Ken Bruen - Taming the Alien

‘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.’

Falls 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.’