The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (13 page)

And a large carrier bag. Black. Daren’t be seen to ‘Accessorise’, very ungothic. She’d been reading an article headlined ‘SO, WHAT KIND OF SHOPPER ARE YOU?’

Retail analysts divide shoppers into six types, they use this information to attract the shoppers they want, and deter others. Supermarkets will tempt the Comfortable and Contented with displays of minor luxuries. Mainstream Mercenaries will be deterred by supermarkets offering either lack of choice, or too much.

Falls was a sucker for quizzes. Forever completing
News of the World
magazine questions like ‘What kind of lover are you?’

She read aloud the first three types of shopper:

1. Mainstream Merchant:
The retailer’s least favourite group – low budget shoppers who buy only the cheapest goods on sale. Impervious to the siren-call of exotic foods.

2. Struggling Idealist:
scrutinise every label for contents, buy only eco-sensitive soap powder. Ozone friendliness very important.

3. Self Indulgent:
self-explanatory. Very welcome in supermarkets.

‘Mmmm,’ she thought. ‘Alas, that first rings a bell. Then, the final three:

4. Comfortable and Contented:
favourite with the retailer because these happy bunnies like to reward themselves with that extra tin of tuna (‘Well, we do use a lot of it, and it is very healthy.’) Delia Smith is their icon.

5. Frenzied Coper:
fastest shopper in the west. Knows what she wants and where to get it, homes in on target sections at speed. Will not even spot the most seductive gondola or special-offer basket.

6. Habit-Bound Die-Hard:
frugal but loyal; the mostly male section. Meat and two veg man, spuds and sprouts only, never mange tout. Buys six days’ worth of food for £20. This (surprise, surprise) is the type the analysts have also dubbed the ‘Victor Meldrew.’

As she scanned No. 6, she thought, ‘Oh God, I’ll end up married to one of those.’

Crumpling the article, she threw it in the bin. On a T-shirt she’d seen once, the logo was: ‘When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.’

It seemed about right.

She strapped on her Walkman and was ready to roll, Sheryl Crow blasting loud.

At the entrance to the supermarket, she bought the
Big Issue
and the vendor said:

‘Have a good one.’

She’d tried.

A gaggle of girls brushed past her, nearly knocking her over. One of them petulantly crying: ‘Oh... ex-cuse me!’ in
that
tone. What John L Williams describes as an ‘Angela’, a particular drawl that upper-class junkies seem to have patented: One part frightfully, frightfully; two parts frightfully fucked up. The type who insist on slimline tonic as they swill buckets of gin.

Falls got a trolley and turned off her Walkman. The supermarket had a loop tape, the same song 100 times. Today it was U2 with ‘You’re So Cruel.’

Killer tune, but over and over.

Reach for them razor blades or mainline Valium.

Falls knew the very next track should be ‘The Fly.’

Sounds like Bauhaus on speed. But course, due to the bloody loop, it never gets there.

She headed for the frozen veg.

P
AST TOILETRIES AND DISINFECTANTS
to see a kicking. A man was on the ground and three teenagers were putting the boot in. And kicking like they meant it. Steel caps on the toes flashed like treacherous zips of empty hope.

‘Oi!’ she roared.

Reaching for a tin (it was marrowfats) she lobbed it high and fast. It bounced off the first kid like whiplash. He dropped like a sack of thin flower, and the others legged it.

People were shouting and coming up behind her. She got to the man on the ground and saw he was in uniform. Security. Blood was pouring down his face. He said: ‘I showed them, eh?’ She smiled and helped him up. His brown hair was falling into his eyes and she clocked startling blue eyes, big as neon. She felt her heart lurch and reprimanded herself mentally: ‘Don’t be daft, it couldn’t be.’

She said: ‘We’d better get you seen to.’

‘Like a cat is it?’

As he stood up she saw he was just the right height, a hazy six foot, and that they’d look good together. A man came striding up, all shit, piss and wind: the manager. He barked: ‘What on earth is going on?’ and glanced at the teenager who was stirring and moaning. Falls said: ‘The apprentice thug there was apprehended by your security, at great physical cost.’

The manager barked louder: ‘But he’s just a boy, what’s wrong with him?’

‘He got canned.’

Falls accompanied the security guard for aid. To the pub. He ordered a double brandy and she a Britvic orange, slimline. She put out her hand, said: ‘I’m glad to meet you. And you are?’

‘Beige. That’s how I feel, but put me on the other side of that drink, I’ll be, as Stephanie Nicks sang, “A Priest of Nothingness’’.’

His Irish brogue surfaced haphazardly as he lilted on some of the words, then he added: ‘I’m Eddie Dillon.’

‘Dylan?’

‘Naw, the other one, the Irish fella.’

‘He’s famous?’

‘Not yet, but he’s game.’

She laughed, said: ‘I haven’t one clue to what you’re on about.’

He gave a shy smile, answered: ‘Ah, there’s no sense in it, but it has a grand ring!’ He looked at her hands, added: ‘And speaking of rings, can I hope yer not wed?’

She was filled with warmth, not to mention a hint of lust. She said: ‘Are you long in security?’

He drained his glass and she clocked his even white teeth. He said: ‘I was with the Social Security for longer than either of us admit, but yes, it’s what I do. I like minding things. I used to do it back home, but that’s a long time ago. Thank Jaysus... and no, it’s not what I do while I’m waiting to be an actor. I’m with Woody Allen who said he was an actor till he got an opening as a waiter.’

She laughed again, then said: ‘I’ve got shopping to do, so are you going to ask me out?’

‘I might.’

Roberts looked at his wife across the breakfast table. Deep lines were etched around her eyes, and he thought: ‘Good Lord, she’s aging.’ But said: ‘England went under with barely a whimper, losing their final match by twenty-eight runs today.’

‘That’s hardly surprising dear, surely?’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, I mean the poor lambs have a maniac stalking them. It’s not conducive to good cricket, is it?’

He felt his voice rising: ‘All they had to chase was a perfectly manageable victory target of 229.’

‘Says you. And darling, I’m sure they feel you should be chasing a maniac instead of criticising.’

Falls was surprised that Eddie Dillon had a car. She felt he’d have a lot of surprises. The motor was a beat-up Datsun, faded maroon. He said:

‘I won it off a guy in a card game.’

‘What?’

‘Just kidding. It’s the kind of line guys adore to use.’

‘Why?’

‘Good question, and one I have no answer to.’

He was dressed in a thin suit; everything about it was skinny, from the labels to the crease. A startling white shirt cried: ‘Clean, oh yes.’ Falls had her sedate hooker ensemble. Black low-cut dress, short, and black tights. Slingback heels that almost promised comfort, but not quite. He said: ‘You look gorgeous.’

She knew she looked good. In fact, before he arrived, she’d almost turned herself on. He’d brought a box of Dairy Milk. The big motherfucker that’d feed a flock of nuns.

She asked: ‘Won them in a card game?’

‘Yup, two aces over five, does it every third hand.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To Ireland.’

And in a sense, they did.

F
ENTON, OF THE ‘E’
gang, was becoming less wallpaperish. He was beginning, for the first time in his life, to follow the plot. Not completely, but definitely in there. Now, coming off a football high, he challenged Kevin, said: ‘See that young copper got done?’

‘Yeah.’

‘The papers are saying we done it.’

Kev was dressed in urban guerrilla gear. Tan combat pants with all the pockets, tan singlet and those dogtags they sell in the arcade. Desert Storm via Brixton. He sensed Fen’s attitude and squared off. A Browning automatic peaking from the pocket on his left thigh. He smiled, said: ‘Fuck ’em.’

Fenton, less sure, wanted to back off, but had to hold. Asked: ‘Did ya, Kev? Did ya do him?’

Kev was well pleased. It kept the troops in line if they believed the boss was totally not to be fucked with. He said: ‘Whatcha fink Fen, eh... what do ya reckon, matey?’ Now Albert and Doug were on their feet and the air was crackling. Fen fell back into a chair, saying: ‘Aw Jeez, Kev, you never said nuffing about doing the old bill. Jeez, it’s not on. It’s not... And he groped in desperation for a word to convey his feeling. ‘It’s not British.’

Kev gave a wild laugh, then pulled the Browning out, got into shooter stance, legs apart, two-handed grip, swung the barrel back and forth across his gang, shouted: ‘Incoming!’ and watched the fucks dive for cover.

He could hear hueys fly low over the Mekong Delta, and vowed to re-rent
Apocalypse Now.

T
HE GALTIMORE BALLROOM CONFIRMS
the English nightmare. That the Irish are: One, tribal. Two, ferocious. Three, stone mad.

To see a heaving mass of hibernians ‘dancing’ to a show-band with an abandon of insecurity, is truly awesome. Like a rave with intent. When Falls saw the entrance and felt the vibes, she asked: ‘Are we here to dance or to raid?’

Eddie took her hand, laughed: ‘They’re only warming up.’

She could only hope this was a joke.

It wasn’t. Two bouncers at the door said in unison: ‘How ya, Eddie.’

Falls didn’t know: was this good or bad? Good that he was known, but how regular was he? Was she just another in a line of Saturday Night Specials, cheap and over the counter?

Eddie said: ‘They’re Connemara men. Never mess with them. When penance is required, they think true suffering is to drink sherry.’

Inside it was sweltering, and seemed like all of humanity had converged. Eddie said: ‘Wait here, I’ll get some minerals,’ and was gone.

Falls panicked, felt she’d never see him again. The sheer mass of the crowd moved her along and into the ballroom. She thought: ‘So this is hell.’

A stout man, reeking of stout in a sweat stained shirt asked her: ‘D’yer want a turn?’

‘No thank you, I’m –’ but he shouted: ‘Stick it, yer black bitch!’

A band, consisting of at least fifty or so it seemed, were doing a loud version of ‘I Shot the Sheriff. Mainly it was loud, and they sure hated the sheriff. And here was Eddie, big smile, two large iced drinks, saying: ‘So, did you miss me?’

‘Yeah.’

Then they were dancing, despite the crowd, the heat and the band. They were cookin’. He could jive like an eel. Falls had never met a man who could dance. In fact most of them could barely speak. It deeply delighted her. Then a slow number: ‘Miss You Nights’.

And she drew him close, enfolded him tight. She asked: ‘Is that a poem or are you real pleased with me?’

‘It’s poetry all right.’

And later, it would be.

F
ALLS WAS IN LOVE
with love. She yearned to feel the mix of sickness, nausea and exhilaration that came with it. So in love you couldn’t eat, sleep or function. The telephone ruled your life and ruined it. Would he phone, and when, if, oh God...

You bastard. She wanted to do crazy shit like write their married name and buy him shirts he’d never wear. Cut his hair and hang out with his family, prattle on about him until her friends roared: ‘Enough!’

Lie awake all night and stare at his face, trace his lips gently with two fingers and half hope he’d wake. Kiss him before he shaved and wear the beard rash like a trophy. Mess his hair just after he’d carefully styled it, and iron his laundry, or even iron his face. She giggled. Publicly, on matters musical, she’d drop the name of cool like Alanis Morissette. Sing the lyrics of mild obscenity and mouth the words of kick ass. At home, if it wasn’t the Cowboy Junkies, she’d tie her hair in a severe bun and put Evita on the turntable. Her window had a flower box, and with the tiniest push of imagination – open that window full – she was on the balcony of the Casa Rosada in Buenos Aires. A couple of dry sherries fuelled the process and she’d sing along with ‘Don’t Cry for me, Argentina’.

The track on total repeat till tears formed in her eyes, her heart near burnt from tenderness for her ‘shirtless ones’. Till a passer-by shouted: ‘Put a bloody sock in it!’

It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that, at odd times, her voice carried to the Umpire, and eased the dreams of carnage he’d envisaged. Reluctantly, like a sad Peronist, she shut Evita down and considered her situation. If she told Roberts about Brant and Mrs Roberts, she was in deep shit. If she didn’t tell him and he found out, she was in deeper mire. If she said nowt to nobody, she’d probably survive. It stuck in her gut like the benign cowardice it was. Falls could vividly remember the day her friends ran up to her in the street saying: ‘Come quick, look at the man on the common.’

When she got there, her heart sank. The object of their curiosity was her dad. Staggering home from the pub after a day’s drinking. She tried to help him. She was four years old. As long as she could remember, her life had been overshadowed by his drinking. He was never violent, but it cast a huge cloud over the family. She felt she was born onto a battlefield. His booze destroyed the family. With it came with the four horsemen: Poverty, Fear, Frustration, Despair.

Dad was anaesthetised from all that. There was never money for schoolbooks or food. Nights were spent trying to block out her parents’ raised voices. Or curled up, too terrified to sleep because her father hadn’t come home. Wishing he was dead and praying he wasn’t. Never inviting her friends home as her father’s moods were unpredictable. Most of her childhood spent covering up for his drinking. Once, asking him: ‘Can I have two shillings for an English book?’