Ken Bruen - Taming the Alien

Falls held her breath as the Doctor began to speak. ‘Well, Miz … or Miss — I never know the PC term.’ And he looked at her. The expression of the misunderstood male run ragged by women’s demands.

She wanted to shout, ‘Get on with it you moron,’ but said tightly, ‘Miz is fine.’

‘All right, Miz … And he looked at his notes.

She supplied: ‘Falls.’

‘Quite so. Well, Miz Falls, you are pregnant. Three months, in fact.’

She was speechless. Now that it was confirmed she felt a burst of happiness and finally said, ‘Good!’

If the doctor was expecting this response, he hid it well. ‘Ah … when there’s, ahm … no Mr Falls, one isn’t always … pleased.’

‘I’m delighted.’

‘So I see. Of course, there are alternatives, once the initial euphoria has abated, one might wish for … other options.’

She wanted to smack him in the mouth but said, ‘I’m keeping my baby. I am not euphoric, I am, as I said, delighted.’

He waved his hand dismissively like he’d heard this nonsense a hundred times, and said, ‘My secretary will advise you of all the details. Good day Miz Falls.’ As she was leaving, he said, ‘I suppose one ought to say felicitations!’

‘You what?’

‘It’s French for congratulations.’

‘Oh, I know what it means, doctor, but I doubt that you do … in any language.’

The secretary typed out all the data and as she handed it over, said, ‘Pay no heed to him, he’s a toss-pot.’

‘Aren’t they all?’

‘Wild, wild angels’ by Smoky was pouring from a gay bar in the lower reaches of the East Village. A near perfect pop song, it contains all the torch a fading queen could ask for.

The Band-Aiders wanted out of New York and they wanted out now. Josie and Sean O’ Brien were the names they were currently using. Their brains were so fucked from chemicals, they weren’t sure of anything save their Irish nationality, but years of squatting in south-east London had added a Brixton patois to their accents. Their one surety was they wanted to hit California, and hopefully hit it fucking hard. Sunshine and cults — what could be better?

And wow, had their luck ever held out? First, they broke into Brant’s flat and though he’d found and threatened them, they got him first. Next, they murdered a young cop named Tone for his new pants — a pair of smart Farahs. Beaten him to death with a nine wood, not that they were golfers. Golf clubs had replaced baseball bats as the weapon of choice for a brief time in Brixton. Things had returned to normal, though, and bats had now reemerged for walloping the bejaysus outta punters.

That Brant would come a-hunting never occurred to them.

Josie had once been pretty, a colleen near most, blue eyes, pert nose and dirty blonde hair.

But that was well fucked now.

Brixton

squats

sheer viciousness

and of course, every chemical known to boogie had wrought havoc.

Her hair was now a peroxided yellow, as once touted by Robbie Williams. Her skin was a riot of spots and sores. Crack cocaine had given her the perpetual sniffles.

And if she was rough, Sean was gone entirely like Sid Vicious … two years after his death.

They’d got into America as part of a punk band entourage. They’d then ripped off the band and pawned the instruments. Now broke, they resorted to what they were — urban predators. Prey was best from gay bars.

But their amazing run of luck was about to dive.

From the shadows, they watched a group of men on the sidewalk. Obviously stewed, they were saying goodbyes with laughter and hugs.

Sean said, ‘I’d kill for a cuppa tea.’

‘Yeah, gis two sugars wif mine, yah cunt!’

They giggled.

Sean watched as one man broke away, and muttered, ‘I’ll give him a good kickin’, I will.’

‘Yeah, we’ll do the bollocks!’ Josie felt the rush of adrenalin, the juice kicking into override. She gasped, ‘Crank it up muttah-fuckah!’ Even the boys in the hood would have admired her accent, not to mention her sentiments.

As the man moved off alone, Sean said, ‘Show-time!’

Julian Asche was thirty-five years old. A successful architect, it had taken him a long time to accept his homosexuality. But New York is a good place to come out. To hear the women tell it, try finding a guy who wasn’t :

gay

married

lying

OR

all three.

As a seasoned Manhattanite, he’d paid his city dues. Found a way to cohabit with cockroaches, ignore the homeless and be mugged twice. He’d declared, ‘Enough already!’ and, ‘This shit ain’t happening to me again!’

Thus, he was left with two choices:

1. Leave

2. Get a gun

He got a gun. Finally, he was a fully fledged commuter. Right down to his Reeboks and war stories. To complete the picture he ate sushi and liked Ingmar Bergman.

The weapon was a Glock. It came to prominence as a terrorist accessory — made mostly of plastic, it got through metal detectors without a bleep. Lightweight, easy to carry and conceal; even the cops took to it. As their no-mention second gun, the true back-up.

Now Josie nudged Sean, said, ‘Rock ’n’ roll.’

He grunted, added, ‘Roadkill.’

They moved.

Their tried and tested method was for Josie to approach the vic and whine, ‘Gis a few quid, mate.’ Sean then did the biz from the rear. Simple, deadly, effective. It got them Brant, the young copper and one per cent of the Borough of Lambeth. Why change? Indeed.

But Sean did.

Perhaps it was the Rolex. Julian was wearing the Real McCoy. A present from his first lover. So genuine, it looked fake.

Josie did her part, only altering the currency to suit the geography. The song now coming from the bar was Lou Reed’s ‘Perfect Day’. If fate had a sense of the dramatic, ‘Walk On The Wild Side’ would have been apt; but it has an agenda, which rarely includes humour, and almost never timing.

The dance began as before. Josie strode up to Julian, whining, ‘Gis a few bucks, Mistah.’

Sean, if not exactly the pale rider, pulled rear. For one hilarious moment, Josie’s accent confused Julian. He thought she was saying, ‘Gis a few fucks Mistah.’ He was about to tell her that — ‘Gee sister, you sure dialled the wrong number,’ when Sean, breaking their routine, went for the Rolex like a magpie on speed. Grabbed for the wrist.

Julian shrugged him off, crying, ‘What the …?’ Then reached for the Glock in the small of his back. He was a child of the movies, he knew you carried it above yer bum. Thus explaining perhaps ‘cover yer ass’ . A homophobic would interpret it differently and more crudely. Whatever …

The gun was out, held two handed in Sean’s direction. Sean, who’d expected a drunken vic, was enraged, shouted, ‘Gimme the watch, yah bollocks!’

Julian shot him in the face. Then the Glock swivelled to Josie and she dropped to her knees, pleading, ‘Aw, don’t kill me mistah, he made me do it, I swear.’

The CIA responses are hard to beat, that is:

Catholic

Irish

Appalling.

Julian felt the power, the deer kicking the leopard in the nuts. Adrenalined to a new dimension, he asked, ‘Tell me, bitch. Tell me why I shouldn’t off you. You deserve to be wasted. Go on — beg me. Beg me not to squeeze the trigger.’

She begged.

When Brant came too, he’d no idea where he was. What he did know was he was in pain. Ferocious pain. He stirred and realised he was half on the floor, half on the sofa. Still half in the bag. Gradually, it came back: