Roberts saw the young man’s face in tatters. He felt a sense of such loss that he could almost no longer recall what power a yearning could be. He touched the bar, said: ‘Whatcha say to a double?’
‘Ahm, no, sir, I mean… I thought I might call on Sergeant Brant.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Just to see if he needed anything.’
‘I dunno son, he’s a man best left to sort himself.’
Tone got off the stool, said, near defiant: ‘All the same, sir.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t expect a warm welcome.’
After Tone had gone, Roberts thought he should have offered some advice on the woman. But what could he tell him? That everything would be fine? Whatever else things turned out to be, fine was almost never one of them. As he left the bar later, brown-nosers called ‘Goodnight’. He neither acknowledged nor quite ignored them. It just didn’t matter, not when you’d lost the magic of yearning.
PC Tone was more than a touch apprehensive about calling on Brant, but he composed himself, said: ‘How bad can it be?’
He heard the music from the street, as if all the cruising cars in Brixton had a Rap convention. That loud. That annoying. When he reached Brant’s door, the noise was massive, and he thought: it sounds like house. It was.
Earlier, Brant had gone into HMV, said: ‘Gimmie all the hits of house.’
The assistant, in ponytail and zeiss bifocals, joked: ‘Bit of a rave, eh?’
‘Bit o’ minding yer own bloody business.’
The assistant, who in kinder days would have gravitated from mellow hippy, was now on job release from DHSS in Clapham. He shut it.
Tone had to hammer at the door till eventually it was flung open. A demented Brant before him. Dressed only in maroon Adidas shorts and trainers, sweat cascading down the grey hair of his chest, he sang: ‘C’mon ye Reds.’
Tone asked: ‘Are you OK, sir?’
‘Whatcha want? See if I’ve a dog licence? Well cop this, I’ve no bleeding dog, not never more.’
‘Sir, sir, could you lower the music?’
‘Whats-a-matter boyo? Not tone deaf are yer?’ Brant laughed wildly at his joke. Tone was lost, didn’t know how to leave or stay, tried: ‘We’ll get him, sergeant.’ And Brant lunged forth, grabbing him by his shirt front, the fabric tearing, and roared: ‘Oh will you? Didn’t I already ask you to find them Dublin fucks with the band aids. Didn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Ah, you couldn’t catch a child’s cold. Go on, hoppit, fuck off out of it, ya cissy!’
And slammed the door.
As the young copper crept away, he fingered the ripped clothing, saying: ‘Didn’t have to do that, cost me a tenner in the market that did.’ He wanted to bawl.