The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (28 page)

‘Surg and chicken soup.’ Surg as in surgical spirits. The infamous White Lady of south-east London drinking schools. He could only hope to fuck that the guy was kidding.

When Roberts returned, he collided with a young guy. There was a moment it hung there, then Roberts said, ‘Excuse me.’ And Collie nodded.

The fighters emerged to a mix of cheers, catcalls, whistles. Roberts said, ‘The big guy, he’s from Liverpool and evens favourite. The other is a London boy.’

Both men were bare-chested, wearing only shorts and trainers. No frills. The London boy was runtish but he had a wiry look. In contrast, the Liverpudlian was a brick shit-house. His muscles had muscle and he exuded confidence.

Roberts said, ‘Best get yer wager on.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re not going to have a go.’

‘Oh ... right ... ahm.’

‘See the guy in the black suit? He’s the bookie.’

‘OK ... how much ... I mean ... would five be enough?’

Roberts scoffed, ‘Don’t be so Scottish ... have a decent go. I’ve already dun Liverpool, so you take “the boy”.’

‘But he’s the underdog.’

‘All the better. Hurry up, now.’

A bell sounded and the bout began. Each round was approximately five minutes but it wasn’t rigid – the third round lasted ten.

McDonald had grown up in Glasgow and as a copper he was accustomed to violence. But this spectacle sickened him. It was the crunch of bare knuckles on bone. Real and stereophonic. He asked, ‘What are the rules?’

‘There aren’t ... sometimes biting isn’t allowed.’

‘
Sometimes
?’

‘Shut up and watch ... I think your boy’s in trouble.’

He was.

Bleeding from his eye and mouth, he looked for escape. None available.

Then all of a sudden he seemed to be electric, and headbutted Lou, who staggered back. Like a terrier, the boy went after him, and with three blows to the head, Lou was down.

The boy walked round him then kicked him in the back of the head.

All she wrote.

McDonald said, ‘I won!’

Roberts said, ‘
We
won.’

‘I thought you backed the favourite?’

‘Yeah ... for
us
. Like you did ... for
us
. Hurry up before yer bookie legs it.’

When McDonald collected his winnings he half considered legging it himself. Reluctantly, he handed a wedge to Roberts who said, ‘Lucky I made you get a bet on eh?’

‘Yeah ... lucky.’

In the pub, Roberts said, ‘Get ’em in, lad, nobody likes a tight-fisted winner. I’ll have a brandy.’

When McDonald had followed the Morse series on TV, he’d felt it was unreal. Now he was reconsidering. Roberts took his drink and asked, ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

‘Snakebite.’

‘Eh?’

‘It’s lager and white cider.’

Time to grow up son ... get us a couple of scotches, eh?’

W
HEN FALLS WAS DISCHARGED
from hospital, it was AHA – not the Scandinavian pop group, but Against Hospital Advice. Like she could care.

The doctor said, ‘Would you consider counselling?’

‘Which would do what for me exactly?’

‘Ahm ... help you get over your ... trauma.’

‘I lost my baby, it’s not a trauma ... and no, I don’t want to “get over” that. And I don’t expect to.’

The doctor, flustered, said, ‘I’ve taken the liberty of prescribing some medication ... I ...

‘No thanks.’

‘Might I suggest you reconsider?’

‘No.’

Falls took a cab home. The driver droned on about a range of topics. She neither heard nor answered him as they drove along Balham High Road. She said, ‘Here ... drop me here.’

The driver saw the off licence and thought
Uh-oh
, said: ‘Mother’s little helper, eh?’

The words lashed her but she managed to keep control and asked, ‘How much?’ She fumbled a rush of coins and pushed them at him.

Like his brethren, he wasn’t to be hurried. ‘You’ve given me too much, darlin’.’

‘Alas, the same can’t be said for you.’

But he’d triggered something and she bought a bottle of gin. The sales assistant asked, ‘A mixer?’

‘No thanks.’

She thought gin ’n’ pain would mix enough. Her father hadn’t drank gin. He drank everything else, including water from the toilet bowl, but alcoholically maintained: ‘Gin makes me ill’.

He drank for no reason.

She had a reason.

Perhaps she’d uncovered a dual motive.

Entering her home was nigh unbearable. In her wardrobe were the baby things. She got a cup from the kitchen, sat, uncapped the bottle and poured. Said: ‘Here’s to Po,’ and drank.

Two hours later she put the baby stuff in the garbage.

The following morning she was as sick as a dog, but she dragged herself to the shower and readied her energies, knowing she was going to need them.

Arriving at the station, the desk sergeant exclaimed, ‘Good God!’ Then tried for composure. What was he to offer – sympathy, encouragement ... what? He did the procedural thing – he passed the buck. ‘I’ll let the Super know you’re here ... ahm ... take a seat.’

Like Joe Public.

Various colleagues passed and seemed embarrassed. No one knew how to respond.

The Sergeant said, ‘The Super will see you now.’ He gave a dog smile as if he’d done a good turn. She felt her stomach somersault.

She wasn’t invited to sit by the Super. He asked, ‘How are you doing?’

‘Not too bad, sir, fit for duty.’

He frowned, looked down at his hands, then, ‘Perhaps it would be best if you took some time ... the criminals will still be here, eh?’

He gave a police manual laugh. This has absolutely no relation to humour. Rather, it’s the signal for shafting. Falls waited and eventually he said, ‘Take a month, eh? Catch up on the ironing.’

Even he realised this was hardly PC, but she answered, ‘Thank you, sir, but I’d like to get back.’

Now he cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible ... there may be an enquiry.’

Falls was astonished. ‘Why?’

‘There’s a question of ... recklessness ... Going after a villain alone ... the powers that be ... (here he paused to let her know:
hey, this is not
my
idea
), ‘frown on ... mavericks.’

She was going to argue but knew it was useless.

He said, ‘You’re suspended on half-pay pending an enquiry.’

She considered for only a moment, then said, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I resign.’

‘I don’t think ...

She got out her warrant card, laid it on the desk and turned to go.

He blustered, ‘I’m not quite through WPC.’

And she gave a tiny smile. ‘But I am ... all through.’

Twenty minutes later she was home with a fresh bottle of gin.

No mixer.

F
ENTON COULD HEAR CELINE
Dion with ‘You Are The Reason’ and wasn’t sure was it real or a memory.

He stared intently at the almost empty tequila bottle. No worm at the bottom.

The Alien had followed Stella into the poor part of town. At least he thought it was her. He’d yet to catch up on her, see her full face. She was always an elusive ten yards away. Gradually, he’d been lured into the shanty area. All the evidence of dire poverty escaped him. Spotting the sign ‘CANTINA’, he’d stumbled into a shack. Now he shouted to the bartender, ‘Where’s my worm?’

‘Que?’

‘I can’t see him! Jesus ... unless I ate the fucker ... Can yah eat them?’

The barman shrugged his shoulders. He was about to close as the wind was up and howling. The Alien had a mess of dollars before him. The barman pocketed them, shoved a bottle of mescal into Fenton’s arms then got him outside. ‘Go, Senor, the hurricane ees here.’

‘Fuck off.’

Fenton slumped down against the shack, opened the mescal, drank deep and shuddered. Then he closed his eyes.

•        •        •

When the hurricane hit, the poorer areas took the brunt.

The tourist hotels, resort and apartments escaped.

Down in the shanty the Cantina was practically demolished.

It took a long time for the rescue teams to find Fenton, and by the time they got him to hospital, it was too late to save his legs.

B
RANT WAS FINISHING HIS
first doughnut. A second, heavily sugared, sat expectant.

Nancy said, ‘I hate to rush you.’

‘You won’t, don’t worry.’

She looked at her watch. ‘You wouldn’t want to be late.’

He bit into the remaining cake and Nancy added, ‘You’d slide right into the NYPD.’

‘Think so?’

Nervously, she produced a package. ‘It’s for you.’

‘A present?’

‘Well, to remind you of your trip.’

‘This travel lark is a blast – people keep giving me stuff.’

Without finesse, he tore open the package. Inside was a Macys tag and a hat. He said, ‘It’s a hat.’

‘Like Popeye Doyle.’

‘Who?’

‘In the movie “French Connection”.’

Then she saw him laughing and she blustered, ‘I didn’t know what you’d wear – a fedora, a Trilby, a derby ...?’

‘But you knew I’d wear it well.’

For one awful moment she thought he was going to sing.

He stood up, said, ‘I hate to rush you.’

As they drove to Kennedy, she didn’t know whether she would be relieved or sad at his going.

Brant thought: ‘The hat’ll be a nice surprise for Roberts ...

A room had been set aside for the transfer of the prisoner. As Brant and Nancy waited, he signed the ton of paperwork. Then he took out his Weights and checked the wall. Yup, right there: SMOKE FREE ZONE.

He lit up. Nancy ignored him.

As he fingered the Zippo, he suddenly acted on impulse, said, ‘Here, it was my Dad’s.’

Nancy looked at the offered lighter, said, ‘Oh, I couldn’t.’

‘OK.’ And he put it back in his pocket.

The door opened and Josie was let through. In chains. A belt round her waist joined manacles from her wrists to her ankles. Naturally, it impeded movement and she had to shuffle pigeon-toed. Four guards with her. Brant said, ‘For fucksake!’

Josie gave a rueful smile, said, ‘I’ll never get through the metal detector.’

As the handover was done, all the chains were removed and then a new long handcuff was placed on her right wrist, the other cuff offered to Brant.

Before he could respond, Nancy said, ‘It’s regulations.’

‘It’s bloody nonsense.’

But he took the cuff. Josie said, ‘Like we’re engaged.’

Nancy said, ‘We accompany you to the aircraft, then it’s all your show.’

They were boarded before the other passengers and right at the rear of the plane. Two rows ahead would be kept empty.

Nancy said, ‘You better not smoke.’

‘Me?’

The guards left and Nancy had a word with the Chief Steward, then she stood before Brant. ‘I guess it’s been fun.’

‘Don’t let me keep you, D’Agostino.’

She turned and was half way down the aisle when he shouted, ‘Yer a good un, Nance.’

Not sure what that meant, she decided it was complimentary, and hugged it thus.

Josie asked, ‘Did yah ride her?’

‘Watch yer lip.’

Brant reached over, unlocked the cuffs. She massaged her wrist. ‘Thanks.’

‘Any messin’, I’ll break yer nose, OK?’

Josie gave him a long look. ‘I could give you a blow job.’

He laughed in spite of himself. What was amazing to him was she was kind of likable. In a twisted, selfish fashion, he felt almost protective. He tried to dissipate that with: ‘You’ll get some reception in prison – you being a police killer.’

She nodded. ‘Least I’ll get a decent cup o’ tea.’

‘You’ll get a hell of a lot more than tea, me girl.’

She looked out the window. ‘I’m afraid.’

‘You have good reason, lass.’

‘No, I mean ... of flying.’

Brant nearly laughed again, said

‘Jaysus, you’d be better off if we crashed.’

‘Can I hold yer hand for take-off?’

Brant shook his head and then she left a piece of paper on his knee. He asked, ‘What?’ And uncrumbled it to find a five dollar bill. Soiled, worn, torn, but hanging in there.

She said, ‘I’ll buy the drinks.’

‘How did you hide it?’

She gave a slow smile. ‘Them yanks isn’t all they’re cracked up to be.’

As the plane took off, he saw the sweat on her forehead. He placed his hand on hers and she nodded.

Once airborne, the hostess asked, ‘Like a drink? It has to be a soft one for your ... companion.’

‘A Coke for her and two large Bacardis.’

‘Ahm ...

Brant stared at her, defying her to question him. She let it go. Josie said nothing.

When the drinks came, he measured them evenly and indicated Josie to take one. She said, ‘I love rum ’n’ coke.’

‘Well drink it then.’

She did.

The in-flight movie commenced and Josie said, ‘I love the pictures.’

C
OLLIE WATCHED THE FUNERAL
with a sense of awe. All the taxi drivers of south-east London had turned out for their murdered colleague. Each cab had a black ribbon tied to its antennae and they fluttered in the light breeze.

‘
I
caused this. They’re here cos of
me
.’

It was a heady sensation. Collie had figured he needed a dry run with the gun, to see if he had the balls. He did.

Kept it lethal and simple. Hailed a cab at The Oval, blew the guy’s head off at Stockwell. Then walked away. He couldn’t believe the rush. He hadn’t touched the takings – he was a professional, not a bloody thief.

The few days previous, he’d done his Brant research. All that required was hanging in the cop pubs. To say they were loose tongued was to put it mildly – numerous times he heard of Brant travelling home with a woman. Next he rang the station and, in his best TV voice said, ‘This is Chief Inspector Ryan of Serious Crimes at the Yard. We need the assistance of Sergeant Brant.’

Mention of the Yard did all the work. He was told the time and terminal of arrival. Now, on the day, he put on a black suit and dog collar, checked himself in the mirror and said, ‘Reverend ...? You looking at me?’