by Ken Bruen
Was it for him or Meyer, or both, or fuck? No big leap of detection to deduce, it was from The Umpire. Roberts would ask, if he’d been told: ‘How do you know it was him? Mebbe kids took it from the cemetery, decided to wind you up.’
Then Brant would pause, look crestfallen, humbly take his hand from behind his back, and dah-dah! A cricket ball. Say: ‘’Cos this was nestling smack in the centre. Deduce that, ya prick.’
‘That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons even death may die.’ HP Lovecraft, The Necronomicon
How the Umpire giggled as he laid the wreath at Brant’s door. He’d had to bite down on his hand to stop, lest he be heard.
The Euro-hit from a few years back, ‘Hey Magdalene’, was jammed in his head and he hummed with forced repetition. Had he known the wild abandon the ordained had danced with in hordes on Ibiza to this song, he might have taken pause.
Deliriously oblivious to past trends, he hummed as if he meant it. He couldn’t believe the rush it was to tease, torment and outright taunt the police. When the cricket mob were done, he’d have to have a serious look at the Met. So much work, so little time.
He hummed on. Shannon felt so wired, he couldn’t stop walking. He saw sparks light up his steps and found himself in the middle of Westminster Bridge. On impulse, he threw the Marks amp; Spencer bag over. It contained the crossbow.
Then he decided to suddenly cross the road. Without pause, he walked out into the traffic and a 159 bus lifted him about six feet and he fell back onto the pavement. As if the bus had said: ‘Get back there, asshole.’
Passers-by gathered round, and a buzz of observations danced above him.
‘Did you see that?’
‘Walked right out in front of it.’
‘Pissed as a parrot.’
‘What a wanker.’
An ambulance was eventually called, but it got caught in the rush. Its siren wailed uselessly, but loud enough to irritate the shit out of the stalled motorists.
And speaking of wreaths
They buried Jacko Mary on a cold November morning long after A White Arrest was concluded. There was the grave-digger, Roberts and a shabby woman. When the coffin was down, she said: ‘Rough enough to die alone.’
‘You’re here.’
‘I’m not a friend. He owed me money’ Roberts tried to temper his anger. ‘Thought you might still get it, eh?’
‘’Ere, don’t be sarky. You must be that copper.’
Roberts looked round, said: ‘Yeah. Keep it down, OK?’
‘He liked you, he did.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yeah. Were he any good as a snitch, like?’
Roberts considered. Jacko Mary had cracked the ‘E’ case, sort of, but he said: ‘No.’
‘Didn’t fink so.’
As a cop, Roberts had to do lots of dodgy things, came with the territory. But this denial was to be one act he felt forever ashamed about.
At a squat in Coldharbour Lane, a woman was stirring. ‘Tony.’
She raised her voice. ‘Tony!’
‘What? What’s going on?’
‘Brew us a cup o’ tea, two sugars.’
‘Fock off.’
She got up and gave him a smack on the head with an old copy of the Big Issue. If she’d checked, Tricky was on the cover. He got up and moved over to the gas ring. Near tripped on a number nine club. The grip was worn, well used. The woman watched him as he tried to get it together to light the gas, said:
‘Jaysus, yer arse looks great in them Farahs.’
‘They’re a bit tight, cut into the crack of my hole.’
And he moved his right leg to demonstrate. She said: ‘Naw, I like ’em.’
‘D’ya think I’m sexy?’
‘Yeah, dead sexy.’
In Coldharbour Lane, Kevin had called a meet. He was dressed in combat gear, and wired to the moon. Doug and Fenton exchanged wary glances. Albert arrived late and got a bollocking.
‘What is it, Albert, yer getting tired of our crusade, that it?’
‘I had to sign on, Kev. I was up the DHSS.’
‘Yer head is up yer ass, is what. Time to get yer attention, fella. Time to get everybody’s attention.’
He threw three black-and-white photos on the coffee table, said: ‘We’re moving up.’
Albert felt his heart thump, tried: ‘Like another area?’
Kevin crossed to him, began to jab his chest with his fingers, jabbed hard, spitting: ‘No shithead, we’re staying put, no scum’s running me outta my manor. We’re gonna off three fucks at once.’
Fenton was on his feet: ‘What? C’mon Kevin, how the hell are we gonna pull that off?’
Kevin didn’t look at him, but continued to jab at his brother, said: ‘See these three, yeah in the photies, they’ve set up shop together. Got a co-op in Electric Avenue and that’s where we’re gonna take ’em.’
Doug sighed, asked:
‘And the three guys, they’re just gonna say, “Hey OK, we’ll come with youse — oh, nice rope.”’
Kevin’s eyes gleamed, his moment, said: ‘That’s it Douggie, we’ll do them in their gaff.’
A week later…
At the CA Club, Cora was gushing energetically. ‘But Penelope, are you sure you won’t let one of the boys pamper you?
‘No! Is there something you can’t grasp? Try this: N-O!’
‘Oh golly, we seem a trifle tense today. Perhaps a drinkipoos?’
‘Ah, for heaven’s sake!’ And she snapped to her feet, began to pace. Cora fussed on: ‘Your friend seemed keenish, I do believe she has a minor crush on our Jason.’
Penny glared at her, said: ‘Get bloody real!’
The door chimes went. Today they played ‘Uno Paloma Blanca’, it added to Penny’s bile. Cora said: ‘Excuse me lambikins, but I must see to that. Don’t you just die with those chimes?’
Cora lightly patted her frosted hair before answering the door. The hair was rigid and today resembled an off-kilter meringue mess. She opened the door.
Brant said: ‘Yo, Cora, how they hanging?’
A fraction later, she tried to slam it. He gave it a push, knocking her back inside. Falls followed behind, like the biblical pale rider. Cora tried for indignation: ‘How dare you? I trust you have a warrant?’
Brant stepped right up to her, said, ‘It’s bloody Maggie Johnson… I wondered where you’d legged it to. My, my, come up in the world, ’aven’t you? Here, constable, this is Maggie, the cheapest ride this side of the Elephant ’n’ Castle.’
Cora raised her voice. ‘Damn impertinence, you’ve overstepped your brief, sonny. We’re protected.’
Brant drew an almighty kick to Cora’s knee and she dropped like a stone. He hunkered down, tried unsuccessfully to grasp her hair, and settled for her neck, said, ‘What the fuck kind of shit you got in yer hair? Now listen up, don’t back-talk me, ever, or I’ll break yer nose… OK?’
She nodded. He caught her shoulder and hoisted her up, said: ‘Let’s hobble inside, see what’s cookin’.’
On seeing Penny, Falls nearly spoke, but settled for a look; one of pure malice. Brant pushed Cora into a chair, asked Penny:
‘Room number?’
‘It’s not numbers, it’s names.’
‘So gimme the bloody name.’
‘The Cherise Room, upstairs, first on the right.’
‘OK, now hop it.’
‘I can go?’
‘Yeah, fuck off.’
Cora wanted to shout abuse, to tear at Penny’s eyes, but Brant said: ‘Don’t ever think about it.’
When the door had closed, Brant turned to Falls, said, ‘Keep yer eyes on this cow. If she even twitches, give her a clout round the ear-hole.’
Fiona was over an orgasmic rainbow. Jason, between her legs working like a bastard. Moans and cries punctuated the seizures of her body. The door crashed open and Brant said:
‘Tasty.’
Jason turned his head, confusion, shock
, writ large. His brain whispered ‘husband’.
Fiona tried to sit up, pushed against Jason and grabbed for a sheet. Brant closed the door and leant against it, began to light a Weight as the pair fumbled on the bed.
He said, ‘Hey, don’t stop on my account.’
Eventually, Jason got his briefs on, and Fiona pulled the sheet up to her chin.
Brant smiled, then reached back to open the door. ‘Off yah go, cocker.’
As Jason edged past to get out, Brant gave him a hefty slap on the arse and shut the door behind him. He turned to Fiona. ‘Get dressed then.’
Fiona was trying to calm her roaring mind, said: ‘How can I, with you standing there?’
He gave a hearty laugh. ‘Jaysus, I’ve seen what you’ve got. Now move it or I’ll dress you.’
She did. Shame and bewilderment crowded down as she pulled her clothes on. Brant’s eyes never left her.
Then she said, ‘I’m ready.’
‘Whoo-kay, I’ll drive you home.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t wanna walk, Fiona. Not after the exertion you’ve been putting in. Naw, the motor’s outside.’
Fiona gave a last shot at comprehension. ‘You’re not taking me to my husband?’
‘What? naw, whatcha think I am, some kind of animal?’ Brant put Fiona in the front of a battered Volkswagen Golf, said to Falls:
‘You’ll be all right from here, there’s a tube down the road.’
Falls didn’t like any of this, said: ‘Shouldn’t I be along as a witness?’ He gave a snide chuckle, a dangerous sound. ‘Wise up, babe.’
She put her hand on the door, insisting. ‘I’m sorry, Sarge, but I feel I should…
He pushed her hand away, losing it a little.
‘Piss off, Falls, you’re drawing attention. Don’t ever do that to me.’
She backed off. He moved in close, anger leaking through his eyes. ‘You want to worry about something, Falls? Worry about paying me back.’
He slammed the door, causing Falls to shudder. Then he moved to the driver’s side, got in and slammed the door, burnt rubber leaving. Falls watched them go and gritted her teeth.
‘OK, I’ll pay you back you bastard, and BIG TIME.’
Brant looked at Fiona and winked.
She asked: ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Hey, relax, go along for the ride.’ A pause. ‘Whoops, sorry! As they say, you’ve been there, done that, and did you ever. That Jason, eh? For a half-wog, he was hung.’
If there was a reply, she didn’t have it, and tried to crawl way within herself. There wasn’t a place that far away. Brant pulled up on the Walworth Road, parked carelessly on a double yellow.
‘I thought Carter Street nick had closed?’
‘Tut-tut, restless girls get spanked. C’mon, get out.’
He escorted her to a transport caff near Marks amp; Spencers, pushed her inside, found a back table. The table was alight with dead chips, rasher rinds and toast crumbs. Brant seemed delighted, said: ‘If it’s not on the table, it’s not on the menu.’
‘It’s disgusting.’
‘You’d know.’
A waitress in her fifties came over. She’d obviously had disappointing news in her teens and wasn’t yet recovered. Her face seemed unfinished without a tired cigarette. She said:
‘Yeah?’
Brant knew the risk of towing Fiona round his own manor but it gave a kick.
He said: ‘Two sausages, egg, bacon, puddin’, and two rounds of buttered toast.’
He looked at Fiona.
‘You’ve got to be kiddin’.’
Brant smiled at the waitress, said, ‘She’ll have the same, and throw in a family pot of tea.’ As the waitress turned to go, he added, ‘The smile needs some work, OK?’
The waitress ignored him.
Fiona stared at him and asked, ‘You don’t seriously think I’ll eat that garbage?’
‘Oh you will, and like it.’
He didn’t move, but she felt the physical presence of him. It rolled across the table to taunt and threaten her.
He touched the once-white tablecloth.
‘Gingham would have worked.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘For the table; you know, a woman’s touch. I like the touch of a woman.’ He took out the Weights. ‘Do you?’
She shook her head and knew the ‘no smoking’ edict hadn’t penetrated here. The food came, and after the plates were set down, Brant asked, ‘Where’s that smile?’
But his attention was diverted as two people entered the caff. He recognised the Band Aids, and they clocked him. Turned right about and legged it. He thought, ‘Later,’ and pared a wedge of sausage, nodded to Fiona.
‘Eat.’
She tried.
He poured scalding tea into mugs, raised his, said: ‘Get that down yah, girl.’
She tasted it and nearly threw up. It was greasy, seemingly heavily sugared and tasted of tobacco. She put the mug down, said: ‘OK, you’ve had your fun.’
‘What? I’m having me grub, but no, I’ve not had me fun. Not yet.’
‘What is it you want, exactly?’
He took out a surprisingly clean handkerchief, dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth, said:
‘I’d like to be your suitor.’
Maybe my future starts right now. John Garfield: Voice-over, The Postman Always Rings Twice
As Falls prepared her shopping list, she fantasised being a Goth. Just for one outing. She couldn’t stand The Cure and, if that was music… yeah. But the gear, all those black dresses and the death white make-up. Ah, dream on…
They’d love it down the nick. She could just hear Brant’s war cry: ‘I could ride that.’
The man would get up on a cat. She was dressed for shopping. Reeboks (off white) Tracksuit (one white)
And a large carrier bag. Black. Daren’t be seen to ‘Accessorise’, very ungothic. She’d been reading an article headlined ‘SO, WHAT KIND OF SHOPPER ARE YOU?’
Retail analysts divide shoppers into six types, they use this information to attract the shoppers they want, and deter others. Supermarkets will tempt the Comfortable and Contented with displays of minor luxuries. Mainstream Mercenaries will be deterred by supermarkets offering either lack of choice, or too much.
Falls was a sucker for quizzes. Forever completing News of the World magazine questions like ‘What kind of lover are you?’
She read aloud the first three types of shopper:
1. Mainstream Merchant: The retailer’s least favourite group — low budget shoppers who buy only the cheapest goods on sale. Impervious to the siren-call of exotic foods.
2. Struggling Idealist: scrutinise every label for contents, buy only eco-sensitive soap powder. Ozone friendliness very important.
3. Self Indulgent: self-explanatory. Very welcome in supermarkets.
‘Mmmm,’ she thought. ‘Alas, that first rings a bell. Then, the final three:
4. Comfortable and Contented: favourite with the retailer because these happy bunnies like to reward themselves with that extra tin of tuna (‘Well, we do use a lot of it, and it is very healthy.’) Delia Smith is their icon.
5. Frenzied Coper: fastest shopper in the west. Knows what she wants and where to get it, homes in on target sections at speed. Will not even spot the most seductive gondola or special-offer basket.
6. Habit-Bound Die-Hard: frugal but loyal; the mostly male section. Meat and two veg man, spuds and sprouts only, never mange tout. Buys six days’ worth of food for?20. This (surprise, surprise) is the type the analysts have also dubbed the ‘Victor Meldrew.’
As she scanned No. 6, she thought, ‘Oh God, I’ll end up married to one of those.’
Crumpling the article, she threw it in the bin. On a T-shirt she’d seen once, the logo was: ‘When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.’
It seemed about right.
She strapped on her Walkman and was ready to roll, Sheryl Crow b
lasting loud.
At the entrance to the supermarket, she bought the Big Issue and the vendor said:
‘Have a good one.’
She’d tried.
A gaggle of girls brushed past her, nearly knocking her over. One of them petulantly crying: ‘Oh… ex-cuse me!’ in that tone. What John L Williams describes as an ‘Angela’, a particular drawl that upper-class junkies seem to have patented: One part frightfully, frightfully; two parts frightfully fucked up. The type who insist on slimline tonic as they swill buckets of gin.
Falls got a trolley and turned off her Walkman. The supermarket had a loop tape, the same song 100 times. Today it was U2 with ‘You’re So Cruel.’
Killer tune, but over and over.
Reach for them razor blades or mainline Valium.
Falls knew the very next track should be ‘The Fly.’
Sounds like Bauhaus on speed. But course, due to the bloody loop, it never gets there.
She headed for the frozen veg.
If he was a colour, he’d be beige
Past toiletries and disinfectants to see a kicking. A man was on the ground and three teenagers were putting the boot in. And kicking like they meant it. Steel caps on the toes flashed like treacherous zips of empty hope.
‘Oi!’ she roared.
Reaching for a tin (it was marrowfats) she lobbed it high and fast. It bounced off the first kid like whiplash. He dropped like a sack of thin flower, and the others legged it.
People were shouting and coming up behind her. She got to the man on the ground and saw he was in uniform. Security. Blood was pouring down his face. He said: ‘I showed them, eh?’ She smiled and helped him up. His brown hair was falling into his eyes and she clocked startling blue eyes, big as neon. She felt her heart lurch and reprimanded herself mentally: ‘Don’t be daft, it couldn’t be.’
She said: ‘We’d better get you seen to.’
‘Like a cat is it?’
As he stood up she saw he was just the right height, a hazy six foot, and that they’d look good together. A man came striding up, all shit, piss and wind: the manager. He barked: ‘What on earth is going on?’ and glanced at the teenager who was stirring and moaning. Falls said: ‘The apprentice thug there was apprehended by your security, at great physical cost.’
