Ken Bruen - Vixen

Porter’s father had completely ignored her. She wasn’t too pushed: bigotry was as familiar to Falls as egg and chips.

Then the doctor moved away and she approached. She hadn’t had time to bring anything and if she had, what could she have thought of to bring someone in Coronary Care? Porter looked awful, ashen… and all those tubes in his arms. She began:

‘You gave us some fright there.’

He sat up in the bed, stared at her, asked:

‘No grapes?’

‘Sour ones maybe?’

He smiled and she felt extraordinary relief. It was a long time since he’d done that, leastways for her. Not his fault, he’d tried everything to stay friends but with his promotion and the shit in her life, she had punished him. I mean, it’s what you do, you make the close ones pay for the grief you get, I mean… that’s how the world works, right?

She reached for his hand and asked:

‘How are you?’

‘Well, I was scared but that passed. I’m a cop, scared is what we know, so now it’s settled into serious anxiety.’

She knew that song, had tried to still it with buckets of coke and oceans of vodka. She squeezed his fingers and he gave a huge smile and, not for the first time, she wished he wasn’t gay. Then, with a rush, she recalled her night with Angie and thought, Maybe we’ve more in common now.

She moved her hand, fixed his hair and asked:

‘So, what’s the deal?’

He sighed and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the reply but kept her face neutral and he said:

‘My heart is okay, thank God, but they were concerned about what caused the collapse. Asked a barrage of questions; worse than cops these guys and with the worst verdict in the wings, they have more juice than us. I said I’d been losing weight, had a constant dry mouth and seemed to spend my life going for a pee — it’s diabetes.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, bummer, right? You can have it for ages and not know, then stress or some such will trigger it and I was going into insulin shock.’

Falls’ imagination conjured up needles and having to inject yourself daily, like some desperate junkie. He said:

‘It’s not so bad, eh? I mean, if my heart was fucked, I’d be, like, gone.’

She had to ask, so she did:

‘Are you going to have to… ahm, do the insulin gig…?’

He seemed to lose focus for a moment, then:

‘There’s two types and I don’t know yet if I’m one or two. One is tablets, the other is shots.’

Shots. She’d only moments before heard about McDonald and hadn’t even allowed herself to digest that and she didn’t think it was the time to tell Porter.

She said:

‘Let’s root for the tablets, yeah?’

He pressed her hand and said:

‘Thanks for coming.’

Seemed like a window to mention the previous months so she tried:

‘I haven’t been, like, you know… very nice to you. I, ahm, I was not in the best of shape.’

Lame, it sounded so goddamn lame. He tried to wave it away but she had to push for herself too.

She went on:

‘I was a complete bitch. And… I’m sorry.’

He seemed embarrassed so she moved on, asked:

‘Need anything? Pyjamas, deodorant?’

His smile was returning and he said:

‘Yeah, a sweet guy.’

She was shaking her head:

‘No such thing.’

A nurse came to fluff his pillows and he asked:

‘What’s with the pillows? That’s the third time already.’

The nurse was unfazed, said:

‘It looks like we care.’

‘About the pillows?’

Falls looked at the nurse who raised her eyes to heaven and Falls said to Porter:

‘I think you’re on the mend.’

The nurse, with a concerned expression, asked:

‘Did you know that policeman who was shot?’

Falls sighed, and Porter sat up, alarm writ huge, asked:

‘What?’

Angie was fond of poison. In the club, the girls kept a store for awkward punters. A guy got stroppy, he got a tiny amount in his drink, not enough to do serious damage but ensured he’d have stomach cramps from hell and the runs, plus maybe a jolly to the hospital. The cheap fucks, the ones that tipped like misers, they got a shot of it too. Some of the girls believed a tiny amount kept your weight down and aided the complexion; it’s not for nothing they’ve been called poisonous. Angie had helped herself to a wedge on leaving.

Now she was holed up with a stripper named Rachel in a studio rental off the Balham High Road. Rachel was a pain in the ass, always whining, checking the fridge and going:

‘Did you touch my Evian?’

And her low-fat yoghurt… God forbid you looked sideways at that shit. Angie wasn’t entirely sure but it did seem as if there was a pencil mark on the booze bottles. Rachel was a big girl, had been round the block a few times and was showing the mileage. She’d had her breasts inflated and was forever checking for droop. Angie thought she resembled Jordan’s mother but reassured her she was foxy. The rental seemed to shrink as the days passed — it had been a week since the copper got shot.

Rachel, looking at Angie, had asked as Ray’s photo flashed on the telly:

‘Hey, didn’t you hang with that guy?’

And got her first dose of arsenic.

What Rachel liked was to sit down for breakfast, the whole works. Little chintz tablecloth, a lone flower, grapefruit juice and muesli, decaffeinated coffee with low-fat milk. Angie went along with this crap as she needed the hideout.

She took her time, then:

‘Ray? Not any more, I blew him out.’

Rachel was curious and persisted:

‘I thought he was kinda cute. You think he really shot the policeman?’

Angie asked for a napkin and when Rachel went to fetch them, she sprinkled a little of the poison on the muesli, stirred it in.

When Rachel returned Angie said:

‘No, it’s a mistake, Ray wasn’t the type to carry. He hated guns.’

Watched as Rachel spooned the cereal and made a face, said:

‘This tastes a bit bitter.’

Angie was ready and relished the fun, always it was the game and she sure loved to play, said:

‘It’s the lemon juice.’

‘What? We don’t have lemon.’

‘See my complexion, isn’t it great?’

Rachel looked at her with admiration, gushed:

‘Oh yes, how do you do that?’

‘Lemon juice, a few drops daily and you can cut your cosmetics in half.’

Rachel dug in like her life depended on it. Angie had never seen anyone die from poisoning and was hot to see how it’d go. She’d do it nice and slow, see how it went. If Rachel got any more curious, she’d just up the ante and finish the cow off.

Sure enough, the next day, Rachel was sick as a parrot — vomiting, diarrhoea, the works. Angie was the soul of comfort, plying her with water, cold faceclothes and dancing attendance.

Rachel, groaning, said:

‘It must be something I ate.’

‘Kebab. You have to pack those in.’

‘But you had one, no, you had two.’

‘See, Rachel, I can eat anything, but you’re so delicate, you have to be careful. Don’t worry about a thing, I’ll take care of you.’

Would she ever.