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.’