Calibre (12 page)

‘What gets you going, Crew?’

As per public schoolboys’s rituals, they addressed you by your surname, which he considered the height of bad manners. He looked at the guy, a wanker in a very expensive suit, sweat under the arms of his Jermyn Street shirt, and replied:

‘I like to make a killing.’

They conceded he was droll and never asked him again. He steered his BMW carefully under the limit, conscious now that any infringement of laws and they’d grab him. He eased the car safely into his drive and unbuckled the seat belt, looking forward to a scotch and soda and the quiet contemplation of his future. As soon as he opened the hall door, he knew something was wrong, the sense of stillness was gone, somebody had been here. Thinking:

The bastards, breaking in while I’m at work
.

Walked to the lounge and there was Brant, stretched out on the sofa, a glass balanced on his chest, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He turned, asked:

‘Hard day at the office, dear?’

He dropped his briefcase from shock. Did they have him already? Brant was smiling, said:

‘Gave you a bit of a start there, eh?’

Crew found his voice, asked:

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Intimidating you.’

Crew couldn’t get a handle on it, tried:

‘You’re breaking and entering, unless I see a warrant.’

Brant swung his legs off the sofa, said:

‘Boofhead.’

Crew had no idea what this was, asked:

‘What?’

‘Aussie, mate, means a stupid person. Are you a stupid person?’

Crew moved over to the phone, said:

‘I’m calling the police, there are rules against this sort of thing.’

Brant said:

‘Touch the phone and I’ll break your arm.’

Crew stopped, looked at him, went:

Are you serious?’

‘Try me, shit-head.’

Cew considered running for the door, going for help, but Brant moved and kicked the door shut, said:

‘Pour us a couple of stiff ones, there’s a good lad, and we’ll have a wee chin-wag.’

It was the casual violence in Brant’s tone that was chilling, almost friendly, as if breaking your arm was a gesture of no consequence at all. Crew went to the drinks, poured two large Teachers, asked:

‘Ice?’

Thinking,
What am I doing?
and thought,
Stalling, playing for time
.

He put the drink in front of Brant and gulped down a swig of his own. Brant smiled at him with something like affection.

Crew tried again:

‘This is ridiculous. You can’t just barge in, threaten me, and think you’ll get away with it.’

Brant stood up, stretched, then took a hefty swig, said:

‘Ah, that hits the spot. You don’t know me, I take it, not my rep as they say. Well, it’s a bad one, I don’t play by the rules. They investigated me twice on suspicion of killing a suspect, as if I would. What I want you to know is, I know you’re the killer, but the problemo is, it’s going to be a bitch to prove it so I’m going to take you out of the picture.’

Crew realized his glass was empty, gasped:

‘What?’

‘I’m going to kill you, and here’s the part you’ll appreciate, it’s going to seem an accident. Hey, what do you think, make it seem like the manners guy got you, wouldn’t that be a gas.’

Crew tried to get a handle on this, said:

You’re mad, this is insane.’

Brant smiled, nodded, answered:

‘It is, isn’t it, right off the chart. But tell you what, that ugly hooker, don’t fret about her. I’ll drop by, put a bag over her head, and give her the odd poke for you. How does that sound? You happy enough with that?’

Then he was heading for the door, added:

‘I know it’s a bastard when you don’t know when I’m going
to do the deed, but I’ve a fairly intense program. If I fit you in before the end of the month, would that work for you?’ Then he was gone.

Porter Nash shouted:

‘You did what?’

He and Brant were in Porter’s flat, Brant had arrived with six cans of special and a bottle of wine, saying:

‘The wine’s for you. You guys like that shit, am I right?’

Porter was about to sip the wine when Brant told him about Crew.

Brant opened his second can, said:

‘What, you deaf? I told him I’d kill him.’

Porter put the glass down, jumped to his feet, went:

You can’t be serious?’

Brant wondered why it was so many people were saying the same thing. Did they doubt his sincerity? He belched, asked:

‘Do you mean, did I seriously say that or do I seriously mean to kill him?’

Porter tried not to notice Brant’s boots on his couch, it would be such a gay thing to comment. So said:

‘Both, for heaven’s sake. You can’t threaten him like that.’

Brant was genuinely confused, asked:

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re a bloody policeman for crying out loud.’

This made no sense to Brant, who said:

‘All the more reason.’

Porter wondered, not for the first time, if Brant was truly insane. He’d seen enough evidence of it, but this, this was pushing the envelope way past any perimeter. Then an even worse thought hit and he asked:

‘You wouldn’t, oh-my-god, you wouldn’t take him out, I mean, come on?’

Brant was opening his third can, getting a nice buzz going, adding to it was Porter’s tight-ass attitude. He hadn’t had much crack for a while, but this was more like it. Fucking with people. He wondered why mind-fucking had such a bad rep? He decided to push a little more, said:

‘If he got whacked, you think anyone would give a shit?’

Porter downed a glass of wine. It went against all his sensibilities to gulp wine, but this was rot-gut. And besides, dealing with Brant you needed some fortification, if only to try and navigate the landscape of the absurd. He shuddered as the wine hit his empty stomach, and Brant smiled. Porter said:

‘Anything happens to Crew, I’m going to have to look closely at you, you’re aware of that?’

Brant loved it. It was even better than he’d imagined, said:

‘You’re threatening your buddy, “your non-judgmental, even if you’re a fag” buddy?’

Porter tried another tack, said:

‘He’ll report you, what then?’

‘Who’d believe him? I mean you’re having some difficulty and I’ve told you straight.’

Porter threw his hands up in the air, it was like trying to talk to an alien, they were so obviously speaking different languages. Brant stood, said:

‘I gotta run, it’s been fun, but I’m knackered. You need to relax, you worry too much.’

At the door, Porter asked:

‘Tell me you won’t do it?’

Brant seemed to consider, then:

‘Well, it won’t be tonight. I’m too whacked. You need to be fresh for that line of work.’

After Brant had gone, Porter poured the rest of the wine down the sink, brushed his teeth to rid himself of the taste. He thought about Trevor, and he missed his company. His sugar levels had been through the roof recently and the last visit to the doctor, he’d been told to cut down on stress. And wouldn’t you know it, the other day he’d been flicking the pages of the newspaper and, sure enough, came across a case of a man with diabetes who’d had to have his leg amputated. Stress that.

He decided he needed to eat and set himself the task of peeling potatoes, cutting and washing vegetables, then lightly grilling a piece of fish he’d bought in Selfridges. Not too many cops shopped there, which was one of the reasons he went there regularly. In the kitchen he was struck by how everything he was doing was singular, all for one person, and that struck him as very, very sad. He continued with the task though he’d lost all energy for it. Went to his drinks cabinet
and selected a nice dry white, cost a packet at the wine outlet. Used the corkscrew slowly and lovingly to extract the cork and let out a sigh as he heard the satisfying ‘plop.’ Went to a top shelf, got a heavy crystal glass, went to the sitting room, and laid the table with a linen cloth, then got the silver holder, lit the one red candle, stood back to admire his work. The fish was done and he carried it out, set the one place with care, put the cutlery just so, poured the wine, asked:

‘Is it as sir anticipated?’

He stood back, gently took hold of one end of the linen top, and pulled with all his might, the whole lot crashing across the room, the crystal glass shattering in bits.

Jamil was released on bail. The prosecutor lodged objections, but the judge, mindful of McDonald’s actions and the huge press interest, allowed him to go. Outside the court, Jamil gave a speech to the TV, focusing on the injustices meted out to black people. McDonald watched at home, the Sig in his hand, three lines of coke in his system, and a fixed grin on his face. Flicked his wrist and the gold bracelet moved satisfyingly He said:

‘You’re fucked, you bastard, and you don’t even know it.’

He had his plan prepared, it had taken him a coke-fuelled night to put it all together. He’d kill the child molester and put the gun back under Jamil’s floorboards, then he’d arrest Jamil, proving it was him who’d offed the child molester. This
would show that McDonald was involved in, not only catching a killer, Jamil, but indirectly, the child molester. So okay, he knew there were a fair few holes in the scheme but overall, it was solid, the coke told him it was marvellous, and besides, he didn’t have a whole lot of other avenues to explore.

His phone rang. He jumped and then took a deep breath, picked it up, heard:

‘McDonald, it’s Falls. I a… wanted to know if you were doing all right.’

He was stunned she’d call, the last time he saw her, she’d walloped him and his impulse was to say go fuck yourself, but hey, he needed all the help he could get so he said:

‘I’m hanging in there.’

Then figured sympathy would be good as he hadn’t had a shred of it to date, added:

‘It’s rough. I feel as if I’m falling apart.’

She rose to the bait and he smiled as she gushed:

‘I know how you feel, I’ve been there and it’s the pits. Is there anything I can do?’

McDonald focused, figured there might even be the pity fuck in this, and he’d always wanted to have the black bitch, all sorts of pay-offs were forming in his fevered mind so he said:

‘It would be good to talk to someone.’

And then remembered that women loved this crap so he added the buzz word:

‘If only there was someone to share with?’

He was grinning now, this was how Brant operated and no
doubt, Brant was a winner. He could already picture it, the black cow under him, as he plummeted into her, giving it large, and nearly laughed out loud. She took the bait:

‘Oh I know, that’s the worst bit, not having anyone to talk to, the isolation is desperate.’

He had to take a moment to stop himself from guffawing, then:

‘Would… would you talk to… me?’

And the crazy bitch jumped in:

‘I’d be honoured. Would you like to have a drink this evening?’

He let a break enter his voice and was amazed, he never knew he had this shit in him, said:

‘I’m… so grateful, thank you.’

Now he could hear her choking up, jeez, they’d have a bawl fest right here on the phone, sobbing like they were on Oprah. She said:

‘The Oval. It’s quiet on a Tuesday, say around eight, how would that be?’

‘Thank you, I can’t tell you what it means, I’ll never be able to articulate my gratitude.’

‘You’re welcome and call me Elizabeth, okay?’

He wanted to say:

‘Call me stud.’

It was a typical car service crew, evenly split between retired and retarded, with a few degenerate gamblers thrown in. Surprisingly, no drunks, but then maybe they’d hired me for my potential
.

—Tim McLoughlin,
Heart of the Old Country

THIS COULD BE our last song together, oh yeah, I’m like history, I’ve enjoyed this diary but this is not only the final entry, it’s THE END OF THE AFFAIR. If you’ve gathered how much I liked The Killer Inside Me and, if you’ve been paying attention, Ford was fucked, and his enemies closing in. But did he have an ace up his sleeve.

READ THE GODDAM-BOOK.

I’m looking over my shoulder as I write as time is like, really on the out. The cop, Brant? The one I figured was a lot smarter than he played it, well he paid me a little visit, yeah, on his own docket so to speak, and guess what? He’s going to kill me! How fucking ironic is that? And yes, I believe him. You kind of had to be there. He’s a psycho, an out-and-out lunatic, and what’s worse, I think he’s going to enjoy the act. He intends playing first, get me spooked, get me frantic, and he’s succeded. As the Americans say, WHO AM I GOING TO CALL?