The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (14 page)

‘Sure, don’t you speak it already?’

Whispering, lest his sleep be disturbed. All of this destroyed her mother. Being of Jamaican descent, she developed the ‘tyrant syndrome’, and tried to enlist young Falls on her side. Early she learned to ‘run with the hare and savage with the hound’. Oh yes! Then she became convinced that mass would help. If she went to church enough, he’d stop.

He didn’t.

She stopped church. Slowly, she realised the terrible dilemma for such a child as she. They have to recover from the alcoholic parent they had, and suffer for the one they didn’t have. When she was nineteen she had a choice: go mad or get a career. Thus she’d joined the police and often felt it was indeed a mobile madness.

F
ALLS, LOOKING IN THE
mirror, said: ‘I am gorgeous.’ She sure felt it. Eddie told her all the time, and wow, she never got tired of it. For no reason at all, he’d touched her cheek, saying: ‘I can’t believe I found you.’ Jesus!

A woman dreams her whole life of such a man. If all his lines were just lines, so what? It was magic. She was sprinkled in Stardust. True, she’d tried the clichés, the mush on toast of trying out his name to see how it fit: ‘Susan Dillon.’

Mmm. How about Susan Falls Dillon?

Needed work.

Eddie Dillon rolled off Falls, lay on his back and exhaled. ‘The Irishman’s Dream.’

‘What’s that, then?’

‘To fuck a policeman.’

After the dance, she’d asked him for a drink. He’d had her. In the hall, the kitchen, the sitting room and finally, panting, he’d said: ‘I give up – where have you hidden the bed?’

As they lay on the floor, knackered, the age-old divide between the sexes was full frontal. She wanted him to hold her and tell her he loved her, to luxuriate in the afterglow. He wanted to sleep. But new-mannish educated as he partly was, he compromised. Held her hand and dozed. She had to bite her tongue not to say ‘I love you.’ Then he stirred, said: ‘I’ve a thirst on me to tempt the Pope. I’ll give you a fiver to spit in me mouth.’

She laughed and, victim of the new emancipation, rose and got him a pint of water. After he’d drunk deep, he gave a huge burp, rested the glass on his chest, said: ‘Jaysus, a man could love a woman like you.’

Ah! The perennial bait, the never-fail, tantalising lure of the big one. Her heart pounding, she knew she was in the relationship minefield. One foot wrong and boom, back to Tesco’s pre-frozen for one. She said: ‘I hope you were careful.’ He tilted the glass slightly, said: ‘Oh yes, I didn’t spill a drop.’

When finally they went to bed, he slept immediately. Falls hated how much she wanted to be held. Later, she was woken by him thrashing and screaming, and then he sat bolt upright. She said: ‘Oh God, are you OK?’

‘Man, the flashbacks.’

‘What?’

‘Isn’t that what the guys always say in the movies?’

‘Oh.’

‘Jesus, it was some movie.’

As Falls settled back to uneasy sleep, she ran Tony Braxton’s song in her head – ‘Unbreak My Heart’.

Eddie had all the moves. After he’d spent a night at her flat, next day she’d discover little notes, tucked in the fridge, under the pillow, the pocket of her coat. All of the ilk: ‘I miss you already’, or ‘You are the light in my darkness’, And other gems. Mills and Boon would have battled for him. Walking together, he’d say: ‘Can I take yer hand, it makes me feel total warmth.’

A God.

And what a kisser. Finally, a man born to lip service. She could have come with kissing alone and did often.

R
OSIE COULDN’T DECIDE WHICH
coffee. She and Falls had met at one of the new specialty coffee cafés. The menu contained over thirty types of brew. Falls said: ‘Good Lord, I suppose instant is out of the question.’

‘Shh, don’t think such heresy, the windows will crack in protest.’

Falls took another pan of the list, then said: ‘OK, I’ll have the double latte.’

‘What?’

‘I know the names from the movies.’

‘Mmm, sounds weak. I’ll have the Seattle Slam.’ They laughed.

Rosie said: ‘So, girl. Tell all, can you?’

Falls giggled, said: ‘If I tell you he kisses the neck...

‘Uh-huh.’

‘... right below the hairline.’

‘Oh God, a prince.’

‘And holds you after.’

‘He is unique, beyond prince.’

The coffee came and Falls sampled it, said: ‘Yeah, it’s instant with froth.’ Then she leaned closer, added: ‘You know why I did, like, on the first date?’

‘’Cos you’re a wanton cow.’

‘That too. But when we came out of the dance, I felt faint.’

‘Lust, girl.’

‘And I sat on the pavement.’

Rosie made a face as she tasted her drink, telling Falls to continue.

‘Before I could, he whipped off his jacket and laid it on the path.’

‘So you sat on it and later you sat on his face.’

They roared, shamefully delighted, warmly scandalised. Rosie said: ‘Taste this,’ and pushed the slam across. Falls did, said: ‘It’s got booze in there, check the menu.’

Sure enough, in the small print, near illegible, was: ‘Pure Colombian beans, double hit of espresso, hint of Cointreau.’ Falls said: ‘I know what the Cointreau’s hinting.’

‘What’s that, then?’

‘Get bladdered. Did I tell you I dreamed of my dad?’

Later, wired on slammers, hopping on espresso, Falls showed her Eddie Dillon’s poem.

‘He wrote a poem for you?’

‘Yes.’ (shyly)

‘Is it any good?’

‘Who cares? ’Cos it’s for me, it’s brilliant.’

‘Give it here, girl!’

She did.

Benediction

Never believed

in such as blessings

were

you threw

a make

un-helped, upon the day

and help available

was how you helped

yourself – A crying

down

to but a look in caution – stayed alert

reducing always towards

the basic front

in pain

– never

– never the once

to once admit

you floundering had to be

Such Gods as crossed

your mind – if God

as such it

might have been

you never took

to vital introspection

Such it was from you

did feel

the very first in love’s belief

form feaming every smile

you ever freely

gave

Rosie’s lips moved as she read. For some reason, this touched Falls and she had to look away. Finally: ‘Wow, it’s deep.’

‘ ’Tis. That’s what he says, “tis”.’

‘Do you understand it?’

‘Course not. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Oh, you lucky cow, I think I hate you!’

S
ENT FLOWERS EVERY OTHER
day, she said: ‘I am blessed full. Not a cloud to be seen... almost. One or two tiny niggles, hardly worth consideration: one, he couldn’t take her to his flat; two, she couldn’t phone him. Weighted against the other gold, these were nothing – right?

Rightish! No point even sharing those with Rosie. Why bother? But: ‘Rosie, whatcha think about..?’ And Rosie: ‘Oh God, that’s very ominous.’

Falls was raging: ‘Ominous? When did you swallow a dictionary?’ That’s it, no more input from Ms Know-it-all.

The doorbell went and she felt her heart fly. At a guess, more roses. With a grin, she opened the door.

Not Interflora.

A bag lady. Well, next best thing. A middle-aged woman who could be kindest described as ‘frumpy’, and you’d be reaching. Her hair was dirt grey, and whatever shade it had been, that was long ago. Falls sighed. The homeless situation was even worse than the
Big Issue’s
warnings. Now they were making house calls. She geared herself for action: arm lock, a few pounds and the address of the Sally... she’d be history.

The woman said: ‘Are you WPC Falls, the policewoman?’

Surprisingly soft voice. The new Irish cultured one of soft vowels and easy lilt, riddled with education.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Nora.’

Falls tried not to be testy, said: ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but you say it as if it should mean something. It doesn’t mean anything to me.’

The woman stepped forward, not menacingly, but more as if she didn’t want the world to hear, said: ‘Nora Dillon, Eddie’s wife.’

Falls had dressed for confrontation. The requisite Reeboks, sweatshirt and pants. She sat primly on her couch, letting Eddie hang himself. First, she’d considered sitting like Ellen Degenes. That sitcom laid-back deal, legs tucked under your butt, yoga-esque. Mainly cool, like très. But it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Since Dyke City, when Ellen had come out of the closet, was she a role model? ‘We think not,’ said Middle America. So, Eddie arrived with red roses, Black Magic and a shit-eating grin. He’s even quoting some of his poetry. Like this:

I gave you then

a cold hello

and you

being poorer

gave me nothing

nothing at all.

He was dressed in a tan linen suit with a pair of Bally loafers. His face looked carbolic-shined. He looked like a boy. It tore at her heart. Jesus. Now he was repeating the line for effect: ‘Gave me nothing’. Lingering, slow-lidded look, then: ‘... nothing at all’.

Eddie looked up, awaiting praise. Falls got to her feet, said, ‘Come here.’

He smiled, answered, ‘I love it when you’re dominant.’

He moved right to her, turned his head to kiss her and she kneed him in the balls, said, ‘Rhyme that, you bastard.’

Dropped to the floor like a bad review. She thought of Brant and what he’d say.

‘Finish it off with a kick to the head.’

Part of her was sorely tempted, but the other half wanted to hug him. Summoning all her resolve, she bent down and grabbed hold of the linen jacket and began to drag him. One of his tan loafers came off. Got him to the door and with the last of her strength, flung him out. Then she gathered up the flowers, the chocolates and the loose shoe, threw them after him. Then she slammed the door, stood with her back against it for a while, then slumped down to a sitting position.

After a time she could hear him. He tapped on the door and his voice,

‘Honey... sweetheart... let me explain...

Like a child, she put her fingers in her ears. It didn’t fully work: she could still hear his voice but not the sense of the words. It continued for a time then gradually died away. Eventually she moved and got to her feet, said, ‘I’m not going to cry anymore.’

She had a shower and had it scalding, till her skin screamed SURRENDER. Then she found a grubby track suit and climbed into it. It made her look fat.

She said, ‘This makes me look fat... good!’

Opened the door cautiously. No Eddie. Some of the flowers still strewn around clutched at her heart.

Falls had seen all sorts of things in her police career, but these few flowers appeared to be the very essence of lost hope.

At the off-licence, she ordered a bottle of vodka and debated a mixer. But no, she’d take it bitter, it was fitting.

Back home, she drank the vodka from a mug. A logo on the side said:
I’m too sexy for my age.

Bit later she put on Joan Armatrading and wallowed in total delicious torment.

Near the end of the bottle, she threw the music out of the window.

End of the evening, she took a hammer to the mug and bust it to smithereens.

Brant was booted and suited. The flat had been cleaned by a professional firm. They hadn’t actually been paid yet, but assured of ‘police protection’. He was well pleased with their work. The suit was genuine Jermyn Street bespoke. A burglary there had brought Brant to investigate... and pillage. If a look can speak columns, then this suit spoke like royalty. You could sleep in it and have it shout: ‘Hey, is this class or what?’

It was. The shoes were hand-made Italian loafers and whispered of effortless arrogance. He wore a Police Federation tie, a blotch on any landscape, and a muted shirt. He gazed at himself in the new full-length mirror and was delighted, said: ‘I ain’t half delighted.’ The whole outfit was clarion call to Muggers United till they saw his face, and rethought: ‘Maybe not.’

He took his bleeper in case the ‘E’ rang. He needed access. A genuine Rolex completed the picture. Alas, it was so real it appeared a knock-off and supplied a badly needed irony to his whole appearance. He said aloud: ‘Son, you are hot.’ As he left he slammed his new steel-reinforced door with gusto.

It’s been heard in south-east London that ‘a copper’s lot is a Volvo’. Brant was no exception. He found it a distinct advantage to have a recognisable cop issue. Saved it from being nicked. Others said: ‘Who’d bloody want it?’ As he unlocked his car, a few drops of rain fell. He said: ‘Shit.’ And remembered his old man one time, saying: ‘Ah! Soft Irish rain.’ His mother’s reply: ‘Soft Irish men, more like.’

A woman approached, dressed respectably, which revealed absolutely nothing. Not to Brant. She said: ‘Excuse me?’

‘What?’

‘I hate to trouble you, but my car’s broken down and I’m without change. I need three, perhaps four pounds to get a cab.’

‘You need a new line, lady.’

And he got into the Volvo. She watched him, astonishment writ large, and as he pulled away, she said clearly: ‘Cunt.’

He laughed out loud. The night had begun well.

‘T
ONIGHT... TONIGHT... TONIGHT... WE
go... oh yeah.’ On the floor, he’d spread a tarpaulin, and now JL began to lay weapons down: two sawn-offs, one canister of CS gas, three baseball bats and a mess of handguns.

He looked to his brother first, said: ‘OK, Albert, pick yer poison.’ Al took a handgun, tested it for weight, and then jammed it in the back of his jeans. Kev whistled: ‘Very fucking cool. Mind how you sit down.’