Ken Bruen - A White Arrest

‘Started bleedin’ shouting. At me brother, he got it in the neck. And Doug, well, he got it everywhere. I dunno about Fenton, I kinda lost him in the excitement.’

‘Are you hurt bad?’

‘I dunno, I don’t feel nuffin’… bit tired I suppose.’

‘You are the ‘E’ mob, right?’

‘Yeah, that’s us.’

‘Tell you son, you done good, had us going a bit.’

‘We did, didn’t we?’

Brant edged closer, said: ‘Thing is, whatcha gonna do now?’

‘I dunno, mate.’

A little nearer. ‘If you give it up boyo, you’ll be famous. Lots of press, movie rights, mini-series, books. Jeez, you’ll be on T-shirts.’

Very close now.

Kev began to move the gun in his right hand, and Brant smashed his foot into Kev’s face. Then bounced his head against the wall a few times, pulled the guns away, said: ‘That’s all she wrote.’

He straightened up and slowly approached the flat, took a peek inside, muttered: ‘Jesus!’

Moved in and stepped carefully over bodies. Saw a heavy wedge of banded cash and said: ‘I’ll be ’aving that.’

He pushed open the window, let himself be clearly seen, and shouted: ‘All clear!’

After the clean-up process had begun, Brant was sitting in a police van, sipping tea from a styrofoam beaker. Falls walked over, said: ‘Hear the buzz?’

‘What? No, is it sirens?’

‘No, sarge, it’s a White Arrest.’

Brant said: ‘I’ve been accused of all sorts of stuff. Some of it stuck, some of it’s even true and none I’ll admit to. But, hand on my heart, I’ve never been a racist. So, I can honestly say, you’re the first nigger I ever liked.’

Falls didn’t know whether to assault him or plain ignore him. Instead: ‘Well, Sergeant, perhaps you’re not as black as you’re painted.’ It was the closest they’d come to camaraderie.

Roberts emerged from Pentonville spitting anger. The suspect was a complete wash out. So loaded on Thorazine he confessed to being Lord Lucan.

It took all of Roberts’ patience not to wallop him. Worse, he had had to brown-nose the Governor, who said: ‘Can’t be too careful, eh?’

‘Exactly.’

As he got in his car, he thought he’d have time to swing by St Thomas’, then said: ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers.’

Fiona answered the phone, wondered if it was Brant, said: ‘Yes?’

‘Fiona, this is Penny.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Oh Fiona, I’m so sorry, but I had no choice.’

‘That’s not quite right, you chose, but you chose to save yourself.’

‘Can you ever forgive me?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘What can I do to make up for it? Anything. I’ll do anything.’

‘Would you?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Then go fuck yourself, you’ve done it to everybody else.’

At St Thomas’ hospital, the doctor was releasing his patient. ‘Now Mr Shannon, will you take it easy?’

‘Is sport OK?’

‘Purely as a spectator, is that clear?’

‘Crystal,’ and the Umpire smiled.

The furore of the Brixton shoot-out was ebbing. Commendations, awards, lavish praise, expected promotion: all followed Brant’s way. The George Medal was being mentioned.

Brant was coming home after yet another evening of liquid congratulation. Outside his building, he let back his head and muttered: ‘Ain’t life grand?’

A woman approached and asked: ‘Change for tea, mistah?’

Too late he registered the band-aid, and a knife went deep into his lower back.

As he fell to his knees, he thought: ‘Ahh… bollocks.’

Roberts checked again in the full-length mirror. He was dressed in a tight black shirt, homburg on his head, and dark shades. Oh yeah, and white socks, meeting the too-short pants. Brant had finally talked him into the idea for the fancy dress at the Met dance. When Fiona saw him, she gasped: ‘What on earth?’

‘I’m a Blues Brother!’

‘You look like a spiv.’

And she’d retreated in gales of laughter. When Brant had explained, it seemed more feasable. How they’d burst into the hall, light shining behind them. Before anyone could recover, they’d launched into an improvised version of a) ‘Rawhide’ or b) ‘Stand By Your Man’ (‘As long as it’s loud, Guv’).

Roberts readjusted the shades and said tentatively: ‘We’re…

No!

‘We’re on…

Better. And finally, out loud and proud:

‘We’re on a mission from God.’