Deep creases lined his forehead. The once impressive steel grey hair was snow white and long. Clint Eastwood ridges ran down his cheeks. Even Clint tried to hide them. Wincing is cool … sure … maybe till yer dodgy forties, but after that it comes across as bowel trouble.
Roberts loved the sun, nay, worshipped it — and cricket. Too many summers under long hours of UV rays had wreaked havoc. Worse, melanomas had appeared on his chest and legs. When he’d noticed them he gasped, ‘What the bloody hell?’
He knew … oh sweet Jesus did he ever … that if them suckers turned black, you were fucked. They turned black.
The doctor said, ‘I won’t beat around the bush.’
Roberts thought: Oh, do … if necessary, lie to me — lie big — beat long around any bush.
‘It’s skin cancer.’
‘Fuck!’
After he thought, I took it well.
Was ill as a pig when he heard about the treatment.
Like this: ‘Once a week we’ll have radiation.’
‘We? You’ll be in there with me?’
The doctor gave a tolerant smile, halfways pity to building smirk, continued: ‘Let’s see how you progress with the ‘rad’, and if it’s not doing the business we’ll switch to laser.’
Roberts wanted to shout, ‘Beam me up Scottie! Signpost ahead … The Twilight Zone.’
He let the doctor wind down. ‘Later on, we’ll whip some of those growths away. A minor surgical procedure.’
‘Minor for you, mate.’
The doctor was finished now, probably get in nine holes before ops, said: ‘We’ll pencil you in for Mondays, and I’d best prepare you for two after effects:
1. You’ll suffer extreme fatigue, so easy does it.
2. It leaves you parched — a huge thirst is common.’
He had a mega thirst now.
Right after, he went to the Bricklayers. The barman, a balding git with a pony-tail and stained waistcoat, chirped, ‘What will it be, Guv?’
‘Large Dewars, please.’
‘Ice … water?’
‘What, you don’t think I’d have thought of them?’
‘Touchy.’
Roberts didn’t answer, wondering how the git would respond to rad. As if abbreviation could minimise the trauma. Oh would it were so. Dream on.
Robert’s other passion was Film Noir of the forties and fifties. Hot to trot. Now, as he nursed the scotch, he tried to find a line of comfort from the movies. What he got was Dick Powell in Farewell My Lovely:
I caught the blackjack right behind my ear.
A black pool opened up at my feet.
I dived in. It had no bottom.
Yeah.
He’d given the git behind the bar a tenner, and now he eyed the change. ‘Hey buddy, we’re a little light here.’
‘Wha …? Oh … took one for me. I hate to see anyone drink alone.’
Roberts let it go. Londoners … you gotta love them. Bit later the git leans on the bar, asks, ‘You like videos?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Fillums, mate. Yer latest blockbuster — see it tonight in the privacy of yer own gaff. Be like ’aving the West End in yer living room.’
‘Pirates, you mean.’
‘Whoa, John, keep it down, eh?’
Roberts sighed, laid his warrant card on the counter.
‘Whoops …
Roberts put the card away, said, ‘I thought in your game you could spot a copper.’
‘Usually yeah, but two things threw me.’
‘Yeah, what’s those then?’
‘First, you have manners.’
‘And …?’
‘You actually paid.’
Fenton got his nickname thus: During the movie Alien, he killed a guy — the scene where the creature crashes outta John Hurt’s chest. He’d used a baseball bat. Near most, it was his weapon of choice. The guy, Bob Harris, had stitched up his mates. They were doing life-plus on the not so sunny Isle of Wight. Mind you, the ferry over had been scenic. Fenton was offered two large to payback. He did it gratis. What are mates for?
Oh, Bob liked his horror flicks and was a particular aficionado of Ridley Scott’s work on Alien. Could wax lyrical about the used hardware look of the scenes. Shite talk.
Fenton had called round, six pack of Special and some wacky-backy. They’d done a tote, got munchies and cracked the brewskis. Fenton asked, ‘Yo, mate, still got Alien, have you?’
‘Oh yeah, good one. Wanna see it now?’
‘Why wait?’
Indeed.
Fenton said he’d grab some cold ones from the fridge as they got into the flick. Bob was on the couch, glued to the screen, yelping about the ‘vision’ of Allen Dean Foster. Fenton unzipped the Adidas hold-all and took out the Louisville slugger. It had black tape wound tight on the handle, tight as cruelty. He gave the bat a test swing, and yeah, it gave the familiar whoosh of long and comfortable use.
The crew of The Nostradome were sitting down to their meal and John Hurt was getting terminal indigestion.
Bob shouted, ‘Yo … Fen! You don’t wanna miss this bit!’
Fen came in, put his weight on the ball of his right foot, pivoted, and swung with all he had, saying, ‘I won’t miss, buddy.’
And wallop — right outta the ball park.
The crew on the TV screen gave shouts of horror and disgust at the carnage. Fenton let the movie run, he hated to leave things unfinished.
Fenton had a meet with Bill in The Greyhound near the Oval. It’s always hopping, but no matter how tight, Bill gets to sit on his tod down the end. All the surrounding seats are vacant. Not free but empty, like McDonalds cola. A time back, a pissed Paddy decided to have a seat right up close to Bill, said, ‘Howya.’
Bill didn’t look, said, ‘You don’t wanna perch there, pal.’
‘Pal? Jaysus, I don’t know you. Buy us a double, though.’
A muscle man outta the crowd slammed Paddy’s ears in a simultaneous clatter. Then had him up and frog marched out to the alley. There, his arm was broken and his nose moved to the right. After, sitting against the wall, he asked, ‘What? … What did I say?’
Bill and Fenton went way back. Lots of cross referenced villainy. Masters of their respective crafts. Bill asked, ‘Drink?’
‘Rum ’n’ coke.’
‘Bacardi or …?’
Fen smiled, ‘Navy up.’
An old joke. Just not a very good one. Bill was drinking mineral water — Ballygowan Sparkling.
The drinks came and Fen said. ‘I dunno Bill, I must be getting old, but I could never get me head round paying for water.’
Bill took a sip and winced. ‘What makes you think I pay?’
‘Nice one.’
They sat a bit in silence. You could nigh hear the bubbles zip, like pleasant times, like fairy tales.
Then, ‘We found her.’
‘Great.’
‘You’re not going to like it.’
‘Gee, what a surprise.’
‘She’s in America, like you thought — San Francisco — living with a teacher, name of Davis.’
‘A teacher … wow.’
Bill said, ‘Let it be, Fen,’ and got the look, boundaries being breached. He sighed. ‘Sorry … you’ll need a wedge.’
‘Big time.’
Bill rooted in his jacket, took out a fat manila envelope, said, ‘There’s a cop, name of Brant, needs sorting.’
‘When?’
‘Soon as.’
‘How far in?’
‘Not fatal but educational.’
‘Can do.’
Fen got up and Bill said, ‘Oi, you didn’t touch yer rum.’
‘Hate that shit.’
And he was gone.
Brant had taken Falls with him to interview a suspected arsonist. No proof had surfaced but the Croydon cops swore he was the man. Now he’d moved to Kennington and, hey, coincidence, a warehouse was gutted on the Walworth Road. He was in his early thirties with the eyes of a small snake. He’d answered his door dressed in a denim shirt, cutoffs, bare feet.