by Ken Bruen
‘Get me something to bind this.’
He was handed a pile of bandages and some towels and sweat pouring off him, he managed to bind the wound. The docker said:
‘He’ll need hospitalization.’
McDonald nodded, said:
‘Give me five minutes to get clear, then call an ambulance, say he was a victim of a mugging. Get the gear stashed away. The rest of you go home, I’ll be in touch.’ They stood for a moment, staring at him, and he said:
‘You did good.’
He took another swig of the bottle and took off through the back garden. He dumped his balaclava in a bin, kept to the back streets moving fast and, on the edge of Clapham, hailed a cab, got in the back, and he was out of there. The driver, smoking a joint, had the radio on, loud. McDonald settled back in his seat, as Dire Straits sang… ’The Sultans of Swing.’
A wide grin began to move across McDonald’s face. He watched the streets as the cab sped on, groups of people everywhere and he thought:
Man, my work has just begun.
Foley, the desk sergeant, got the call about a shooting and mini-riot, and asked:
‘What else is new?’
Friday night, the animals were out to play, he his copy of ‘Heat,’ three bacon and tomato sandwiches, a flask of tea. He settled himself in his chair, put his feet up, thought:
Ah, this is the life.
He loved the weekend, they wouldn’t be dragging the scum in until about three/four in the morning, so he had a good two hours of reading and at least a half hour of kip.
Back home, McDonald was in the bath, his head back, Thin Lizzy booming from the speakers, a glass of Scotch on the rim of the bath, and he thought about Dad’s army… thought, with deep satisfaction:
Didn’t they do fucking great.
Trick, meanwhile, was having his jaw wired and that, plus the kick in the balls, had deprived him of speech, not that he had a whole lot to say, except perhaps:
‘Fuck me.’
The knife wielder was having one of his legs amputated.
In another hospital, not a mile away, Bill suffered a massive coronary and was dead in twenty minutes.
The docker began to weep.
HAPPY SLAPPERS
Anew phenomenon had swept the country… happy slapping. Young people strode up to an unsuspecting individual, slapped them harshly across the face, and used their mobile phone camera to instantly sent the shocked reaction to all their friends. It had mutated to extreme forms, one case where a teenage girl was photographed as she was raped. In its lesser form, members of the public, usually single women, were approached by a young person and, out of the blue, walloped into the face as the camera recorded and transmitted instantly their reaction to the assailant’s mates.
It was becoming a national pastime.
After the terrible bombings in London, it actually increased, photos of victims, their faces covered in blood, were snapped by youngsters on the prowl. The tabloids loved it, displaying shocked outrage, of course, but it was the sort of story they couldn’t invent and there was no indication of it abating. Psychologists, sociologists, et al. wrung their collective hands and said it was a sign of the corrosion of society and one more stage in the total breakdown of moral values.
A teenage boy, arrested after he’d happy slapped a woman in her seventies.
Asked why he did it, said:
‘ ’Cos it like, you know, rocks.’
11
Falls appeared for duty with her stripes proudly displayed on her arm, she tried to appear cool with it, but a shit-eating grin threatened to engulf her features at any time. The other cops, grudgingly went:
‘Sarge.’
The term like bile in their respective throats. She was summoned to Brown’s office. She was confident the Super had a little congratulatory speech prepared, the first black female sergeant! She thought to herself:
It’s been a long time coming.
And she resolved to be suitably humble and, what was the term, yeah, self-effacing.
She knocked on the door, her sense of anticipation at its zenith. She was taken aback to see PC Lane there, the fuck was he doing at her moment? Lane was the lamest cop on the force, so bland he could only be described as beige. He’d had one moment of glory when he was photographed with Tony Blair, but old Tony had lost a lot of kudos since then. Even Lane’s wife had removed the framed photo from their mantelpiece, replaced it with the Dalai-lama, always a safe bet. He never said nowt, and people were vague as what exactly he ever did. The Super was huddled over papers, took five minutes before looking up, and when finally he did, he said:
‘Ah, Falls, you’re late.’
No Sergeant.
He leant back, addressed her, and Lane, asked:
‘Are you familiar with the happy-slapping scandal?’
Falls wanted to shout:
‘You pompous prick, it’s in the papers every bloody day.’
She conceded she was and Lane simply nodded. The Super said:
‘Good, then you know what’s involved. Now I don’t give a toss what they do in the rest of the country but not on my patch, do you understand?’
Falls couldn’t believe it, this was the plum assignment, she tried for control, asked:
‘And, sir, what is it you wish us to do?’
Brown’s face clouded, he caught the tone, barked:
‘Kennington seems to be the most popular site for the little bastards, get down there, stamp it out.’
Falls waited for more and the Super said:
‘I’m assigning PC Lane to accompany you. He has teenagers so he knows how they think, if anyone on the damn planet can ever be said to know that.’
The fact that Lane’s kids were grown adults was not something Lane mentioned.
Falls asked:
‘Is that all… sir? ’
Brown was back in his papers, said:
‘Tell my secretary to bring my tea, and to make sure the biscuits are fresh, they were stale yesterday.’
And they were dismissed. There was no sign of his secretary and Lane, worried, asked:
‘Should we try and find her?’
Falls gave him her most withering look, said:
‘Take a wild fucking guess?’
For the next week, they covered the Kennington Road, with Falls sitting in the car and Lane on foot patrol. You’re the sergeant, you’re going to walk the beat with a constable?
Lane wasn’t happy, but he didn’t have a whole lot of choice and the odd times he did get to spend with Falls, she was so crabby, irritable, he was relieved to get back on solo patrol. They didn’t find any Happy Slappers but did grab two pickpockets, warned off the inevitable hookers, and were mainly bored out of their minds.
Lane, used to dull assignments, took it as more of the same, but Falls was seething. She went to see Brant, and he was on the verge of being discharged, sitting up in bed, reading a porn magazine. Most guys, sneaking a peek at one of these, if someone enters the room, they try and hide it, but Brant, he lay it open at its provocative page. Falls asked:
‘How do the nurses like your choice of reading?’
He looked almost the same as before, except his face was visibly thinner and his skin a greyish pale. His spirit, that seemed as lethal as ever, he said:
‘The nurses gave it to me.’
He stared at her sergeant’s stripes, said:
‘Welcome to the club.’
She suddenly felt slightly ashamed of them, Brant knew she’d gotten them under false pretences. As if reading her mind, he said:
‘Don’t sweat how you got them, just be sure to make full use of the rank.’
She blurted out about her current assignment, and he gave his demonic smile, said:
‘You know why Brown is so gung ho to grab one of these slappers?’
She repeated the speech the Super had given them and he snorted, said:
‘Bollocks, his wife was a victim.’
She was going t
o ask him how he knew, but then information was his currency.
He said:
‘Those guys on the door, protecting me, bum a cig off one of them, the fat fuck, he has a. pack of Embassy.’
She said:
‘Isn’t smoking forbidden?’
And got the look.
He said:
‘Hon, when you’re a wounded cop, you can do what the fuck you like.’
She opened the door and, sure enough, one of the cops was fat and did have the cigs. He handed them over with:
‘Any chance he might buy his own?’
Falls nearly laughed, said:
‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
As Brant created a cloud of smoke above his head, Falls filled him in on the discovery of the dead body, the guy who’d shot Brant, and the subsequent call to Roberts. Brant listened without comment and Falls finally asked:
‘Aren’t you worried about the next attempt?’
He dropped the cig on the floor, said:
‘Put your sergeant’s heel on that, there’s a good girl.’
She picked it up, extinguished it in a glass of water, then, on consideration, put the soggy thing in her jacket. Brant was highly amused, said:
‘Come back this evening, you can do a clean sweep.’
And immediately lit another. He had a way of constantly irritating a person and once he knew you were fucked, he never let up. And despite all that, there was no better guy to have in your corner. She repeated her question, and he said:
‘I hope he takes a shot at me sooner rather than later.’
Anyone else, you’d call it bravado. He said:
‘You want off this shite detail you’re on?’
She said of course, but there hadn’t been a single instance. Brant shook his head, said:
‘Christ, no wonder you could never pass the exam.’
She winced, and he let that hover, then said:
‘Get hold of a mobile phone, with the camera on it, then grab the first fuck you see. Bring him in.’
She stared at him, asked:
‘You mean plant it on a person?’
He laughed, the one that had no relation to warmth or indeed humour, said:
‘Well, he’s hardly going to plant it on himself.’
She hated to admit it to herself, but she’d do nigh anything to get off the assignment, asked:
‘What about Lane?’
This time, he dropped the butt in the glass of water, it made a soft plink. He said:
‘Lane could give a fuck. How do you think he’s put in eighteen years and never made noise? You’re the sergeant, you tell him what’s happened, after you nick the culprit.’
She was beginning to like the sound of the set-up and asked:
‘But the guy, whoever we choose, won’t he claim it’s a set-up?’
Brant smiled.
‘Don’t they all.’
Before she left, she asked:
‘How are you feeling in yourself, they say a… a shooting can take a long time to recover from. You could take early retirement?’
For once, he actually showed some emotion, surprise principally, asked:
‘And do what, become a Happy Slapper? This is the only gig I know.’
She was as the door, then said:
‘Porter saved your life, you know that? He covered you with his body.’
Brant wasn’t comfortable, said:
‘He’s a fag, any chance to jump on my bones.’
She’d finally gotten a chance at Brant, took it, said as she closed the door:
‘You owe him, big time.’
The fat guard called after her:
‘Hey, where’s me cigarettes?’
Without turning, she said:
‘He put them in water, they look lovely, real decorative.’
She went to a phone warehouse, bought the cheapest model she could find, then outside Kennington Tube Station she handed the phone to Lane, said:
‘Get my pic’.
She adopted an expression of shock, like she’d just been slapped.
Two hours later, she selected her target, a guy in his twenties, walking with a swagger, elbowing people aside as he strutted towards the station. Falls said:
‘There’s our Happy Slapper. You just saw him slap me and here’s his phone.’
Lane didn’t say anything, just took the phone, Falls got out of the car and deliberately collided with the guy. She made it look like he’d attacked her, and began to scream blue murder. Lane was out of the car, and despite whatever reservations he’d felt, he went full into the scenario, producing the phone camera, saying loudly:
‘He photographed the attack!’
His tone a mix of outrage and disbelief, three pedestrians bought what they thought they were witnessing and grabbed the young man, throwing punches at him, going:
‘You animal.’
A woman helped Falls to her feet, said:
‘The pig actually photographed you!’
Falls was astonished at how well it had gone, and Lane’s participation added the nice touch of reality.
The young guy, named John Coleman, was too flabbergasted to speak, plus he was hurting from the punches he’d received from the witnesses. Lane arrested him, cuffed him, and shoved him in the car, Falls took the names and addresses of the pedestrians, who were more than willing to help.
Since the attacks on London, people were more than keen to get involved. Bombs were one thing, but that you couldn’t walk down the street without getting a slap in the face and… being photographed while it happened, it was just too much outrage.
Falls got back in the car, letting Lane drive, she was shaking from the physical tussle and the sheer andrenaline of the encounter.
Lane put the car in gear, and Falls glanced back at the Happy Slapper. He seemed to be in a daze. Falls said:
‘That will teach you to push people around.’
He looked up, his face a riot of confusion, said:
‘But I don’t even have a mobile.’
Falls held up the phone, asked:
‘And what do you think this is?’
Lane gave an odd sound, as if he had something nasty in his mouth. He felt Falls was really pushing the envelope on this one. The young man tried:
‘It’s not my phone, you can’t make this stick.’
Falls held up a sheet of paper with the witnesses names, said:
‘We’ve enough ammunition here to put you away for two years, if you’re lucky’.
She turned back to Lane, said:
‘You did good.’
He was maneuvering into a space outside the station, took a moment, said:
‘Not how I’d term it myself.’
Falls decided not to pursue it.
12
Coleman was charged with happy slapping, termed… an attack on the private rights of an individual… incitement to public disorder and… more serious, an assault on a police officer. They threw in resisting arrest to round it off.
A solicitor was called and three hours later, Coleman was released on bail, due to appear in magistrates’ court in a month. His brief said:
‘You’ll have to do jail time, I might be able to plea bargain that you didn’t realize the woman was a cop, but I won’t lie to you, they’re keen to make an example of a Happy Slapper, you’ll have to serve at least a year.’
Coleman, still in shock, made his way out of the station, to the taunts of various cops, who shouted:
‘Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.’
He ran into Falls on the steps, asked:
‘Why… why are you doing this to me?’
Falls, feeling like Brant was speaking for her, said:
‘Because I can.’
Coleman stared at her for a minute, resolving to get this bitch, one way or another. He stumbled down the steps, feeling like he might pass out, his whole life had gone down the toilet. He looked back at Falls, said:
‘It’s me t
wenty-first birthday today.’
She gave him a wide-eyed look, said:
‘Say cheese.’
He did what you do when you’re suddenly fucked out of the blue, when your whole life has turned on sixpence, he went to the pub. He grabbed a stool at the counter, and for the life of him couldn’t get his mind into gear. He wanted a drink but didn’t know what to order. A woman took the stool beside him, said:
‘Can’t decide, huh?’
He looked at her, a gorgeous blonde, lovely face with very striking eyes. She added:
‘You poor lamb, you’ve had a terrible ordeal. Let me order for us.’
Her stress on us gave it a sultry sound, and to his amazement, he got a hard-on, put it down to shock. His frigging body didn’t know what was going on. The barman was all over her, leching openly at her full cleavage, lust reddning his cheeks, he drawled:
‘What will it be, darling?’
She rubbed her scarlet lips with her tongue, said:
‘Two large gins, with slim-line tonics. A girl has to watch her figure.’
The barman glanced at the young man who seemed to be totally zoned, said:
‘You got it, babe.’
She said:
‘And something for your own self, how would that be?’ That would be fucking hunky-dory.
Coleman had a hundred questions, but she cut him off, said:
‘Drink-ees first, then we’ll nice have a chat.’
He was happy to do that, asked:
‘Can I know your name?’
She gave a beautiful smile, said:
‘Sweetie, you can have whatever you want… I’m Angie.’
The best way to kill a man is not to confide in anybody.
— Danny Ahearn, New York mobster
13
Falls was summoned to the Super’s office and, alas, at the time when he was taking his morning tea. This was a ritual, legendary in the station. Because of the biscuits, Rich Tea, his habit of dunking them in the cup, then slurping the soggy portion into his mouth was a test of endurance for any sane person. He was mid-slurp when Falls entered, he said:
