When Falls had joined the force, she had near perfected a neutral accent. If the situation demanded, she could ‘street’ with ease, or float the Brixton patois … and twist her vowels to blend into south-east London like a good un.
Early on she’d fallen in love with a bloke from CID. He said he adored her blackness and appeared to have no hang-up of being seen with her. There were no derisory comments, as he had the ‘cop face’. The one which says: ‘Fuck with me and you’ll fuckin rue the day’. Like that.
Finally, the time came when she had to know how he felt, and she asked, ‘Jeff, how do you feel about me?’
Risky, risky, risky.
He said, ‘Honey (sic), I really like you. And if I was going to settle down it would definitely be with you.’
Yeah. Sayonara sucker.
After Roberts’ departure, Brant remained in front of the TV, schemes of mayhem and destruction flicking fast through his head.
Dennis The Menace came on, an episode where the Menace was camping in the woods. A wild gorilla was loose and Dennis’ father asked: ‘Who’ll warn the gorilla?’
Brant smiled. If he’d believed in omens he’d have called it a metaphor of fine timing.
Next up was Barney. Brant said aloud, ‘I can’t friggin’ believe I’m watching an eight foot purple dinosaur with green polka dots … singing. And worse, tap dancing.’
Then, as if a cartoon light bulb went on over his head, Brant said, ‘Wait a mo!’ And knew how to proceed.
Over the past few years, he’d begun to acknowledge his Irish heritage. He’d begun to collect a motley pile of Irish paraphernalia, including ugly leprechauns, bent shillellighs, horrendous bodhrans and — yes, he still had it — a hurley.
Hurling is the Irish National game. A cross between hockey and murder. Now he pulled out the stick from beneath a mess of shamrocked T-shirts. Made from ash, it fits like a baseball bat. He gave it a trial swing and relished the swoosh as it sliced the air.
He shouted, ‘Cul agus culini for Gaillimh!’
And added, ‘Way to fuckin go, boyo!’