The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (29 page)

At The Oval, he bought a ticket for Heathrow and
The Big Issue
to pass the journey. As he settled into his seat, the gun was only slightly uncomfortable in the small of his back.

A woman offered him a piece of chocolate and he said, ‘God bless you my child.’

At the airport, he checked the arrivals board and settled down to wait.

Over Heathrow, the plane was preparing to land. Brant said, ‘We’ve got to cuff up.’

‘I like bin chained to yah.’

‘Jaysus, girl!’

Then she lowered her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What?’

‘For yer trouble.’

‘Yeah ... well ...

In truth, he didn’t know what to say. Being sorry hardly cut it, but ... He said, ‘Leastways you’ll get a decent cup o’ tea.’

‘Two sugars?’

‘Sure, why not?’

As Brant and Josie emerged into arrivals, he slung his jacket to hide the cuff. Collie saw them and thought:
Holding hands. How sweet
.

He moved up to the barrier, Brant vaguely clocked a priest and looked away. The gun was out and Collie put two rounds in Josie’s chest. The impact threw her back, pulling Brant along. Collie was moving fast and away, the gun back in his waistband.

Brant leant over Josie, saw the holes pumped by the dum dums and shouted, ‘Oh God!’

Collie was at the taxi rank and his collar allowed him to jump the queue. That, plus cheek.

‘Central London,’ he said.

His elation and adrenalin was clouded by what he’d seen. A handcuff? How could that be?

Then he realised the driver was talking ... incessantly. Collie touched the gun and smiled.

W
HEN BILL HEARD OF
the airport shooting he shouted, ‘What the bloody blue fuck is the matter with everyone? Can’t anybody do a blasted thing right?’

His minder didn’t know, said, ‘I dunno.’

‘Course you don’t bloody know, yah thick fuck.’

What Bill knew was the shit was about to hit the fan – and hard.

He headed home and his daughter Chelsea was waiting. She said, ‘I love you, Dad.’

Bill had recently caught a BBC documentary on Down’s syndrome. The children had been titled ‘the gentle prophets’. He wasn’t entirely sure what it meant but he liked it.

Picking up Chelsea, he asked, ‘Want to go on a trip with yer Dad?’

‘Oh yes!’

‘Good girl.’

‘Where, Dad?’

‘Somewhere far and till things cool off.’

‘Can we go tomorrow Dad?’

‘Darlin’, we’re going today.’

•        •        •

Roberts was once again before the Super. A very agitated Super, who asked, ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’

‘Sir?’

‘Don’t “sir” me, Roberts ... the fiasco at the airport ... Who on earth would shoot the woman?’

‘They say it was a priest.’

The Super displayed a rare moment of wit, said, ‘Lapsed Catholic, was she?’

Roberts gave the polite smile, about one inch wide.

The Super snapped, ‘It’s hardly a joking matter! Could it have been Brant he was after?’

‘It seems to have been a very definite hit, sir.’

‘Where’s Brant now?’

‘Still at Heathrow – Special Branch are de-briefing him.’

The Super stood up, began pacing. Not a good sign. He was muttering, ‘God only knows what the Yanks will make of this.’

A knock at the door and a woman looked in. ‘Ready for your tea, and biccy, sir?’

He exploded, ‘Tea? I don’t want bloody tea, I want results!’

She fled.

The Super leant on the desk. ‘You’ll have to have a word with WPC Fell.’

‘Falls, sir.’

‘What, like the present continuous of the verb ‘to fall’, not the past tense? You’re giving me an English lesson?’

‘No, sir ... I ...

‘The damn woman has resigned. I mean, her being black ... you know ...
Minority Policing
and all that horse-shit ... Get her back.’ Before Roberts could reply, the Super was off again, ‘Well don’t hang about, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Roberts had reached the door when the Super said, ‘Send in me tea.’

‘W
E’D LIKE YOU TO
go through it one more time, Sergeant.’

Brant lit up a Weight, took a deep drag, exhaled. ‘You’re trying to learn it by heart, that it?’

The two men conducting the interview wore suits. One had a black worsted, the other a tweed Oxford. Black said, patiently, ‘There may be some detail you’ve forgotten.’

‘It’s on tape, yer mate in the Oxfam job had a recorder.’

Oxford said, ‘We’re anxious to let you get home.’

Brant sat back, said, ‘We arrived at Heathrow, I re-cuff us –’

‘Re-cuff?’

‘Is there an echo?’

‘Let me understand this, Sergeant. The woman was
uncuffed
during the flight?’

‘You catch on quick, boyo.’

The men exchanged a glance, then: ‘Please continue.’

‘We got off the plane and I covered the cuffs with me jacket ...

Another exchanged look.

‘Then we came out and a priest shot her.’

‘What makes you think he was a priest?’

‘Was he was a good shot? What d’ya think, he looked like Bing Crosby?’

Now Oxford allowed his skepticism to show, said, ‘He was hardly a priest.’

‘Are you catholic?’

‘No, but I hardly see ...

‘If you were a catholic, you’d not be surprised what priests are capable of.’

Black decided to take control – cut the shit, cut to the chase. ‘
You
won’t be shedding any tears, will you Sergeant?’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Well, I mean ... like someone did you a favour, eh? She tried to murder you once, killed one of your colleagues ... how much can you be hurting?’

Brant was up. ‘Enough of this charade, I’m off.’

Oxford moved to block the door and Brant smiled. ‘’Scuse me.’

Oxford stepped aside. Brant opened the door, paused, said: ‘I may need to talk to you two again. Don’t leave town.’

R
OBERTS MET WITH BRANT
in The Cricketers. He’d parked his car near The Oval, said to
The Big Issue
vendor, ‘Keep an eye, eh?’ and indicated the motor.

The vendor said, ‘Play fair, Guv, they’d steal yer eye.’

Brant was at the back of the pub, a tepid coffee before him. Roberts put out his hand. ‘Good to see you, Tom,’ and meant it. Then, ‘Don’t you want a real drink?’

‘With all me soul but I was afraid to start.’

‘Start now.’

‘I will.’

They did. Whiskey chasers.

No conversation, let the scotch fill the spaces. Then Brant rummaged in his jacket and produced a squashed hat, said, ‘Got yah a present.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s a bit battered. I fell on it.’

Roberts tentatively touched it, then took it in both hands. ‘I dunno what to say.’

‘Give it some time, it will bounce back.’

‘Like us, eh?’

Brant gave him a look as if he were only now really seeing him, asked, ‘You were sick?’

At last thought Roberts, I can finally share. ‘Naw, nothing worth mentioning.’ Then he added, ‘Falls is out.’

‘Out where?’

‘The force, she resigned.’

Brant was animated, life returning. ‘She can’t do that!’

‘Word is you lent her the dosh to bury her father.’

‘
Me
?’

‘Did yah?’

‘C’mon Guv, am I a soft touch?’

‘What d’ya say we finish up, go round to see her?’

‘Like now?’

‘You have other plans?’

‘Naw.’

They finished their drinks, got ready to go. Brant asked, ‘Out of vague interest, how much am I supposed to have given her?’

‘Two large.’

Brant didn’t answer, just gave a low whistle. The figure was twice that, but then ...

Who was counting?

In Balham, as they approached Falls’ home, Roberts asked, ‘How d’ya want to play this?’

‘Let’s make it up as we go along.’

‘Good plan.’

They banged on the door and no reply. Roberts said, ‘Could be she’s out.’

‘Naw, she’s home, there’s a light.’ Brant took out his keys, said, ‘Pretend you don’t see this,’ and he fidgeted with the lock, pushed the door in.

They were cops accustomed to nigh on any reception. Neither of them could have forecast a skinhead. All of fourteen years old and wielding an iron bar. He shouted, ‘Fuck off outta it.’

‘
Wot
?’ in chorus.

The skin made a swipe with the bar, said: ‘I’ll do ye.’

Brant turned his back shrugged, then spun back, clouting the skin on the side of the skull. Flipped him, knelt on his back, said, ‘What’s yer game, laddie? Where’s the woman?’

‘Play fair, mate ... jeez!’

Roberts had gone searching, shouted, ‘She’s here ... in the bathroom.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘Debatable.’

Brant stood up, put a lock on the skin’s neck, gave him two open-handed slaps. ‘Whatcha do to her?’

‘Didn’t do nuffink! I’m protecting her!’

‘
Wot
?’ Again, in chorus.

Now the skin went bright red with a glow of injured dignity. ‘She gave me a quid one time, so when I seen her ’elpless like, staggerin’ home, leavin’ the door open, I said I’d mind her till she got her act back. Know what I mean?’

They did, sorta.

Roberts took out his wallet, said, ‘Yah did good, now here’s somefin’ for yer trouble.’

‘I don’t need paying ... she’s like ... a mate.’

Brant looked at Roberts, then. ‘All right, then, you ever get in a spot o’ bother ask for DI Roberts or DS Brant, we’ll see you right ... OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Take off then, that’s a good lad.’

He did.

Roberts said, ‘I’ve seen it all, a skin protecting a copper.’

‘A black copper.’

‘Yeah ... go figure.’

They couldn’t.

Together they hoisted Falls into the shower, kept her there till she came round. She came to, to retch, to curse and struggle. Then they dried her and got her into a dressing gown.

Brant rooted in his wallet, took out two pills and forced them into Falls’ mouth. Roberts raised an eyebrow and Brant said, ‘Tranqs ... heavy duty sedation.’

Falls said, ‘Don’t want help.’

‘Too bad – it’s underway.’

Brant and Roberts took it in shifts over the next 48 hours, washing her, feeding her, holding her. Times they got some chicken soup down her, times she threw up all over them.

When the horrors came, as come they do, Brant held her tight, wiped the spittle from her mouth. When the sweats coursed down her body, Roberts changed the bed linen, got her a fresh T-shirt.

DAY 3:

Brant’s shift. Falls had slept for eight hours. She woke, her eyes focused, asked, ‘Can I have a cup of tea?’

‘Toast?’

‘OK ... I think.’

She could. Two slices, lightly marged. Then she got outta bed, didn’t stagger, said, ‘I could murder a large gin.’

‘Darlin’, it’s near murdered you.’

‘I know ... and yet ...?’

Brant went and found a drop in one of the pile of bottles, said, ‘There’s a taste in this, enough to fuel you to the off licence.’ He held out the drink. ‘What’s it gonna be, darlin’?’

Perspiration lined her forehead, a tremor hit her body, she said, ‘I ache for it.’

He didn’t speak.

Then she shut her eyes, tight like a child before a surprise. ‘Sling it.’

He did.

Later, after another shower, she asked, ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘You and the Guv ... helped me.’

‘Well, they say you owe me three large, I’m protecting me cash.’

‘I’ve resigned.’

Brant stood up, said, ‘Don’t be stupid, I’ll see you at the station. Be on time, WPC.’

C
OLLIE WAS HAVING A
party for one. It’s not difficult to prepare such an event. You buy enough booze for six and don’t invite anyone. He’d laid out on his coffee table:

4 Bottles of Wild Turkey

2 Six Packs of Bud.

1 Cheese Dip and

    The gun.

The gun isn’t always a prerequisite, it depends who’s after you.

Music.

Verve with ‘Lucky Man’, over and over.

To complete the festivities, he’d put down four lines of coke.

Ready to party.

When the phone rang, he picked up the receiver, breathed, ‘Yeah?’ Lots of muscle in it.

A pause at the other end, then, ‘So you’re home.’

Collie recognised Bill straight off, answered, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You screwed up.’

‘Wasn’t my fault, sir, I thought she was his bit of gear.’

‘Didn’t the handcuffs signify something else?’

‘I didn’t see them, sir ... I thought they was holding hands ... I can fix it, though.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll do Brant.’

‘And you call that fixing it?’

‘I dunno, sir ... tell me and I’ll do it ... I done the taxi driver good, didn’t I?’

A long pause, a sigh, then: ‘You did the taxi driver?’

‘Yes, sir, one shot, clean as anything.’

OK. Stay home, don’t go out ... Can you do that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’

•        •        •

When Brant got home, there was an envelope under his door. No stamp. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It read:

‘THE AIRPORT SHOOTER LIVES AT:

FLAT 4, 102 VINE STREET,

CLAPHAM JUNCTION.’

Brant picked up the phone, dialled, then heard Falls say, ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Brant. Wanna be a hero?’

•        •        •

There’s a hospital on the outskirts of Acapulco called La Madonna D’Esperanza.

The Virgin of Hope.

It’s a mental hospital, and hope is pretty scarce.

Pan along Corridor C, turn left towards the windows and there’s a man in a wheelchair. He’s silent because he’s learnt she won’t appear if he speaks. His hands rest on the rug covering his lower torso.

If he keeps his eyes glued to the panes, she’ll eventually come, and then he’ll whisper:

Stell.

Stella.