Ken Bruen - A White Arrest

She laughed and, victim of the new emancipation, rose and got him a pint of water. After he’d drunk deep, he gave a huge burp, rested the glass on his chest, said: ‘Jaysus, a man could love a woman like you.’

Ah! The perennial bait, the never-fail, tantalising lure of the big one. Her heart pounding, she knew she was in the relationship minefield. One foot wrong and boom, back to Tesco’s pre-frozen for one. She said: ‘I hope you were careful.’ He tilted the glass slightly, said: ‘Oh yes, I didn’t spill a drop.’

When finally they went to bed, he slept immediately. Falls hated how much she wanted to be held. Later, she was woken by him thrashing and screaming, and then he sat bolt upright. She said: ‘Oh God, are you OK?’

‘Man, the flashbacks.’

‘What?’

‘Isn’t that what the guys always say in the movies?’

‘Oh.’

‘Jesus, it was some movie.’

As Falls settled back to uneasy sleep, she ran Tony Braxton’s song in her head — ‘Unbreak My Heart’.

Eddie had all the moves. After he’d spent a night at her flat, next day she’d discover little notes, tucked in the fridge, under the pillow, the pocket of her coat. All of the ilk: ‘I miss you already’, or ‘You are the light in my darkness’, And other gems. Mills and Boon would have battled for him. Walking together, he’d say: ‘Can I take yer hand, it makes me feel total warmth.’

A God.

And what a kisser. Finally, a man born to lip service. She could have come with kissing alone and did often.

Rosie couldn’t decide which coffee. She and Falls had met at one of the new specialty coffee cafes. The menu contained over thirty types of brew. Falls said: ‘Good Lord, I suppose instant is out of the question.’

‘Shh, don’t think such heresy, the windows will crack in protest.’

Falls took another pan of the list, then said: ‘OK, I’ll have the double latte.’

‘What?’

‘I know the names from the movies.’

‘Mmm, sounds weak. I’ll have the Seattle Slam.’ They laughed.

Rosie said: ‘So, girl. Tell all, can you?’

Falls giggled, said: ‘If I tell you he kisses the neck…

‘Uh-huh.’

‘… right below the hairline.’

‘Oh God, a prince.’

‘And holds you after.’

‘He is unique, beyond prince.’

The coffee came and Falls sampled it, said: ‘Yeah, it’s instant with froth.’ Then she leaned closer, added: ‘You know why I did, like, on the first date?’

‘’Cos you’re a wanton cow.’

‘That too. But when we came out of the dance, I felt faint.’

‘Lust, girl.’

‘And I sat on the pavement.’

Rosie made a face as she tasted her drink, telling Falls to continue.

‘Before I could, he whipped off his jacket and laid it on the path.’

‘So you sat on it and later you sat on his face.’

They roared, shamefully delighted, warmly scandalised. Rosie said: ‘Taste this,’ and pushed the slam across. Falls did, said: ‘It’s got booze in there, check the menu.’

Sure enough, in the small print, near illegible, was: ‘Pure Colombian beans, double hit of espresso, hint of Cointreau.’ Falls said: ‘I know what the Cointreau’s hinting.’

‘What’s that, then?’

‘Get bladdered. Did I tell you I dreamed of my dad?’

Later, wired on slammers, hopping on espresso, Falls showed her Eddie Dillon’s poem.

‘He wrote a poem for you?’

‘Yes.’ (shyly)

‘Is it any good?’

‘Who cares? ’Cos it’s for me, it’s brilliant.’

‘Give it here, girl!’

She did.

Never believed

in such as blessings

were

you threw

a make

un-helped, upon the day

and help available

was how you helped

yourself — A crying

down

to but a look in caution — stayed alert

reducing always towards

the basic front

in pain

— never

— never the once

to once admit

you floundering had to be

Such Gods as crossed

your mind — if God

as such it

might have been

you never took

to vital introspection

Such it was from you

did feel

the very first in love’s belief

form feaming every smile

you ever freely

gave

Rosie’s lips moved as she read. For some reason, this touched Falls and she had to look away. Finally: ‘Wow, it’s deep.’

‘ ’Tis. That’s what he says, “tis”.’

‘Do you understand it?’

‘Course not. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Oh, you lucky cow, I think I hate you!’

Sent flowers every other day, she said: ‘I am blessed full. Not a cloud to be seen… almost. One or two tiny niggles, hardly worth consideration: one, he couldn’t take her to his flat; two, she couldn’t phone him. Weighted against the other gold, these were nothing — right?

Rightish! No point even sharing those with Rosie. Why bother? But: ‘Rosie, whatcha think about..?’ And Rosie: ‘Oh God, that’s very ominous.’

Falls was raging: ‘Ominous? When did you swallow a dictionary?’ That’s it, no more input from Ms Know-it-all.

The doorbell went and she felt her heart fly. At a guess, more roses. With a grin, she opened the door.

Not Interflora.

A bag lady. Well, next best thing. A middle-aged woman who could be kindest described as ‘frumpy’, and you’d be reaching. Her hair was dirt grey, and whatever shade it had been, that was long ago. Falls sighed. The homeless situation was even worse than the Big Issue’s warnings. Now they were making house calls. She geared herself for action: arm lock, a few pounds and the address of the Sally… she’d be history.

The woman said: ‘Are you WPC Falls, the policewoman?’

Surprisingly soft voice. The new Irish cultured one of soft vowels and easy lilt, riddled with education.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Nora.’

Falls tried not to be testy, said: ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but you say it as if it should mean something. It doesn’t mean anything to me.’

The woman stepped forward, not menacingly, but more as if she didn’t want the world to hear, said: ‘Nora Dillon, Eddie’s wife.’

Falls had dressed for confrontation. The requisite Reeboks, sweatshirt and pants. She sat primly on her couch, letting Eddie hang himself. First, she’d considered sitting like Ellen Degenes. That sitcom laid-back deal, legs tucked under your butt, yoga-esque. Mainly cool, like tres. But it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Since Dyke City, when Ellen had come out of the closet, was she a role model? ‘We think not,’ said Middle America. So, Eddie arrived with red roses, Black Magic and a shit-eating grin. He’s even quoting some of his poetry. Like this:

I gave you then

a cold hello

and you

being poorer

gave me nothing

nothing at all.

He was dressed in a tan linen suit with a pair of Bally loafers. His face looked carbolic-shined. He looked like a boy. It tore at her heart. Jesus. Now he was repeating the line for effect: ‘Gave me nothing’. Lingering, slow-lidded look, then: ‘… nothing at all’.