where the writers are
Posh William (part 6)

Beckett is just coming out of the bathroom after a bit of a post-coital wash and brush-up, when he hears Posh William’s clarion.

“Hair lair! Anyone abite? Fewsh?”

Fuscia has her nose in a geography text book so fast Beckett finds he somehow suddenly knows the average annual rainfall for The Iberian Peninsula.

Bit different from what she had it buried in ten minutes ago, he smirks to himself.

He manages to make it to the living room ahead of Posh William, flops down on a couch that would have cost his old Dad about two years wages, and flicks on the 4.30 from Kempton Park. John Sullivan is babbling the form and it suddenly feels like Saturday afternoon all over the world.

“Hair lair, Beckett.” Posh William whinneys.

Beckett treats him to a jaundiced eye.

“’Ow many times I gotta tell you?” he growls, “It’s watcha, innit. Not all that mouthful of plumbs bollocks you talk. I’m tellin’ you, you embarrass me talkin’ like a nonce round any of me mates and I won’t take you with me no more. I got a reputation to think about you know.”

And he turns his sullen attention back to the race.

The grin drops from Posh William’s face like an English gymnast from any piece of equipment you care to name.
“Fucking sorry mate.” Posh William attempts, enunciating all the syllables, “How’s about we go down the dog and toad for a pint of mother’s ruin, eh?”

“It’s frog innit. Frog and toad. And muvver’s ruin is gin you big girl’s blouse. Fuckin’ gin. Even I ain’t so far gone I’m slingin’ down pints of Beefeater, am I. Now I’m tellin’ you for the last time, if you can’t keep from soundin’ like a complete prat, keep yer fuckin’ north an’ south shut.”

Beckett revels a moment or two in the anxiety written on Posh William’s face.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Beckett finally allows, “Don’t look so fuckin’ glum, mate. Here, let’s go and get that pint you was on about. Mine’s a Tennents and it’s your shout, mind.”

As they reach the street Beckett clamps a black leather arm around Posh William’s shoulder.

“I got somethin’ I wanna talk to you about, as it goes.” he says, steering the poor little bugger to his doom.


“I thought I told you no bevvy before the job.” Beckett says, squinting at Posh William’s sickly, unfocused grin. “And will you stop wavin’ that bleedin’ torch about. This ain't a fuckin’ air raid y’know.”

“Ssshhh.” Posh William says, sounding like a tire deflating.

Beckett clamps a hand over Posh William’s face.

“Listen you little spaz, you screw this up and I’ll fuckin’ well leave you in there for the filth to sweep up. You understand me?”

They are standing up the side of a big house in Kew, not far from the Gardens. Posh William has supplied Beckett with the necessary info, to whit the house belongs to Porky Martin’s parents and as Posh William and all the other over-privileged little sods still have a couple of weeks of the jolly old school hols left, the Martins are on vacation in their Normandy farmhouse. Posh William has further assured Beckett that, due to the fact that Porky Martin’s old man is President of a certain well-known insurance company, there is no burglar alarm on the house.

“The policy that cunt must have I ain’t surprised.” Beckett concurs upon being informed of this, “But for your sake, me posh old mucker, you better be right.”

“Now,” Beckett says, “ when I takes my hand away you take a few deep breaths and try and concentrate. Alright?”