The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (8 page)

Fiona led: ‘Are you all right?’

‘Don’t I look all right?’

‘Well, no... no, you don’t.’

Penny turned her head, shouted: ‘Waiter, espresso before Tuesday, OK?’

Fiona cringed. ‘They’re not big on shouting in Claridges. Discretion is such a form that they’d really appreciate you not showing at all. But if you must, then quiet, eh?’

Penny took a Silk Cut from her purse, said: ‘I’m smoking again, so shoot me.’

The waiter brought the coffee. No perks with this, just the basic cup and saucer. He waited and Penny snapped: ‘Take a hike, Pedro.’

He did. Then, no preamble, she launched: ‘The bastard’s leaving after twenty-six years of marriage. He’s off.’

‘But why?’

‘He needs space. Can you believe it, that he’d use that line of crap to me? Everyone’s in therapy and no one’s responsible anymore.’

‘You’ll have the house?’

‘I’ll have his balls, that’s what I’ll have.’

Then she rooted in her handbag, produced a boxed Chanel No. 5 and flung it on the table, said: ‘I got you a present.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry it’s not wrapped. Well, it’s not paid for either.’

‘I don’t follow’

‘I nicked it. That’s what I’m doing these days, roaming the big stores and stealing things I don’t even want. On Monday I took a set of pipes. You wouldn’t prefer a nice briar, would you?’

‘No. Oh, Pen, if you need help –’

‘Go into therapy is it? Find my inner child and thrash it?’ She jumped up. ‘I’ll have to go. I’ll call you.’

And she was gone. It was a few moments before Fiona realised that Penny had pocketed the espresso cup. She gave a deep sigh, thinking: ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

But it was. Penny had a major effect on her life. She opened the Chanel, put a bit behind her ears, said: ‘Mmm, that’s class.’

The leader of the ‘E’ crew, Kevin, was singing at the top of his voice: ‘Tom Traubert’s Blues’, aka ‘Waltzing Matilda’. He was well pissed, empty Thunderbirds strewn at his feet. As the high point of the song touched crescendo, so did Kev. He was right moved to tears at the strength, nay, the majesty of the voice. For Christmas his brother Albert had given him Rod Stewart’s
Greatest Hit Ballads,
and now aloud he roared: ‘I love this fuckin’ album!’ And cranked open another Thunderbird, near drained it in one gulp. He’d followed Rod from the Small Faces all the way through ‘Killing of Georgie’ parts one and two, and fuck, never mind that Rod was an arrogant arsehole, the fucker could sing like a nicotinized Angel. Now Kev began to dance, to waltz, one two oops three with an imaginary Matilda. She was a combination of all the women he’d never had. Then, as is wont with the booze, it metamorphosed fuckin’ bliss to viciousness in the click of a beat. He stumbled and then pushed the dancing partner away, shouting: ‘Slag!’ Spittle lined his lips as hate fuelled by alcohol propelled him to a dimension where few would wish to be. Kev had done time, hard time. But he’d discovered books and found they provided a brief escape. His all-time hero was Andrew Vachss with the Burke novels. They were Kev’s speed, chock full of righteousness brutality, total vengeance. It never occurred to Kev that the very people Burke pursued were Kevin’s own. Not that he didn’t identify with the pure villains, the twenty-four carat psychos that scared even Burke. Wesley, the monster who signed his suicide note with a threat: ‘I don’t know where I’m going but they better not send anyone after me.’

Class act. Kev had copied it down, carried it like a prayer of the damned. Damnation was romantic as long as it didn’t hurt. When his brother Albert was born, they left something out, some essential connection that kept him two beats behind. Kevin was his brother and bully. The other two crew members were ciphers, their sole purpose being to fill prisons or football stadiums, and they were partial to both. Go in any bookie’s after the big race, they’re the guys picking up the discarded tickets, the human wallpaper. When God chose the cast, he made them spear carriers. Rage began early in Kev. A series of homes through Borstal to the one where the big boys play. Prison. In Wormwood Scrubs, he was made to bend over by a drug dealer and thus began his lock on their trade. Discovering Burke gave a hint of crusade to his vision and the seeds of vigilantism were sown. The Michael Winner
Death Wish
series was a revelation. When Bronson eliminated a guy, the audience stood up and cheered. Kev began to see how he could become famous, heroic and use a gun. If he got to settle personal scores, well hell, that was just how the cookie crumbled. The first weapon he got was a replica Colt and he spent hours in front of the mirror striking poses. Mouthing defiance: ‘Bend over! You fucking bend over now... Hey, arsehole... Yeah, you!’ He got
Taxi Driver
on vid and finally came home. Here was destiny, and in his movie he’d insist George Clooney played him. Get the chicks hot. At times, standing by Brixton tube station, he’s see black guys come past in cars whose names he couldn’t even pronounce. Rap music pouring from the speakers and arrogance on the breeze. He’d grit his teeth and mutter: ‘You’re going down, bad-ass.’ When he got the crew together, he laid it out as a blend of Robin Hood meets Tarantino and how they’d be front page of the
Sun.
Doug and Fenton didn’t care either way and, if it provided cash, why not? Albert did what Kevin said, as always. The ‘E’ was born and ready to rock ’n’ roll.

A
S BRANT AND ROBERT
s headed for the pub, they passed a urinating wino. Delirium tremens hit him mid-piss and his body did a passable jig. Brant said: ‘A river-dancer.’

The pub was police-friendly. Meaning if you were a cop, they were friendly, if you weren’t, you got shafted. A blowsy barmaid greeted them: ‘Two officers.’

Brant smiled and said: ‘My kind of woman.’

‘Friendly?’ said Roberts.

‘No, big tits.’

Roberts ordered two pints of best and Brant added: ‘Two chasers, Glenfiddich preferably.’

Roberts said: ‘Cheers.’

‘Whatever.’

‘You know, Tom, we should do this more often.’

‘We’ve never done it before.’

‘Oh, are you sure?’

‘I’m positive, Guv.’

‘Hey, Tom, no need for that here, we’re not standing on rank.’

But he did not offer an alternative. Brant sank the short, said to the barmaid: ‘Maisie, same again.’

‘That’s her name?’

‘Is now.’

Four drinks passed. Roberts offered: ‘You’re a single man now.’

‘That’s me.’

‘No kids.’

‘None that I’ve admitted to.’

Six drinks later, Brant’s turn: ‘You and yer missus, Guv, doing all right?’

‘Well, she’s doing something, not that she tells me, mind.’

Eight drinks later, Roberts: ‘I think I’m pissed.’

‘Naw, it’s early yet.’

Closing time. Roberts: ‘Fancy a curry? I could murder a chapati.’

‘Yeah, let’s get a carryout. Molly!’

‘I thought she was Maisie.’

‘Naw, it’s Molly, they’re always Mollies.’

Midnight.

Sitting outside the pub attempting red hot curry, Brant said: ‘D’ya want to kip at my place?’

A passing bobby stopped, said: ‘What’s all this then?’

It took Roberts a few moments to focus, then he slurred: ‘Yer bloody nicked, son.’

When Brant finally got home he was beginning to sober up. A foul taste on his mouth, he blamed it on the early Cornish pasty. He never blamed whisky. His sobriety was sealed when he saw the door of his flat off its hinges. He roared: ‘Bastards! Not to me, not ever!’

The living room was destroyed. Ripped and gutted photos. But his beloved book collection: the McBains were shredded, the delicate Penguin covers torn to pieces. Piled on top were remnants of Matthew Hope and Evan Hunters. To cap it, urine had been sprayed all over. Tears blinded him and a sob-whisper: ‘Yah fuckin’ animals.’

He ran to the bedroom, tried to ignore the used condom on his pillow, went deep into his dirty laundry, extracted a bundle of undies, roared in triumph: ‘Ah, yah stupid bastards,’ extracted a Browning automatic, fully loaded, shoved it in the waistband of his trousers and stalked out. Left the door as it was, said: ‘Daddy’s gone a-hunting.’

Brant’s shoulder took the door off the basement flat. He felt that was poetic justice at the very least. Inside, the occupant began to rise from bed. But Brant was over and kneeling on his chest within seconds, saying: ‘Sorry to disrupt your sleep, Rodney.’

‘Mr Brant, oh God. Mr Brant, what’s going on?’

‘Someone turned my gaff, Rodders, someone very bloody stupid, and by lunch today you’ll have their names for me, else I’ll move in with you.’

‘Your gaff, Mr Brant? No one would have the bottle, unless it were junkies, yes, has to be, they don’t know from shit.’

‘The names, Rod, by lunchtime. Am I clear?’

He let his full weight settle and Rodders gasped, then managed: ‘OK Mr Brant, OK.’

Brant got up, asked: ‘Got any aspirin? My head is splittin’.’

As he left, Rodney asked: ‘My door, Mr Brant, who’s gonna see about that?’

Brant looked at it with apparently huge interest, then said: ‘Don’t leave it like this, it’s a bloody open invitation, know what I mean?’

Rodney rang Brant at 11.50, said: ‘I found the geezers who done yer, Guv.’

‘Yeah?’

‘They’re junkies, like I said. A guy and his girlfriend. Yer own crowd as it happens.’

‘What, they’re coppers you mean?’

Rodney didn’t know if this required a polite laugh. Brant’s humour was more lethal than his temper. He decided to play it straight, said: ‘Ahm, like Micks, you know, Oirish. But they’ve been here a bit so they speak a mix of Dublin and London.’

‘So where do I find these cultural ambassadors?’

‘They have a pitch at the Elephant and Castle, in the tunnels there. He sits and she begs.’

‘How Job Centre-ish, eh?’

Rodney felt sweat gather on his brow. Any dealings with Brant had this effect. He hoped to terminate the call with: ‘They’re easily recognisable as they wear a band aid under the left eye.’

‘Why?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘OK Rodders, you done good. Stay in touch.’

‘Definitely’

And he put the phone down. His heart was whacking in his chest. However bad he felt, he knew it was way beyond what a set of junkies would soon be experiencing. But he shrugged it off, saying: ‘For all I know, they’re Ben Elton fans.’

Brant found them in jig time. Sure enough they were in the tunnels, begging and band-aided.

T
HE MAN WAS SITTIN
G on a blanket and the woman was pacing. They had the uniform intimidation: combat jackets, Doc Martens and an air of menace. No dog, surprisingly. Brant looked up and down. Nobody about. He kept his head down and walked up to them, giving the London look of cowardly expectation. He saw the woman smile as she moved to block his path, whining: ‘Few bob for a cup o’ tea, mistah?’

As he drew level, he swung round and smashed his shoe into the man’s face, then whirled and ran her into the wall. Checking again for onlookers, he then pushed her down beside the man. A symphony of shocked groans came from them: ‘Whatcha do dat for, ya cunt?’

‘Ah...

Brant hunkered down. Grabbed the man by the hair, said: ‘What’s with the bandages, dudes?’

The man was hurt but still managed to look amazed: ‘What?’

‘The Band Aids Bros, what’s the deal?’

‘’Cos if I’m cut, she bleeds.’

Brant smiled and lashed out with his open palm into the woman’s face, said: ‘Hey, pay attention.’

She tried to spit, then asked: ‘Whatcha pickin’ on us for, mistah? We dun nothing to youse.’

He banged their heads together as a man entered the tunnel. Brant said: ‘You turned over a gaff, the wrong one, believe me. Now you have two days to compensate me for the damage, or I am talking major hurt. I’ll leave it to you guys to figure out how much it should be. Else... well, I’ll come looking for you.’

The man drew level and asked: ‘Anything wrong here?’ Brant stood up, said: ‘Naw, I’m doing a survey on urban deprivation.’

The man peered at the battered couple, said: ‘Good Lord, they’re bleeding.’

‘Yeah, but see, they have band aids, that should do it.’ As Brant strolled off, he calculated the pair’s collective age at about sixty. They had the air of a hundred and sixty.

Never-no-mind, he thought. Like all junkies, they’d been dead for years, the news just hadn’t reached their fried brains yet.

Shannon watched the cricket story fade from page one to back towards the horoscopes. His story! But unlike the ‘E’ outfit, he didn’t get angry. Time was on his side and he knew how to instantly pull it back. He’d been to military shops on the Strand and quite openly bought a crossbow.

The proprietor had said: ‘Alas, I’ve only three arrows.’

The Umpire smiled, said: ‘Then thrice shall I smite them.’

The proprietor couldn’t give a toss if he answered in Arabic, said: ‘Whatever.’ And he put the goods in a M&S bag, warning: ‘Careful how you handle ’em,’ and pocketed the money.Now the Umpire dry-tested the bow and found it slack. He tightened and tested for over an hour till it gave a taut
zing.
He couldn’t believe how easy it had been to kill his second cricketer. At the very least, he’d expected a uniform on the beat. But zip,
nada, tipota.

When he’d begun his crusade, he found most of the team addresses in the phone book. That strengthened his conviction and zeal. Three of them with south-east London homes. Better and better. The sheer power of the bolts enthralled him. As he saw the wicket-keeper stumble down the steps, he felt exhilaration. But cunning ruled. He quickly put the weapon in the M&S bag and simply walked away. Shannon began to reemerge as the two personalities roared: ‘Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.’

PC Tone was what used to be called a raw youth. He didn’t have acne but it was close. At twenty-three years of age, he looked seventeen. Not a big advantage in south-east London. But he had four O-levels and one A-level. The changing Met looked at exams, not faces. When Brant first clapped eyes on him, he’d said: ‘For fucksake.’

Tone worshipped the Sergeant. The rep of violence, rebellion and fecklessness was irresistible. That Brant despised him didn’t cool his devotion since Brant seemed to despise everyone. Tone figured if he could attach himself to Brant, he’d learn the real method of policing. Not an easy task, as most times he was told: ‘Piss off boy’ Until this morning.