Ken Bruen - Vixen

‘I had me a day, and I remembered we had us such a nice evening last time, I thought it would be fun to get together. Truth is, I was feeling electric.’

Falls realised she’d finished her drink and, when Angie poured two more, she didn’t fight it. Angie went into a long story about the club she was working at and the shit she had to tolerate. Falls was laughing, having herself a time and thinking: I can handle this, what was I worried about?

Then Angie was talking about Tipping The Velvet and Falls tried to concentrate and asked:

‘What?’

Angie nearly slipped it, almost mentioned that Jimmy had taped it but caught herself and said:

‘Couple of babes going at it.’

‘You mean, like women… together?’

Angie laughed, took a long look at Falls, then:

‘For a policewoman, you’re very… sheltered.’

Falls had no idea where this was going, so poured more vodka, said:

‘I don’t get to watch a whole lot of television.’

Angie seemed highly amused and licked her bottom lip, asked:

‘Haven’t you ever wondered what it’s like, you know, with a woman?’

Then before she could answer, Angie went on:

‘Got any music? I’d die if I couldn’t have that.’

Falls went to the cabinet, selected some techno, figuring it was neutral and didn’t convey any message. Angie was up, moving to the beat and then, before Falls knew what was happening, she’d put her hand on Falls’ cheek, kissed her firmly.

When Falls came to in the morning, she had the hangover from hell. Opening her eyes, she tried to recall the events of the evening.

She groaned as she got flashes of what happened after Angie had kissed her. It felt like battery acid was loose in her stomach and she sat up slowly.

Angie was already dressed in navy blue tracksuit and fixing her hair.

She looked over and asked:

‘Elizabeth, you think I should change my hair or do you like it like this?’

Falls felt a spasm and thought she’d throw up, wondered how Angie could seem so… fresh?… Yeah, goddamn it… fresh. Hadn’t she drunk at least as much as she had? The bitch was downright frisky.

Another retch hit and Angie moved over, went to touch Falls, saying:

‘Ah, poor pet, not feeling so hot?’

Falls pushed her hand away and raced for the bathroom. Was violently ill. After she’d thrown up a few times, she was finally able to move to the sink and chuck cold water on her face. Then she risked a glance in the mirror.

Bad idea.

She was haggard, no other word for it. A shade of green seemed to be mixed in with the black. The eyes were red, no doubt about that. She looked totally fucked.

With a huge effort, Falls managed to sprinkle some drops into her eyes, which stung the shit out of her. She drank a half-litre of water and hoped it would stay down. Pulled herself up, said to herself:

‘Okay, you can do this thing.’

Out to the kitchen where Angie was cooking! Smelled like a fry-up and Falls had to double over with a retch.

She said:

‘Could you not do that?’

Angie curled her lip, fixed her eyes on Falls, asked:

‘You want me to go?’

‘Yes.’

As she gathered up her stuff, Falls got some water boiling. Angie said:

‘Okay, I’m ready. You want to call me later, we can arrange something?’

She was at the door, looking back, with that small smile that wasn’t related to warmth or humour but connected to some wires that were forever twisted. Falls pushed at the kettle, said:

‘I don’t think so.’

Her tone was cold and she wanted it to sound exactly that, the hangover making it easier. Angie opened the door, but paused and asked:

‘What’s bugging you most, Elizabeth? Is it that you slept with a woman or that you slept with a white woman?’

Another bomb went off. Same deal, same cheap mechanism, different location.

This time it was the WH Smith bookshop on the concourse at Waterloo railway station. Not too far from the left luggage site. Panic and consternation as commuters ran for their lives. There were no casualties from the explosion but six people were hurt in the stampede.

Ray rang the police and was pissed when he didn’t get Roberts.

Porter Nash, groggy from lack of sleep, fumbled for his new glasses and was seriously angry. He said:

‘You asshole, the money was delivered. What the hell are you playing at?’

The robotic voice was level, amused, disguising the annoyance Ray was actually feeling. It said:

‘Tell you the truth, I’ve got a taste for it.’

‘What?’

‘Where’s Roberts? I don’t like dealing with the hired help; you sound way too emotional to be negotiating. Not a fag, are you?’

Porter, aware he was being taped for the record, tried to rein in, said:

“You got paid, what can it benefit you to keep this going?’

‘Sheee…it as our black brothers say, “I dun’ tol’ you young un’ I got me a taste for this.”‘

Ray was relaxing, he was close to having fun and this cop was so easy to rile. He said:

‘See, you got a clue right there. Am I a brother or playing at it, running the old double bluff?’

Porter, who’d been having chest pains and had resolved to stop smoking, signalled to McDonald for a cig. This took a minute and Porter clicked his fingers; McDonald wasn’t keen on the gesture. The cig was found, a Rothmans — thus funding the South African connection anew — then a lighter.

Porter got his cigarette flamed, drew deep, said:

‘The picture that comes across from all the clues I have is that you are a sick whacko and I promise you this, I am personally going to bring you down. So how you like that clue, bro’?’

And then Porter Nash did something that would become the stuff of police legend.

He slammed down the phone.

The rule is: never, never never never… hang up on a kidnapper, extortionist or hostage taker.

Then, to add to the myth, Porter collapsed.

An ambulance was called and he was rushed to St Thomas’. The paramedics, on hearing about chest pains, shot him through to Coronary Care, Porter feeeling like he was an extra in ER… the mad gallop through the corridors, the IV bottle, the oxygen mask, he’d have enjoyed it if the fucking pain wasn’t so intense.

Porter Nash knew for certain he was dying. Gays like him liked Dolly Parton marginally better than Barbra Streisand, and her version of ‘I Don’t Know Much’ was reeling in his head. He could hear ‘I don’t know much but I know I’m dying’, which made it a torch song of mega echoes.

They got him hooked up to the monitors, took blood — the cocksuckers — and get this… began to question him.

Like this:

‘When did the pains start?

Where are they concentrated?

Do you smoke?

Any history of heart disease in the family?’

That kind of shite.

He wanted to say:

‘Fuck off.’

But he knew they wouldn’t. They kept up the barrage of questions, carried on doing stuff to his chest. He could see little plastic plugs that were attached to him and the amount of tubes in his left arm was to be seen to be believed.

The specialist said:

‘I would say the tube in your heart is gone.’

At least that’s what it sounded like, or some valve had packed it in. To Porter Nash it all sounded like sayonara. He was finally given some painkillers and he swallowed them with relish. The truth is, he would have killed for a cig.