing with. He said, ‘I know you. I know yer Dad died recent, and more, you couldn’t cough up the readies to plant him.’ He had her attention and continued, ‘My old Dad snuffed it too. See this belt?’

In spite of herself, she looked. It appeared to be a boy scout one, right down to the odd buckle.

‘When I went to the morgue, the guy said: “It’s all he left, shall I sling it?” Oi! I said, that’s my estate!’

Falls didn’t smile, but Leigh could go with that. He’d smacked her right back and never even had to raise his hand or his voice.

She asked, ‘There’s a moral in there?’

‘Like the great man said — “Be prepared!”’

‘Who?’

‘Baden Powell, founder of the scouts.’

Falls gave a harsh chuckle, said, ‘They weren’t real popular in Brixton.’

‘Oh …

‘But let me give you a little story.’

Leigh didn’t care for the light in her eye. He’d heard blacks got funny when they mentioned Brixton. Shit — when anybody mentioned it. He said: ‘There’s no need.’

‘I insist. The cat asked: “Do you purr?” “No,” said the ugly duckling. “Then you’ll have to go.”’ She let Leigh digest this then, ‘So, you’re a snitch … then snitch.’

‘I’ll need paying.’

‘After.’

‘It’s good information.’

‘Mr Brant was anxious to locate two Irish people, a man and a woman.’

‘So?’

‘He believes they can help with his … ahm … recent accident.’

‘Do you know where they are?’

‘I know where they went.’

‘Yeah.’

‘One of them was wearing a nice pair of Farahs as he boarded the plane — a plane for Amer-i-kay.’

In spite of herself, she uttered, ‘Jesus.’

Leigh was excited, babbled on, ‘According to my sources, a certain young copper was wearing said pants on the night of his demise.’

Falls grabbed both his wrists and, Brant-style, leant right into his face, said, ‘Their names?’

‘Josie … and Mick … that’s all I know.’

She squeezed harder.

‘Belton … OK! Mick Belton — you’re hurting me!’

She let go, then reached in her purse and began to gather loose notes. He said in alarm, ‘For Godsake, don’t do it like that — palm it!’

She did and he squeezed her fingers during the move, said, ‘I have a good feeling about us.’

‘Yeah?’ She sounded near warm.

Emboldened, he risked, ‘You’ll find me more than satisfactory in the … ahm … And here he winked.

She whispered, ‘And you ever talk to me like that, you’ll find it in Brixton among the used condoms and other garbage.’

Then she was up and moving. He waited till she was a distance, then said, ‘Yah lesbian!’

The Alien was sitting in The Greyhound, in Bill’s private corner. He was drinking a mineral water, slowly savouring the sparkle. Bill arrived with two minders. They branched off to man both ends of the bar. Fenton said, ‘Impressive.’

Bill looked back at them. ‘Yeah?’

‘Oh definitely, real menace.’

Bill sat down and nodded to the barman. A bowl of soup was brought and two dry crackers. They were encased in that impossible to open plastic. Bill nodded at them, said, ‘Get those, eh?’

‘Why don’t you call the muscle, give em a chance to flex.’

Bill smiled, ‘You wouldn’t be trying to wind me up would you Fen?’

‘Naw, would I do that?’

Bill was quiet for a bit, then, ‘You did the biz?’

‘Course.’

‘Didn’t overdo it, did yah?’

‘Naw, just put a frightener to him — he’s mobile but dampened. You’ll have no more strife.’

‘I wouldn’t want any of this coming back on me, Fen.’

‘It’s done, you’ve no worries. He’s tamed — nowt for him now but nickel and dime till he gets his shitty pension. He’s bottled out.’

Bill passed over a fat package. ‘A little bonus, help you find yer feet in America … you’ll be off soon.’

‘Soon as shootin’.’

They both gave a professional laugh at this, not that either thought it as funny or even appropriate.

This is how the call came in.

‘Hello, is that the police?’

The desk sergeant, weary after an all-nighter, answered, ‘Yeah, can I help?’ Not that he had a notion of so doing.

‘I’m about to eat my breakfast.’

‘How fascinating.’

‘When I’ve finished, I’ll wash up, and then I’m going to kill my old man.’

‘Why’s that then?’

‘He molested me till I was twelve. Now I think he’s going to start on my little brother …

The sergeant was distracted by a drunk being manhandled by two young coppers. At the pitch of his lungs, he was singing: ‘The sash my father wore … No big deal in that, unless you noted the man was black. Thus perhaps giving credence to the expression ‘a black protestant’ or not.

When the sergeant got back to the call, he couldn’t hear anyone on the line. Testily he repeated, ‘Hello … yello?’

Then two shots rang clearly down the receiver and he knew, without thinking:

Shot gun — 12 gauge — double o cartridges

and muttered, ‘Jesus!’

A homeless person with a grubby T-shirt proclaimed, ‘Jesus loves black and white but prefers Johnny Walker,’ and touched Fiona Roberts on the arm. She jumped a foot off the ground thinking: ‘They’ve even reached Dulwich’.

He said, ‘Chill out, babe.’ Even the displaced were going mid-Atlantic.

She ran. No dignity. No finesse. Out ’n’ out legged it.

Inside her home she said aloud, ‘I know! I’ll never go out again — that’ll do it.’ And received a second jump when her daughter Sharon approached suddenly. ‘Christ, Sharon, don’t do that — sneaking up on a person.’

‘Get real, Mom.’

Fiona thought: ‘A nice cup o’ tea, that will restore me,’ and went to prepare it. She glanced in at the blaring TV. Regis and Kathy Lee were discussing manicures for dogs.

‘Sharon … Sharon! Why is the telly so loud? … Why do you always need noise?’

The girl threw her eyes to heaven and sighed, ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘What? … What’s to understand? Tell me!’

Chewing on her bottom lip, the girl said, ‘Cos yer old, Mum.’

Fiona scratched the tea and headed upstairs for a Valium — a whole shitpile of mother’s little helpers … sorry, old mother’s little helpers.

When Charlie Kray, brother of the twins, tried to flog cocaine, three of his customers turned out to be undercover cops. A true sting. Over seventy, Charlie was found guilty, despite his own lawyer calling him a pathetic case. Who Charlie called was Bill. Like this.

‘Bill?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s Charlie.’

‘Hi, son, I’m sorry about yer bit o’ grief.’

‘They set me up Bill.’

‘I know, they put you right in the frame.’

‘You know me, Bill — I ’ate drugs.’

‘We wouldn’t be ’aving this chat if it were otherwise.’

‘Thanks, Bill. Reggie always said you were the bollocks.’

‘Was there somefing, Charlie?’

‘Is there owt you can do for us, mate? I go in, it’s life … at my age.’

‘Wish I could, son but it’s solid. You’re going down, but I can ’ave a word, make it cushy as possible.’

A pause. Defeat hanging full, then resignation.

‘Yeah, righto Bill … Will you look out for my old girl?’

‘Course, you don’t ’ave to ask.’

‘Maybe you’ll get up my way, bring us in a bit o’ cheer.’

‘Course I will, soon as.’

But he never did. Bill wasn’t a visitor and in this case he didn’t even send the help.

That book was writ.

When Roberts had proposed to Fiona, her family had raised huge objections. Roberts had told his own father of their view. His father, a man of few words, said, ‘They’re right.’

‘What — you think I’m not good enough for her?’

‘I wasn’t thinking about you. As usual you’ve got it backwards.’

Roberts was pleased, then said, ‘They’ve money.’

‘Ah! … Well, perhaps you have class. Now it’s possible we’ll get money, whereas …

He figured he’d call on Brant, maybe even talk about Fiona. But probably not. Brant’s door was open and Roberts thought ‘Uh-oh.’

Brant was sitting on the couch watching TV. Two bananas were coming down the stairs and singing.

Roberts said, ‘What the hell are yah watching?’

‘It’s Bananas in Pyjamas, quite a catchy little tune.’

He turned round to stare at Roberts, who said, ‘The door was open … I …

‘Hey, no sweat. Everybody else just walks in.’

‘You had a visit?’

‘Yeah, a villain with a message. Next, he’ll have a chat show.’

Roberts moved in closer. ‘Are you all right? Any damage?’

‘Any damage. Hmm … he wanted to boil me bollocks and I speak not metaphorically here.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I get you anyfin’?’

Brant looked at the mug he was holding, said, ‘It’s tea.’

‘Another?’

‘Two sugs, Guv. It’s them triangle jobs — and you know what? — they do taste better; like yer old Mum used to make.’

Roberts went to the kitchen and marvelled at the mess. Like squatters had staged a demo there. Brant shouted, ‘Heat the cups.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Once the tea was squared away, Roberts sat. ‘You want to tell me what’s going down?’

‘Bill Preston.’

‘Tell me you’re winding me up. You haven’t been sniffin’ round in his biz … the order came from on high — hands off.’

‘Let ’im run riot, that it?’

‘They’re building a case, it takes time.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘C’mon, Tom, the softly-softly approach will bring him in finally.’

‘So meanwhile, we sit back and play with ourselves.’

‘Shit! You started pushing him!’

‘A bit.’

‘And you got a visit. Who’d he send?’

‘Fenton, last of the fuckin’ Mohicans.’

‘The Alien. You should be flattered — means you got their attention.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I am. Flattered.’

Roberts drained his tea and wondered if he’d have another. Thing was, you always regretted it.

Brant asked, ‘Want ’nother brewski?’

‘Love one.’

They did, and sure enough it had that stewed taste which British Rail have raised to an art. A sour tang of metal and over-indulgence.

Roberts said, ‘You’re going to leave it alone now.’

‘Mm … phh!’

‘C’mon Tom, walk away.’

Brant looked like he was seriously considering this as an option. They both knew otherwise, but as Roberts was the senior officer, he at least had to dance the charade.

Then Brant said, ‘I was watching a documentary on the New York cops, it was on BBC2.’

‘Yeah, any good?’

‘When a drug dealer gets killed, the detectives say “Condition Corrected”.’

Roberts smiled in spite of himself, stood and asked, ‘Can we expect you at work any time, son?’

‘Absolutely, soon as Regis and Kathy Lee finish.’

‘Like them, do you?’

‘Naw, it’s just I can’t distinguish one cunt from the other.’