Ken Bruen - Taming the Alien

Jamal gave the big grin. ‘It’s a Ruger six speed, see what’s on de barrel there?’

It read ‘Magnum’.

Jamal put a closed fist down alongside the gun, said, ‘Here de icing on de cake!’ And opened his hand. Six dum dum bullets rolled out. ‘They puts a fat hole in de target.’

‘How much?’ Jamal held up five fingers. Collie shook his head. For the next ten minutes they haggled, giggled, fingered. Eventually, they settled on three. The dope had kicked in and with full ferocity. It took Collie ages to count out the price, but finally it got done.

The woman glared at them. If dope is meant to mellow you, no one had told her. And she was sufficiently out of it not to disguise her aversion. Collie looked at her, then laid a five spot on the pile. ‘Buy sweets for the child.’ Set them off again.

Jamal pulled his zipper down, said, ‘Git some o dis mama.’ She didn’t move so he added, ‘I ain’t axin you, bitch.’ He picked up the Ruger, put a dum dum in.

Collie said, ‘Hey Jam … don’t handle my weapon!’

They were off again, huge hilarity. Just ebony and ivory crackin’ up, having a walk on the wild side. The woman approached, hunkered down and took Jamal in her mouth. Collie closed his eyes. This he didn’t need to see. Loud groans followed.

‘ Sheeet, arghh … fuck it …

When Collie opened his eyes, Jamal said, ‘I need a cigarette.’

The woman was wiping her mouth, a brightness in her eyes as if to say: Top that .

Collie got to his feet, said, or tried to say: ‘Time to rock ’n’ roll.’

Jamal asked, ‘Yo bro, ya wans a BJ?’

Collie looked at the woman who was now smirking. ‘Thanks, but I already ate.’

Jamal’s laughter followed him out into the street.

Collie had tucked the gun in the waistband of his jeans. At the back, of course.

‘HOW D’YA FEEL ABOUT blood sports?’

McDonald was taken aback by Roberts’ question. He’d earned some kudos, he didn’t want to blow them. ‘You mean like coursing, fox hunting?’

‘No, I mean pugilism.’

‘Ahm …

‘It’s bare fisted boxing, like Harry S Corbett, Diamond Jim … There’s a bout at The Elephant tonight.’

‘And we’re going to bust ’em?’

Roberts laughed, said, ‘There’ll be over two hundred punters gathered. Hard asses. We’re going to have a wager.’

‘But Guv — isn’t it illegal?’

‘Course it is, why d’ya think it’s exciting?’

As Roberts predicted, there were at least two hundred gathered. All men, and as per, the very air bristled with unspoken aggression and excitement. The ‘bout’ was to take place at the sheltered car park to the rear of the Elephant. When they got there, Roberts said, ‘Back in a mo.’

McDonald was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, felt he smelt of cop.

A punter said, ‘Wanna drink, John?’

And offered a flask.

‘Sure.’ Best to blend. He took a swig and near choked, felt molten lava run down his throat, burning all in its path. He gasped, asked, ‘ What … was … that ?’

‘Surg and chicken soup.’ Surg as in surgical spirits. The infamous White Lady of south-east London drinking schools. He could only hope to fuck that the guy was kidding.

When Roberts returned, he collided with a young guy. There was a moment it hung there, then Roberts said, ‘Excuse me.’ And Collie nodded.

The fighters emerged to a mix of cheers, catcalls, whistles. Roberts said, ‘The big guy, he’s from Liverpool and evens favourite. The other is a London boy.’

Both men were bare-chested, wearing only shorts and trainers. No frills. The London boy was runtish but he had a wiry look. In contrast, the Liverpudlian was a brick shit-house. His muscles had muscle and he exuded confidence.

Roberts said, ‘Best get yer wager on.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re not going to have a go.’

‘Oh … right … ahm.’

‘See the guy in the black suit? He’s the bookie.’

‘OK … how much … I mean … would five be enough?’

Roberts scoffed, ‘Don’t be so Scottish … have a decent go. I’ve already dun Liverpool, so you take “the boy”.’

‘But he’s the underdog.’

‘All the better. Hurry up, now.’

A bell sounded and the bout began. Each round was approximately five minutes but it wasn’t rigid — the third round lasted ten.

McDonald had grown up in Glasgow and as a copper he was accustomed to violence. But this spectacle sickened him. It was the crunch of bare knuckles on bone. Real and stereophonic. He asked, ‘What are the rules?’

‘There aren’t … sometimes biting isn’t allowed.’

‘ Sometimes ?’

‘Shut up and watch … I think your boy’s in trouble.’

He was.

Bleeding from his eye and mouth, he looked for escape. None available.

Then all of a sudden he seemed to be electric, and headbutted Lou, who staggered back. Like a terrier, the boy went after him, and with three blows to the head, Lou was down.

The boy walked round him then kicked him in the back of the head.

All she wrote.

McDonald said, ‘I won!’

Roberts said, ‘ We won.’

‘I thought you backed the favourite?’

‘Yeah … for us . Like you did … for us . Hurry up before yer bookie legs it.’

When McDonald collected his winnings he half considered legging it himself. Reluctantly, he handed a wedge to Roberts who said, ‘Lucky I made you get a bet on eh?’

‘Yeah … lucky.’

In the pub, Roberts said, ‘Get ’em in, lad, nobody likes a tight-fisted winner. I’ll have a brandy.’

When McDonald had followed the Morse series on TV, he’d felt it was unreal. Now he was reconsidering. Roberts took his drink and asked, ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

‘Snakebite.’

‘Eh?’

‘It’s lager and white cider.’

Time to grow up son … get us a couple of scotches, eh?’

When Falls was discharged from hospital, it was AHA — not the Scandinavian pop group, but Against Hospital Advice. Like she could care.

The doctor said, ‘Would you consider counselling?’

‘Which would do what for me exactly?’

‘Ahm … help you get over your … trauma.’

‘I lost my baby, it’s not a trauma … and no, I don’t want to “get over” that. And I don’t expect to.’

The doctor, flustered, said, ‘I’ve taken the liberty of prescribing some medication … I …

‘No thanks.’

‘Might I suggest you reconsider?’

‘No.’

Falls took a cab home. The driver droned on about a range of topics. She neither heard nor answered him as they drove along Balham High Road. She said, ‘Here … drop me here.’

The driver saw the off licence and thought Uh-oh , said: ‘Mother’s little helper, eh?’

The words lashed her but she managed to keep control and asked, ‘How much?’ She fumbled a rush of coins and pushed them at him.

Like his brethren, he wasn’t to be hurried. ‘You’ve given me too much, darlin’.’

‘Alas, the same can’t be said for you.’

But he’d triggered something and she bought a bottle of gin. The sales assistant asked, ‘A mixer?’

‘No thanks.’

She thought gin ’n’ pain would mix enough. Her father hadn’t drank gin. He drank everything else, including water from the toilet bowl, but alcoholically maintained: ‘Gin makes me ill’.

He drank for no reason.

She had a reason.

Perhaps she’d uncovered a dual motive.

Entering her home was nigh unbearable. In her wardrobe were the baby things. She got a cup from the kitchen, sat, uncapped the bottle and poured. Said: ‘Here’s to Po,’ and drank.