Ken Bruen - Taming the Alien

Falls knew the guy would hit on her. With such a short mini, it was nigh mandatory. She sat, tasted her drink, waited.

Yeah … here he was.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Not yet.’

He gave a quizzical look. ‘Not yet you don’t mind, or not yet to joining you?’

Falls shrugged and tried to look at home in the bar. Not easy to carry off when you’re:

a) English

b) Female

c) Black.

He sat.

She asked, ‘Do you swim?’

‘What?’

‘It’s just that you have a swimmer’s shape.’

‘Yeah? Well, no … no I don’t, not since Jaws , anyway.’

She gave a laugh. ‘There’s no sharks in England.’

He gave a tolerant smile. Nice teeth. Asked, ‘How long since you shopped on the Walworth Road?’

She laughed again, thought, Good Lord, if I’m not careful I’ll be having me a time.

He then proceeded to lay a line of chat on her. Not great or new, but in there .

She held up a finger, said, ‘Stop.’

‘What?’

‘Look, you’re an attractive man. But you already know that. We’d date, get excited, probably have hot sex.’ He nodded, if uncertainly, and she continued. ‘I know you’d have a good time — shit, you’d have a wonderful time — and I’d probably like it too. But then the lies, the fights the bitterness … Why bother?’

He thought, then said, ‘I like the first part best.’

‘Anyway, you’re too old.’ And it crushed him. One fell swoop and he was out of the ballpark. No stamina and they hadn’t even started. It didn’t feel good.

‘Oh hell,’ she thought. ‘Revenge is supposed to be sweet.’

Her father, in a rare moment of sobriety, had said: ‘If you’re planning revenge, dig two graves.’

He sure as Shooters Hill was in one, and she was contemplating the second. All because Eddie Dillon had smashed her heart, her trust into smithereens. The married bastard.

Roy Fenton tasted the tea, went, ‘Euck … argh … and called to the waitress.

‘Yo, Sheila, how can you fuck-up a tea bag?’

Sheila didn’t answer. The Alien was known in the Walworth Road cafe and most of south-east London. What was known was his reputation, and that said people got hurt round him.

His cousin had been part of the ‘E Gang’. A group of vigilantes who’d hanged drug dealers from Brixton lamp-posts until they’d been slaughtered in a crack house on Coldharbour Lane. Smoke that!

No one called Fenton ‘The Alien’ to his face. At least not twice. He read his poem, chewed the tea:

UNTITLED

And he had his books,

second-hand

and nearly twenty, neatly stacked

A tape recorder, German made, some prison posters

Same old ties, some photos too

And the camera, convincing lies.

For the booze

a Snoopy mug,

two shoes too tight

And English jeans

A silly grin with still,

the cheapest jacket

off the rack during some sales.

A belt

its buckle made of tin … and clean

with undies, unmatched songs

and a hangover

God bless the mark

the usual London cover.

A watch

Timex, on plastic strap.

He stopped. Remembering … When Stell had come to the ’Ville, him six months into the three years, and said: ‘Ron, I got pregnant.’

And he didn’t know what to say. ‘I dunno what to say.’

And she’d begun to weep, him asking, ‘What … what’s the matter, darlin’?’

And her head lifting, the eyes awash in grief.

‘Ron … I had an abortion.’

And he was up. Remembered that. Head-butting the first screw, taking down a second without even trying and then: the clubs, the batons. Raining down on him, like the purest Galway weather. Harsh and unyielding.

Did three months on the block, lost all remission and got an extra year. Not hard time, hate time. Fuelled and driven by a rage that never abated. The head screw, a guy named Potter. Not the worst; in many ways a decent sort. Still some humanity lingering. He gave a hesitant smile, almost put his hand out. No chance.

But tried anyway.

‘Give it up Ron, she’s not worth it.’

Fenton spat on his tunic.

The other screws moving forward but Potter, waving them back, said, ‘Have this one on me, Ron.’

He’d searched every pub in north London. Should have known better than to step outside the south-east in the first place. Jeez … North! Highbury and shite talk.

Word was, she was in San Francisco. OK. He could do that … but he would need a wedge, a real buffer. He was working on it …

During lock-down he’d begun to write the poem. One toilet roll, with a midget William Hill biro. Gouging it down.

One of the nick fortune tellers saying: ‘I can see yer future, Ron.’

‘Yeah? See a double scotch anytime soon?’

The tier sissy who’d blown him then saw the poem, said, ‘You should send that to a magazine.’

Gave him a fist up the side of the head, said, ‘Don’t touch my stuff.’

But got to thinking …

One lazy Saturday, Millwall were two down, he’d idled through a magazine and these words hit him like a pool cue:

POETRY

FREE APPRAISAL

CASH PRIZES

PUBLICATION

So he sent it off.

‘Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.’ The psycho Dex used to say it all the time. Dex, they found him in a bin liner on a heap in Walworth. An old copy of The Big Issue down his Y-fronts. Liked to read, did old Dex. And talk. But talked too much. A black chick took his throat from ear to mouthy ear.

She was dead ’n’ all.

Since Derek Raymond died, so did all the characters.

He sent the poem.

They replied:

Dear Ronald,

If we may be permitted the liberty of addressing you thus …

Fenton thought, ‘Uh-huh, watch your wallet,’ but read on:

Our panel of specially selected judges have chosen your poem to go forward to the Grand Final. The winner receives a thousand guineas.

All entries will be published in a lavish volume that all good book stores must have. As you’ll appreciate, the cost of printing is high for a book of such quality. For a stipend of fifty pounds, we can reserve your own engraved copy. Please hurry as demand is limited.

Of course, your donation in no way affects the outcome of the Grand Final which, as we stated, is for ONE THOUSAND GUINEAS!

We eagerly await your prompt reply.

Yours,

P Smith, Co-ordinator

The World of Poetry Inc.

He wrote back:

Dear P. Smith,

Take my end outta the thousand large.

Yours,

R.Fenton

If you turned right on the Clapham Road, you could walk along Lorn to the Brixton side.

Few do.

Brant had his new place here. The irony didn’t escape him.

Lorn … forlorn.

Oh yeah.

Since he’d been knifed in the back, he’d been assigned to desk duty, said: ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers.’

His day off, he’d go to the cemetery, put flowers on PC Tone’s grave. Never missed a week. Each time he’d say, ‘Sorry son. I didn’t watch for you and the fucks killed you for a pair of pants.’

What a slogan — Trousers to die for .

The Band Aid couple had gone to ground or Ireland. No proof it was them. Just a hunch. Some day, yeah … some day he’d track ’em.

Only Chief Inspector Roberts knew of Brant’s hand in the murder of the boy. He wouldn’t say owt. Brant’s own near death had somehow evened it out for Roberts.

Odd barter but hey, they were cops, not brain surgeons.

Chief Inspector Roberts was aging badly. As he shaved, he looked in the mirror, muttered: ‘Yer aging badly.’