Ken Bruen - A White Arrest

Brant drew an almighty kick to Cora’s knee and she dropped like a stone. He hunkered down, tried unsuccessfully to grasp her hair, and settled for her neck, said, ‘What the fuck kind of shit you got in yer hair? Now listen up, don’t back-talk me, ever, or I’ll break yer nose… OK?’

She nodded. He caught her shoulder and hoisted her up, said: ‘Let’s hobble inside, see what’s cookin’.’

On seeing Penny, Falls nearly spoke, but settled for a look; one of pure malice. Brant pushed Cora into a chair, asked Penny:

‘Room number?’

‘It’s not numbers, it’s names.’

‘So gimme the bloody name.’

‘The Cherise Room, upstairs, first on the right.’

‘OK, now hop it.’

‘I can go?’

‘Yeah, fuck off.’

Cora wanted to shout abuse, to tear at Penny’s eyes, but Brant said: ‘Don’t ever think about it.’

When the door had closed, Brant turned to Falls, said, ‘Keep yer eyes on this cow. If she even twitches, give her a clout round the ear-hole.’

Fiona was over an orgasmic rainbow. Jason, between her legs working like a bastard. Moans and cries punctuated the seizures of her body. The door crashed open and Brant said:

‘Tasty.’

Jason turned his head, confusion, shock, writ large. His brain whispered ‘husband’.

Fiona tried to sit up, pushed against Jason and grabbed for a sheet. Brant closed the door and leant against it, began to light a Weight as the pair fumbled on the bed.

He said, ‘Hey, don’t stop on my account.’

Eventually, Jason got his briefs on, and Fiona pulled the sheet up to her chin.

Brant smiled, then reached back to open the door. ‘Off yah go, cocker.’

As Jason edged past to get out, Brant gave him a hefty slap on the arse and shut the door behind him. He turned to Fiona. ‘Get dressed then.’

Fiona was trying to calm her roaring mind, said: ‘How can I, with you standing there?’

He gave a hearty laugh. ‘Jaysus, I’ve seen what you’ve got. Now move it or I’ll dress you.’

She did. Shame and bewilderment crowded down as she pulled her clothes on. Brant’s eyes never left her.

Then she said, ‘I’m ready.’

‘Whoo-kay, I’ll drive you home.’

‘What?’

‘You don’t wanna walk, Fiona. Not after the exertion you’ve been putting in. Naw, the motor’s outside.’

Fiona gave a last shot at comprehension. ‘You’re not taking me to my husband?’

‘What? naw, whatcha think I am, some kind of animal?’ Brant put Fiona in the front of a battered Volkswagen Golf, said to Falls:

‘You’ll be all right from here, there’s a tube down the road.’

Falls didn’t like any of this, said: ‘Shouldn’t I be along as a witness?’ He gave a snide chuckle, a dangerous sound. ‘Wise up, babe.’

She put her hand on the door, insisting. ‘I’m sorry, Sarge, but I feel I should…

He pushed her hand away, losing it a little.

‘Piss off, Falls, you’re drawing attention. Don’t ever do that to me.’

She backed off. He moved in close, anger leaking through his eyes. ‘You want to worry about something, Falls? Worry about paying me back.’

He slammed the door, causing Falls to shudder. Then he moved to the driver’s side, got in and slammed the door, burnt rubber leaving. Falls watched them go and gritted her teeth.

‘OK, I’ll pay you back you bastard, and BIG TIME.’

Brant looked at Fiona and winked.

She asked: ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Hey, relax, go along for the ride.’ A pause. ‘Whoops, sorry! As they say, you’ve been there, done that, and did you ever. That Jason, eh? For a half-wog, he was hung.’

If there was a reply, she didn’t have it, and tried to crawl way within herself. There wasn’t a place that far away. Brant pulled up on the Walworth Road, parked carelessly on a double yellow.

‘I thought Carter Street nick had closed?’

‘Tut-tut, restless girls get spanked. C’mon, get out.’

He escorted her to a transport caff near Marks amp; Spencers, pushed her inside, found a back table. The table was alight with dead chips, rasher rinds and toast crumbs. Brant seemed delighted, said: ‘If it’s not on the table, it’s not on the menu.’

‘It’s disgusting.’

‘You’d know.’

A waitress in her fifties came over. She’d obviously had disappointing news in her teens and wasn’t yet recovered. Her face seemed unfinished without a tired cigarette. She said:

‘Yeah?’

Brant knew the risk of towing Fiona round his own manor but it gave a kick.

He said: ‘Two sausages, egg, bacon, puddin’, and two rounds of buttered toast.’

He looked at Fiona.

‘You’ve got to be kiddin’.’

Brant smiled at the waitress, said, ‘She’ll have the same, and throw in a family pot of tea.’ As the waitress turned to go, he added, ‘The smile needs some work, OK?’

The waitress ignored him.

Fiona stared at him and asked, ‘You don’t seriously think I’ll eat that garbage?’

‘Oh you will, and like it.’

He didn’t move, but she felt the physical presence of him. It rolled across the table to taunt and threaten her.

He touched the once-white tablecloth.

‘Gingham would have worked.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘For the table; you know, a woman’s touch. I like the touch of a woman.’ He took out the Weights. ‘Do you?’

She shook her head and knew the ‘no smoking’ edict hadn’t penetrated here. The food came, and after the plates were set down, Brant asked, ‘Where’s that smile?’

But his attention was diverted as two people entered the caff. He recognised the Band Aids, and they clocked him. Turned right about and legged it. He thought, ‘Later,’ and pared a wedge of sausage, nodded to Fiona.

‘Eat.’

She tried.

He poured scalding tea into mugs, raised his, said: ‘Get that down yah, girl.’

She tasted it and nearly threw up. It was greasy, seemingly heavily sugared and tasted of tobacco. She put the mug down, said: ‘OK, you’ve had your fun.’

‘What? I’m having me grub, but no, I’ve not had me fun. Not yet.’

‘What is it you want, exactly?’

He took out a surprisingly clean handkerchief, dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth, said:

‘I’d like to be your suitor.’

As Falls prepared her shopping list, she fantasised being a Goth. Just for one outing. She couldn’t stand The Cure and, if that was music… yeah. But the gear, all those black dresses and the death white make-up. Ah, dream on…

They’d love it down the nick. She could just hear Brant’s war cry: ‘I could ride that.’

The man would get up on a cat. She was dressed for shopping. Reeboks (off white) Tracksuit (one white)

And a large carrier bag. Black. Daren’t be seen to ‘Accessorise’, very ungothic. She’d been reading an article headlined ‘SO, WHAT KIND OF SHOPPER ARE YOU?’

Retail analysts divide shoppers into six types, they use this information to attract the shoppers they want, and deter others. Supermarkets will tempt the Comfortable and Contented with displays of minor luxuries. Mainstream Mercenaries will be deterred by supermarkets offering either lack of choice, or too much.

Falls was a sucker for quizzes. Forever completing News of the World magazine questions like ‘What kind of lover are you?’

She read aloud the first three types of shopper:

1. Mainstream Merchant: The retailer’s least favourite group — low budget shoppers who buy only the cheapest goods on sale. Impervious to the siren-call of exotic foods.