Ken Bruen - A White Arrest

2. Struggling Idealist: scrutinise every label for contents, buy only eco-sensitive soap powder. Ozone friendliness very important.

3. Self Indulgent: self-explanatory. Very welcome in supermarkets.

‘Mmmm,’ she thought. ‘Alas, that first rings a bell. Then, the final three:

4. Comfortable and Contented: favourite with the retailer because these happy bunnies like to reward themselves with that extra tin of tuna (‘Well, we do use a lot of it, and it is very healthy.’) Delia Smith is their icon.

5. Frenzied Coper: fastest shopper in the west. Knows what she wants and where to get it, homes in on target sections at speed. Will not even spot the most seductive gondola or special-offer basket.

6. Habit-Bound Die-Hard: frugal but loyal; the mostly male section. Meat and two veg man, spuds and sprouts only, never mange tout. Buys six days’ worth of food for?20. This (surprise, surprise) is the type the analysts have also dubbed the ‘Victor Meldrew.’

As she scanned No. 6, she thought, ‘Oh God, I’ll end up married to one of those.’

Crumpling the article, she threw it in the bin. On a T-shirt she’d seen once, the logo was: ‘When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.’

It seemed about right.

She strapped on her Walkman and was ready to roll, Sheryl Crow blasting loud.

At the entrance to the supermarket, she bought the Big Issue and the vendor said:

‘Have a good one.’

She’d tried.

A gaggle of girls brushed past her, nearly knocking her over. One of them petulantly crying: ‘Oh… ex-cuse me!’ in that tone. What John L Williams describes as an ‘Angela’, a particular drawl that upper-class junkies seem to have patented: One part frightfully, frightfully; two parts frightfully fucked up. The type who insist on slimline tonic as they swill buckets of gin.

Falls got a trolley and turned off her Walkman. The supermarket had a loop tape, the same song 100 times. Today it was U2 with ‘You’re So Cruel.’

Killer tune, but over and over.

Reach for them razor blades or mainline Valium.

Falls knew the very next track should be ‘The Fly.’

Sounds like Bauhaus on speed. But course, due to the bloody loop, it never gets there.

She headed for the frozen veg.

Past toiletries and disinfectants to see a kicking. A man was on the ground and three teenagers were putting the boot in. And kicking like they meant it. Steel caps on the toes flashed like treacherous zips of empty hope.

‘Oi!’ she roared.

Reaching for a tin (it was marrowfats) she lobbed it high and fast. It bounced off the first kid like whiplash. He dropped like a sack of thin flower, and the others legged it.

People were shouting and coming up behind her. She got to the man on the ground and saw he was in uniform. Security. Blood was pouring down his face. He said: ‘I showed them, eh?’ She smiled and helped him up. His brown hair was falling into his eyes and she clocked startling blue eyes, big as neon. She felt her heart lurch and reprimanded herself mentally: ‘Don’t be daft, it couldn’t be.’

She said: ‘We’d better get you seen to.’

‘Like a cat is it?’

As he stood up she saw he was just the right height, a hazy six foot, and that they’d look good together. A man came striding up, all shit, piss and wind: the manager. He barked: ‘What on earth is going on?’ and glanced at the teenager who was stirring and moaning. Falls said: ‘The apprentice thug there was apprehended by your security, at great physical cost.’

The manager barked louder: ‘But he’s just a boy, what’s wrong with him?’

‘He got canned.’

Falls accompanied the security guard for aid. To the pub. He ordered a double brandy and she a Britvic orange, slimline. She put out her hand, said: ‘I’m glad to meet you. And you are?’

‘Beige. That’s how I feel, but put me on the other side of that drink, I’ll be, as Stephanie Nicks sang, “A Priest of Nothingness’’.’

His Irish brogue surfaced haphazardly as he lilted on some of the words, then he added: ‘I’m Eddie Dillon.’

‘Dylan?’

‘Naw, the other one, the Irish fella.’

‘He’s famous?’

‘Not yet, but he’s game.’

She laughed, said: ‘I haven’t one clue to what you’re on about.’

He gave a shy smile, answered: ‘Ah, there’s no sense in it, but it has a grand ring!’ He looked at her hands, added: ‘And speaking of rings, can I hope yer not wed?’

She was filled with warmth, not to mention a hint of lust. She said: ‘Are you long in security?’

He drained his glass and she clocked his even white teeth. He said: ‘I was with the Social Security for longer than either of us admit, but yes, it’s what I do. I like minding things. I used to do it back home, but that’s a long time ago. Thank Jaysus… and no, it’s not what I do while I’m waiting to be an actor. I’m with Woody Allen who said he was an actor till he got an opening as a waiter.’

She laughed again, then said: ‘I’ve got shopping to do, so are you going to ask me out?’

‘I might.’

Roberts looked at his wife across the breakfast table. Deep lines were etched around her eyes, and he thought: ‘Good Lord, she’s aging.’ But said: ‘England went under with barely a whimper, losing their final match by twenty-eight runs today.’

‘That’s hardly surprising dear, surely?’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, I mean the poor lambs have a maniac stalking them. It’s not conducive to good cricket, is it?’

He felt his voice rising: ‘All they had to chase was a perfectly manageable victory target of 229.’

‘Says you. And darling, I’m sure they feel you should be chasing a maniac instead of criticising.’

Falls was surprised that Eddie Dillon had a car. She felt he’d have a lot of surprises. The motor was a beat-up Datsun, faded maroon. He said:

‘I won it off a guy in a card game.’

‘What?’

‘Just kidding. It’s the kind of line guys adore to use.’

‘Why?’

‘Good question, and one I have no answer to.’

He was dressed in a thin suit; everything about it was skinny, from the labels to the crease. A startling white shirt cried: ‘Clean, oh yes.’ Falls had her sedate hooker ensemble. Black low-cut dress, short, and black tights. Slingback heels that almost promised comfort, but not quite. He said: ‘You look gorgeous.’

She knew she looked good. In fact, before he arrived, she’d almost turned herself on. He’d brought a box of Dairy Milk. The big motherfucker that’d feed a flock of nuns.

She asked: ‘Won them in a card game?’

‘Yup, two aces over five, does it every third hand.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To Ireland.’

And in a sense, they did.

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?’