The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (27 page)

Bill said, ‘Send him over.’

The guy moved easily, no wasted energy.

Bill nodded, said, ‘Take a stool.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Another plus. The last time Bill had heard ‘sir’ was in an Elvis interview. He offered a drink, got, ‘No, sir.’

‘Shit,’ thought Bill. ‘This kid could
surprise
a bloke to death.’ He asked, ‘You got a name, son?’

‘Collie. It’s Collie, sir.’

‘What, cos you like dogs, is it?’ And got to see the kid’s eyes. Dark eyes that were ever so slightly out of alignment. They gave the sense of relief that you weren’t their focus. Nor would you ever want to be.

Now the kid smiled, almost shyly. ‘Something that happened when I was young.’

Bill smiled, like the kid had to be all of twenty three. ‘Tell me.’ Not a request.

‘Our neighbour had a dog; every time you passed he threw himself against the gate. People got a fright regular as clockwork. Like, one minute there wasn’t a sign of him, then as you passed, he’d jump snarling and barking.’ Bill didn’t comment, so the kid continued. ‘The dog got off on it.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, he got his jollies from it.’ He pronounced the word ‘yollies’, giving it a resonance of distance and disease.

Bill had to ask – ‘How did you know that?’

Now the kid gave a shrug, said, ‘I looked into his eyes.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, before I strangled him, I took a good look.’

Bill decided to ask the important question. ‘What is it you want, son?’

‘To work for you, sir.’

‘And what do you want, to be famous, get yourself a rep?’

Now the kid looked irritated, said, ‘I’m not stupid, sir.’

‘Done time, ’ave you?’

‘Once. I won’t be going back.’

Bill believed him. ‘OK ... I’ll give you a trial.’ Now he reached in his jacket, took out a black and white photo, pushed it across the table. ‘Know him?’

‘No, sir.’

It showed Brant, resplendent in his Aran sweater as he boarded a flight. His face to the camera, he looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. Bill stared at it for a while then, back to biz, said, ‘That’s Detective Sergeant Brant. Due back from America any day.’ The kid waited. ‘Your predecessor, The Alien, was supposed to put some pressure on the man, persuade him to drop his interest in me. But ... he fucked it up. And Brant not only
didn’t
lose interest, he paid me a visit.’ Bill’s face was bright red. Famous for his cool, he was close to losing it. ‘What I want is to hit him where it hurts. Not
him
– too much attention if he’s damaged personally. But if something he cared for got nobbled ... He stopped, asked, ‘Do you follow me, son?’

‘Yes, sir. Damage where he’ll feel it.’

‘That’s it. Think you can handle it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bill reached again in his pocket, took out a thin wedge. It had the glow of fifties. He nudged it across the table. ‘To get you started; a bit of walking round money.’

The kid didn’t touch it. ‘I haven’t earned it yet.’

‘That’s what you think.’

F
ALLS FINALLY CRASHED THROUGH
the surface and immediately wished she hadn’t. As soon as she opened her eyes she knew the baby was gone.

Then the event of the pool hall returned and her whole body shook. She knew if she called, a gaggle of help would arrive. Instead, she cried silently ... and as the tears coursed down her face she remembered the fourth Teletubby.

Po.

The very name raised her to new heights of anguish. Finally, she stirred and sat up. Looking down to the IV, she tore it from her arm and pulled the needle from the monitor. A wave of nausea engulfed her, but she weathered it. Got her feet on the floor and felt the room heave.

A nurse came rushing. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

Falls slowly raised her head and tried to focus. She gave a sad bitter laugh, answered, ‘Now, isn’t that a good question?’

At almost the same time, an impromptu party had begun in the police canteen. Roberts was being toasted with beer and cider.

The duty sergeant raised a glass. ‘Let’s hear it for DI Roberts ... hip, hip!’

Roberts acknowledged the toast and then indicated McDonald. ‘I had help.’

More cheers. More booze.

The Super dropped in for a moment, gave Roberts a gruff nod. ‘Well done, laddie.’ Which was rich, him being five years younger. As these events go, it was tame – muted, even – due to Falls still being in hospital.

The duty sergeant, by way of conversation, said to Roberts, ‘You’ll ’ave heard about the new Mickey Finn the buggers are using?’

He hadn’t, said, ‘I haven’t.’

‘Aye, they meet a young girl in the pub or a club and buy her a drink, slip Rohypnol into it and the poor lass blacks out. Comes to next day after five of them have raped her.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Aye, that too.’

Roberts wondered if anything like that had happened with his daughter. Fear and rage crept along his spine. Finishing a pale ale, he resolved to turn everything round. He’d go home, say to the missus, ‘Listen honey, let’s have a fresh start. I have skin cancer, I’m skint too (a little humour), and let’s talk about our daughter. Who banged her up?’ It would need work but it was nearly there. He had the drive home to polish it ...

With his career now having a shot of adrenalin, he felt downright optimistic. Parked the car and stood for a moment outside his house, thought: ‘OK, we’re mortgaged to the bloody hilt but we’ve still got it. Hell,
I’ve
still got it.’

Thus emboldened, he went in, shouted, ‘Yo ... I’m home.’

No answer.

Never-no-mind – he’d grab a bite from the kitchen and begin the new life. He began to hum the truly horrendous ‘Begin The Beguine’. He hummed mainly cos he didn’t know the words. Opened the fridge. It was bare, like, completely empty, save for a note taped to a sorry lump of cheese. He read:

‘WE’VE GONE TO MY MOTHER’S. THAT’S IF YOU EVER GET HOME TO NOTICE’.

That was it.

He held on to the handle of the fridge, then muttered, ‘Now, that’s one cold note.’

T
HE ALIEN ADMIRED HIS
growing tan, thought:
Yah handsome devil!

The thing about foreign holidays was you could do all the asshole things you’d always ridiculed. Such as:

1. Wear Bermudas

2. Perch shades on yer hair

3. Carry a bum bag

Reg Fenton was many things – ruthless, determined, and uncompromising. What he had never been was given to flights of fancy. He had no truck with superstitions, omens, any of that. He believed in what was in front of him. Sitting at the bar, he was drinking tequila with all the trimmings. Salt on the hand, slices of lemon and sure, it gave the rush. He suspected all the ritual was a crock, but what the hell. He said originally ... ‘When in Mex!’

A tape was playing Dire Straits’ ‘Ticket to Heaven’. A song that proves, yeah, them guys did have something. Glancing out the window, he saw Stella and dropped his glass. The waiter, startled: ‘Que pasa?’

Fenton looked at him, then back to the window, she was gone. He moved to the waiter, grabbed his arm, shouted, ‘Did you see her ...? Jesus H Christ ... it was her!’

‘No comprende, Senor!’

Fenton let him go, tried to rein in his emotions, then staggered over to a table and sat heavily. The waiter approached, nervous as a rat. ‘Senor would like something?’

‘Yeah, get outta my face, arsewipe ... no ... hey ... get me a tequila. Shit, bring the whole bottle.’

As the waiter got this from the bar, he put his finger to his forehead, made circular motions, whispered, ‘Mucho loco.’

The barman nodded. Tourists, gringos, Americanos ... he’d seen all their shit.

C
OLLIE WAS EUPHORIC. HE
felt the wedge of cash in his hip pocket and thought:
I’m on my way
... To step right into the big time. But he’d need to get heeled, get a shooter. On the Isle of Wight, he’d celled with a Yardie, one of the Jamaican gangs who terrorised North London. His name was Jamal. Out now, he kept a low profile and kept it in Brixton; the busy end of Railton Road. He had the bottom half of a terraced house. Upstairs was a fortune teller. Collie could smell the weed halfway down the street. He knocked three times like the horrendous song from the seventies.

A white woman answered, aged about thirty. Her eyes were lost, but she had an attitude. ‘What?’

‘Tell Jamal it’s Collie.’

A black arm reached out and pulled her aside. Jamal, bare chested, gave a golden tooth grin. ‘Me mon!’ Which is like ‘Hi’ ... sorta.

He gave Collie a hug and then they did the series of high-fives and palm slapping.

Buddy stuff.

Inside, Dubstar were laying down a cloud and Jamal said, ‘Yo bitch, y’all git some tea fo’ my bro.’ He gave another illuminating smile. ‘She from rich white folk.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, de bitch be into Marxism and Jamal be in ho ass and trust fund.’

‘How’d you find her?’

‘She be sellin’ de
Big Issue
... I bought de lot, bought ho back mo crib. That be Tuesday ... what day is dis, mon?’

‘Ahm ... Tuesday.’

Jamal looked perplexed, then said, ‘Must be some other Tuesday. So, bro, wanna
Big Issue
?’

And they laughed together. Just two bros, hanging in the hood.

The woman brought mint tea in glasses and four cakes on a brass tray. Jamal said, ‘De tea be Julep like de cats in Marrakesh and de cakes be hash brownies ... mo hash than cake ... yo cool?’

He was.

In addition, Jamal rolled the Camberwell Carrot made famous by
Withnail And I
. Jamal had an added ingredient: he lightly sprinkled angel dust on the paper. It didn’t quite blast yer head off but it sure put you in orbit.

As Collie felt the countdown to oblivion he forced himself to concentrate on biz. ‘I need something.’

‘Sure, mon, whatcha be needin’?’

‘A shooter.’

‘My mon, I no do dat sheet no mo.’

Collie waited, skipped his turn on the tote, nibbled on a cake. Finally, Jamal said, ‘Less I gives mo own piece ... mah personal protection. How dat be?’

‘I’d hate to leave you ... defenceless.’

Big Jamal grin. ‘Sheet, I git by somehows.’ He stood up, said, ‘Gis a mo.’

‘Sure.’

The woman hunched down on the floor, lotus style. Collie could see her knickers, and more, he could see she saw. Then she raised a brownie to her mouth began to nibble ...

gnaw ... gnaw ... gnaw.

She asked, ‘See something you like?’

‘Nope.’

‘Are you queer?’

The dust was popping along his brain and tiny colours were exploding on the edge of his vision. He didn’t answer, tried to focus on the brightness. In Stephen King’s novel
It
, the clown says, ‘Come into my bright lights’. Then it shows rotten razored teeth. Collie looked at the woman, half expecting her to do likewise.

The trance was broken by the return of Jamal. He carried an oil clothed bundle, sat and unravelled it. A gleaming gun slid onto the table. Collie whistled. ‘A bloody cannon.’

Jamal gave the big grin. ‘It’s a Ruger six speed, see what’s on de barrel there?’

It read ‘Magnum’.

Jamal put a closed fist down alongside the gun, said, ‘Here de icing on de cake!’ And opened his hand. Six dum dum bullets rolled out. ‘They puts a fat hole in de target.’

‘How much?’ Jamal held up five fingers. Collie shook his head. For the next ten minutes they haggled, giggled, fingered. Eventually, they settled on three. The dope had kicked in and with full ferocity. It took Collie ages to count out the price, but finally it got done.

The woman glared at them. If dope is meant to mellow you, no one had told her. And she was sufficiently out of it not to disguise her aversion. Collie looked at her, then laid a five spot on the pile. ‘Buy sweets for the child.’ Set them off again.

Jamal pulled his zipper down, said, ‘Git some o dis mama.’ She didn’t move so he added, ‘I ain’t
axin
you, bitch.’ He picked up the Ruger, put a dum dum in.

Collie said, ‘Hey Jam ... don’t handle
my
weapon!’

They were off again, huge hilarity. Just ebony and ivory crackin’ up, having a walk on the wild side. The woman approached, hunkered down and took Jamal in her mouth. Collie closed his eyes. This he didn’t need to see. Loud groans followed.

‘
Sheeet, arghh ... fuck it
...

When Collie opened his eyes, Jamal said, ‘I need a cigarette.’

The woman was wiping her mouth, a brightness in her eyes as if to say:
Top that
.

Collie got to his feet, said, or tried to say: ‘Time to rock ’n’ roll.’

Jamal asked, ‘Yo bro, ya wans a BJ?’

Collie looked at the woman who was now smirking. ‘Thanks, but I already ate.’

Jamal’s laughter followed him out into the street.

Collie had tucked the gun in the waistband of his jeans. At the back, of course.

‘H
OW D’YA FEEL ABOUT
blood sports?’

McDonald was taken aback by Roberts’ question. He’d earned some kudos, he didn’t want to blow them. ‘You mean like coursing, fox hunting?’

‘No, I mean pugilism.’

‘Ahm ...

‘It’s bare fisted boxing, like Harry S Corbett, Diamond Jim ... There’s a bout at The Elephant tonight.’

‘And we’re going to bust ’em?’

Roberts laughed, said, ‘There’ll be over two hundred punters gathered. Hard asses. We’re going to have a wager.’

‘But Guv – isn’t it illegal?’

‘Course it is, why d’ya think it’s exciting?’

As Roberts predicted, there were at least two hundred gathered. All men, and as per, the very air bristled with unspoken aggression and excitement. The ‘bout’ was to take place at the sheltered car park to the rear of the Elephant. When they got there, Roberts said, ‘Back in a mo.’

McDonald was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, felt he smelt of cop.

A punter said, ‘Wanna drink, John?’

And offered a flask.

‘Sure.’ Best to blend. He took a swig and near choked, felt molten lava run down his throat, burning all in its path. He gasped, asked, ‘
What
...
was
...
that
?’