by Ken Bruen
‘You don’t know what it’s like to have to do this stuff.’
Andrews looked to Falls who gave her the okay, so she said:
‘And guess what? We don’t want to know. Get a real job, try doing meals on wheels or go on the dole, but primarily, stop bitching.’
Like that.
Days such as those, you wanted to get home, get wasted and shut out the world. Falls had already started. First she had a shower, then put on an old cotton dressing gown with a picture of Garfield on the front. He had a question mark over his head. Falls often wondered what the question was; it never once occurred to her to wonder about the answer.
A bottle of vodka was chilling in the fridge and that’s what she wanted herself, to chill. She was drinking from a bottle of Bud and that couldn’t seriously be considered drinking, could it? She liked the habit of drinking from the neck, it was laid-back and showed you were with the game. So, okay, she’d already had three but hell! She was home, and who was counting, anyway?
The empties sat on her coffee table, but on coasters. That proved she wasn’t some kind of slob, not letting things go. She had a bag of weed in her bedside cabinet so she could seriously mellow out later. Her coke days were in the past, had to be.
She turned on the telly and swore: the ending credits were rolling on EastEnders. She channel-surfed until she hit MTV and there was Christina Aguilera strutting her stuff, with a song titled ‘Dirty’. Falls had to look twice to make sure that, yes, she was wearing what seemed to be cowboy chaps or whatever the hell they called those leather things that went on over jeans. Lest you be in any doubt as to what the song was, the word ‘Dirty’ was emblazoned on Christina’s knickers. Falls got into the beat of it and had to admit that the energy made you want to party.
No way was it the Bud doing the business. You’d need another ten before you could start to like Aguilera on any serious sort of level. Then a black guy called Redman joined Christina and he did that whole bad boy, gangsta rap gig. In truth it was a mess but got your motor churning.
Then Coldplay were up with ‘Scientist’: earnest white boys doing the Dire Straits/Travis rock-cred act. She liked this too and knew about this group as Gwyneth Paltrow was said to be pursuing an intense romance with the lead singer. Falls took a long look at the guy. He was unshaven, very pale and never smiled. Yeah, Gwynnie would love that gig.
The name of the group worked for Falls, she felt it had that nice ring of Brixton. If you had to describe how to survive the streets, you could do worse than say… ‘Coldplay’… and if that didn’t make sense, then you belonged in Hampstead.
She stretched out on the sofa, felt the day ease on down and thought it was nice to just fold in front of the TV and, like, hang. The niggling line ‘Get a life’ tried to intrude but she moved it on along. The bottle of vodka should be nicely chilled and she’d be making a run at it real soon.
The doorbell rang and it startled her. Since the days with her last man, Nelson, the bell put the fear in her, making her think that he’d come to read the riot act and drag her sorry ass off to rehab.
Dark days indeed.
‘Course, she reasoned, she could just ignore it but no, here it was again, and whoever it was, they were leaning on the buzzer, determined to get an answer. Sighing deeply, she got up, went to answer it.
She threw the door open.
At first she didn’t recognise the person. A blonde woman in a black bomber jacket, carrying two Tesco bags. She gave a huge smile, said:
‘Hi, girlfriend!’
Angie, the woman who’d saved her purse.
Falls knew there was something wrong with this. Did she give out her address? As a rule, she never did. Cops only gave that to other cops and even then, to a very select few. But she’d been drinking vodka and her memory at such times was far from reliable.
Angie said:
‘So, do I get to come in or do I just drop these goodies here and run?’
‘Shit, sorry… course, come in.’
As she breezed past Falls, the smell of her perfume was downright seductive. Falls would have to ask her the brand.
Angie plonked the bags on the coffee table and surveyed the room, the empty bottles were like a neon sign.
She said:
‘Cosy.’
Falls felt mortified. If it had been a man it would have been bad enough but you never wanted another woman to see you might be a slob. Especially not a classy woman like Angie.
Falls said:
‘I just got home, never quite got round to tidying.’
Angie went to the bags and pulled out a bottle of vodka, bags of crisps, peanuts, wine, carton of cigs and a mess of napkins, said:
‘I didn’t know what to get so I got everything.’
Falls was conscious of her ratty dressing gown and said:
‘Just let me change.’
Angie put up her hand, said:
‘No way, girl, you look comfortable and unless you have some guys stashed, let’s have us a girlie night.’
She began to open the vodka, said:
‘Yo, Elizabeth, get some glasses. We don’t want to drink from the bottle — least not yet, am I right?’
Falls went to the kitchen, rinsed out some glasses, tried to get with the game. The Bud had made her fuzzy and she felt she’d better slow down and let Angie catch up.
Back to the living room and Angie was on the couch, the bottle opened. She was wearing a very short skirt and Falls marvelled at her shapely legs.
Angie caught the look, asked:
‘You think my legs are too heavy.’
‘No, you, ahm… you’re in great shape.’
She patted the couch, said:
‘Come on girl, join me.’
Falls thought she was probably imagining it but was there a tone of flirting in there? She sat back and Angie poured two lethal measures, opened a pack of peanuts, said:
‘I’m, like, starved. Didn’t get to eat today.’
She raised hers, clinked glasses and knocked it back. Falls took a small sip, resolved to take it real slow and asked:
‘So, how come you’re… in the neighbourhood?’
Angie, thinking of the one-bar fire, the bath and Jimmy, smiled, said:
‘I had me a day, and I remembered we had us such a nice evening last time, I thought it would be fun to get together. Truth is, I was feeling electric.’
Falls realised she’d finished her drink and, when Angie poured two more, she didn’t fight it. Angie went into a long story about the club she was working at and the shit she had to tolerate. Falls was laughing, having herself a time and thinking: I can handle this, what was I worried about?
Then Angie was talking about Tipping The Velvet and Falls tried to concentrate and asked:
‘What?’
Angie nearly slipped it, almost mentioned that Jimmy had taped it but caught herself and said:
‘Couple of babes going at it.’
‘You mean, like women… together?’
Angie laughed, took a long look at Falls, then:
‘For a policewoman, you’re very… sheltered.’
Falls had no idea where this was going, so poured more vodka, said:
‘I don’t get to watch a whole lot of television.’
Angie seemed highly amused and licked her bottom lip, asked:
‘Haven’t you ever wondered what it’s like, you know, with a woman?’
Then before she could answer, Angie went on:
‘Got any music? I’d die if I couldn’t have that.’
Falls went to the cabinet, selected some techno, figuring it was neutral and didn’t convey any message. Angie was up, moving to the beat and then, before Falls knew what was happening, she’d put her hand on Falls’ cheek, kissed her firmly.
Uncle Nate was an asshole, but he taught me one thing; if you want something, ain’t nobody going to get it for you unless you get it yourself. And once you got it, make goddamn sure you held onto it.
Gary Phillips, The Jook
15
When Falls came to in the morning, she had the hangover from hell. Opening her eyes, she tried to recall the events of the evening.
She groaned as she got flashes of what happened after Angie had kissed her. It felt like battery acid was loose in her stomach and she sat up slowly.
Angie was already dressed in navy blue tracksuit and fixing her hair.
She looked over and asked:
‘Elizabeth, you think I should change my hair or do you like it like this?’
Falls felt a spasm and thought she’d throw up, wondered how Angie could seem so… fresh?… Yeah, goddamn it… fresh. Hadn’t she drunk at least as much as she had? The bitch was downright frisky.
Another retch hit and Angie moved over, went to touch Falls, saying:
‘Ah, poor pet, not feeling so hot?’
Falls pushed her hand away and raced for the bathroom. Was violently ill. After she’d thrown up a few times, she was finally able to move to the sink and chuck cold water on her face. Then she risked a glance in the mirror.
Bad idea.
She was haggard, no other word for it. A shade of green seemed to be mixed in with the black. The eyes were red, no doubt about that. She looked totally fucked.
With a huge effort, Falls managed to sprinkle some drops into her eyes, which stung the shit out of her. She drank a half-litre of water and hoped it would stay down. Pulled herself up, said to herself:
‘Okay, you can do this thing.’
Out to the kitchen where Angie was cooking! Smelled like a fry-up and Falls had to double over with a retch.
She said:
‘Could you not do that?’
Angie curled her lip, fixed her eyes on Falls, asked:
‘You want me to go?’
‘Yes.’
As she gathered up her stuff, Falls got some water boiling. Angie said:
‘Okay, I’m ready. You want to call me later, we can arrange something?’
She was at the door, looking back, with that small smile that wasn’t related to warmth or humour but connected to some wires that were forever twisted. Falls pushed at the kettle, said:
‘I don’t think so.’
Her tone was cold and she wanted it to sound exactly that, the hangover making it easier. Angie opened the door, but paused and asked:
‘What’s bugging you most, Elizabeth? Is it that you slept with a woman or that you slept with a white woman?’
16
Another bomb went off. Same deal, same cheap mechanism, different location.
This time it was the WH Smith bookshop on the concourse at Waterloo railway station. Not too far from the left luggage site. Panic and consternation as commuters ran for their lives. There were no casualties from the explosion but six people were hurt in the stampede.
Ray rang the police and was pissed when he didn’t get Roberts.
Porter Nash, groggy from lack of sleep, fumbled for his new glasses and was seriously angry. He said:
‘You asshole, the money was delivered. What the hell are you playing at?’
The robotic voice was level, amused, disguising the annoyance Ray was actually feeling. It said:
‘Tell you the truth, I’ve got a taste for it.’
‘What?’
‘Where’s Roberts? I don’t like dealing with the hired help; you sound way too emotional to be negotiating. Not a fag, are you?’
Porter, aware he was being taped for the record, tried to rein in, said:
“You got paid, what can it benefit you to keep this going?’
‘Sheee…it as our black brothers say, “I dun’ tol’ you young un’ I got me a taste for this.”‘
Ray was relaxing, he was close to having fun and this cop was so easy to rile. He said:
‘See, you got a clue right there. Am I a brother or playing at it, running the old double bluff?’
Porter, who’d been having chest pains and had resolved to stop smoking, signalled to McDonald for a cig. This took a minute and Porter clicked his fingers; McDonald wasn’t keen on the gesture. The cig was found, a Rothmans — thus funding the South African connection anew — then a lighter.
Porter got his cigarette flamed, drew deep, said:
‘The picture that comes across from all the clues I have is that you are a sick whacko and I promise you this, I am personally going to bring you down. So how you like that clue, bro’?’
And then Porter Nash did something that would become the stuff of police legend.
He slammed down the phone.
The rule is: never, never never never… hang up on a kidnapper, extortionist or hostage taker.
Then, to add to the myth, Porter collapsed.
An ambulance was called and he was rushed to St Thomas’. The paramedics, on hearing about chest pains, shot him through to Coronary Care, Porter feeeling like he was an extra in ER… the mad gallop through the corridors, the IV bottle, the oxygen mask, he’d have enjoyed it if the fucking pain wasn’t so intense.
Porter Nash knew for certain he was dying. Gays like him liked Dolly Parton marginally better than Barbra Streisand, and her version of ‘I Don’t Know Much’ was reeling in his head. He could hear ‘I don’t know much but I know I’m dying’, which made it a torch song of mega echoes.
They got him hooked up to the monitors, took blood — the cocksuckers — and get this… began to question him.
Like this:
‘When did the pains start?
Where are they concentrated?
Do you smoke?
Any history of heart disease in the family?’
That kind of shite.
He wanted to say:
‘Fuck off.’
But he knew they wouldn’t. They kept up the barrage of questions, carried on doing stuff to his chest. He could see little plastic plugs that were attached to him and the amount of tubes in his left arm was to be seen to be believed.
The specialist said:
‘I would say the tube in your heart is gone.’
At least that’s what it sounded like, or some valve had packed it in. To Porter Nash it all sounded like sayonara. He was finally given some painkillers and he swallowed them with relish. The truth is, he would have killed for a cig.
Like plenty of light smokers, he’d deluded himself by thinking he could kick any time he chose. They are the smokers the tobacco companies like best. What they do not like us to see are the poor ravaged faces of people like snooker ace Hurricane Higgins — gaunt, fucked and forlorn — peering out from the tabloids. The real maintenance comes with the guy who thinks he’s not hooked. Smoking ULTRA LIGHTS and thinking the roof will never fall in.
It falls.
Porter didn’t really think he could ask for ten minutes to nip out for a fast drag. Next up was x-ray… And the technician tut-tutted… ‘This you do not want to hear.’
So Porter asked:
‘What? You see something on there?’
‘Not my job, mate. I just take the snaps, let the big boys deliver the damage.’
‘So you do see something? Oh Jesus, tell me. I can take it.’
And he remembered Burt Reynolds in The End saying exactly the same thing, then, when he’d heard the worst, howling like a baby. The technician, putting the x-ray in a huge envelope, said:
‘The porter will wheel you back.’
Porter Nash grabbed his wrist, said:
‘The porter? I’m Porter, tell me the news. I’m a cop, did you know that and believe me, I can give you shit till Sunday if I want.’
The technician looked around, then whispered:
‘Do you smoke?’
Oh God, it was true. The dreaded messenger was banging on the gates. Porter felt the air go out of whatever remained of his black lungs and the guy said:
‘Reason I ask is, you can slide in the back there, grab a drag and I’ll keep the door closed.’
PorterNash wanted to giggle, he felt hysteria rising. Smoking his cigare
tte and trying to get his mind in gear, he focused on a poem by Jack Mulveen he’d memorised one quiet afternoon. How the hell did it go? The title was ‘The Coffin Maker’s House’.
He could recall the first verse.
A creaking dilapidated sign of carved wood
Swung where a rusted steel swivel stood
A sway of Gothic letters whispering
‘John Green, Coffin Maker, Est. 1919.’
The technician shouted:
‘Yo, Officer, they want you.’
Ask not for whom the bloody bell tolls. He finished the cig and prayed it hadn’t finished him. The porter wheeled him back upstairs and they got him a bed. He was reattached to all the tubes and the nurse asked:
‘Like a cup of tea, love?’
She was black with huge luminous eyes and he thought of Falls, wondering if she knew of his plight. No sign of Roberts or Brant or indeed any cop.
He answered:
‘I’d really appreciate that.’
She stared at him and he said:
‘What?’
‘You have lovely manners.’
What she thought was:
Fag.
When the painkillers kicked in, Porter couldn’t believe the ease. He remembered Arnie’s line in Predator:
You lose it here, you are in a world of hurt.
He began to feel sleepy, and when the tea arrived he was already dozing. A nurse came and said cheerfully:
‘Mr Nash, we need some more blood.’
‘You’re kidding. I like, gave pints already, what’s the deal?
‘We need to keep an eye on your blood sugar.’
He didn’t know what this meant but didn’t ask for fear she’d tell him, so he said:
‘My name is Porter Nash.’
She began to do shit to his arm and said:
‘Impressive name.’
As she drew the blood, she was humming. There are few things as annoying as that, except for Muzak, and the worst bit is you start to try and identify the goddamn tune. He couldn’t, said:
‘I give up.’
