Ken Bruen - Taming the Alien

She gave a slow smile. ‘Them yanks isn’t all they’re cracked up to be.’

As the plane took off, he saw the sweat on her forehead. He placed his hand on hers and she nodded.

Once airborne, the hostess asked, ‘Like a drink? It has to be a soft one for your … companion.’

‘A Coke for her and two large Bacardis.’

‘Ahm …

Brant stared at her, defying her to question him. She let it go. Josie said nothing.

When the drinks came, he measured them evenly and indicated Josie to take one. She said, ‘I love rum ’n’ coke.’

‘Well drink it then.’

She did.

The in-flight movie commenced and Josie said, ‘I love the pictures.’

Collie watched the funeral with a sense of awe. All the taxi drivers of south-east London had turned out for their murdered colleague. Each cab had a black ribbon tied to its antennae and they fluttered in the light breeze.

‘ I caused this. They’re here cos of me .’

It was a heady sensation. Collie had figured he needed a dry run with the gun, to see if he had the balls. He did.

Kept it lethal and simple. Hailed a cab at The Oval, blew the guy’s head off at Stockwell. Then walked away. He couldn’t believe the rush. He hadn’t touched the takings — he was a professional, not a bloody thief.

The few days previous, he’d done his Brant research. All that required was hanging in the cop pubs. To say they were loose tongued was to put it mildly — numerous times he heard of Brant travelling home with a woman. Next he rang the station and, in his best TV voice said, ‘This is Chief Inspector Ryan of Serious Crimes at the Yard. We need the assistance of Sergeant Brant.’

Mention of the Yard did all the work. He was told the time and terminal of arrival. Now, on the day, he put on a black suit and dog collar, checked himself in the mirror and said, ‘Reverend …? You looking at me?’

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.

When 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.’

‘We’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.’