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Lucan. It would clear the books, put you on page one, get you on them chat shows. Have Littlejohn kiss yer arse, ah!
    He crushed the can in excitement. Jeez, even his missus would want back.
    The doorbell went, crushing his fantasy. A young kid with the pizza. He checked his order form: ‘Brant, right? Family size pepperoni?’
    ‘That’s it, boyo.’
    The list was rechecked and then the kid said: ‘It’s to go on a slab?’
    ‘Slate, son, but hey, I was all ready to pay. However, I will if they insist!’
    He took possession of the pizza. ‘Oh yeah, you deserve a tip don’t you?’
    ‘If you wish, mister.’
    ‘Don’t do it without condoms.’
    And he shut the door, waited. Moments later, a halfhearted kick hit the door. He was delighted. ‘Good lad, that’s the spirit – now clear off before I put my boot in yer hole.’
    After eating most of the meal, he had to open his trousers to breathe and could hardly get the beer down. He hit the remote just in time for The Simpsons. Later he’d catch Beavis and Butthead. He thought: ‘Top of the world, Ma.’

‘All of us that started the game with a crooked cue... that wanted so much and got so little that meant so good and did so bad. All of us.’
Jim Thompson
    J ACKO MARY WAS LIVING proof of the adage ‘Never trust a man with two first names.’ He was a snitch. Not a very good one. But the vast machinery of policing needs a few key ingredients: a) Ignorance, b) Complicity, c) Poor wages, d) Snitches. Or so the received wisdom goes. He was what the Americans call ‘of challenged stature’. He was short. And he fuckin’ hated that. Roberts met him at the Hole in the Wall at Waterloo. The very walls here testified to serious, no-shit drinking. A toasted sandwich and a milk stout on the table before Jacko. He said: ‘Afternoon, Guv.’
    ‘Whatever.’
    ‘You want anything, Guv?’
    ‘Information.’
    Jacko looked hurt, said: ‘Can’t we be civil?’
    ‘You’re a snitch, I’m a policemen, ain’t no civility there.’
    Roberts spoke more harshly than he felt, as he had affection for Jacko, not a huge liking, but in the ballpark. The snitch seemed different but Roberts couldn’t quite identify the reason, then he noticed a badge on his coat, two ribbons intertwined, one gold one pink.
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘Oh, it’s for people who’ve had cancer.’
    Too late, Roberts realised what was different. Jacko was renowned for his head of jet black hair. So dark it looked dyed. Now huge clumps were missing and Roberts wondered if he was losing his grip. Now he didn’t know what to say, said: ‘I dunno what to say.’
    Jacko touched the top of his head. ‘It’s coming out in clumps. Every time I comb it there’s more on the bleeding brush than on the head. It’s the chemo what does it.’
    ‘Ahm ... lemmie get you a drink.’
    ‘Naw, won’t help me hair. The doctors say it’s non-invasive, know what it means?’
    ‘I don’t.’
    ‘Not spreading. It’s a nice expression, though, don’t you fink? Like cancer with a bit o’ manners.’
    Roberts wanted to go, screw the chance of information, but he felt he should at least make an effort. So he said: ‘Don’t suppose you can tell me where to find the lunatic who’s wasting the cricket team?’
    ‘Naw, don’t really do nutters. Mind you, there’s two crazy brothers in Brixton might be worth a roust.’
    ‘Who are they, then?’
    ‘The Lee brothers, Kevin and Albert. Word on the street is they’ve come into heavy action.’
    Roberts tried not to scoff. But a note of condescension crept into his voice. ‘Small time, Jacko. I know their form. Strictly nickel and dime.’
    ‘I dunno Guv, there’s –’
    But Roberts cut him off. ‘Sorry Jacko, when you’ve been at this game as long as I have, you develop a nose.’
    Then he rooted in his jacket and produced a few notes, apologising: ‘It’s a bit short, Jacko.’
    Jacko Mary gave a huge laugh. ‘You’re talking to me about