Ken Bruen - A White Arrest

‘Ladies and Gentleman, we have here a policewoman who demonstrated yesterday how NOT to handle a case. She went alone to a potentially explosive situation, near invoked a riot and did uncalculated harm to community relations.’

His voice was rising progressively as he built to his finale. He knew his punchline would be hilarious and it showed that tough, stern, he was not without humour. Leadership qualities on display, he got ready.

‘But worst of all — to quote the poet, ‘The dog it was that died.’

Silence. Rattled, he figured the morons didn’t get the reference and repeated it. Nope. Nada. Angry, he tore further into Falls and lost it a bit. Murmurs from the ranks finally halted him. A crushed Falls felt the tears blind her, groped her way out of the room. Durham shouted: ‘I don’t recall dismissing you, WPC.’

The Umpire raised himself from the floor and stretching, folded away the killer. Blinked, opened wide his eyes and was SHANNON, not exactly ordinary citizen, but he had done some of the moves. Even psychos have to eat. He showered and then carefully shaved, using a pearl-handled open razor from his dad. In truth, he’d bought it at a car boot sale but now believed the former. With long, slow sweeps he cut the bristles, and as he reached the Adam’s apple he paused. The eyes reflected and for a minute the Umpire had control, whispered: ‘gut him like.’ Then he was gone and Shannon began to whistle. All spruced up, he said: ‘let’s get booted and suited.’

For breakfast he boiled two eggs and buttered three slices of bread. Then he cut the slices into thin wedges and lined them up neatly: ‘Stand easy, men.’

When the eggs were done, he took a felt marker and did this

to the eggs. Wrote Jack ’n’ Jill on the tips. Ready to nosh down, he sat and crossed himself. He’d seen this on The Waltons and felt it was really cool. Evenly, he removed the tops from the eggs, saying: ‘Hats off at the table, kids.’

Taking one bread soldier, he dipped it in Jack and ate. To and fro, Jack through Jill, he ate with gusto.

It was DHSS day. Standing quietly in line, Shannon replayed The Dogs of War movie in his mind. The window lady looked at his card, said: ‘Mr Noble wants to see you — desk number three. Next!’

Shannon waited for two hours before Noble got him. Time for the Umpire to uncoil, begin to flex. Noble had a thin moustache, like a wipe of soot, and he fingered it constantly. With a degree from one of the new polys, Noble had notions. Scanning through the file, he clicked his tongue, said: ‘Mr Shannon, we seem to have had you for rather a long time.’

Shannon nodded.

‘And… Mmm… you completed the Jobclub, I see.’

Nod.

‘No prospects on the horizon — no hopeful leads from there?’

A giggle.

Noble’s head came up: ‘I said something amusing?’

Shannon spoke, huge merriment bubbling beneath the words: ‘I’m seeking a rather specialised position.’

‘Oh, and what would that be, Mr Shannon, pray tell?’

The Umpire looked right into Noble’s eyes, and the man felt a cold chill hit his very soul.

‘I’d like to participate in cricket — a position of influence, ideally.’

And now the laughter burst. A harsh, mocking sound like a knife on glass. Shannon stood up and leaned across the desk, whispered: ‘I expect there to be vacancies soon.’

And he was gone.

An ashen Noble sat rigid for several minutes until the tea-lady arrived. ‘One or two biccies, Mr N?’

Later in the day, Noble contemplated a call to the police. The loony definitely had a fix on cricket. But what if they laughed at him? It would be round the office in jig-time. Worse, he might have to shave his tash, total horror, resign and sign on. Probably here in his very own domain. A shudder ran through him. No, best leave well enough alone. He’d just put it out of his mind. Right! That’s what he’d do. See how decisive he was. Let his ’tache reign supreme.

Falls was twixt laughter and tears, hysteria fomenting. She said: ‘You know what the ambulance guy said when he saw how Dad was lying?’

Rosie didn’t know, answered: ‘I dunno.’

‘I do love a man ON a uniform.’

Pause.

Then they cracked up.

Kev’s brother Albert had a grand passion, the idea fixed almost — the Monkees — as they’d been. And due to syndication, in fifty-eight episodes, they would forever be condemned by celluloid to Monkee around — with shit-eating grins for all eternity. A hell of mammoth proportions, proof indeed that God was deep pissed. To Albert, it was bliss. He knew all the lyrics and worse, lines from the TV series, and horror, repeated them.

When the ‘guys’, in their fifties and looking old, had a reunion tour, he was appalled. Peter Pan can’t grow up, and seeing Davy Jones at fifty-three you knew why. Albert could do the Monkee walk, but had learned the hard way that it’s a kink best kept private. When he’d first shown it to Kev, he got a merciless beating. Albert’s dream was to visit that beach house where the Monkees had such adventures. When he was nervous, which was often, he’d hum ‘Daydream Believer’ and believe the fans were fainting outside. The ‘E’ crew could be like the guys, he thought. He coiled a cog and lit it with a Zippo.

‘Hand jobs’ Kev called them. He’d go: ‘Suckin’ on yer hand job. I don’t see Mickey Dolenz smokin’, eh?’

Not a lot.

In truth, Albert didn’t like Mickey all that much. He reminded him of their father and that was the pinnacle of mean. The full down-in-the-gutter vicious bastard. Kev was forever sliding in anti-Monkee propaganda, to rattle the cage. As if he researched it! Like: ‘Hey Albert, you dozy fuck, that Mike Nesmith, the one with the nigger hat, he’s not hurtin’. His old lady invented Liquid Paper which crafty Mike sold the patent for. Yeah, the old lovable chimp got forty-seven million from Gillette. How about that for bucks, just a carefree guy, eh? No bloody wonder.’

And cloud city when Peter Tork went to jail for drug possession; Kev was delighted. Kept needling. Kept singing:

‘We’re just goofin’ around.’

When The Simpsons began to replace the TV show on major networks, Albert hated them double. ’Cos too, they were so ignorant. Homer Simpson was like Kev’s role model. Go figure. Albert had been down Brixton Market and — ye gods, hold the phones — he saw Mike Nesmith’s woolly hat on a stall, told the stall owner who said: ‘Mike who? I don’t know the geezer!’

‘From the Monkees!’

The guy took a hard look at Albert to see if it was a wind-up, then had a quick scan around, said: ‘Yeah, yeah, this is Mike Neville’s hat, the actual one.’

Albert got suspicious, said: ‘It’s Nesmith’s?’

‘Course it is son, but he uses Neville as a cover. Know what I mean, to avoid the fans like.’

‘Oh.’

‘Straight up, son. Any road, I couldn’t let it go.’

Albert had to have it, pleaded: ‘I have to have it.’

‘Mmmm. I suppose I could let you have it for twelve.’

‘I’ve only got this, a fiver.’

Which was fast snapped up, with: ‘It’s yours son, much as I hate to let it go.’

Later, the guy wondered if it was that tea commercial with the chimps, but he didn’t remember a hat. As if he gave a fuck anyway. He got out another dozen of them. Kev burnt it the same evening.