by Ken Bruen
‘Christ, you’re well informed. What’s the matter with Porter Nash?’
Brant smiled. ‘His dance card’s not full.’
‘What?’
‘He’s a poofter, an arse bandit.’
Roberts took a nervous look round, said, ‘Jeez, sarge, keep it down.’
English graffiti
‘They’re Spaniards, they hate pillow-biters.’
They went quiet for a while, got some concentrated drink down, then Brant asked, ‘Any ideas on how to get Tommy Logan?’
‘Nothing feasible yet.’
‘We could shoot him.’
‘If it were anyone else but you, sergeant, I’d think that was a joke.’
Brant raised his hand, shouted, ‘Jose … food please … arriba … don’t worry, guv, I got the lingo covered and I think I’ll get to ride the waitress.’
Porter Nash was finishing up the Sunday papers. Reading about Peter Ackroyd, he noted:
‘There was only the game of living
and the reality of writing.’
‘Hmmmph,’ he said and substituted ‘policing’ for ‘living’ and ‘homosexuality’ for ‘writing’. Not bad but it would be somewhat awkward to slide into conversation. The phone rang.
He lifted the receiver, said, ‘Yes?’
‘Faggots aren’t welcome in Kennington.’
Nash said, ‘Thanking you for your interest.’
And hung up.
He stood up and stretched. He looked a little like Michael York with edge. He was tall with blond hair and that fresh-faced English look that’s often mistaken for weakness. Yet again he wondered why he had asked for a transfer. It wasn’t as if he expected some amazing tolerance in the south-east. But he’d been going stale and ceasing to care. Whatever else happened, he wanted to care.
Monday morning when he entered the canteen, it went completely quiet. Packed to capacity before the week’s mayhem began. He went to the counter and got a tea. They knew he knew the toilets of both sexes had been written on … saying:
SERGEANT PORTER NASH SUCKS ANY DICK
Even the tea lady knew. He avoided her eyes but unlike most of the ill-mannered buggers in there, he said, ‘please’ when he asked for things, and ‘thank you’ when he got them.
As he walked away, she said to the cashier. ‘Well, say what you like about him, he has great manners.’
‘They do, always.’
He walked back down the length of the canteen, then took a sip of tea, put the cup down. As he headed out, conversation began to buzz but he stopped, turned and said, ‘I’m not arguing the basic truth of the toilet graffiti.’ And then he raised his voice, ‘But I do take exception to the word any. Even I draw the line at Sergeant Brant.’
Then he was gone.
A moment later, huge applause erupted. By evening, not a trace of the graffiti remained. Later, when he and Falls had become friends, she asked, ‘Did you ever find out who wrote the graffiti?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Who?’
‘I did it myself.’
Falls would rarely be as impressed again.
Some friendships take a lot of work, others just develop, due to geography and environment. Then, now and again, you get the instant variety.
Even before they got to know each other, the friendship was cemented. Not love at first sight, but out of the same stable. Thus it was for Falls and Porter Nash. A near riot was sizzling in the DSS at the Elephant. Nash and Falls took the call.
Outside the station, he asked, ‘You want to drive?’
‘You’re the rank, I’ll follow orders.’
He could see the spirit in her eyes. He said, ‘I order myself to drive.’ She liked that.
As he drove, he felt her examination, asked, ‘See anything you like?’
‘I was thinking you got a rough reception.’
‘Honest in its way.’
‘Is that how you see it?’
‘You want me to call them rednecks and bigots?’
‘I do.’
He considered, then, ‘That’s because you’re black.’
It hung there till she said, ‘As I’m painted.’
‘Touche.’
Approaching the DSS, she asked, ‘How are you going to tackle this?’
‘Badly.’
‘Uh-uh, should we ask for back-up?’
‘We should get guns but what the hell, let’s make it up as we go along.’
They could hear the disturbance and it sounded bad. He said, ‘Of course there’s always the master plan.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Run.’
‘That’s my favourite.’
Nash strode into the middle of the DSS office. Four or five different fights were happening on the left. Staff were cowering behind protective glass. A chair bounced off it. Falls tried to keep up with Nash. He stopped in the centre, roared, ‘Who wants money-now?’
A chorus of:
‘What?’
‘Eh?’
‘Who’s ’e then?’
‘Wanker!’
He continued: ‘Those who want their money, please gather to the right; those wishing to fight, please await the riot police.’
A stocky figure emerged from the crowd, asked, ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m the man giving the money.’
People began to move to the right and Nash said to Falls, ‘Get the staff moving.’
She did.
The stocky guy marched up to Nash, asked, ‘Wotcha gonna do tomorrow?’
‘Eh?’
‘When I start another fight, will you give me more money.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Les.’
Nash moved closer, said quietly, ‘Can I give you fifty quid?’
‘You what?’
‘Tomorrow, it won’t be my problem but I need to look good today … know what I mean?’
Les considered, then, ‘Is that fifty on top of my dole?’
‘Of course.’
‘OK.’
‘Let’s step outside, keep it discreet.’
Falls watched the two men leave. They seemed almost friendly. With Les out, the riot fizzled away. The DSS manager approached, said ‘Thank you, it could have turned nasty.’
Falls nodded, and the manager, anxious to please, asked, ‘Any suggestion on how to proceed now?’
‘Yes, try treating them with a little respect.’
She went to find Nash. He was sitting in the car, no sign of Les.
She asked, ‘Where did he go?’
‘To pastures greener … or Peckham.’
Then she saw his knuckles were raw and bleeding and he said, ‘Hands-on policing.’
‘Oh.’
He moved to the passenger seat, asked, ‘Will you drive?’
She did.
No words for a while, then she said, ‘I have a question.’
‘OK.’
‘What is it with Barbara Streisand and you lot?’
He laughed out loud, said, ‘Only if you answer a question too.’
‘Sure.’
‘What is it with the baseball caps?’
Making amends
McDonald was anxious. He’d yet to see Sarah and he was fearful of her reaction. He wasn’t sure if:
A She’d physically attack him,
B She’d verbally attack him,
C A and B.
Or, worse, report him.
He was playing these various scenes when she appeared in the corridor and … she was smiling! Jeez, he thought, has she a knife? His experience linked women’s smiles to violence.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Oh right … listen, about last night … I… She waved him quiet, said, ‘I’m the one who needs to apologise. I blacked out after the pub, you must have taken me home.’
‘Ahm … yeah … I did … you don’t remember?’
‘I am mortified. Please let me make it up to you.’
‘What?’
; ‘Dinner at my place, Friday … eight o’ clock … do you eat curry?’
‘Curry … sure, that’s great … I’ll bring some wine.’
She gave a shy smile, ‘Just mineral water for me. I want to remember this night.’
‘Sparkling?’
‘I’m lit up already.’
What about the hotel where I was asked, do I want the double bed or the comfortable bed? I thought, ‘This is a quiz I am not up to.’ (Janet Street-Porter)
Brant stirred, thought, oh no, not again.
But OK … he wasn’t dying. Went to stretch and his left hand touched a face.
‘Jesus!’ he roared, sitting straight up.
Took a quick look:
A woman … thank God.
Then he looked again: the Spanish woman.
Yahoo, he’ d scored … way to go, Brant!
For one horrible moment a movie flashed through his head. Jane Fonda comes out of a blackout to find a corpse beside her.
If he could just remember her name. Weren’t all these Spanish women called the same?
His hangover, though not a killer, was jamming his mental faculties. Isabella! Yeah, didn’t they even have a queen with the name?
He went to get some tea and clothes. Took another peek at her, not bad at all. Made the tea and dry swallowed aspirin.
Rough.
Got some toast done then took it back to the bedroom. Thought it was a shame to wake her, because then she’d start to talk. Touched her arm, said, ‘Isabella?’
No movement.
Poked harder.
‘Que?’
‘Buenos tardes, Isabella.’
She took a moment to focus, landed, asked, ‘Que es Isabella … who is this … is evening?’
‘No, it’s morning.’
She sat up, none of the modest grabbing for sheets.
Let it show.
‘You said, Buenos tardes.’
‘It’s kinda all I got.’
She tasted the tea, went, ‘Caramba!’
And leapt out of bed, said, ‘This is no good, I’ll make us Spanish coffee.’
‘But I don’t have anything from Spain.’
She put her hands on her hips, asked, ‘And what am I?’
‘Oh … right.’
She disappeared into the kitchen with a shopping bag. Time on, she’s back with coffee and baked or heated toast-sorta. Brant tasted the coffee, said, ‘It tastes like … vanilla…
‘Bueno, now eat, and then you’ll make fiery love to your woman.’
Brant was less sure about the last bit. Mornings were not a passionate time for him. He asked, ‘So what, you carry mini meals around with you just in case?’
‘It’s my shopping and I didn’t get home.’
He thought the coffee wasn’t half bad. Could vanilla taste bitter? This did.
Took some toast and said, ‘I never ate sweet toast, like it’s got edge.’
‘Now we make love.’
He stood up, time to take charge.
Went and got her a T-shirt, said, ‘You go and shower, I’ve got to go to work.’
She put on the T-shirt and it reached her knees. On its front were the words:
I am a natural blond
Please talk slowly
It amused him all over again. He gave her a slap on the arse, said, ‘Let’s move it, toots.’
As he headed for work, she said, ‘My name is Concheta.’
For one bizarre moment, he thought she said ‘Cochise’.
He said nothing and she added, ‘Those close to me call me Cheta.’
‘OK.’
‘Please, one time, say it.’
‘What … oh … all right … Cheta.’
‘A muy buena, you are mucho simpatico.’
He looked at his watch, said, ‘I’m bloody late is what I am.’
That evening, Brant was saying to Roberts, ‘I swear, guv, she stayed the night.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Straight up, guv-and mad for it. Got to go.’
Roberts was impressed and envious, said, ‘You always land on yer feet.’
Brant gave his lucky smile, answered, ‘Always.’
Outside the station, the rain was lashing down. To Brant’s amazement, he saw two white teenagers about to break into his Volvo. If not exactly broad daylight, it was brazen.
‘Oi!’ he shouted and came running.
Grabbed one by the neck. A long steel bar slipped from the kid’s hands, clattered on the kerb. Brant was about to launch forth when an incredible pain wound up his insides, sweat poured down his face.
He dropped to one knee, near doubled in agony.
The first kid asked, ‘What’s with ’im?’
The other kid, marvelling at their deliverance, said, ‘Bugger’s sick he is.’
Brant pushed out his left hand to grab the car for support.
The second kid said, ‘Jeez, look at the watch, it’s a Tag.’
‘What?’
‘Take the bleeding thing.’
The first kid was dubious, ‘Is it a fake?’
Through his pain, Brant tried to say yes but it emerged as a grunt. The second kid moved forward, grabbed Brant’s wrist and took the watch, said, ‘Let’s go … quick.’ Brant lay on the pavement, rain caressing his face.
Brant threw up and that made him a little better. He managed to get to his feet and, after four attempts, he got the door open. Fell in behind the wheel and let his head rest. Every inch of him was soaked. He almost passed out, then came to. Weak as a kitten but better. Put the car in gear and drove slowly home.
He didn’t intend reporting this. Him, mugged by kids. He’d lose his rep. The Tag he’d get back, by Christ, see if he didn’t. But his rep, he couldn’t jeopardise that. Like luck it was near impossible to recapture. At home he fell on the bed, damp clothes an’ all and slept for ten hours.
Ice cream
Roberts, as per deal, bought a copy of the Big Issue every week. His vendor knew he was a cop and seemed unfazed. He was eating from a tub of Haagen Dazs ice-cream.
Roberts said, ‘Bit cold for it, isn’t it?’
The vendor moved aside, said, ‘Look.’
Behind him was a large box with maybe another dozen tubs.
Roberts asked, ‘You also sell ice-cream?’
The vendor laughed, ‘A while ago a Daimler pulled up at the kerb. The window rolls down and a woman said, “You there, come here”.’
He mimicked the posh to perfection, continued, ‘I thought it was Liz, come to give me an MBE.’
Roberts laughed.
‘Ere, I’m serious, guv … they gave one to a traffic warden last year. So, I goes over, took me cap off and this woman, leans out, asks, “Are you one of the homeless chappies?” ’
‘I said, we sell the Big Issue for the homeless, yes Ma’am.
‘She says, “Righty ho, my driver has something for you people.” Then she tapped the glass partition for the driver and shuts the window on me.
‘The driver gets out and he’s in all the gear, peaked cap and boots. Like a nazi!’
The vendor stopped and sold two copies to two girls and gave them a tub each. They were delighted.
He winked at Roberts, said, ‘Like loyalty cards, a little bonus for my regulars. Any road, the nazi opens the boot and takes out the ice-cream. I asked, “What am I supposed to do with that?” He gave me the look, said, “Try eating it”.’
The vendor took another taste, said, ‘It’s not bad if you put a touch o’ lager in it.’
Roberts took out his change, had only a fiver … The vendor said, ‘We take all the major credit cards.’
Roberts gave him the five, got change, then waited a moment … no tub. Roberts said, ‘Well, see you next week.’
Dejected, he was walking away when the vendor shouted, ‘Oi, you forgot yer Haagen Dazs.’
‘The only actress on the planet who can play a woman whose child has been killed by wild Australian dogs and can
actually have you rooting for the dingoes.’ (Joe Queenan on Meryl Streep)
Falls smiled as she recalled Ryan’s reaction to A Cry In The Dark when she put on the video.
They’d planned an evening at home, her home, where they’d:
Make love
Eat
Make love
Watch a video.
He cried, ‘Oh Jesus, no, not Streep again. C’mon darlin’, I watched Out Of Africa with you, but I swear, I can’t go another session with her.’
They watched The Untouchables instead.
She’d been seeing Ryan for two weeks, twice he’d stayed over. On the video nights. Little did he realise, she’d planned on the whole Streep catalogue. Most days she felt:
Queasy
Exhilarated
Nervous
Giddy
Had no appetite
Phone fixated.
And realising, said, ‘Oh shit, I love him.’
She was acting like a schoolgirl, trying out his name, projecting babies, wanting to talk about him incessantly. Tried to burst her own balloon with:
He’s married,
Kids,
Said he won’t leave.
But no, that balloon of hope just climbed on up there.
He’d said, ‘You look good in red.’ Changed her whole wardrobe. Oh yeah.
She turned on the telly, got local news, London Tonight.
The top story was:
RETURN OF THE CLAPHAM RAPIST
She felt dizzy. Another attack had taken place, the details were the same: a black woman, a knife, an alleyway.
‘It can’t be!’ she cried.
A local councillor followed demanding an inquiry into police methods. And then he asked, ‘Who was the man killed in a police decoy operation?’
The phone rang. She picked it up, heard, ‘You and McDonald in the Super’s office at nine sharp.’
‘Yes, sir.’
She rang Brant. He sounded groggy and she told him the news. He didn’t reply for a moment, then, ‘It’s a copycat.’
‘But what about the guy who attacked me?’
Deep intake of breath and he snarled back, ‘When a guy jumps you in a dark alley, and puts a knife to yer throat, he’s up to no good, believe me.’
