Ken Bruen - A White Arrest

‘You know cricket?’

‘That’s it, Guv — only the one expression, I have to ration it.’

‘Well, you’re about to get an education. I shall personally ensure you get a crash course. Don’t the Irish play?’

Brant tried to look deprived. It made him Satanic.

‘Just hurling I’m afraid.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘A cross between hockey and murder.’

‘Wonderful, I’ve a thick Paddy to help me. Get down to the incident room, it should be set up by now.’

‘And… er, where’s that, Guv?’

‘How the bloody hell do I know. Ask a policeman. If you can find one.’

‘Righty ho… I’m on it, fret not. McBain has me wise to procedural.’

‘Fuck McBain.’

‘As you wish, Guv.’

The Umpire had returned to Balham. Back and forth across his bedsit he roared: ‘Yes yes yes — we have begun!’ and punched the air. The gun was held tightly in his left hand. An impulse to blast holes in the wall was near overwhelming. He marched to the poster of the England team, stabbed his finger in Dave Edding’s face, asked: ‘Were you surprised, Batman? Were you fuckin’ stunned?’

Looking around he found the knife on the floor and began to gouge out the face in the picture. Then he stood back, examined his handiwork, and in a singsong voice, trilled:

‘Eeny meeny miney mo

Catch a cricketer by the toe,

If he repents, let him go

Or else the Umpire cuts him so.’

He went to his bed and from underneath pulled a battered suitcase. Opening it he leafed through yellowing newspaper. Fragments of headlines registered briefly:

SCHOOLBOY CRICKET SENSATION

YOUNGEST EVER INTERNATIONAL

BITTER END TO SCHOOLBOY’S DREAM

He threw his head back and emitted a long cry of pure anguish. Unknowing, he shredded the frail papers as he lamented. Pieces of the articles fluttered briefly round his legs then settled in a mess about him. It appeared as if he’d been marooned in the remnants of an old wedding. The party had moved on but he’d become lost in the primary celebration. Not that he wouldn’t get to the feast; it was more… he didn’t realise he could have moved on.

WPC Falls, by one of those meaningless coincidences, also lived in Balham. Not in a bedsit though. The house had been left to her by her mother. Her father, a perpetual drunk, made hazard raids on her time and decency. Both were running thin.

She’d had a long day. It seemed a convention of lunatics had invaded their manor.

Vigilantes, cricket executioners, and God only knew how many copycats plus false confessors. She went to the hi-fi, put the Cowboy Junkies on loud. The Trinity Session had been literally worn out. Now she was wearing out the Canadian live album. As she ran a bath, Mango Tameness’ enchanting voice began: ‘The song’s about a fucked-up world, but hey — a girl ain’t givin’ in.’ Oprah material, but when Mango sang it, just maybe there was a chance. In a weak moment she’d told a cop about her passion for the group. True to form, he zeroed in on prejudice: ‘Junkies! You’re listening to bloody dopers. Try Coldharbour Lane or Railton Road on Friday night.’

And he’d ranted till she lied and said Dire Straits were what got her hot. It blew him off.

Now as she sank into the bath, Mango was telling of the hunted. Out loud Falls said: ‘Sing it, sister.’

The immediacy of the day began to fade. She’d had a call to a tower block near the Oval. Surname Point: the top of the building had come off in a big storm that snuck past Michael Fish — ‘no storm tonight,’ he forecasted, as the worst one in a hundred years came thundering down the pike. The call was to the thirteenth floor. Did the lifts work? Not that time. An irritated Falls finally made it to the scene. A crowd was gathered outside an open door. A huge black woman approached, asked: ‘Couldn’t they send a bloke then?’

‘I’m it.’

‘Should’ve sent a fella.’

‘Can we get to it?’

‘Blimey… ’ere look, they’ve sent a woman!’

And a chorus of ‘Should’ve been a bloke’ rose from the assembled. Out of patience, Falls snapped: ‘What’s the bloody problem?’

“Ere, don’t you get shifty with me, sis… blokes don’t get like that.’

Falls forced her way through the crowd. Someone goosed her but she had to let it go. She strongly suspected the black woman.

A neighbour’s dog had been a constant barker. Open all hours. Now the occupant, a white male in his fifties, had snatched the animal and was holding it over the balcony.

Falls had eventually elicited his name: ‘Mr Prentiss. You don’t want to do this.’

‘Oh yes I do.’

The assembly pitches in: ‘Drop the fucker, see if he bloody flies. Go on then, let ’im go.’

Falls shouted: ‘Be quiet!’

And was answered by: ‘Show us yer knickers.’ And quieter observations, such as: ‘She’s got the hump — throw her off ’n’ all.’

Now Prentiss spoke again: ‘See, he’s not barking now. See? First time in six months he’s bloody shut it.’

Falls had taken Psychology One and had done some classes in hostage negotiation. But not enough. She said: ‘We can work this out.’

‘Bollocks.’ And he let the dog go. The animal got in one last bark on his descent.

After Falls had marched Prentiss down the stairs, all thirteen stories, someone said: ‘You know what I fink, love?’

‘Yeah, yeah. They should have sent a bloke.’

‘No, you should’ve took the lift — it come back on while you were on the balcony.’

Prentiss, wiping sweat from his face, said: ‘You sure you’re in the right career, darlin’?’

Falls was too knackered to reply.

When Roberts got to his home it was clocking midnight and he was clocking zero. The house was in Dulwich, the Knightsbridge of south-east London. This was always said with a straight face. Else how could you say it? Dulwichians liked to think they were but temporarily out of geographic whack. Others said out of their tree. Dulwichians felt they gave the rest of the south-east something to aspire to. And they did. The aspiration to break into their homes and hopefully kick the shit outta them as bonus.

Hope is the drug. The mortgage was the payment from hell and Roberts carried it badly. In the sitting room, he sank into a leather chair that was designed for show. You moved — it cracked and ran friction on the arse. Course it cost a bundle, which was why he felt obliged to use it. Fiona Roberts wasn’t long home but she showered, put on a worn housecoat and hoped she looked… well, housewifey Jason had done as instructed and she could hardly walk. Composing herself, she got the expression fixed, the bored look of feigned interest. Looking as if she couldn’t quite remember his name and jeez, how much did she care? All this went right out the window when he said:

‘You look shagged.’

Guilt cascaded over her and she floundered, tried: ‘What a thing to say to your wife, good Lord!’

But he wasn’t even looking at her now, asked: ‘Pour us a scotch, love — I’m too whacked to wank.’

Indignation rose, as did her voice: ‘How dare you use such language.’

‘What? What did I say?’

‘That you’re too tired to masturbate.’

He laughed out loud, said: ‘Jeez, get a grip. Wag, I said, too tired to wag. You’ve bloody sex on the brain.’

She sloshed whisky into a tumbler and pushed it to him. He said: ‘Thanks dear, so kind — like to hear about my day?’

‘I’m rather tired. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll turn in. Good night.’ And she was outta there. For a few moments he just sat, the whisky untouched in his hand. Then he chanced a large sip, let it settle and said: ‘A hand job would have been nice.’