The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (23 page)

Brant gulped the tea and roared, ‘Jesus, I’m scalded.’

‘Aye, it’s hot as Protestants.’

But something else, something that kicked. Pat smiled, said, ‘That’ll be the hair of the dog.’

‘Bloody Rottweiler, was it?’

A moment, as the liquid fought his insides, near lost and Brant got ready to puke. Then lo, it crashed through and began to spread ease.

Pat said, ‘Yah better get to the phone.’

Brant said, ‘OK,’ and thought: ‘Ye Gods, I do feel better.’

Roberts said, ‘Got you outta bed, did I?’

‘Naw, I was playing golf, had to rush in from the ninth.’

‘Eh?’

Brant scratched his balls, couldn’t believe how better by the minute he was feeling. Maybe he’d never leave Ireland.

Roberts said, ‘I had a hell of a job to locate you.’

‘I’m undercover.’

‘Under the weather, it sounds like. You’re not pissed now are you? I mean it’s not even ten in the morning.’

‘Haven’t touched a drop.’

Roberts took a deep breath. He had startling news and he wanted to be startling with it. The plan was to meander, dawdle, and plain procrastinate.

Get to it e ... v ... e ... n ... t ... u ... a ... l ... l ... y.

Like that.

What he said was, ‘They’ve caught the Band-Aiders.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Yeah.’

Brant wanted to roar:

Where?

When?

Who?

Why?

But instead repeated, ‘Jesus!’

Roberts figured that counted as ‘startled’, so he said, ‘The deadly duo tried to mug a punter in New York, but guess what?’

Brant had no idea. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘He was carrying a nine millimetre Glock. He must have been influenced by the subway vigilante ... what’s his name?’

Brant didn’t know or care. The healer in the tea had done its job. In fact, he wanted more, more of everything, especially information. ‘He killed them?’

‘Naw, just the man – the girl begged for her life, and by the time the cops arrived she coughed up everything – stabbing you, killing young Tone ... I think she even copped to Lord Lucan and Shergar.’

Brant laughed, this was great. He was truly delighted and thought: ‘I love Ireland!’ Which, if not logical, was definitely sincere.

Roberts said, ‘Now, here’s the thing. She’s waived extradition and wants to come back. There’s one condition though.’

‘What? She wants a seat on Concorde or to meet Michael Jackson?’

‘Worse. She wants
you
to bring her back.’

Brant couldn’t believe it, shouted, ‘No, Fuck that! I’ve plans ... I’m going to San Francisco ... that’s where Fenton is.’

Pat heard the shouting and did the Irish thing. He got Brant more tea and a cigarette. Roberts felt it was time to pull rank and kick some subordinate butt. ‘Sergeant, it’s not a request. Those on high aren’t asking you politely for a favour. It’s an order.’

‘Shite!’

‘That too, but look on the bright side – they’re springing for it, won’t cost you nowt.’

Brant took a hefty slug of the tea, better and bitter, but he wanted to sulk and as he crushed out the cigarette, he whined, ‘It’s not about the money.’

Roberts laughed out loud. ‘Gimme an Irish break. With you it’s always about the money.’

It was ...
always
.

Brant could hear the shower running and ... yes, the sound of Pat singing. Sure enough – ‘Search for the Hero Inside Yourself’.

Roberts said, ‘Go to the local Garda station in Galway and all the details will be faxed.’

‘Fucked, more like. They’ll welcome an English policeman, I suppose.’

Roberts was beginning to enjoy this. How often did you get to mess Brant about? His skin cancer was itching like a Hare Krishna and he felt the dehydration beginning. ‘Why were they called Band-Aiders? Musicians, were they?’

Brant snorted. ‘The only tune they played was from an Oliver Stone film. The guy had a cut on his face and said, “When I’m cut, she bleeds”. They both sported snazzy bandages. Cute, eh?’

Roberts couldn’t resist it. ‘They’ll need some bloody bandage to cover what’s left of his face.’ He wanted suddenly to share his pain about his illness. Brant was the nearest to a friend he had. He began, ‘I’ve been in some pain, Sergeant.’

‘Jaysus, who hasn’t boyo?’

And he hung up.

P
AT HAD PREPARED BREAKFAST
as if Man United were expected.

Two plates on the table with:

sausages (2)

eggs (2)

tomatoes (2.5)

fried bread (1)

black pudding (1)

The plates were ample enough for a labour party manifesto.

Brant said, ‘Holy shit!’

Pat was already tucking in. ‘Get that inside you, man, soak up the booze.’

Odd thing was, Brant was hungry. He sat down, lifted a fork and indicated the black pudding. ‘What kind of accident is that?’

‘Would you prefer white?’

‘White what ... eh?’

‘It’s pudding, the Pope loves it.’

Brant pushed it aside, speared a sausage and said, ‘Which tells me what exactly? I mean, the
Pope
... is that a recommendation or a warning?’

Pat laughed, had a wedge of fried bread, said, ‘The Pope’s a grand maneen.’

‘A what?’

‘Man-een. In Ireland we put ‘een’ onto names to make them smaller. By diminishing, we make them accessible. It can be affectionate or mocking, sometimes both.’

Brant found the sausage was good, said, ‘This sausage is good ... or rather, sausageen.’

‘Now you have it. Pour us a drop of tea like a good man.’

They demolished the food and sat back belching. Brant said, ‘Lemme get my cigarettes.’

‘Don’t stir ... try an Irish lad.’

He shoved across a green packet with ‘MAJOR’ in white letters on the front. Brant had to ask. ‘Not connected to the bould John I suppose?’

It took a moment to register, then ‘Be-god no, these have balls.’

Pat produced a worn Zippo lighter and fired them up. Brant drew deep and near asphyxiated. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Mighty, eh?’

‘Jesus, now I know what they make that pudding from.’

Pat excused himself, saying, ‘Gum a less school.’ At least that’s how it sounded to Brant. It means simply, ‘Excuse me’.

Like that.

He came back with the inevitable tea pot and a large white sweater. ‘This ganzy is for you. It’s an Aran jumper and if you treat it right, it will outlive yer boss.’

Brant never, like
never
got presents; thus he was confused, embarrassed and delighted. ‘That’s ... Jesus ... I mean ... it’s so generous.’

‘Tis.’

After Brant had showered, he donned a pair of faded Levis and then the Aran. He loved it, the fit was like poetry. He said, ‘I’ll never take it off.’ Put on a pair of tested Reeboks and he was Action Man.

Pat eyed him carefully, then said, ‘Be-god, you’re like a Yank.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Mostly! Mind you, it can also mean, “Give us a tenner”.’

Pat volunteered to show him how to find the Gardai. Before leaving, he asked, ‘Who’s Mayor Mayor?’

Brant was stunned. ‘What?’

‘Mayor Mayor. You were roaring the name like a banshee last night.’

Brant sat down. ‘Gimme one of those coffin nails.’ He lit it and felt the tremor in his hand. ‘A time back, I had a dog named Mayor Mayor ... after a character by Ed McBain.’

Pat didn’t have a clue as to who McBain was, but he was Irish and learnt from the cradle not to stop a story with minor quibbles, so said nowt.

Brant was into it, back there, his eyes holding the nine yard stare. ‘We had a psycho loose called The Umpire, he was killing the English Cricket Team.’

If Pat had a comment on this, he didn’t make it.

‘I called him names on TV and he burned my dog, just lit him all to blazes, the dirty bastard.’ Brant stopped, afraid his voice would crack.

Pat asked, ‘When you caught him, you beat the bejaysus outta him?’

‘No.’ Very quiet.

‘You didn’t?’ Puzzled.

‘We didn’t catch him.’

Pat was truly amazed, muttered, ‘I see’. But he didn’t.

Brant physically shook himself as if doing so would do the same to his mind. It didn’t. ‘I loved that dog – he was the mangiest thing you ever saw.’ Is it possible to have a smile in a voice? Brant had it now. ‘I used to take him for walks up Clapham Common, thought we’d score some women.’

‘Did ye?’

‘Naw, I was the ugly mutt.’ And they both laughed. The tension was easing down, beginning to leak away.

Pat, being Irish, was attuned to loss, pain and bittersweet melancholia. ‘Lemme tell you a story and then we’ll talk no more of sad things. Tell me, did you ever hear of the word “bronach”?’

‘Bron ... what?’

‘You didn’t. OK, it’s the Gaelic for sadness, but be-god, it’s more than that, it’s a wound in the very soul.’ Pat paused to light a cigarette and sip some tea. He knew all about timing. ‘Our eldest lad, Sean ... a wild devil. He’d build a nest in yer ear and charge you rent. I loved him more than sunlight. When he was eight he caught a fever and died. There isn’t a day goes by I don’t talk to him. I miss him every minute I take breath. Worst, odd times I forget him, but I don’t beat myself up for that – it’s life ... in all its granite hardness. The point I’m hoping to make – and eventually I’ll get there – is life is terrible, and the trick is not to let it make you a terror. Now, there’s an end to it. C’mon, I’ll bring you to the Garda.’

Brant couldn’t decide if it was the wisest thing he’d ever heard or just a crock. As he rose he decided he’d probably never be sure; said, ‘Pat, you’re a maneen.’

F
ALLS WAS IN THE
canteen eating dry toast, no butter; drinking milk, no taste. Rosie, her friend, breezed in. As much as you can breeze if your arm’s in a sling and your face is bruised.

‘Hiya Rosie.’

‘Hiya hon.’

Like that.

Rosie said, ‘Yer wondering what happened to me, right?’

‘Ahm ...

‘Falls – look at me! I’m a wreck.’

Falls put the toast down. ‘Oh my God! What have you been doing, girl?’

‘Didn’t you know I was on holiday? Jack and I’ve been saving to go to India, and we went.’

Falls couldn’t resist. ‘And they didn’t like you much.’

Rosie reached over, touched her friend’s arm. ‘Wake up and smell the coffee honey, OK? I’ve always wanted to go to Goa cos of the old hippy trail and those beaches ... Her arms and face were tan; what’s known as a cowboy tan – the body stays soap-white.

Falls tried to focus. ‘Did you have a terrific time?’

‘I can’t believe you don’t know! We flew to Delhi and got a cab at the airport. The taxis, they drive like the worst night in Brixton ... sorry ... I mean ...

Falls being black, didn’t take it personally. When white Londoners reached for adjectives, metaphors for chaos, they used Brixton. If hardly commendable, it was vague times comprehensible. So it goes, an urban blues.

Rosie, less fired, said, ‘A transit van hit us, driven by Australians. The taxi driver was killed and I was unconscious for five days.’

Falls, for an instant, near forgot the child she carried and touched her friend’s face. ‘Ah darlin’, are you all right?’

‘I am now. They pinned my arm, and do you know, they don’t bind broken ribs? They hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Jack, the rascal ...

‘Rascal? Have you been watching Sean Bean in Sharpe?’

Rosie laughed. She had a reach down in your gut laugh with her heart – and screw the face lines. ‘He never got a scratch. I had concussion and the doctor said, “Your head won’t be right for some time.” The wanker. I’m a WPC – my head will never be right! But enough about me, fascinating though it is. What’s with you, girl? You’re distant.’

Falls let her eyes drop to her stomach and edged a tiny smile lit with mischief, wonder, delight.

Rosie stared, eyes like saucers, and then,
‘Oh my word!
Oh ... oh ... oh!’ And jumped up, trying to hug Falls with her good arm. The various cops in the canteen turned round, their look proclaiming:
What the hell is it with these women?

Rosie touched her head, looked bashful as well as bashed, said, ‘Sorry,’ then whispered,

‘Congratulations ... oh, I love you.’

So all in all, it has to be said, Rosie sure received the news a whole lot better than the doctor. Trying to keep her voice low, she asked, ‘How does it feel? Are you having morning sickness?’

‘No, nothing; but I think I’m going to get my wish.’

‘What?’

‘Huge boobs.’

Their attempts to stifle the laughter only made it worse. Then Falls told her of the arsonist and how Brant was away. ‘Don’t you see? It’s my chance. If I catch the guy I’ll get promotion and be able to afford the baby bills.’

Rosie shook her head. ‘Don’t be crazy, the guy could be dangerous.’

‘He’s all mouth, no danger.’

But she was wrong.

The duty sergeant appeared, said, ‘If comedy hour is over, I have a case that requires female tact.’ Which told them exactly zero.

On the way, Falls said, ‘If it’s a girl, I’ll call her Rosie.’

An elderly woman was sitting in the interview room. Falls sat and checked the charge sheet. The woman leant over, peered and said, ‘Good Lord, you’re a black person!’ Falls geared up. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Oh no dear. It’s nice they’re letting you people in. I love Ray Charles.’

The charge sheet was, as usual, unhelpful, so Falls said, ‘Mrs Clark ... Why don’t you tell me in your own words what happened?’

She was happy to.

‘I was sitting in Kennington Park – so nice there – and a man walked up to me and just stood there. So I said, “Can I help you?” and he said, “Look, look – I’m exposing myself!” He sounded very agitated.’

‘Was he?’

‘Was he what, my dear?’

‘Flashing ... I mean, did he ... take out his privates?’

‘His John Thomas, you mean? I said – “You’ll have to move closer as my eyesight is poorly”.’

Falls tried to contain herself, asked, ‘What happened?’

‘He moved closer and I stabbed it with my Papermate. That’s when he started screaming and the police came.’