PC tone was also ‘encore une fois-ing’. But like Roberts’ daughter, it wasn’t doing a whole lot for him. He was determined to be cool. But already, even Oasis were on the slide. Never-no-mind, he put on ‘Champagne Supernova’ and felt connected. On the door of his flat was a full-length poster of Clare Danes, his ideal woman. He’d first stumbled upon her in the defunct series, My So-called Life, and he was lost, smitten, entranced. Her part as Juliet in her first full-length movie sealed his fate. Once being interviewed, she’d admitted to listening to ‘Wonderwall’, ‘Like one hundred times.’ And he’d shouted: ‘Me too!’
Then he got dressed, imitating the words of Brant: ‘Let’s rock ’n’ roil.’ Like that.
A pair of tan Farah slacks, tight in the ass and crotch so the babes could ogle. But his courage faltered and he pulled on a Nike long sweat, then a shirt loosely buttoned to highlight the sweat’s logo: No. 1. All right!
Then a pair of market trainers designer-soiled so he wouldn’t appear an asshole, like the new kid on the block or something. Shades of cool. A short denim jacket, black lest he appear obvious. Final touch, the Marlboro Lights in the top right-hand pocket. Looked again in the mirror, said: ‘My man,’ and headed out. Then sheepishly, he had to return a few minutes later to check the gas was off. Worry and cool didn’t blend. Shit, he knew that. If Brant didn’t check the gas, he’d say: ‘Let it blow.’ Tone hadn’t reached that plateau of recklessness yet. Deeply suspected he never would.
He went to the Cricketers on Thursday, it was darts night. Maybe Falls would show and he felt his heart palpitate. A wino waylaid him outside the Oval, whining: ‘Gis a pound.’
‘I’m the heat, fella.’
‘Gis two pounds, Mr Heat.’
Tone checked round, then handed over 70p. The wino, indignant, said: ‘What am I supposed to do wif this, yah wanker?’
‘Call someone who gives a toss.’
He left near dizzy with the macho-ness, but quickened his pace lest the wino follow.
The pub was jammed. Trade was ‘aided and abetted’ by the ‘blue hour’. A police version of the happy one. Two drinks for the price of a single, drink them blues away. It was working. Tone had to elbow to the bar. Tried in vain to get noticed and served. The staff knew rank and knew he hadn’t any. So he could wait.
Till: ‘What ya want, son?’
Chief Inspector Roberts.
He wanted a tall shandy to motor his arid mouth. ‘A scotch, sir.’
And hey, jig time, he’d got it. Roberts nodded, then said: ‘Park it over here, son.’
The blue sea parted to reveal a vacant stool. He climbed on, took a slug of the scotch, thought: ‘God!’ as it burned. Did it ever. Roberts eyed him, asked: ‘Got some new clobber there?’
‘Oh no, sir, just old stuff.’
The Farahs were so new they sparkled, and no way would they lighten up that crease. Tone had a horrible thought: would the Guvnor think he was on the take? He asked: ‘Is Sergeant Brant about, sir?’
Roberts sighed, signalled the barman, and in a terse voice, told of the Meyer Meyer incident.
‘Good grief,’ said Tone.
If Roberts thought that cut it, he said nothing. Falls and Rosie brushed past, said: “Night, Guv.’
He didn’t answer. Tone shouted: “Night’, and tried not to look after them.
Roberts said: ‘She’s getting hers, eh?’
Tone prayed, crossed his fingers, then said: ‘Rosie?’
‘Naw. Falls, some security guard’s putting it to her.’ Tone died.