Brant and Roberts were sitting in the canteen. Not saying a whole lot. Both had newspapers, both tabloids. None of the Guardian liberal pose in here. In his office, Roberts kept the Telegraph on top, lest the brass look in.
They were comfortable, at odd times sometimes were. Grunts of approval, decision, amazement. Of course the obligatory male cry had to be uttered periodically to emphasise there were no pooftahs here:
‘Fwor, look at the knockers on ’er.’
‘See this wanker? He ate the vicar’s dog.’
Emboldened by the reassuring bonding of the sports page, Brant put his page down, had a look around, then took out his cigs, asked: ‘Mind if I do, Guv?’
Roberts raised his eyebrows, said: ‘And what? You’ll refrain if I do mind?’
Brant lit up, asked: ‘You packed ’em in, Guv. How long now?’
‘Five years, four weeks, two days and… Roberts looked at his watch, ‘…Nine hours. More or less.’
‘Don’t miss ’em at all, eh?’
‘Never give ’em a moment’s thought.’
Brant’s chest gave a rumble, phlegm screaming ‘OUT’ and he said: ‘You heard about the new kid. Tome?’
‘It’s Tone, but what?’
‘He answered a mugging call. An old-age pensioner was set upon by four kids. Took his pension. The usual shit. So, along comes the bold Tone, says: ‘Why didn’t you fight back?’
Roberts laughed out loud, said: ‘He never!’
‘Straight up, Guv, the old boy says, “I’m eighty-six fugging years old, what am I gonna do, bite then with my false teeth?” Then, Tone asks if he got a description and the old boy says: “Yeah, they were in their teens with baseball caps and them hooded tops, like half a million other young thugs. But they used offensive language. Might that be a clue?”’
Roberts went and got some more tea and two chocolate snack biscuits.
Brant said: ‘Don’t wanna be funny, Guv, but I’d prefer coffee.’
‘Who can tell the difference? So, are you going to watch out for young Tone?’
‘You think I should?’
‘Yes. Yes I do.’
‘All righty then, we’ll make a fascist of him yet.’
‘That I don’t doubt.’