The McDead

English graffiti

‘They’re Spaniards, they hate pillow-biters.’

They went quiet for a while, got some concentrated drink down, then Brant asked, ‘Any ideas on how to get Tommy Logan?’

‘Nothing feasible yet.’

‘We could shoot him.’

‘If it were anyone else but you, sergeant, I’d think that was a joke.’

Brant raised his hand, shouted, ‘Jose … food please … arriba … don’t worry, guv, I got the lingo covered and I think I’ll get to ride the waitress.’

Porter Nash was finishing up the Sunday papers. Reading about Peter Ackroyd, he noted:

‘There was only the game of living

and the reality of writing.’

‘Hmmmph,’ he said and substituted ‘policing’ for ‘living’ and ‘homosexuality’ for ‘writing’. Not bad but it would be somewhat awkward to slide into conversation. The phone rang.

He lifted the receiver, said, ‘Yes?’

‘Faggots aren’t welcome in Kennington.’

Nash said, ‘Thanking you for your interest.’

And hung up.

He stood up and stretched. He looked a little like Michael York with edge. He was tall with blond hair and that fresh-faced English look that’s often mistaken for weakness. Yet again he wondered why he had asked for a transfer. It wasn’t as if he expected some amazing tolerance in the south-east. But he’d been going stale and ceasing to care. Whatever else happened, he wanted to care.

Monday morning when he entered the canteen, it went completely quiet. Packed to capacity before the week’s mayhem began. He went to the counter and got a tea. They knew he knew the toilets of both sexes had been written on … saying:

SERGEANT PORTER NASH SUCKS ANY DICK

Even the tea lady knew. He avoided her eyes but unlike most of the ill-mannered buggers in there, he said, ‘please’ when he asked for things, and ‘thank you’ when he got them.

As he walked away, she said to the cashier. ‘Well, say what you like about him, he has great manners.’

‘They do, always.’

He walked back down the length of the canteen, then took a sip of tea, put the cup down. As he headed out, conversation began to buzz but he stopped, turned and said, ‘I’m not arguing the basic truth of the toilet graffiti.’ And then he raised his voice, ‘But I do take exception to the word any. Even I draw the line at Sergeant Brant.’

Then he was gone.

A moment later, huge applause erupted. By evening, not a trace of the graffiti remained. Later, when he and Falls had become friends, she asked, ‘Did you ever find out who wrote the graffiti?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Who?’

‘I did it myself.’

Falls would rarely be as impressed again.

Some friendships take a lot of work, others just develop, due to geography and environment. Then, now and again, you get the instant variety.

Even before they got to know each other, the friendship was cemented. Not love at first sight, but out of the same stable. Thus it was for Falls and Porter Nash. A near riot was sizzling in the DSS at the Elephant. Nash and Falls took the call.

Outside the station, he asked, ‘You want to drive?’

‘You’re the rank, I’ll follow orders.’

He could see the spirit in her eyes. He said, ‘I order myself to drive.’ She liked that.

As he drove, he felt her examination, asked, ‘See anything you like?’

‘I was thinking you got a rough reception.’

‘Honest in its way.’

‘Is that how you see it?’

‘You want me to call them rednecks and bigots?’

‘I do.’

He considered, then, ‘That’s because you’re black.’

It hung there till she said, ‘As I’m painted.’

‘Touche.’

Approaching the DSS, she asked, ‘How are you going to tackle this?’

‘Badly.’

‘Uh-uh, should we ask for back-up?’

‘We should get guns but what the hell, let’s make it up as we go along.’

They could hear the disturbance and it sounded bad. He said, ‘Of course there’s always the master plan.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Run.’

‘That’s my favourite.’

Nash strode into the middle of the DSS office. Four or five different fights were happening on the left. Staff were cowering behind protective glass. A chair bounced off it. Falls tried to keep up with Nash. He stopped in the centre, roared, ‘Who wants money-now?’

A chorus of:

‘What?’

‘Eh?’

‘Who’s ’e then?’

‘Wanker!’

He continued: ‘Those who want their money, please gather to the right; those wishing to fight, please await the riot police.’

A stocky figure emerged from the crowd, asked, ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m the man giving the money.’

People began to move to the right and Nash said to Falls, ‘Get the staff moving.’

She did.

The stocky guy marched up to Nash, asked, ‘Wotcha gonna do tomorrow?’

‘Eh?’

‘When I start another fight, will you give me more money.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Les.’

Nash moved closer, said quietly, ‘Can I give you fifty quid?’

‘You what?’

‘Tomorrow, it won’t be my problem but I need to look good today … know what I mean?’

Les considered, then, ‘Is that fifty on top of my dole?’

‘Of course.’

‘OK.’

‘Let’s step outside, keep it discreet.’

Falls watched the two men leave. They seemed almost friendly. With Les out, the riot fizzled away. The DSS manager approached, said ‘Thank you, it could have turned nasty.’

Falls nodded, and the manager, anxious to please, asked, ‘Any suggestion on how to proceed now?’

‘Yes, try treating them with a little respect.’

She went to find Nash. He was sitting in the car, no sign of Les.

She asked, ‘Where did he go?’

‘To pastures greener … or Peckham.’

Then she saw his knuckles were raw and bleeding and he said, ‘Hands-on policing.’

‘Oh.’

He moved to the passenger seat, asked, ‘Will you drive?’

She did.

No words for a while, then she said, ‘I have a question.’

‘OK.’

‘What is it with Barbara Streisand and you lot?’

He laughed out loud, said, ‘Only if you answer a question too.’

‘Sure.’

‘What is it with the baseball caps?’