by Ken Bruen
He smiled, said:
‘Yeah… hope.’
She began to feel a bit better, Brant was the most unpredictable person she’d ever met, and yet, you were knee-deep in shite, he was the guy who would find you a shovel. You’d probably have to do the digging, but he’d keep you company. She said:
‘I broke a wino’s nose.’
He laughed, said:
‘Jaysus girl, they have it bad enough, you have to go round kicking the fuck out of them as well?’
She drained the coffee, said:
‘God, that was good.’
And then… the silence, Brant would wait forever when he knew you wanted something, and she as sure as hell wanted something.
Help.
She tried to buy some time, said:
‘I feel so bad about McDonald.’
Brant sat opposite her, those stone eyes holding her, reading her, and he asked:
‘Why?’
Anyone else in the world, they’d go the pseudo-route, mutter sympathetic stuff, like:
‘There was nothing you could do, there was nothing anyone could do.’
But Brant, no bullshit, right to the core.
She faltered, then:
‘I feel I should have helped, you know…?’
And he smiled, that awful smile that said:
‘Sure.’
He stretched, and she wondered if he was hurting from the shooting but ask… ask Brant… sure.
He said:
‘He was a cowardly fuck, he took the easy way out, and how many times… did he fuck you over, or have you forgotten the Clapham Rapist, McDonald as yer backup?’
She was stunned. All those years he’d never once referred to how he’d saved her life. Before she could even think of a reply, he continued, he said:
‘Reason I mention our rapist mate is he has a brother and, guess what, he’s the fuck had me shot. Funny old world… isn’t it?’
She had to know, went:
‘What are you going to do?’
He stood, said:
‘I’m going to get you another of those kick-arse coffees, and then you’re going to tell me what you want?’
He did and she did.
Told it all, the set-up of the Happy Slapper, Lane selling her out, and the reappearance of Angie.
His face lit up at the mention of the Vixen and he interrupted:
‘Well fuck me sideways, that’s great, I always felt that was unfinished biz.’
Then Lynn strolled in, wearing one of Brant’s shirts, her ample bosom spilling out. She nodded at Falls, not in an unfriendly way but more a kind of total disinterest, and for some reason, that irritated the bejesus out of Falls, like… hooker, dissing her?
Brant turned to Lynn, said:
‘Take off, babe, this is work.’
Lynngave Falls another look, one that said:
‘I’ve had him… what’s your gig?’
Then, oh so casual, leaned over, kissed Brant on the lips, said:
‘Catch you later, honey.’
He slapped her on the arse, said:
‘Long as that’s all I catch.’
And… winked at Falls.
Not for the first time, she wondered what the fuck had happened to her once bright vision of police work, some skewered notion of righting wrongs, doing the best you could, and all that good Oprah crap.
Part of her began to envy McDonald being out of the whole sorry game, and Brant, waiting till Lynn had gone, swung back to face her, said:
‘Ammunition.’
She was lost, said:
‘I’m lost.’
He near sang:
‘But now you’re found… ammo, baby. It’s all we need… or, of course…, love.’
Then, very carefully, he told her how it was going to go down.
Did it scare her?
Did it fuck?
It’s easier to run than explain.
— Clyde Barrow
29
Rodney Lewis was home, a nice log fire going, so, it was artificial, it looked the biz. And being in the financial game, he knew appearances were all. He was wearing a smoking jacket, he didn’t actually smoke but you get the drift. It had the monogram, R, on the pocket, in gold stitching. He was real proud of that:
Class.
Who said you couldn’t buy it.
Fucking Labour government is who.
They were going to get theirs, and big time, in the next election, and with the Tories back, let the good times roll. He was sipping from a snifter of brandy, a fifty-year-old cognac, and the aroma,…bliss. He’d had a lobster dinner at his private club and a rather delicious creme caramel to follow. He let out a contented belch, thought:
Life is sweet.
Except…
Brant…
The continuing problem.
He’d decided to let it sit for a while, just do… nothing and wait for inspiration to hit. It always did, why he’d made so much cash in the city. Meanwhile, he had the satisfaction of knowing the bastard had to be hurting from the gunshots. And better, knowing that Rodney was coming, Brant would be on constant alert and then, out of nowhere, when he let his guard down… bingo, he’d be hit.
Rodney wasn’t going to farm out this contract, nope, not after the last fiasco. He’d do the piece of garbage himself.
He replayed the scene in his car with the guy who’d messed up the deal, and the rush of the adrenaline when he’d shot the poor dumb idiot. And that’s how he’d do Brant, up close and personal. He owed it to his late brother to keep it in the family, and he really wanted to have that rush again. The look on the victim’s face when you shoved the shooter in his mug.
Shooter?
He laughed aloud, like something out of The Sweeney.
He was still chuckling when he felt the cold barrel in the nape of his neck and he dropped the snifter, the cognac staining his Harrods pyjamas, those suckers had cost, like a bundle. He knew it was Brant, he heard the intake of breath and knew from recent experience it was the moment before the squeeze, and he tried:
‘Sergeant Brant, is this really the smart thing. They’ll know it’s you, I mean, let’s talk this through.’
He was pleased with his calm tone, the matter-of-fact voice he assumed, and then he had a brilliant idea. He knew precisely what to say to stop the maniac.
The first shot went right through, exiting his left eye and the second, a little lower, lodged in the bone of his nose. Rodney and his brilliant idea slumped forward in the chair, blood adding to the already ruined silk pyjamas.
The smell of cordite nearly wiped the aroma of cognac, but with fifty-year-old stuff, it’s hard to quite erase that kind of quality.
The killer used a small Swiss army knife to dislodge the bullet from the bookcase, he considered rooting around in Rodney’s face, retrieving that one. he was whistling “Dixie” as he contemplated his work, then thought the hell with the second bullet. Did he really want to get in the guy’s face?
He was still smiling at his pun as he let himself out.
30
John Coleman, the Happy Slapper, still couldn’t quite believe the turns and twists his life had taken over the past few weeks. He’d been walking along, his mind preoccupied by minor irritations. Oh God, what he wouldn’t give to have them back.
Then fuck, like hell opened up and Armageddon hit him.
The lady cop, scratch that, the bitch cop, had appeared out of nowhere, literally jumping on him and claiming he’d been one of those wankers who slapped people and then photographed it to send to their friends. Next thing, he was being charged and looked like he’d be doing jail time.
For what?
Then, just as he had abandoned all hope, an unlikely saviour appeared, Angie, a blond stunner who said she’d fix everything and mainly…fix the cops. Turned out, she had history with Falls, the bitch cop, and even better, had leverage. Plus, well, sort of, he got to fuck Angie a lot. Now he wasn’t stupid, he knew there was something off
about Angie, she had this cold look sometimes, put freaking shivers down your spine but what…
Like he had a choice?
He was along for the ride… till…
Till, as Angie said, Falls withdrew the charges. Oh yeah, Angie banging on about how they’d make a mint on suing the police for false arrest, harassment, undue emotional trauma, and a whole slew of other stuff.
Yeah, right.
Soon as Falls relented, he was so out of all this, bye bye Angie. And man, was he ever going to keep a low profile from then on. He was sitting in the kitchen of his tiny flat, drinking tea, and longing for the day when all this crap was done. Angie would be by later, and he wished he could work up some energy for that. First, she’d want bed, then the mad schemes would begin. His doorbell rang and he sighed, she was here earlier than he’d anticipated. Maybe he’d say he’d a headache.
Like that would work.
Opened the door to a tall man, dressed in a very expensive suit, and… get this, with a huge smile. Coleman let all his frustration leak over his voice, asking:
‘I know you?’
Let a little hard dribble in there too, so the guy would know, this was not the day to be fucking with him. The guy’s smile widened and he said:
‘No, but you’re going to.’
With that, he punched Coleman in the gut, hard, and pushed him back into the flat, closed the door, Coleman was doubled up and the guy looked at him, walloped him twice across the face, said:
‘That’s to get the smirk off you.’
The man strode on in, asking:
‘Where’s the kettle, I’d kill for a cuppa?’
Coleman managed to mutter:
‘I’m going to call the police.’
The man, without even looking back, said:
‘I am the police.’
He’d found the kettle, was plugging it in, asked:
‘Get you something or you good?’
Coleman chanced a glance at the door and the man said:
‘Bad idea, I’d have to break one of your legs and you wouldn’t like that, oh no, not one bit. Do you have any bread, a cuppa is not the same without a nice slice of toast.’
By the time the man had fixed his tea and toast, and settled himself into an armchair, Coleman had recovered enough to walk in, stand by the table, keeping that between him and this… lunatic.
The man, midbite, said:
‘You know the song, clowns to the left of me, clowns to the right of me?’
The fuck was he on about?
Before Coleman could reply, if there was one to this, the man said:
‘Well, sonny, in your case, it’s cops, all over your unlucky arse.’
He reached in his pocket, and Coleman was convinced he was going to shoot him.
Instead he pulled out an envelope, slapped it on the table, said:
‘Your going-away money.’
Coleman, hating himself, echoed in an almost childish voice:
‘I’m going away?’
The man smiled, delighted, said:
‘See, you catch on fast. You take a nice six-month vacation, get away from all this lousy weather, and when you come back it will all be over. You can go back to your shitty, boring life.’
The contempt in the man’s voice gave Coleman a false sense of courage, and he snapped:
‘What if I don’t?’
The man wiped some crumbs off his suit, said:
‘Don’t you hate when that happens?’
Then he abruptly stood up, said:
‘If you don’t, forty kinds of hell will descend on you.’
As he headed for the door, he suddenly turned and Coleman instinctively ducked. The man laughed, asked:
‘How much time do you think you’d serve for the stash under your mattress?’
Coleman was confused, further, asked:
‘You mean like… heroin?’
The man had the door open, said:
‘No, I mean, under your mattress.’
Colemanfollowed him out into the corridor, in spite of himself, went:
‘I don’t do that stuff.’
‘Bet you a fiver you’ll look, though. Gotta run, good people out there needing our protection. Don’t bother writing, you just kick back, relax.’
When Coleman went back inside, he was trembling and his stomach hurt. He swore he wouldn’t look under the mattress.
That lasted for tops, four minutes, he pulled the blankets, tore the mattress off, no heroin but a single sheet of paper, that read:
Had you going…
31
Falls was drinking, seriously. She’d sworn so many times she’d keep a lid on it, rein it in.
Yada yada.
I mean, c’mon, the whole Happy-Snapper gig, threatening her whole career, that snake Lane, not backing her up, and McDonald eating his gun.
Fuck.
Who wouldn’t drink?
And then, having to go to Brant… again… and making the pact with the devil. When she’d asked:
‘What are you going to do about the Happy Snapper?’
He’d given a satanic smile and asked:
‘You really want to know?’
Guess not.
As she’d been leaving, he said:
‘Think… biblical.’
That was the whole point, she didn’t want to… think, at all. Thus, the vodka, Stoli went down like a prayer, albeit a brief one. It was nine in the evening, she was dressed in her old Snoopy nightshirt, it was old and comfortable, she was on her second… third? drink, with a mixer of bitter lemon, low cal, of course, like that made a fat bit of difference. Bitter it certainly was. Tupac was on the speakers, with ‘Thugs Get Lonely Too.’
Christ, that sang to her.
The doorbell went and she figured… Brant, with results, she gulped another swig, get in gear for… whatever.
Opened the door to Angie.
Dressed to kill?
Short black leather skirt, black tight T-shirt, black tights, with a sheen, or was it the vodka? And a suede jacket over her shoulders. She was carrying a bag, said:
‘Goodies.’
Falls felt such an overwhelming hatred for the cow. Here she was again, fucking with Falls’s life, bringing chaos and destruction and with that knowing smirk. She looked mock hurt, asked:
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
Falls stepped aside. At least the guy wasn’t with her, what was his name… Coleman, yeah.
Angie literally skipped in, looked round, said:
‘Oh dear, sweetie, we haven’t been doing much cleaning, have we?’
She began to unload the bag, bottles of vodka, snacks, and what looked like a packet of weed… to a cop.
She said:
‘I’ll get the glasses, shall I, though I see you’ve already got a jump start.’
Falls felt an icy calm descend on her, and she decided, this was going to end. One way or another. This bitch was out of her life. She watched as Angie bounced around, full of that malignant confidence, the total control she was accustomed to exerting.
She poured herself a large glass, settled herself on the sofa, letting lots of thigh show, and asked:
‘See anything you like, lover?’
The last time she’d been round, they’d ended up in the sack, to Falls’s never-ending regret and shame. Angie raised her glass, said:
‘To the future, ours, right hon?’
Falls raised her glass, took a lethal wallop, asked:
‘What do you want?’
Angie smiled, she had great teeth, and then went:
‘Opps.’
Wiping the lip gloss off the rim of the glass, she said:
‘You might want to wipe some of this gloss yourself, would you like that?’
And Falls, to her horror, did want to, so badly. She had to physically bite down, get a grip, and she let her voice stay cold, repeated:
‘What do you want?’
Angie’s face went through the
brief change, the mask slipping for a moment, to show the dark demon that lived there.
Falls actually backed up a step, the fleeting glimpse of who, or what, Angie was had raised goosebumps on her arms. She put out her hand to steady herself, and it curled round the bottle of Stoli, which had been left on the bookcase, holding the bottle for comfort. Angie let her eyes linger on Falls for a moment then turned away, said:
‘My new little friend has disappeared, now I wonder why. I’d plans for that boy and 1 have a sneaky suspicion that you, Liz, mind if I call you that, I think you had something to do with it.’
Falls felt a rush of emotions, delight that the bastard was gone, she was off the hook, fear as to what Brant had done to him, and mostly, dread of what Angie had in mind. Angie crossed her legs, letting the sound of nylon hover, then said:
‘Liz, unless I get him back, I’m going to have to go to the papers with our… affair. You think the Tabloid would be interested in that?’
Falls lashed out with the bottle, catching Angie square across the top of her head, then screamed:
‘Don’t fucking threaten me, you piece of crap. I’m a fucking police officer.’
Vodka packs more of a wallop than you’d expect.
— Sergeant Elizabeth Falls
32
Angie wasn’t moving, she was sprawled on the sofa, her eyes rolled back in her head.
Falls dropped the bottle, moved to the sofa, tried:
‘Angie, Angie, you okay?’
Nope.
Falls, panicked, felt for a pulse.
None.
She staggered back and nearly slipped on the Stoli. She grabbed it, pulled off the cap, and drank from the neck, the liquid running down her Snoopy shirt. She let the booze burn her stomach then gasped:
‘I’ve fucking killed the bitch… oh Jesus.’
CallingBrant was out of the question, and she certainly wasn’t calling the squad.
Fuck, no way.
She had to get the body out of here and now.
She grabbed her car keys, pulled Angie upright, got an arm under her shoulder, and pulled her to the door, she opened it cautiously, no one around and did Angie have a car, no, no sign. She got her in the her own backseat, then slid behind the wheel and started driving, very carefully.
