by Ken Bruen
He figured he’d call on Brant, maybe even talk about Fiona. But probably not. Brant’s door was open and Roberts thought ‘Uh-oh.’
Brant was sitting on the couch watching TV. Two bananas were coming down the stairs and singing.
Roberts said, ‘What the hell are yah watching?’
‘It’s Bananas in Pyjamas, quite a catchy little tune.’
He turned round to stare at Roberts, who said, ‘The door was open … I …
‘Hey, no sweat. Everybody else just walks in.’
‘You had a visit?’
‘Yeah, a villain with a message. Next, he’ll have a chat show.’
Roberts moved in closer. ‘Are you all right? Any damage?’
‘Any damage. Hmm … he wanted to boil me bollocks and I speak not metaphorically here.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can I get you anyfin’?’
Brant looked at the mug he was holding, said, ‘It’s tea.’
‘Another?’
‘Two sugs, Guv. It’s them triangle jobs — and you know what? — they do taste better; like yer old Mum used to make.’
Roberts went to the kitchen and marvelled at the mess. Like squatters had staged a demo there. Brant shouted, ‘Heat the cups.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Once the tea was squared away, Roberts sat. ‘You want to tell me what’s going down?’
‘Bill Preston.’
‘Tell me you’re winding me up. You haven’t been sniffin’ round in his biz … the order came from on high — hands off.’
‘Let ’im run riot, that it?’
‘They’re building a case, it takes time.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘C’mon, Tom, the softly-softly approach will bring him in finally.’
‘So meanwhile, we sit back and play with ourselves.’
‘Shit! You started pushing him!’
‘A bit.’
‘And you got a visit. Who’d he send?’
‘Fenton, last of the fuckin’ Mohicans.’
‘The Alien. You should be flattered — means you got their attention.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I am. Flattered.’
Roberts drained his tea and wondered if he’d have another. Thing was, you always regretted it.
Brant asked, ‘Want ’nother brewski?’
‘Love one.’
They did, and sure enough it had that stewed taste which British Rail have raised to an art. A sour tang of metal and over-indulgence.
Roberts said, ‘You’re going to leave it alone now.’
‘Mm … phh!’
‘C’mon Tom, walk away.’
Brant looked like he was seriously considering this as an option. They both knew otherwise, but as Roberts was the senior officer, he at least had to dance the charade.
Then Brant said, ‘I was watching a documentary on the New York cops, it was on BBC2.’
‘Yeah, any good?’
‘When a drug dealer gets killed, the detectives say “Condition Corrected”.’
Roberts smiled in spite of himself, stood and asked, ‘Can we expect you at work any time, son?’
‘Absolutely, soon as Regis and Kathy Lee finish.’
‘Like them, do you?’
‘Naw, it’s just I can’t distinguish one cunt from the other.’
Black as he’s painted
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!’
Exporting aliens
The Alien had one last look round his gaff, saw nothing he’d particularly miss. When you do hard time, it’s nigh impossible to ever make a home. You get it all comfy, the screws come and move you or toss it or piss all over the floor.
Keep it simple. Keep it mobile.
He’d packed two pairs of black 501s — they were the old full-faded jobs he’d got in Kensington Market. In the days when people still spoke English in that part of London. Four Ben Sherman knock-offs and two white T-shirts. A pair of near new Bally loafers he’d found in Oxfam at Camden Lock. Did they fit like a glove? Put them on and they whispered, ‘Is this heaven or what?’ They were.
For travel, he’d a pair of non-iron khaki chinos and a blazer. Slide one of the white T-shirts inside, you were the Gap ideal.
Casual
Smart
Hip
He thought, ‘Asshole! … Right.’
At the airport he bought a walkman and The Travelling Willburys. It reminded him of a mellowness he might have achieved. In Duty Free there was a promotion for Malibu. Caribbean rum with coconut.
Yeah.
Plus, he kinda liked the bottle. The sales assistant said, ‘Boarding card?’
‘We can do that.’
‘Cash or charge?’
He smiled — this was not a south-east London girl — and produced a flush of crisp readies. ‘Just made ’em.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Hey, no need to beg, these are the jokes.’
She produced a garish T-shirt. ‘It’s free with purchases over twenty pounds.’
‘Tell you what, hon, you wear it — help yah to loosen up, get the bug outta yer ass.’
The flight was delayed and Fenton said, ‘Fuck.’ Sat on a couch-type seat and unscrewed the Malibu.
He was about to sample when a voice said, ‘I sincerely hope you’re not thinking of drinking that.’
‘What?’
He turned to see a yuppie guy of about thirty. Dressed in a spanking new Adidas tracksuit, he had a fifty quid haircut and cheap eyes. Said, ‘One is not permitted to open Duty-Free before departure.’
Fenton put the cap back on the bottle, asked, ‘If I drank it — just supposing I went ahead and took a swig — what exactly is it you’d do, then?’
The guy pursed his lips. Fenton had always thought it was only an expression, but no, the guy was doing just that. Then he gave a tight smile. ‘Alas, one would feel it obligatory to inform someone of authority.’
‘Ah!’
‘If every chap flouted the rules, where would we be?’
Fenton didn’t think it required an answer so he said nowt. Eventually the guy pushed off and Fen tracked him with his eyes. Sooner or later, the guy had to piss, right?
Right.
‘You know the law isn’t for people like us.’
‘What is?’
‘That’s another thing I’ve been trying to figure out for years.’
(Lola Lane to Bette Davis in Marked Woman).
As Roberts walked towards The Greyhound, a holy-roller pressed a leaflet into his hand. He glanced at it, read:
‘The God We Worship Carves His Name On Our Faces.’
He figured it might be true, especially as it was said that Brant had the devil’s own face. The light in the pub was dark and it took a minute for his eyes to adjust. The barman asked, ‘What can I do for you, John?’
‘Eh?’
‘A drink. You want one or not?’
‘Is Bill here?’
‘Who’s asking?’
Roberts leant over the counter, not sure he’d heard it right, then decided to go for it. ‘Tell him it’s the Old Bill.’
He wasn’t sure but he thought he heard a malicious laugh. Bill was in his usual place and if not master of all he saw, he certainly had its attention. A novel lay opened in front of him, one of the Charlie Resnick series by John Harvey. Roberts glanced at the title — Rough Treatment.
Bill said, ‘My kind of copper.’
Roberts didn’t think he meant him. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No, I don’t mind. Get you somefin’?’
‘Nice toasted sarnie I reckon, I missed breakfast.’
‘They do a good un here, cheese, tomato … shoot the works.’
‘Course.’
That done, they sat in silence a bit. Their relationship went back a long way, almost the old code. When villains kept villainy internal and cops kept some other agenda. More a show of respect than any actual feel for it.
The sandwich came and Roberts got right to it. As he finished the first half Bill said, ‘Jeez, you did miss brekkie.’
‘Yeah, we had a son kill his old man — phoned it in himself.’
‘Funny old world, eh?’
Roberts pushed the plate away. ‘How’s Chelsea?’
Bill had a daughter with Down’s syndrome. Now seven years old, she was the true joy of his life, his one vulnerability. ‘She’s doing good, full o’ verbals.’
Thus the pleasantries, time for biz.
Roberts tried to inject hard into his voice, not too much, but there. ‘My sergeant got a call.’
‘Yeah?’
‘That’s Detective Sergeant Brant.’
‘A man of reckless inclination.’
‘He’ll want to see the messenger.’
‘Ah!’
‘Keep up appearances on every side, can’t have some laddie shoutin’ the odds in his local.’
‘No fear.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Took a trip, to America.’
‘Sudden.’
‘A mad desire to see his missus.’
‘I wouldn’t want to have this chat again … Bill.’ It sounded like what it was — a threat.
Bill said tightly, ‘I’m a bit confused over yer concern for the said Sergeant.’
‘We’ve got mileage.’
Bill considered then went for the cut. ‘You’re a big hearted bloke, Mr Roberts.’
‘Eh?’
‘Well, if one of my lads was putting it to me missus, I’d be more than a tad miffed.’
Roberts was taken aback, near lost it, but rallied. ‘Low shot, Bill, I’d have figured you for a more mature angle.’
Bill didn’t answer. Roberts stood, put some money on the table and walked away.
At the door he heard, ‘Hey Old Bill, Brant likes maturity. You ask down the nick — he likes ’em downright middle aged.’
Falls had the golden oldies show playing. Playing loud.
Jennifer Rush with ‘The Power of Love’.
A sucker song.
As she belted out the lyrics, Falls threw in the obligatory Ohs … Uhs … and hot Ahs … Being black helped cos she felt the music.
Reluctantly, she turned the radio off. Being hot at nine in the morning was wasted heat. She put on a light khaki T-shirt, loose and blousey. Then white needle cords, very washed, very faded. A dream to wear, like skin that didn’t cling. At the dentist, she’d flicked through a copy of Ebony and read that needle cord was coming back.
Where had they been?
She thought: ‘Not this pair. One more wash and it’s disintegration city.’
Checking the date of the magazine, it was February ’88.
Oh.
Falls felt lucky wearing these pants. Plus, she felt hip, not big time or to the point of wearing sunglasses on her hair, but a player. She was wearing a black pair of Keds. They made her feet look tiny and she wished she could wear them in bed. And might yet do so.
Opening her front door, she felt downright optimistic.
Always a bad start.
A skinhead was spraying her wall, it read:
NAZZI RULES? OK.
He was a young fifteen with badly applied tattoos, the usual Doc Martens and black combat trousers. The spraying stopped and his eyes said run. But even a junior skin couldn’t be seen to run from a woman, especially a black one. He fingered the aerosol nervously and pushed out his chest.
Falls asked, ‘Who’s Nazzi?’
‘What, doncha know?’
‘No.’
‘Like Gestapo and shit, ya know.’
‘Oh, Nazi.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then you’ve spelt it wrong.’
‘Ya what?’
‘One “z”.’
He looked at his handiwork, unsure as to what she meant. But hey, if confused, attack. The first rule of the urban warrior. ‘So what? Wogs can’t read.’
Falls did the very worst thing. She laughed. The boy didn’t know which was next:
fight
or
flight.
Fighting required the pack and flight was … available. Just.
To add to his turmoil, she smiled, said, ‘Nice chattin’ to you but I’ve got to go.’
‘You gonna report me?’
‘Naw.’
‘Don’t you mind, then, me doin’ yer wall?’
‘Oh I mind, I just don’t mind a whole lot.’
As she headed off, he shouted, ‘Don’t suppose ya got the price of a cup o’ tea?’
And stunned him by giving over some coins. Before he could think he said, ‘Jeez, thanks a lot missus.’
She said, ‘Why not skip the tea and buy a dictionary?’
Part of him wanted to roar, ‘I can spell cunt.’
But he couldn’t bring himself to. As he watched her go, he had his first mature observation.
‘She’s got some moves.’
Ticket to ride
As Fenton’s flight levelled out over Heathrow, he unbuckled the seat belt and stretched his legs. A flight for New York was further delayed due to a missing passenger. Later, he’d be found in the toilet booth, both halves of his torn ticket protruding from his arse.
The passenger next to Fenton reached out his hand, said, ‘Hi guy, I’m Skip.’
Fenton said, ‘You’re kidding!’ and thought, ‘Lemme see … like, nine hours beside this wanker … Jesus!’
Unperturbed, the man said, ‘I’m in software out of Illinois. How do you guys stick that damp climate?’
Fenton straightened up, looked the man in both eyes, said, ‘Skip it.’
Barney is a dinosaur from our imagination
Bill remembered his old man. The last time he saw him he’d gone to meet him in a pub at Stockwell. The old man was a cap in hand merchant. Sitting at the counter, the cap on the stool beside him, he was nursing a small whiskey.
Bill was on h
is uppers, flush with the takings from a series of post offices. He said, ‘Dad, what can I get you?’
‘I’m drinking on the clock, son.’
Bill knew about ‘drinking on the slate’. You didn’t grow up in Peckham without learning that and fast. ‘What?’
‘I’ve enough for three drinks — if I make each last an hour, I’ll be up to lunchtime.’
‘Jeez, here … Bill laid a wedge on the bar. The old man never even glanced at it said, ‘Give it to yer Mother.’
‘Fuck her.’
And his father turned, eyes flashing, hand raised. Not clenched, but definitely ready. ‘Don’t you curse her. Mum, she had it hard.’
‘She legged it, didn’t she?’
His father sighed. ‘Go away son, I can’t watch right with you here.’
Yeah.
When his old man was being planted, Bill was standing over the grave and threw a wrist watch in after the box. ‘Clock that.’
Bill was musing on this as his daughter played along the Embankment. Every Thursday they came there, he’d sit on the bench and she’d stand watching the cruise boats. Nothing gave her as much joy.
When he’d asked why, she said, ‘Cos boats make people happy.’
Argue that.
Her having Down’s syndrome meant she had an extra chromosome. Or, as he now believed, normal people had one missing. Whatever. She meant so much to him it hurt. He’d always said: ‘Hope I never have a daughter’, because he knew she’d make him vulnerable and that was the one thing he couldn’t be. Now here she was, and left him with an Achilles heel. But it was worth it for all his worry — she lit up his life like nothing ever had. And lit it more every passing day. If having a child changes you, having a child with Down’s syndrome changes you entirely.
Thus preoccupied he’d taken his eyes off his daughter. Then snapped back and turned to see her.
No Chelsea.
Heart pounding, he jumped to his feet, heard, ‘Hey asshole, this way.’
Turned to see Brant holding the girl in his arms, dangerously close to the high bar of the Embankment.
Brant held out one hand, a furry toy hanging loose. ‘I got Barney for her, seems to work.’ Bill took a step forward and Brant cautioned, ‘I wouldn’t do that boyo; you don’t want to startle a dinosaur — they’re unpredictable.’
