Ken Bruen - Taming the Alien

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.’

Roberts 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.’

Collie 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,