by Ken Bruen
Bill tried to keep calm. Brant was one crazy fucker, built a rep on it. Looked round, not a sign of his bloody minders, asked, ‘What do you want, Brant?’
‘Fenton.’
‘He’s gone to San Francisco.’
‘Bit of a holiday, is it?’
‘He’s tracking his ex-wife.’
Brant swung the little girl up above the railing, the dinosaur held against her. ‘See Bill, I want you to know how easy it is to touch you. You stay the hell away from me, everything’s hunky-dory.’
‘I hear what you’re saying.’
‘I wonder, Bill. I wonder if you do. Perhaps a demonstration … And he let go. The purple dinosaur tumbled down, its small head bounced off the bottom bar, then it rolled on the concrete before it slid into the water.
It sank quickly.
‘Jesus,’ breathed Bill.
Brant let the girl down and nodded towards the water. ‘Just wasn’t getting the ratings anymore.’
The girl ran to her father and wrapped her arms round him, cried, ‘Dad, Barney’s gone.’
‘It’s OK, sweetheart, it’s OK …
Brant started to move away, not hurried but measured. ‘See how it goes, Bill? Dinos are past their sell-by date.’
On break the 12th lament
Falls read the words aloud.
‘Her evocation then of all that mystery allures’
She hadn’t one clue what it meant but never-no-mind — she adored it. In the canteen with her friend Rosie, she asked, ‘Do you know what it means?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Me neither.’
‘But it sounds kinda, I dunno … sexy.’
Falls looked down then said, ‘I always wished I’d have them boobs that jiggle, you know — if you’re running, they’d hop up ’n’ down.’
Rosie, who was more than endowed, shook her head. ‘No you don’t … believe me.’
‘Men prefer big boobs.’
‘Men are pigs.’
And they laughed. Falls got serious and said, ‘Rosie, I’m worried.’
‘What, that men are pigs?’
‘No … I’ve been sick three mornings …
Rosie shrieked, ‘Oh God, are you …?’
Falls shushed her quick, said, ‘Jeez, keep it down!’
‘You’re telling the wrong person, me girl.’
And they got the serial giggles. Lots of the cops glared. If there was laughing to be done, the men would do it.
Rosie lowered her voice. ‘You’ve got to find out.’
‘Oh God, I can’t!’
‘Get one of those do-it-yourself tests from Boots.’
Further speculation was halted as the duty sergeant put his head round the door and shouted: ‘We’ve got a would-be rapist shot!’ A cheer went up. ‘Oi, that’s enough of that. I need two WPCs … c’mon, snap to it.’
As they headed out Falls said, ‘Leastways if I am I’ll get decent boobs.’
Rosie laughed. ‘You’ll be jiggling more than them!’
The shooting had taken place off Camberwell Green. A man had attacked a woman in her kitchen, but she broke away and somehow managed to shoot him.
The flat was packed with cops. Falls was directed to the woman. She was sitting on a kitchen chair, her face white with shock. A loud moaning could be heard from the sitting room. Falls closed the door.
The woman asked, ‘Is that him?’
‘I think so.’
‘I thought I’d killed him.’
Falls patted her shoulder, asked ‘Like a cup o’ tea love?’
‘I’m sick of tea.’
‘Do you want to talk about what happened?’
‘I was washing up and next thing I was grabbed … but I’ve been taking classes … in self defence. So I stomped on his instep and bit his arm.’
‘Good girl.’
The woman was animated, into it. ‘He let go and I hit him with the saucepan — here.’ She indicated her chin. ‘And I heard a crack. He started roaring and I walked out to the sitting room. Got my Dad’s gun and then … I shot him. I missed a few times, I think.’
When everything was being wrapped, the woman touched Falls’ hand. ‘What will they do to me?’
‘Well, I think you’ll get off, but I believe you should get a medal.’
The man had been shot once in the upper leg. Once on the stretcher, Falls managed to get near him. He said, ‘The bitch tried to kill me … I’ll sue …
Falls leant over, asked in a soft voice, ‘Does it hurt?’
He gave a macho smile. ‘No, it’s not so bad.’
Falls shot out her hand, pounded once on the wound.
‘Any better?’
Lies are the oil of social machinery
(Proust)
When Brant heard of Falls’ treatment of the rapist, he was well delighted, thought: ‘Yer coming along, lassie.’
He’d been to see the Super and been granted a period of leave. Twixt sickdays and holidays, he’d a block of time owing.
The Super, keen to be rid of him, suggested, ‘Might be time to consider getting out.’
Brant gave a police manual smile, a mix of servility, spite and animal cunning, and said, ‘We’d miss you, sir.’
He headed to the canteen and met Roberts en route, said, ‘Lemme get you a tea, Guv.’
‘And you’ll pay for it.’
‘Course.’
‘It would be a first.’
In the canteen, Brant got two Club Milks and two sweetened coffees, then said to the cashier, ‘Bung it on the Chief Inspector’s tab.’
‘We don’t ’ave one.’
‘Time to start, boyo.’
Roberts couldn’t get Bill’s accusation out of his head, that Brant had been with his wife. He said, ‘I went to see Bill.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Tried to wind me up.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Said you’d been jumping my missus.’
Brant’s heart jumped, but said smoothly, ‘Jeez, would I be so stupid? … I mean … apart from everything, I’d like to think we were mates.’
They both tasted the lie, let it roll around a bit and decided it would suffice. Not great or even satisfactory but almost sufficient … it would do.
Brant ate his Club Milk. First he nibbled the chocolate round the edge, then chomped the biscuit loudly. Roberts had a horrible picture of him nibbling his wife.
Brant gestured to the second biscuit. ‘Going to have it, Guv?’
Roberts wasn’t, but no way could he stomach Brant eating it. ‘I’ll get to it later.’ He slipped it into his pocket. Days later, after his first radiation treatment, he’d find it congealed in his hankie, latched to his keys like a tumour.
Brant said, ‘I watched The Missouri Breaks last night.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I love that boyo, Harry Dean Stanton. He’s one of a battered outlaw gang led by Jack Nicholson. He tells a great yarn.’ Brant stopped and Roberts didn’t say anything. A tad testy, Brant asked, ‘You want to hear this story or not?’
‘Oh … yeah, of course.’
‘He says when he was a kid, he had a favourite dog. One day his father came home and found the dog with its nose in the butter, so he shot it. Later on, a guy says to Harry Dean: “You don’t like people much” — and Harry says — “Not since the dog put his nose in the butter”.’
Roberts wasn’t sure how to respond and finally said lamely, ‘Must see that.’
Brant was agitated, asked, ‘Don’t you get it?’
‘Course I do.’ But he didn’t. Worse, they both understood that. A moment comes, a friendship can move up a notch or is lost.
The moment was lost irretrievably.
They have to get you in the end Otherwise there’d be no end to the pointlessness
(Derek Raymond)
‘Yo, fool …
This was Fenton’s introduction. He’d arrived at SFIP (San Francisco International Passport) and breezed through
Immigration. Manners and a British accent being a passport all their own. The official had even said, ‘Y’all have a good day now.’
He was having one … sort of … ish.
Until:
Waiting on his luggage a black guy had shouted the above. Fenton turned, saw the guy dressed in an impoverished Mr T style. Lots of gold bracelets, medallions, but of a distinctly tin quality.
Fenton asked, ‘Are you talking to me fella?’
‘Whatcha think? Y’o be a fool, then I talking to you, mother fuckah.’
If this had been the Oval, he’d probably have dropkicked him for exercise. Instead he smiled and got, ‘Wha’cha smiling fo’ bro’? Yo be laughin at de brother?’
Fenton got his case, turned and said, ‘Get me a taxi — sorry — a cab … OK?’
This stopped the guy dead. While he was figuring it, Fenton breezed past him. ‘Jeez, before Tuesday, OK?’
On the other side of the United States, the band-aiders were finding that the BIG APPLE was not exactly the good apple.
Still wearing the Farah pants, the guy said to the woman, ‘This place’s a hole.’
‘Was your idea to come.’
‘Was not.’
‘Was too.’
They seethed a while, then the woman said, ‘Let’s mug some fuck and go to California.’
He liked that, said, ‘I like that. Yeah. Let’s kick the bejaysus outta a Yank.’
‘Yeah … and tell ’em to have a nice day.’
In my last darkness there might not be the same need of understanding anything so far away as the world any more
(Robin Cook)
Roberts was an hour early for his radiation treatment. Got to wait three more. Eventually his time. He said, ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Huh?’
The radiation, you know, during the … ahm … process …
The technician, with a distracted air seemed to have trouble concentrating. Roberts wanted to grab him, roar, ‘For fucksake, focus!’
The guy wasn’t actually wearing a walkman but he might as well have been. Worse, he was humming … and humming ‘Vienna’. Not an easy task, but definitely irritating. He said, ‘Imagine yer on a sun bed, topping up for yer hols.’
Roberts felt this was in particular bad taste in light of his complaint, but said nothing. It wouldn’t do to antagonise the hand on the machine.
It didn’t take long. Roberts asked, ‘Is that it?’
‘Yup, yer toast.’
Roberts felt a rush of elation and wanted to hug the fuck, but the guy was already humming a new tune. Sounded like the Eagles’ ‘Lying Eyes’, or was it ‘Dancing Queen’?
Roberts said, ‘I’ll be off then.’
‘Whatever.’
Roberts had been a cop so long, it was difficult to surprise him. But every now and again …
Outside, three winos were sitting against the wall. All were shoeless. A pair of black shoes sat in front of them. Mid-way polished, they stood in near dignity and in reasonable condition. A hand-written sign said,
FOR SALE
Only one owner.
?5 or nearest offer.
Full MOT.
He smiled from way down. One of the winos copped him, said, ‘Size 9, Guv?’
Reaching in his pocket, he encountered a melted Club Milk latched to his keys. Finally, he located some coins and handed them over. One of them said
‘God bless you, Guv.’
Further along, a young woman pushed a collection box in his face, demanded, ‘Buy a flag.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘Racquet Club in Hampstead.’
‘Well that’s badly needed — another sports club in bleeding Hampstead.’ He gave her the remains of the Club Milk.
At the Oval, to complete his trilogy of street encounters, he bought a copy of The Big issue. The vendor said, ‘Fair cop,’ and Roberts wondered what it was that proclaimed him to the world as a copper. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Castro
The Castro in San Francisco has been called ‘The gayest place on earth’.
Fenton was headed there. He knew it would be the centre for activists. Now that Stell, his ex-wife was with a teacher, she’d be politically active. A dormant radical, she’d blossom in the Castro.
He had the cab cruise through Market and Castro Streets. It reminded him of Camden Lock on a pink Saturday. Same sex couples strolling openly. The cabbie turned and drove along Church, 22nd, and Duboce.
‘You figger on stayin’ here, buddy?’
‘Naw, I just wanted to see it.’
The driver checked him in the mirror, ventured, ‘You gotta get down here in the evenings, catch the action then.’ He let the question hang in the air — Are you gay or what?
Fenton didn’t help and kept staring out the window. He half believed he’d see her on the street. Just like that! After all the years, all the hate, there she’d be. She wasn’t. He got a mental grip and said, ‘I’ve seen enough, take me to the El Drisco.’
‘Say again?’
Fenton consulted his guide book, nodded and said, ‘It’s 2901 Pacific Avenue.’
‘Gonna cost you, buddy.’
‘Did I ask you for a financial opinion?’
The cabbie took another look and decided to let it slide. ‘You’re the man.’
‘So they tell me.’
The constables had organised a knees-up in The Greyhound for Brant’s departure. They had the back room and the booze was flowing. Word had got to Bill about the function so he’d relinquished his usual place. He could wait.
Sometimes, it was what he did best.
Brant was top of his shit list yet again but he wanted something major. For now, he simmered.
Brant was mid-pint and mid-story. ‘So, the guy had tried to pay the hooker with a stolen credit card. The pimp was kicking the bejaysus outta him and the guy’s shouting: “Be fair mate!”’
Falls arrived, and went, ‘Uh-oh, boys at play.’
Someone shoved a drink at her and a plate of cocktail sausages. That made her smile. Brant swaggered over, said, ‘Memories, eh?’
She put the plate aside, thinking: ‘They never rose to that length!’ She said, ‘I have a going away pressie for you.’
‘I’ll be back.’
‘Of that I’ve no doubt.’ She handed him an envelope. He shook it loose and found two photos. They were from those platform machines, the quick-snap jobs that ensure you look like Myra Hindley, regardless of sex. A sheet of paper was clipped to them.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s the Band-Aiders, the two who stabbed you and maybe killed Tone. They’ve gone to America.’
‘Nice one, Falls.’
Her bleeper went and she headed for the phone. On her return, Brant hadn’t moved. She said, ‘A fire in East Lane … and deliberate. You think it’s our man?’
‘Want me to come visit him with you again?’
‘No Sarge, no need, you enjoy the party.’
She was wrong. There was ample need for Brant. Then and later. Especially later.
Roberts arrived late at the party. Brant, his face flushed from drink, said, ‘We started without you.’
‘Oh really?’ And got two mangled sausages handed to him, plus a pint of flat Guinness. ‘What a feast.’
‘Ah, we didn’t forget you Guv.’
Roberts let the sausages slip to the floor and said, ‘You’re off, then.’
‘Yeah, I’m going via Ireland from Shannon, so I’m going up to Galway for a night. I’ve a distant cousin there name of Paddy Joyce.’
‘Related to James, no doubt.’
Brant gave him a puzzled, befuddled look. ‘No … related to me, I said.’
‘Whatever. Here.’
And he too produced a slip of paper. Brant said, ‘Jaysus, I’ve more notes than Rymans.’
‘It’s the number of an American cop. He was over here on a course a few years back. He might be useful.’
Brant
was slipping from the booze high to a mid-plateau of surliness, just before sentimentality. ‘Don’t need no Yank, I’ve got me hurley’
‘Yer what?’
But a sing-song had started and Brant was moving away. Roberts felt a bone exhaustion begin and a raging thirst. As he made his exit, he could hear Brant, loudest of all with ‘If you ever go across the sea to Ireland …
When Falls had applied to the police force, she’d had to wait six months. The Bill was hot then and they were flooded with applications, even wannabe actresses who believed they’d be doing the method.
During that period, Falls worked in a department store. She was assigned to Customer Services and dealt with returned items. It was the ideal training for police work. Here came the scum of the earth, the true dissatisfied. The more respectable the customer, the more brazen the lie. They’d bring back blouses, the collar soiled, lipstick on the front, creased to infinity, and claim: Never Worn!
Receipts years out of date and frequently from other stores were produced in apparent innocence. A week on this front made her a cynic for life. And of course she got the full dose of bigotry. Like, ‘I demand to see someone in authority. Someone white in authority.’
The up-side was Falls could spot a liar at close range. The downside, apart from insults, aggression and bile, was that she could never again return goods. No matter how pressing the urge. The girls thus employed went two ways — became immune or became traffic wardens, which amounted to the same thing.
Falls broke the cardinal rule of visiting a suspect alone. She hoped she might wrap the deal in one evening.
She was wrong.
Calling on the suspected arsonist, she was pumped with adrenalin.
For nowt.
A woman answered the door. In her early twenties, she was barefoot in shorts and Spice Girls top, said, ‘Yeah?’
‘I’m WPC Falls and …
The woman put up a hand, signalling don’t bother and said, ‘He’s not here. Dunno when he’ll be back. I’ve no idea where he is.’ Said this to the tune of ‘Mary had a little lamb’. Said it with world weariness. Like, how many times have I to repeat this shit?
