by Ken Bruen
And he looked it.
The past
Next morning, Brant was sick as forty pigs. That’s real bad. Dragging himself to the shower he swore, ‘Never again.’
Yeah. Fragments of the night returned.
How when the pub closed, that’s when they got hungry.
Off to the Chinese where they drank bamboo wine … Could that be right?
Leaning against the toilet bowl, Brant begged, ‘Please let me not have had the curry.’
As he threw up, he thought, ‘Damn, I had the curry.’
Afterwards, they’d come back to Brant’s place and played neo-whine songs. All the great torches. Barbara Streisand, ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers’; Celine Dion, ‘Theme from Titanic’; Bonnie Tyler, ‘Lost in France’; Meatloaf, ‘Two Outta Three Ain’t Bad’.
And if the debris in his living room was any indication, they’d drank:
Beer,
More vodka
and
Cooking sherry.
‘Jaysus … please, not cooking sherry.’
Threw up again. Yup, the sherry.
Got in the shower and blitzkreiged.
Coming out he felt marginally better. Then to the living room, muttered, ‘Fuck,’ as he surveyed the carnage. How many cigarettes, exactly, had he smoked? Shuddered to think, and he needed one now. Took a stubbie from an ashtray, lit up.
Rough.
Once he got past the coughing jag, the bile and nausea bit, it wasn’t too bad. Said aloud, ‘Hey, it’s not as if I had to have a drink.’
Got his clothes on and checked out the mirror. Mmmm … least he hadn’t slept in them. Still, looked like somebody slept on him.
In the kitchen, made the coffee, two heaped spoons. Jolt himself into the day. Added a ton of sugar and then surveyed it, said, ‘I am not, repeat not, drinking that shit,’ and slung it down the sink. Then he physically shook himself and left.
A few minutes later he was back, walked across the room, picked up an open vodka bottle, chugged the final hit. Waited.
It stayed down.
He said, ‘Now yer cookin.’
And went to fight the day.
At the station, the duty sergeant said, ‘A woman called you.’
‘Called me what?’
‘Said she was yer wife.’
Jesus!
When Brant didn’t say anything, the uniformed sergeant added, ‘Wanted yer number but of course I said I couldn’t do that. So she gave me her number.’
Passed the piece of paper to Brant, then said, ‘I didn’t know you had a wife.’
‘I don’t.’ Not any more.
Mary had left him over ten years ago. Hadn’t heard a dicky-bird since.
Called the number and when a woman answered, said, ‘It’s Brant.’
‘Oh Tom, thank you for calling me back, I wasn’t sure you would.’
‘What do you want?’
‘No hellos or how are you?’
‘You rang to see how I am?’
‘Well, not completely but…
‘So get on with it.’
He heard the click of a lighter, the inhale of smoke, nearly said, ‘You smoke?’ But then, what was it to him? She could mainline heroin, what did he care?
Then:
‘My husband, Paul … I married again five years ago … he’s in trouble.’
‘What kind?’
‘He was accused of shoplifting at M amp;S, at their flagship store.’
‘Their what?’
‘The big one at Marble Arch.’
‘What did he nick?’
‘Oh Tom, he didn’t … the store detective stopped him outside, said he didn’t pay for a tin of beans. He’d over thirty pounds of shopping. Would he steal a tin?’
‘Would he?’
‘Course not. Can you help?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Thank you Tom, I’ve been so worried.’
‘What’s the name?’
‘Silly me, it’s Watson, he’s the security officer on food.’
‘Your name, your married name.’
‘Oh.’
‘It would be useful if I had your husband’s name.’
‘Johnson … Paul Johnson, he’s… Brant hung up.
What he most wanted to know was why he was so reluctant to use the word ‘husband’.
Kebabed
Spiro the Snitch was having a bad morning. The VAT crew had been on the phone and promised a visit soon. Plus the health inspectors he’d managed to twice defer. But, he knew he couldn’t do that indefinitely. He’d have to get Brant to do it for him.
Aloud he said, ‘Mallakas’-or seeing as he was born and reared in Shepherd’s Bush, he could have simply said, ‘Wankers’.
He had a few words of Greek but rationed them carefully. He was attempting to clean the spit for the kebab meat. Standing vertical, usually it was shrouded in meat and he carved accordingly. Now, it was bare and red hot. It gleamed with heat and hygiene. About to turn if off when there was a loud knock. A voice said, ‘Police.’
‘Now what?’ he fumed as he went to get it.
Tommy Logan and two of his men.
Spiro said, ‘You’re not police.’
‘We lied.’
With a dismal record in the Eurovision, the Greeks were familiar with the winners. Spiro stared at Tommy, asked, ‘Are you…?’
‘Trouble? Yes I am, let’s take it inside.’
They bundled Spiro back into the taverna.
Tommy said, ‘Spring cleaning or should that be spit cleaning?’
Spiro said, ‘I’ll turn it off and perhaps I can get you gentlemen a drink.’
‘No, leave it on, gives the room a cosy atmosphere.’
Tommy stared at Spiro, said, ‘Let’s do this quick and easy. You’ve been telling tales to the Old Bill, haven’t you? No lies or I’ll make you lick the spit.’
Spiro was close to emptying his bowels, and yet his mind registered how awful a dye job Tommy had.
He put out his hands in the universal plea of surrender, said, ‘On my mother’s grave, I didn’t.’
Tommy grabbed Spiro’s hands, said, ‘Hold him.’
The men did, then dragged Spiro over to the spit. Tommy said, ‘You’re a hands-on kind of guy, I can tell.’ And slapped Spiro’s hands to the hot metal.
His screams were ferocious and Tommy screamed right along with him. Then he let go and Spiro fell to the floor, whimpering.
Tommy said, ‘Next it’s your tongue, then yer dick. We’ll kebab till the early hours. Or would you prefer to talk?
He talked. Tommy listened, then said, ‘Spiro … it is Spiro, am I right?’
Nod.
‘Do you know me?’
Shake.
‘So why are you making trouble? What should I do now? Do you feel up to a solid beating?’
‘No … please…
‘OK.’
Spiro was too terrified to hope. Then Tommy said, ‘You’ve cost me an arm and a leg so let’s break one of each … you choose.’
It got a bit messy and they had to break both arms and his left leg.
Tommy said, ‘You’ve a fine pair of lungs on yah.’
As they were leaving, Tommy asked one of his men, ‘You eat that Greek food?’
‘Me … naw, I like Chinese.’
Tommy shook his head, said, ‘Irish stew is hard to top … Give the polliss a call, say their Greek takeaway is ready.’
Shopping
Brant went to ‘records’, gave Shelley his best smile. She wasn’t buying, least not right away, said, ‘You want something?’
‘To take you dancing.’
‘Yeah … sure.’
‘Honest, the Galtimore on a Saturday night, all of Ireland and oceans of sweat and porter.’
‘How could a girl resist … whatcha want?’
‘A security guard with Marks and Spencer, name of Watson. He’s at their flagship. You know what that is?’
‘Sure, Marble Arch.�
�
‘Jeez, everyone knows it, eh?’
‘Do you want the straight CV, or do I dig?’
‘Dig please.’
While he was waiting he lit a cigarette. Shelley looked at the profusion of NO SMOKING notices but said nothing. Ten minutes later, she said, ‘Gotcha.’
Got a printout, showed it to Brant. He said, ‘Looks OK.’
‘Take a look at 1985.’
‘Ah.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Thanks, Shelley, I’ll remember you in my prayers.’
‘Is that a threat or a promise?’
Brant enjoyed his excursions to the West End. To be in a part of England no longer English … pity the parking was such a bitch. Finally he got a space off the Tottenham Court Road end of Oxford Street and hiked to Marble Arch. His hangover was crying out to be fed but he decided to wait. The crankiness might help his endeavour.
At the entrance to M amp;S was, as luck would have it, a security guard. Tan uniform, tan teeth. Brant flashed the warrant card, asked, ‘Where might I find Mr Watson?’
‘He’ll be in the basement, foodstuffs are his manor.’
‘All right is he?’
The guy looked at Brant, the look that yells, ‘Do me a favour pal,’ but said, ‘He’s a supervisor.’
‘All right as a supervisor is he?’
‘I couldn’t say, I only know him on a professional basis.’
Brant had an overwhelming desire to kick the guy in the balls, but said, ‘Don’t give much away do ya, boyo?’
The guard put a hand on Brant’s arm, moved him slightly to the left, said, ‘You’re impeding free access.’
‘God forbid I should do that. Tell you what though, do you have a good friend?’
‘What?’
‘Cos if you put a hand on me again you’ll need a good friend to extract it from yer hole. No carry on, no slouching.’
In the basement, Brant clocked him instantly. No uniform but eyes that never saw civilians. He was standing near the fire door. Brant let him see his approach. Nice and easy, loose, asked, ‘Mr Watson?’
‘Yeah.’
Oh lots of hard. This was a guy who doled out the shit, always. But Brant knew they were mostly cop wanna-be’s, so he flashed the card, said, ‘Could I have a moment of yer time?’
Deep sigh. Like, not really but for a brother in arms, only don’t lean on it. Said, ‘Come to my office in back.’
It was a broom closet but if he wanted to call it that, be my guest. There was one swivel chair and a small desk. He sat, put his feet up, said, ‘Shoot.’
You knew he’d rehearsed it a thousand times. Brant could play, said, ‘You got a guy on shoplifting a few weeks back.’
Watson sneered ‘Buddy, I get hundreds every week.’
‘Of course, this was literally a tin o’ beans.’
Now Watson’s eyes lit up, ‘Yeah, he freakin’ cried, can yah believe it? Big baby.’
Brant let him savour, then, ‘Can you let it slide?’
Guffaw.
‘In yer dreams, buddy.’
Brant was peaking, couldn’t believe his good fortune. Who could have prophesied such a horse’s ass? Decided to let the rope out a few more inches, said, ‘As a brother officer, I’m asking for a bit o’ slack. Doesn’t hurt to have a friend in The Met.’
Watson was off on it, power to full octane, said, ‘No way, Jose.’
Brant hung his head, and Watson, flying, said, ‘Don’t do the crime if…
Before he could finish, Brant was roaring:
‘Shudd-up, yah asshole, and get yer feet off the desk…
Brant leant over, nose to nose, said, ‘I tried to do it the easy way. But, oh no, Mister Bust-Yer-Chops gets all hot.’
Watson blustered, tried to get the reins back, ‘You’ve got nothing on me.’
‘Does M amp;S employ criminals?’
‘What … of course not!’
Brant took the paper from his jacket, slapped it on the table, said, ‘I draw yer attention to 1985.’
Watson looked, then, ‘You’ve no right to that, it’s not on my application form.’
Realising what he said, he shut down.
Brant read:
‘1985 — Watson — D amp;D — Suspended. They see this, they’ll bump yer ass from here to the dole queue.’
Watson said, ‘If I could … make it right with the other thing, you’ll go away?’
‘Well, I’ll call in now and again, see you’re not slacking.’
Resigned, Watson said, ‘The perp’s name again?’
‘Perp?’
‘You know … the perpetrator… He looked up, anxious to please, said, ‘The alleged … now cleared … person’s name?’
‘Paul Johnson.’
Brant threw his eyes round the closet, turned to leave.
Watson offered, ‘I was only doing my job.’
‘Naw … you’re a vicious little shit. Stay outta south-east London.’
Whining now, ‘Me old Mum lives there.’
‘Move her.’
Brant rang Mary, said, ‘It’s Brant.’
‘Oh hello, Tom.’
‘It’s done.’
‘What? Oh my God, Paul … Paul will want to thank you.’
‘No need.’
‘Tom, maybe we could all meet, have a meal, our treat?’
‘C’mon Mary.’
‘Oh.’
‘Goodbye then.’
‘Tom … Tom if ever we can…
But Brant had rung off.
Mary knew she should be elated but what she felt was a sense of let-down, a whisper of sadness.
The Coroner’s verdict on the Clapham Rapist was ‘Accidental Death’. Falls and McDonald sat on opposite sides of the hearing. Twice he’d tried to approach her, trying, ‘Can we move on?’
‘No.’
Then: ‘If we’re going to have to work together at least…
‘Fuck off.’
He’d let it be.
In an unusual development, the Coroner praised the police for the conclusion of a fraught and dangerous episode. Falls squirmed.
Outside, she managed to dodge most of the reporters. A woman came up to her and asked, ‘May I shake your hand?’
‘Ahm?’
She took Falls by the hand and said, ‘I want to thank you for ending the nightmare. I was number six. That piece of scum, I hope he rots in hell.’
The violence of the words and the ferocity of her manner pushed Falls backwards. She tried, ‘There is counselling available.’
A bitter laugh, ‘Oh you were all the counselling I needed.’ And then she was gone.
McDonald called, ‘Yo Sarah!’
‘Yeah.’
He caught up with her, said, ‘I don’t think I congratulated you on yer success.’
‘Thank you.’
She found it the easiest answer. She gave him a fast appraisal and thought, ‘Doesn’t half fancy himself.’
He held out his hand, ‘I’m McDonald.’
‘Weren’t you the…
‘Involved in the Clapham Rapist? I played a very minor role.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re being modest.’
He gave her the full heat of his smile, turned it up to full dazzler. ‘Listen, whatcha say about a drink later?’
‘Ahm, I don’t know…
‘Hey, no strings … we work together so it’s no big deal.’
‘OK … why not?’
After he walked off she felt it was a bad idea. But hey, maybe they could be mates and keep it at that. She wasn’t convinced, not at all.
‘What do you know about scenery? Or beauty? Or any of the things that really make life worth living? You’re just an Animal, Coarse, Muscled, Barbaric.’ ‘You keep right on talking honey. I like the way you run me down like that.’ Barrie Chase and Robert Mitchum in ‘Cape Fear’. In the modern world
Roberts went into a record shop. The last record he’d bought had been by the Dave Clark Five. H
e was stunned by the shop. The sheer volume of the noise deafened him. Everybody looked like a drug dealer. Worse, he felt like a pensioner. Mainly he wanted to flee. But gathering his resources he marched up to a counter. An assistant, a girl who looked about twelve, said, ‘Yeah.’
‘Ahm … I’m looking for … a … Smokie…
‘CD or cassette?’
‘I think you can take it that if the customer is over forty, it’s a cassette.’
‘Is it hip-hop, dance, techno…?’
‘Whoa, wait a moment … they’re a pop group from the ’70s.’
‘Then you’ll want retro.’
Eventually, he was led to the cassette section and, no luck.
No Smokie.
They offered to order it, saying, ‘Seventies … cool.’
He declined.
Roberts’ sole passion was film noir of the forties and fifties. Now he resolved to re-bury himself in the genre. It was what he knew.
Lesson
Brant found Sarah in the canteen. She was about to have a tea and a danish.
He said, ‘Wanna see another side of policing?’
She gave the danish a look of longing.
He added, ‘I mean now.’
Grabbing her bag, she got up and Brant leant across, grabbed the danish, said, ‘Don’t want to waste that.’
The Volvo was outside and between bites, Brant said, ‘You drive.’
She got the car in gear and he said, ‘St. Thomas’s … mmm … this is delicious, must have been fresh in.’
Sarah was cautious in her driving, conscious of him watching.
He was.
He asked, ‘What’s this?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yer driving like a civilian, put the bloody pedal to the metal.’
They found a space to park and walked back to the hospital. Brant said, ‘I frigging hate hospitals.’
‘Who are we seeing?’
‘A snitch, well probably an ex-snitch.’
Sarah wasn’t sure how to answer so she said, ‘Oh.’
Spiro was in an open ward on the third floor. He seemed to be covered in casts and bandages. His leg was suspended.
When he saw Brant, his eyes went huge with fear.