Vixen (Inspector Brant) (8 page)

She groaned as she got flashes of what happened after Angie had kissed her. It felt like battery acid was loose in her stomach and she sat up slowly.

Angie was already dressed in navy blue tracksuit and fixing her hair.

She looked over and asked:

‘Elizabeth, you think I should change my hair or do you like it like this?’

Falls felt a spasm and thought she’d throw up, wondered how Angie could seem so… fresh ?… Yeah, goddamn it… fresh. Hadn’t she drunk at least as much as she had? The bitch was downright frisky.

Another retch hit and Angie moved over, went to touch Falls, saying:

‘Ah, poor pet, not feeling so hot?’

Falls pushed her hand away and raced for the bathroom. Was violently ill. After she’d thrown up a few times, she was finally able to move to the sink and chuck cold water on her face. Then she risked a glance in the mirror.

Bad idea.

She was haggard, no other word for it. A shade of green seemed to be mixed in with the black. The eyes were red, no doubt about that. She looked totally fucked.

With a huge effort, Falls managed to sprinkle some drops into her eyes, which stung the shit out of her. She drank a half-litre of water and hoped it would stay down. Pulled herself up, said to herself:

‘Okay, you can do this thing.’

Out to the kitchen where Angie was cooking! Smelled like a fry-up and Falls had to double over with a retch.

She said:

‘Could you not do that?’

Angie curled her lip, fixed her eyes on Falls, asked:

‘You want me to go?’

‘Yes.’

As she gathered up her stuff, Falls got some water boiling. Angie said:

‘Okay, I’m ready. You want to call me later, we can arrange something?’

She was at the door, looking back, with that small smile that wasn’t related to warmth or humour but connected to
some wires that were forever twisted. Falls pushed at the kettle, said:

‘I don’t think so.’

Her tone was cold and she wanted it to sound exactly that, the hangover making it easier. Angie opened the door, but paused and asked:

‘What’s bugging you most, Elizabeth? Is it that you slept with a woman or that you slept with a white woman?’

ANOTHER BOMB WENT off. Same deal, same cheap mechanism, different location.

This time it was the WH Smith bookshop on the concourse at Waterloo railway station. Not too far from the left luggage site. Panic and consternation as commuters ran for their lives. There were no casualties from the explosion but six people were hurt in the stampede.

Ray rang the police and was pissed when he didn’t get Roberts.

Porter Nash, groggy from lack of sleep, fumbled for his new glasses and was seriously angry. He said:

‘You asshole, the money was delivered. What the hell are you playing at?’

The robotic voice was level, amused, disguising the annoyance Ray was actually feeling. It said:

‘Tell you the truth, I’ve got a taste for it.’

‘What?’

‘Where’s Roberts? I don’t like dealing with the hired help; you sound way too emotional to be negotiating. Not a fag, are you?’

Porter, aware he was being taped for the record, tried to rein in, said:

“You got paid, what can it benefit you to keep this going?’

‘Sheee.…it as our black brothers say, “I dun’ tol’ you young un’ I got me a taste for this.”‘

Ray was relaxing, he was close to having fun and this cop was so easy to rile. He said:

‘See, you got a clue right there. Am I a brother or playing at it, running the old double bluff?’

Porter, who’d been having chest pains and had resolved to stop smoking, signalled to McDonald for a cig. This took a minute and Porter clicked his fingers; McDonald wasn’t keen on the gesture. The cig was found, a Rothmans – thus funding the South African connection anew – then a lighter.

Porter got his cigarette flamed, drew deep, said:

‘The picture that comes across from all the clues I have is that you are a sick whacko and I promise you this, I am personally going to bring you down. So how you like that clue, bro’?’

And then Porter Nash did something that would become the stuff of police legend.

He slammed down the phone.

The rule is: never, never never never… hang up on a kidnapper, extortionist or hostage taker.

Then, to add to the myth, Porter collapsed.

An ambulance was called and he was rushed to St Thomas’. The paramedics, on hearing about chest pains, shot him through to Coronary Care, Porter feeeling like he was an extra in
ER…
the mad gallop through the corridors, the IV bottle, the oxygen mask, he’d have enjoyed it if the fucking pain wasn’t so intense.

Porter Nash knew for certain he was dying. Gays like him liked Dolly Parton marginally better than Barbra Streisand, and her version of ‘I Don’t Know Much’ was reeling in his head. He could hear ‘I don’t know much but I know I’m dying’, which made it a torch song of mega echoes.

They got him hooked up to the monitors, took blood – the cocksuckers – and get this… began to question him.

Like this:

‘When did the pains start?

Where are they concentrated?

Do you smoke?

Any history of heart disease in the family?’

That kind of shite.

He wanted to say:

‘Fuck off.’

But he knew they wouldn’t. They kept up the barrage of questions, carried on doing stuff to his chest. He could see little plastic plugs that were attached to him and the amount of tubes in his left arm was to be seen to be believed.

The specialist said:

‘I would say the tube in your heart is gone.’

At least that’s what it sounded like, or some valve had packed it in. To Porter Nash it all sounded like sayonara. He was finally given some painkillers and he swallowed them with relish. The truth is, he would have killed for a cig.

Like plenty of
light
smokers, he’d deluded himself by thinking he could kick any time he chose. They are the smokers the tobacco companies like best. What they do not like us to see are the poor ravaged faces of people like snooker ace Hurricane Higgins – gaunt, fucked and forlorn – peering out from the tabloids. The real maintenance comes with the guy who thinks he’s not hooked. Smoking ULTRA LIGHTS and thinking the roof will never fall in.

It falls.

Porter didn’t really think he could ask for ten minutes to nip out for a fast drag. Next up was x-ray… And the technician tut-tutted… ‘This you do not want to hear.’

So Porter asked:

‘What? You see something on there?’

‘Not my job, mate. I just take the snaps, let the big boys deliver the damage.’

‘So you do see something? Oh Jesus, tell me. I can take it.’

And he remembered Burt Reynolds in
The End
saying exactly the same thing, then, when he’d heard the worst, howling like a baby. The technician, putting the x-ray in a huge envelope, said:

‘The porter will wheel you back.’

Porter Nash grabbed his wrist, said:

‘The porter? I’m Porter, tell me the news. I’m a cop, did you know that and believe me, I can give you shit till Sunday if I want.’

The technician looked around, then whispered:

‘Do you smoke?’

Oh God, it was true. The dreaded messenger was banging on the gates. Porter felt the air go out of whatever remained of his black lungs and the guy said:

‘Reason I ask is, you can slide in the back there, grab a drag and I’ll keep the door closed.’

PorterNash wanted to giggle, he felt hysteria rising. Smoking his cigarette and trying to get his mind in gear, he focused on a poem by Jack Mulveen he’d memorised one quiet afternoon. How the hell did it go? The title was ‘The Coffin Maker’s House’.

He could recall the first verse.

A creaking dilapidated sign of carved wood
Swung where a rusted steel swivel stood
A sway of Gothic letters whispering
‘John Green, Coffin Maker, Est. 1919.’

The technician shouted:

‘Yo, Officer, they want you.’

Ask not for whom the bloody bell tolls. He finished the cig and prayed it hadn’t finished him. The porter wheeled him back upstairs and they got him a bed. He was reattached to all the tubes and the nurse asked:

‘Like a cup of tea, love?’

She was black with huge luminous eyes and he thought of Falls, wondering if she knew of his plight. No sign of Roberts or Brant or indeed any cop.

He answered:

‘I’d really appreciate that.’

She stared at him and he said:

‘What?’

‘You have lovely manners.’

What she thought was:

Fag.

When the painkillers kicked in, Porter couldn’t believe the ease. He remembered Arnie’s line in
Predator:

You lose it here, you are in a world of hurt.

He began to feel sleepy, and when the tea arrived he was already dozing. A nurse came and said cheerfully:

‘Mr Nash, we need some more blood.’

‘You’re kidding. I like, gave pints already, what’s the deal?

‘We need to keep an eye on your blood sugar.’

He didn’t know what this meant but didn’t ask for fear she’d tell him, so he said:

‘My name is Porter Nash.’

She began to do shit to his arm and said:

‘Impressive name.’

As she drew the blood, she was humming. There are few things as annoying as that, except for Muzak, and the worst bit is you start to try and identify the goddamn tune. He couldn’t, said:

‘I give up.’

She was finished and asked:

‘You give up what, love?’

‘The song, the one you’re humming, what is it?’

She seemed lost for a moment then:

‘Oh… it’s “Feel”.’

The sleep had retreated and he near barked:

‘And that tells me what exactly?

She gave him a playful pat on the shoulder, said:

‘It’s Robbie Williams, he’s gorgeous. Don’t you listen to the radio?’

‘I listen to classical music. Like, for example, yesterday, when I got home, I had Avro Part and then Górecki.’

Heard himself, realised he sounded like his father, like a complete prig. His dad was a highly successful businessman, had remarried the previous year. A memorable event to which Porter had taken Brant.

The father has asked Brant:

‘How come you’re hanging out with a fag?’

Or words to that effect.

Then he’d offered Brant a job. To Porter’s everlasting delight Brant, in typical form, had said:

‘I’d never work for an asshole like you.’

Brant had brought a hooker to the reception and told all her occupation. She’d done major trade in the afternoon: they weren’t called working girls for nothing.

Porter had listed his father as next of kin on the admission sheet. And here he came, striding up the ward, looking like he couldn’t believe people were actually taken
to public wards. He was wearing a Burberry raincoat, open to reveal a blue blazer, grey slacks. A silk cravat was carelessly tied around his neck. This was his father’s casual gear.

He glared at Porter in the bed, near roared:

‘What’s all this nonsense?’

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Is it one of them faggot diseases? I don’t want to catch anything.’

‘They think it’s my heart but they moved me out of Coronary Care, so that’s a good sign.’

His father turned his head, searching for someone to order. Then said:

‘You always were an idiot; only you would think there’s some good sign in being hooked up to monitors.’

Porter Nash was trying to remember the name of the new wife, but no, it wouldn’t yield. So he went with:

‘How’s the wife?’

Not a tactical plus. His father’s face clouded and he said:

‘Women! She thinks a credit card means free money. Your mother wasn’t much better.’

‘It’s going well then?’

His father raised his arm and Porter smiled. How would it look if his father beat him in the bed? Then his father changed tactics, smiled his evil smile, said:

‘Why am I talking to you about women? What would you know about them?’

Before Porter could answer, the doctor came and said he
needed time with his patient. Falls was walking along the ward and Porter said:

‘Dad, there’s one of my colleagues, will you get her some coffee?’

He stared at her then said:

‘She’s a nigger. I’ll come tomorrow and have you transferred to a private clinic.’

Porter sighed, said:

‘Don’t bother.’

‘What? You don’t want the best care money can buy?’

‘No, I don’t want you to visit tomorrow or any other day.’

“At daylight I thumbed a ride with a gaunt gypsy
trucker with shoulder-length hair and a death’s head
earring. It was 6.30 and his eyes were wide open,
and he was listening to a metal band sing about the
highway to hell.
‘I know that highway pretty good,’ I told him.
He grinned and handed me some crystal.’
Fred Willard,
Down on Ponce.

ROBERTS CAME TO with the highway to hell pounding in his head. He’d had hangovers, he’d had bad hangovers but this was the
motherfucker.
This was the reference point, the level by which all future pain could be measured. He was in a bed, sorta. Hanging over the side, bile dribbling from his mouth, vomit congealed on the floor. And he was naked. He dragged himself to a sitting position and saw a woman… also naked, in the bed. He thought:

Oh God, did I?

He did.

She mumbled then suddenly sat up, opened her eyes, peered round then fixed her gaze on him, said (or rather, croaked):

‘Well hello, big boy.’

Oh, Christ.

She fumbled for her bag, got it opened, pulled out a pack of Superkings, said:

‘Where’s my fecking lighter?’

Touch of an Irish lilt there. Found the lighter, fired up, dragged deep – one of those skull ones, where your cheekbones disappear – and then the coughing began, ratching death-knell variety.

She said:

‘Shit, that tastes great.’

One felt that irony was not her forte but if it had been…

Roberts looked round for his clothes and the door crashed open. Brant appeared, dressed in an immaculate suit, his face shining, spit and polish oozing out of him. To coin a cliché, he looked like a million dollars…or Euros, if you wanted to lean on the Irish connection. He surveyed the damage, said: