The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (25 page)

Pat arrived in. ‘There you are ... Sheila’s looking for you.’

When he saw Brant’s alarm, he added, ‘Only coddin’ yah! Isn’t she a gas woman?’

‘Gas?’

‘She’s a widow, you know.’

‘Christ, I believe it! I’m only surprised she’s at large.’

Pat shouted across the tables, ‘Mary, bring us a nice cuppa tea and a currant bun, there’s a good girl.’ He sat down, said, ‘So you’ll be going now?’

‘Yeah, the local boyos are running me down to Shannon ... see me off the premises, I suppose.’

Pat looked sad. ‘I’ll be sorry to see you go.’

Brant reached in his pocket, produced a fancy bag with ‘WILLIAM FALLER’ written in gold across it. ‘I didn’t know what else to get.’

Pat opened it fast and out fell a shining gold Zippo. He turned it over, the inscription: ‘PATEEN’. Pat said, ‘I’ll mind it like laughter.’

‘In south-east London we’re not big on hugs or that, so I’ll ...

Pat got up and grabbed him in a hug that Sheila would have admired, said, ‘You be careful now, young Brant.’

On the way to Shannon, Brant reached for a cigarette and lit it carefully with a Zippo. His thumb near covered the ‘1968’.

H
EADING FOR MEXICO
and aiming specifically for Acapulco was a tropical depression. Very soon, as it gathered force, ferocity and momentum, it would be upgraded to hurricane status and, of course, named. As usual, despite the feminists, it would be called Pauline. They were sure going to remember her.

The Mexican President, Ernesto Zedillo, was assured it was not a serious storm and yes, go ahead with his trip to Germany. He did.

It would be a tragedy of huge human loss but also bring about a major political crisis.

Fenton boarded his plane and felt he should at the very least have one of those hats so beloved of British resorts, with the logo: ‘KISS ME QUICK’.

He remembered an awful Elvis movie with Ann-Margret or one of those Elvis-type movie women ... lush bodied ... Now what the hell is the name of it?

As the seat belt sign flashed in preparation for take off, it came to him and he muttered, ‘Yeah,
Fun in Acapulco
.’

Now try to get the damn tune out of his head as it lodged there like stale muesli.

N
ANCY D’AGOSTINO DIDN’T WANT
her assignment. Like sure, nurse-maiding some English bobby. He’d probably smoke a pipe and wear one of those London Fog godawful raincoats.

S
HE
looked like Nancy Allen. Remember her? A real cutesy who’d been married to John Carpenter before he lost the run of himself and donated his talent to Wes Craven. She’d been at her prettiest in
Carrie
and her slide began post
Philadelphia Experience
.

Nancy held a placard – ‘D S BRANT LONDON’ – and figured even an English cop could detect this.

As Brant emerged from Immigration, he spotted Nancy and saw her smile. He thought, ‘Jaysus, I’m going to get a jump on this side of the Atlantic too.’

He was wearing the Aran sweater and blue serge trousers. Nancy thought, Oh my God, one of the Clancy Brothers.’

Brant looked round. ‘Jaysus, it’s busy.’

Nancy produced her ID. ‘I’m Sergeant D’Agostini with the New York City Police Department. I’ll be your guide and facilitator while you’re here.’

‘Facil-i-what?’

She took a deep breath and before she could speak, he slapped her thigh, said, ‘Lighten up, woman. Where’s the bar?’ And he produced a cigarette.

She put out her hands. ‘This is a NO SMOKING zone.’

He eyeballed her and cranked a worn Zippo. ‘Are we cops or what?’

‘Well yes, but ...

‘So fuck ’em. Let’s get a brewski.’

The bar at JFK is a good intro to New York. The staff are

rude

busy

hostile.

After Brant and Nancy had waited for five minutes, she said, ‘Let’s head into Manhattan, we’ll get you a cold one at your hotel.’

Brant gave his satanic smile, roared, ‘Hey Elvis, before Labour Day, all right?’

Nancy had to suppress a smile – he sounded so Noo Yawk. The barman asked, ‘What’ll it be?’

‘Coupla beers.’

‘Domestic or imported?’

Brant leant on the counter, still smiling, right in the guy’s face. ‘Forgot the floss eh? ... Bring us two strong beers and bring ’em now.’

Nancy asked, ‘This isn’t your first time in America?’

He reached in his pocket, showed her a small book:

Asshole’s Guide To New York – How To Be Ruder Than The Natives.

(By P Catherine Kennedy)

Brant asked, ‘You want a glass?’ And he chugged his from the bottle.

She said, ‘Like I have a choice.’

He ruffled her carefully brushed hair. ‘I think you’re my kinda chick.’

D
EEP DOWN IN AN
area beyond definition, Falls struggled to wake. She knew consciousness was reachable but she couldn’t make the first step. The plans for the baby, how they’d curl up together on the couch and watch TV ... If she could recall the names of the Teletubbies, she felt she’d crash to the surface. Tinky-Winky. OK. Got one. That’s the blue colour, and ... Dipsy. Oh yeah. On a roll now. The yellow one – what was the little shit’s name? ... Da-da? ... No, but close. ... La-La! Yes! Just the fourth to go. The small red fella ... with the simplest name of all. She was that near and then it began to slip. With stark terror she forgot what she was trying to remember, saw a black meteorite come hurtling and tried to shout ... Dougal ... Magic Roun ...

And her mind shut down.

•        •        •

A radio was playing softly in the hospital ward. Rosie prayed that Falls couldn’t hear the particular song now playing – Toni Braxton with Kenny G – ‘An Angel broke My Heart’.

Jesus.

She sat by her friend’s side holding her hand. The nurse came, did nurse-like things like fluffing the pillow, checking her watch, sighing.

Rosie asked, ‘Will she wake up?’

‘You’d have to speak to her doctor.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Talk to her.’

‘Can she hear me? ... Or have I to speak to her doctor?’

The nurse gave her trained smile, alight with:

understanding

tolerance

and the tiniest hint of contempt.

‘Just chat like you would ordinarily.’

After the nurse left, Rosie muttered, ‘Cow,’ then cleared her throat self-consciously, as if she were recording. Hesitantly she began, ‘So hon ... Good grief, I nearly asked how you were.’

She glanced round to check if her faux pas had been clocked, then, ‘Where was I? ... I never got to tell you about my trip to Goa. Oh yeah, Jack was always on about the sanitation and he couldn’t see any evidence of pipes. Me? ... All I need to know is it works, like pur-leeze, spare me the mechanics. But then someone said, “Notice all the pigs?” They were everywhere and very well fed.’ (Rosie gave a small shriek) – You’ve guessed it! Isn’t it too awful? I’ll never eat a bacon butty again.’

Then Rosie felt a pang of hunger. She was on yet another diet, the ‘T’ model.

T for torture.

She could murder an obscenely over-buttered thick wedge of toast, coat the lot in marmalade and eat it without dignity so the juice ran down her chin ... and she’d wash the lot down with sugared tea.

Ah!

Yet again she felt tears for Falls, for herself, for carbohydrated freedom. Then she straightened her back, said, ‘Hon, I have a confession to make. I’d never have told you, but I fancied the pants off yer fella. Not that I’d ever have ... you know, but he sure had something. That cute bum ... but it was those staring eyes. I thought he could see into my soul. Isn’t that daft? He made me feel so exposed I had to look away.’

Falls stirred and Rosie jumped. But it was only a reflex and she settled back into the void. Rosie continued to hold her hand.

•        •        •

Roberts was beginning to wear out a space in front of the Super’s desk. As usual, he was getting a bollocking. The Super tore into him about the usual fuck ups, then asked, ‘What’s the story on the ducks?’

For an insane moment, Roberts thought he said, ‘What’s the story on the ducks,’ and wondered if the radiation was softening his brain. He answered, ‘Excuse me?’

‘The ducks in Hyde Park, some nutter beheaded five of them.’

Roberts was sore tempted to try, ‘Not our side of the pond,’ but went with, ‘How is it our concern, sir?’

‘How? I’ll tell you flamin’ how ... the heads were put through the letter box of the Chief Constable at his place in Old Town Clapham. What do you say to that?’

Again the demons urged –
‘Duck!’
– but without waiting for a reply, the Super was thundering further. ‘As for the WPC ... Forbes ...

‘Falls, sir.’

‘Eh?’

‘Her name, sir, it’s Falls.’

‘Don’t get impertinent laddie. Do we have any hope of apprehending them or have they joined the migration to America?’

Roberts thought that was quite witty and probably true but he said, ‘We’re following a definite line of inquiry.’

The Super was out of his chair, shouting, ‘In other words, we haven’t the foggiest.’

But Roberts did have a definite lead. Following the oldest police hunch of all, he got back to the beginning. Roberts had checked with Croydon CID. Sure enough the suspect had bolted for home. That anyone would flee
to
Croydon was a measure of how desperate he was. The buzz had hit the station that his whereabouts were known. Eager constables flocked to Roberts hoping to be part of the team. He was having none of it. Outside the station, a Volvo was waiting, engine turning, door open. Roberts peered in. ‘You’re keen, I’ll give you that.’

The driver, a blond haired man in his twenties smiled, asked, ‘Croydon?’

Roberts got in. ‘What’s yer name sonny?’

‘McDonald, Guv.’

‘Oh wonderful, a bloody Scot. Spare me the Billy Connolly shite, OK?’

McDonald put the car in gear, asked blankly, ‘Billy who?’

‘Good lad, you’ll go far.’

Elgin Lane is that rarity in this part of London. It’s got trees and grass verges and a large Greek presence. No connection to them marbles.

McDonald parked and Roberts said, ‘Number nine.’

They got out and walked casually to the house. A line of bells, reading: Zacharopolous/ Ohrtanopolous Yoganopolous.

Like that.

Except for one blank bell, indicating the ground floor. Roberts said, ‘Use all yer police training and guess which one is our man.’

The door was ajar and in they went, scrutinised the ground floor flat. Roberts said, ‘Tut tut, no dead bolt, just yer basic Yale ... what do you weigh, son?’

‘Weigh?’

‘It’s not a difficult question.’

‘Fourteen stone.’

‘Well son, the door won’t come to us.’

‘Oh.’

‘Right.’

McDonald braced himself against the far wall and before he launched, a young woman came down the stairs, gave Roberts a dazzling smile and said, ‘Kalimera.’

Roberts answered, ‘Whatever,’ and after she left, added, ‘The Greeks have a word for it all right ... OK son, are you going to hang about all day?’

He wasn’t and took the whole jam of the door in his onslaught.

Roberts gave a low whistle. ‘What are they feeding them?’ And followed in.

The police piled down a small corridor, which translates as Sweeney tactics. Roar like bulls, pound them boots, and put the shite crossways in all and sundry.

The suspect was crashed out on a double bed, entangled in a sheet. He was arse naked. A dense cloud of ‘hash-over’ near made him invisible. Despite the noise, he didn’t stir.

Roberts asked, ‘What is that smell?’

‘Dope, sir.’

‘And there’s the biggest dope of all. Go get a jug of cold water –
very
cold water.’

‘Yes, sir.’

McDonald returned with a large basin, it made a clinking sound. ‘On the rocks.’

‘Perfect, the Chief Constable will be looking over his shoulder.’

McDonald already knew that. ‘Shall I?’

‘Give it yer best, lad.’

McDonald swung the basin in a wide arc and on the upward tilt, he let the contents fly.

Whoosh!

A ferocious roar came from the bed and the suspect leapt up, crying, ‘What’s happening, man?’

Roberts said, ‘Wakey, wakey,’ and nodded to McDonald. He moved quickly and catching the sus by the hair, flipped him over and handcuffed him, hands behind the back. He considered, then open handed he gave the sus an almighty slap on the arse.

Roberts gave a low laugh and the sus tilted his head round. If he was cowed, he wasn’t showing it. ‘Hey, where’s the black cunt – ain’t she doing house calls no more?’

McDonald raised his hand but Roberts signalled no. Emboldened, the sus taunted, ‘What is this anyway? I haven’t got a TV licence ... that it?’

Roberts glanced at the TV, then casually tipped it over. ‘No TV either. OK ... let’s go.’

McDonald dragged the sus to his feet, wrapped a blanket round him and pushed him forward.

The sus shouted, ‘Ey! lemme get the Tamogotchi!’

Roberts was puzzled. ‘You want a takeaway now?’

McDonald stifled a laugh. ‘It’s a toy, sir, a cyber pet.’

The sus looked at McDonald almost warmly as if he’d found an ally, said, ‘Yeah mate, I’m going for the record. I’ve kept it alive for twenty days already.’

Roberts asked, ‘Where is it?’

The sus was animated now. ‘Under the pillow, man, you got to keep it near – it gets lonely.’

Roberts looked at McDonald, said, ‘Well, Constable, you know what to do.’

McDonald got the pet and glanced briefly at it. The sus said, ‘Give it here, dude.’

McDonald dropped it, then lifted his foot and crushed it with his heel.

A howl of anguish went up.

Roberts felt he might have found a replacement for Brant.