The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (17 page)

‘It’s skin cancer.’

‘
Fuck
!’

After he thought, I took it well.

Was ill as a pig when he heard about the treatment.

Like this: ‘Once a week we’ll have radiation.’

‘We? You’ll be in there with me?’

The doctor gave a tolerant smile, halfways pity to building smirk, continued: ‘Let’s see how you progress with the ‘rad’, and if it’s not doing the business we’ll switch to laser.’

Roberts wanted to shout, ‘Beam me up Scottie! Signpost ahead ... The Twilight Zone.’

He let the doctor wind down. ‘Later on, we’ll whip some of those growths away. A minor surgical procedure.’

‘Minor for you, mate.’

The doctor was finished now, probably get in nine holes before ops, said: ‘We’ll pencil you in for Mondays, and I’d best prepare you for two after effects:

1. You’ll suffer extreme fatigue, so easy does it.

2. It leaves you parched – a huge thirst is common.’

He had a mega thirst now.

Right after, he went to the Bricklayers. The barman, a balding git with a pony-tail and stained waistcoat, chirped, ‘What will it be, Guv?’

‘Large Dewars, please.’

‘Ice ... water?’

‘What, you don’t think I’d have thought of them?’

‘Touchy.’

Roberts didn’t answer, wondering how the git would respond to
rad
. As if abbreviation could minimise the trauma. Oh would it were so. Dream on.

Robert’s other passion was Film Noir of the forties and fifties. Hot to trot. Now, as he nursed the scotch, he tried to find a line of comfort from the movies. What he got was Dick Powell in
Farewell My Lovely:

I caught the blackjack right behind my ear.

A black pool opened up at my feet.

I dived in. It had no bottom.

Yeah.

He’d given the git behind the bar a tenner, and now he eyed the change. ‘Hey buddy, we’re a little light here.’

‘Wha ...? Oh ... took one for me. I hate to see anyone drink alone.’

Roberts let it go. Londoners ... you gotta love them. Bit later the git leans on the bar, asks, ‘You like videos?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Fillums, mate. Yer latest blockbuster – see it tonight in the privacy of yer own gaff. Be like ’aving the West End in yer living room.’

‘Pirates, you mean.’

‘Whoa, John, keep it down, eh?’

Roberts sighed, laid his warrant card on the counter.

‘Whoops ...

Roberts put the card away, said, ‘I thought in your game you could spot a copper.’

‘Usually yeah, but two things threw me.’

‘Yeah, what’s those then?’

‘First, you have manners.’

‘And ...?’

‘You actually paid.’

•        •        •

Fenton got his nickname thus: During the movie
Alien
, he killed a guy – the scene where the creature crashes outta John Hurt’s chest. He’d used a baseball bat. Near most, it was his weapon of choice. The guy, Bob Harris, had stitched up his mates. They were doing life-plus on the not so sunny Isle of Wight. Mind you, the ferry over had been scenic. Fenton was offered two large to payback. He did it gratis. What are mates for?

Oh, Bob liked his horror flicks and was a particular aficionado of Ridley Scott’s work on
Alien
. Could wax lyrical about the used hardware look of the scenes. Shite talk.

Fenton had called round, six pack of Special and some wacky-backy. They’d done a tote, got munchies and cracked the brewskis. Fenton asked, ‘Yo, mate, still got
Alien
, have you?’

‘Oh yeah, good one. Wanna see it now?’

‘Why wait?’

Indeed.

Fenton said he’d grab some cold ones from the fridge as they got into the flick. Bob was on the couch, glued to the screen, yelping about the ‘vision’ of Allen Dean Foster. Fenton unzipped the Adidas hold-all and took out the Louisville slugger. It had black tape wound tight on the handle, tight as cruelty. He gave the bat a test swing, and yeah, it gave the familiar whoosh of long and comfortable use.

The crew of
The Nostradome
were sitting down to their meal and John Hurt was getting terminal indigestion.

Bob shouted, ‘Yo ... Fen! You don’t wanna miss this bit!’

Fen came in, put his weight on the ball of his right foot, pivoted, and swung with all he had, saying, ‘I won’t miss, buddy.’

And wallop – right outta the ball park.

The crew on the TV screen gave shouts of horror and disgust at the carnage. Fenton let the movie run, he hated to leave things unfinished.

•        •        •

Fenton had a meet with Bill in The Greyhound near the Oval. It’s always hopping, but no matter how tight, Bill gets to sit on his tod down the end. All the surrounding seats are vacant. Not free but empty, like McDonalds cola. A time back, a pissed Paddy decided to have a seat right up close to Bill, said, ‘Howya.’

Bill didn’t look, said, ‘You don’t wanna perch there, pal.’

‘Pal? Jaysus, I don’t know you. Buy us a double, though.’

A muscle man outta the crowd slammed Paddy’s ears in a simultaneous clatter. Then had him up and frog marched out to the alley. There, his arm was broken and his nose moved to the right. After, sitting against the wall, he asked, ‘What? ... What did I say?’

Bill and Fenton went way back. Lots of cross referenced villainy. Masters of their respective crafts. Bill asked, ‘Drink?’

‘Rum ’n’ coke.’

‘Bacardi or ...?’

Fen smiled, ‘Navy up.’

An old joke. Just not a very good one. Bill was drinking mineral water – Ballygowan Sparkling.

The drinks came and Fen said. ‘I dunno Bill, I must be getting old, but I could never get me head round paying for water.’

Bill took a sip and winced. ‘What makes you think I pay?’

‘Nice one.’

They sat a bit in silence. You could nigh hear the bubbles zip, like pleasant times, like fairy tales.

Then, ‘We found her.’

‘Great.’

‘You’re not going to like it.’

‘Gee, what a surprise.’

‘She’s in America, like you thought – San Francisco – living with a teacher, name of Davis.’

‘A teacher ... wow.’

Bill said, ‘Let it be, Fen,’ and got the look, boundaries being breached. He sighed. ‘Sorry ... you’ll need a wedge.’

‘Big time.’

Bill rooted in his jacket, took out a fat manila envelope, said, ‘There’s a cop, name of Brant, needs sorting.’

‘When?’

‘Soon as.’

‘How far in?’

‘Not fatal but educational.’

‘Can do.’

Fen got up and Bill said, ‘Oi, you didn’t touch yer rum.’

‘Hate that shit.’

And he was gone.

•        •        •

Brant had taken Falls with him to interview a suspected arsonist. No proof had surfaced but the Croydon cops swore he was the man. Now he’d moved to Kennington and, hey, coincidence, a warehouse was gutted on the Walworth Road. He was in his early thirties with the eyes of a small snake. He’d answered his door dressed in a denim shirt, cutoffs, bare feet.

Brant said, ‘If you’ll pardon the pun, we’re the heat.’

The guy smiled, let them know he could be a fun person, asked, ‘Got a warrant?’

‘Why? You done somefing?’

And everybody smiled. The guy was enjoying it, said, ‘What the hell, c’mon in.’

The flat was a shithole. The guy said, ‘It’s a shithole, right, but I just moved in and ...

Brant said, ‘From Croydon.’

‘Yeah!’

‘We heard.’

He stretched out on a sofa, waved his hand. ‘Park it wherever.’

Brant parked it right next to the guy’s head, still smiling. The guy sat up, decided to pull the ‘blokes’ routine and nodded towards Falls. ‘You didn’t need to bring a cunt with yah.’

And got an almighty wallop on the side of his head.

Brant said, ‘Here’s how it works, boyo – you call her names, I’ll wallop you ... OK?’

Too stunned to reply, the guy looked at Falls, thus failing to see the second sledgehammer punch to the back of his head. It knocked him out on his face and he whinged, ‘I didn’t say nuffink that time.’

Brant hunkered down, said, ‘I hadn’t finished explaining the rules. See, if you even
look
like you’re going to call her a name, I hammer you. Get it now?’

The guy nodded.

Falls had long since despaired of Brant’s methods. She owed him three large for her father’s funeral and was obliged to suffer in silence.

When they were leaving, Brant said to the guy, ‘They think you’re an arsonist. Me? ... I dunno, but if there’s another fire soon, I’ll put you in it.’

Back on the street, Falls said in exasperation, ‘I need a holiday.’

‘Yeah? Anywhere nice?’

‘Some place far, like America.’

‘And you need money, is it? How much?’

She was too enraged to answer.

•        •        •

Brant was humming a Mavericks tune as he put his key in the door. He felt fucked and looked forward to a cold one – lots of cold ones – and maybe a sneak peek again at
Beavis And Butthead Do America
.

Stepping inside his flat, his inner alarm began.

Too late.

The baseball bat tapped him smartly on the base of his skull and two thoughts burned as the carpet rushed to meet him.

a) Not this shit again

b) The carpet sure is worn

When he came to, many pains jostled for supremacy – his head ... the rope round his neck ... the ache in his lower back ...

The Alien said, ‘I wouldn’t move if I were you. See, what I’ve done is tie a rope round your neck and connected it to yer feet. You move either, you slow strangle. But, don’t sweat it – you’ll catch on quick.’

Brant tried to move and the strangle hold tightened. He went: ‘Urgh ... uh ...

And Fenton said, ‘Exactly! I think you’ve got it.’

Brant’s pants and Y-fronts were around his ankles and he felt a baseball bat lightly tap his bum. For a horrific moment, he envisaged rape of an American variety.

Fen said, ‘I hear you’re a hard ass. Time to change that. For the next few weeks when you try to sit, remember: keep yer bloody nose outta people’s business.’

A whistle began to scream from the kitchen and Fen said, ‘I put the kettle on. Handy, those whistle tops, eh? No boiling over. Excuse me a mo!’

Brant was awash in cold sweat. Rivers of it coursing down his torso. Fear was roaring in his head.

Then, ‘Okey-dokey ... here we go. I’ll pour ...

And white hot pain electrified Brant’s brain.

•        •        •

Fiona Roberts was stalled in traffic. Cars were blocked all the way down to the Elephant. Her husband had many proclamations, most of a police bent. Among them was, ‘If you’re caught in traffic, keep the windows shut.’

Yeah, yeah.

She could hear a blast of rap from a nearby car and glanced over. A man with dreadlocks was giving large to a mobile. How he could hear anything above the music would be nothing short of miraculous. He caught her eye and gave a huge dazzling gold capped smile. Not too sure about her response, she looked away. Didn’t do to encourage the game. A woman’s head appeared at her elbow and a distinctly Irish accent whined, ‘Gis the price of a cuppa tea, missus, and I’ll say a prayer for ya.’

Fiona had never mastered the art of street encounters. As a cop’s wife she’d learned zero except the response of confusion.

Like now. She muttered, ‘I’ve no change.’

And the woman spat in her face.

The shock was enormous. As the spittle slid down her cheek, a symphony of horns began and shouts: ‘Eh, get a bloody move on!’ ‘Shift yer knickers darlin’!’

She did. As the Americans say – ‘Who ya gonna call?’

Her husband would crow, ‘What did I say? ... Didn’t I tell you about windows, eh? Didn’t I say?’

The Ford Anglia 205E saloon is a classic. You gaze at it, you can almost believe the fifties and sixties had some worth. See your reflection in the chromed wing mirrors, you can almost imagine you have a quiff stuck in Brylcreem heaven with sleek brushed sideburns. The wheels are a collectors wet dream – rubber tyres with separate chrome hubcaps. Note that word ‘separate’. The difference twixt class and mediocrity. Ask Honda as you whisper British Leyland. Throw in Harley Davidson and you’ve got one pissed off Jap. Roberts called his Anglia ‘Betsy’. In the fifties, it was easier to name the car than the child. Roberts was financially strapped. A mortgage in Dulwich, a daughter in boarding school. And he was hurting big time. Now that he’d been diagnosed with skin cancer, he’d flung the lot – caution, care, budget – to the cancerous wind.

The car was a bust. It didn’t overstretch his finances so much as shout BLITZKRIEG.

He wasn’t sorry, not one little bit. He loved – nay,
adored
– it. Kept it in a lock-up at Victoria. The garage belonged to a mate of Brant’s and he was glad to oblige the police. Well glad-ish. Come a pale rider. In the nineties in London. Come joy riders. Bringing anything but joy.

Patience isn’t high on their list of characteristics. They opened the lock-up no problem, but couldn’t get the Anglia to start. So ... so they burned it where it was. The fire took out three other garages.

When Roberts arrived, the blaze had been brought under control, but too late to save anything. The fire chief asked, ‘That your motor in there?’

‘Was.’

‘You’ll be insured?’

Roberts gave him the look. ‘I’m a cop – what do
you
think?’

‘Uh-oh.’

‘Yeah.’

They watched the flames for a bit and then the chief said, ‘There’s a cup o’ tea going ... fancy one?’

‘I don’t think tea will do it.’

‘You could be right. Me, I take comfort where I find it.’

‘Gee, how philosophical ... maybe I should be glad the fire gives heat to the neighbours.’

‘See – you’re sounding better already.’

Before Roberts could respond to this gem, his bleeper went and the Chief said, ‘Could be a long night.’

‘It’s been a long fuckin’ life, I tell you.’

But the Chief already knew that.

As Roberts sighed and turned away he ran a turn through his favourite noir movies. Always from the forties and fifties. What surfaced was Barbara Stanwyck to Keith Andes in
Clash By Night: