A hail of little rolled-up newspaper pellets started to make their way in my direction. I turned round and saw old women, too scared to look, sat between us. I felt sorry for them, the old women, but more so the yobs.
I checked round the bus for interfering types. Only one college day-releaser. None likely to hold me back. I stood up and approached the funny boys. A few giggles started up, then their eyes trained on the windows.
I planted my foot on the seat of the ring leader, a pencil-neck with a bleached-in badger stripe circling his barnet, said, ‘See that?’
He smirked out the side of his mouth. ‘Aye, it’s a foot — you’ve another one there, look.’
A peal of laughter burst out from his little crowd of admirers. I cut it short. Grabbed the yob by the ear, forced him to re-examine his response. ‘Take a closer look.’ I pushed his head onto my toe. ‘That boot’s coming between you and your first ride if I hear another crack out of you, geddit?’
He whimpered, but said nothing. So I twisted his ear tighter than a wing nut.
‘Ah, right, right. Sorry mister. Sorry n’all that, eh!’
Kids today. No respect. On my way back to my seat I smiled at one of the old women, said, ‘I blame the parents.’
Got nods all round.
The rest of the journey passed in silence. I felt glad to have the time to gather my thoughts. Mac wasn’t my only source in this town; I still had a few favours due. And some open to persuasion by other means.
As I jumped off the bus a Rasta played Bob Marley. The travelling public weren’t impressed. Too early to be jammin’ — and his voice sounded like a Wookie being molested.
I walked down the maze of bustling streets at this end of the city to a little greasy-spoon cafe I knew. It served up killer bacon and egg rolls, smothered in onions, dripping with brown sauce. If you talked nicely to the old girl behind the counter she’d even trim the fat off the rashers.
I ordered up a bellyful. One roll, heavy on the onions. Coffee, mug of, very sweet. And a pack of Rothmans, for afters.
I took the Sun down from the rack. It looked to be full of nothing but celebrity gossip. Half the pictures, I didn’t even know the people. There was a time when to be in the paper meant something. You’d done something or had a talent. Now, fame — everyone’s at it. You shag a footballer, tug-off a pig, and suddenly the world’s hanging on your every breath. Riches and the whole nine yards to follow.
The waitress came over with my roll. She was near to retirement and world weary. Must have discovered blow-drying at some time in the eighties — her hairstyle wouldn’t have looked out of place on the pages of Smash Hits. She said, ‘It’s all a bloody joke, isn’t it?’
I started to agree, thought she was talking generally, and then she tapped the pages of the Sun. The picture showed Bob Geldof addressing a group of politicians, and, of course, some celebrity un-worthies. He was on the tap for more cash for the developing world.
‘I wonder how many African babies that suit would have immunised?’ said the waitress.
I nodded, tried to appear interested.
She fumed on. ‘I don’t see the likes of him using our lousy health service or hanging out for a pittance of a pension.’
I felt like I’d been trapped in the back of a taxi, listening to some cabbie’s bigoted nonsense. I looked down at my roll. God, I felt hungry.
‘It’s a disgrace.’ She added, ‘Bono — he’s another one. If they’re so bothered about saving the world why don’t they give their money away and come and live like the rest of us!’
‘That would be a bit of a soberer for them,’ I said.
She smiled at me. I saw I’d done enough to humour her.
‘You better eat up, love, that roll will be going cold.’
As she turned away I flattened the newspaper, wiped the base of my cup on its cover. I raised my roll to take a bite, saw the rashers cold and grey within; then in walked plod.
He was bang on cue. ‘Morning, Officer,’ I said.
‘Dury. By the cringe.’ Fitz the Crime’s eyes lit up like polished hubcaps.
‘Can I buy you a pot of the usual?’ I said.
He nodded, sat down, said, ‘What you after?’
‘Oh, and real nice to see you too, Fitz.’
He leant forward, went, ‘Don’t bollocks me, Dury.’
I stood up, called out, ‘A pot of your finest, love.’
I felt a hand pull me back into my seat. I knew Fitz felt anxious, but he’d no need to be. Fitz and myself, we go way back.
‘Jesus, what’s with the animosity? I thought I was in your good books, after — y’know.’
Fitz squirmed, unbuttoned his overcoat, said, ‘Look, Dury, that business is over with.’
He referred to the time I kept his name out the headlines. The filth may be prepared to turn a blind eye to one of its officer’s peccadilloes, but they do tend to draw the line at it appearing in print for all the world to see. Examples have been known to be made in such cases. Fitz, however, merely lost his DI badge. Busted back to buck private as the Americans say.
‘One good turn deserves another, wouldn’t you agree?’ I said.
‘Piss off.’
‘Now, now, Fitz, you never did pay me back.’
‘Aye, and now you’ve nothing on me, Dury, and you’re all washed up.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Aye, it is. Who would take the likes of you seriously?’
He sat back. A contented, smug grin crept up the side of his face. He looked like a lizard after its tongue has snapped an insect. I felt drawn to reaching across the table and smacking seven bells out of him. For years Fitz had been what is commonly called ‘crooked as two left feet’, and he knew it as well.
‘Isn’t that a risky strategy, Fitz?’
Cogs turned behind his eyes. I imagined a gerbil on a plastic wheel inside that great fat head of his. Who was he kidding? The only weight he brought to this table sat round his waist.
‘Risky, you say?’
‘Oh, I’d say very risky. Have you ever watched The Blues Brothers?’
‘ You what?’
‘ The Blues Brothers — you know, Belushi and the other one.’
Fitz looked lost. Truly stupefied. I waited for a drool to start from the corner of his mouth.
‘Anyway, in the movie they have this saying, “We’re on a mission from God”. Do you remember?’
He shook his head. He had the face of a saint… Bernard.
‘No. Oh well, they did. It’s what they said. But do you know what they were really saying? Deep down, what they were really trying to say with that statement, Fitz?’
I swear his mouth widened.
‘What they were saying was — Don’t fuck with us!.. Fitz, let me tell you something — I am on a mission from God.’
‘Fucking hell, you’ve cracked. You’ve finally cracked, Dury!’ he roared.
The tea came, the waitress gently placed it on the table before us. Fitz rose to his feet.
‘Shall, I be mother?’ I said.
He put on his hat, hurriedly fastened up his overcoat.
‘Fitz, I’m gonna be in touch soon. Real soon, about that favour.’
11
A crusty-looking geezer with a suitcase stopped me in the street.
‘Wanna buy the latest U2?’ he said.
I didn’t want to buy the first. They’ve had one good album, maybe two, tops, said, ‘Why would I?’
‘Oasis?’ he said.
‘I still have Revolver, what’s wrong with the real McCoy?’
He stood in front of me, held out his arms, tried not to let me past.
I stopped flat, said, ‘That’s a sure-fire way to get yourself hurt.’
He stepped aside. ‘Okay, okay, I can tell you know your music — name it, I’ve probably got it, or can get it. Just name it!’
‘Frenzal Rhomb.’
‘What?’
‘Australian punk outfit. Have you got Sans Souci? That’s their best.’
I started singing from my favourite track, ‘Russell Crowe’s Band’.