Кен Бруен - Blitz

‘Stare at a wall, do nothing, absolutely nothing.’

Porter put the glass down, chased his cigs, lit one, blew out a cloud of smoke, said,

‘It’s burn-out.’

‘What?’

‘You’re on meltdown; a couple of days doing nothing, you’ll start to come back.’

‘You sound pretty sure.’

‘I am, I’ve been there.’

‘You?’

‘Sure, I was fucked nine ways to Sunday.’

Brant’s turn to be surprised, he looked at the futon, sat down carefully, as if it might bite, said,

‘I don’t read you as a guy who gets frazzled.’

Porter paused, held a finger up as Puccini hit ‘Viena la Sera’, whispered,

‘Bimba dagli occhi pieni di malia.’

‘What?’

‘The next piece, it’s my favourite.’

He paused, then:

‘Two years ago, we’d a paedophile on the loose, luring kids into his car at Holland Park. We knew who he was but couldn’t catch him in the act. The kids were too traumatised to identify him, plus he was connected. A showbiz agent, he had heavy juice to call on. The guys at the nick, they classed me on a par with him... because of my sexual orientation. Put used condoms in my locker, sugar in the petrol tank... the usual stuff.’

Porter took a deep breath.

‘I was under massive pressure, chugging valium, mainlining caffeine, smoking again, anyway, I took things into my own hands. Broke into the creep’s house, four in the morning, mashed his privates with a baseball bat. A time later, I was burnt out, took a leave of absence, hid in my house and right after, I got transferred.’

A sound disturbed him, louder than the music. Brant was snoring, his head back on the up-rest, mouth open, dribbling spit. Porter got some blankets, covered him, said,

‘Goodnight, sweet prince.’

I wake frightened now; it is a strange form of

fright — geometric, limited, final.

PC McDonald, still hurting from being cold-shouldered by his colleagues, had begun shadowing Brant. He’d been surprised to find him enter the building at Renfrew Road. Was he seeing a woman, checking out a lead... what? He called the Super. He’d been warned:

‘This is my private number, if you call me, it better be good; unless you have Brant’s balls, don’t call.’

Now the Super said,

‘McDonald!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m due at the Regional Dinner in ten minutes, this had better be vital.’

‘Sir, I’ve followed Brant to a flat in Renfrew Road but I’ve no idea who he’s here to see.’

He could hear spluttering, choking, indignation writ huge, then,

‘You bloody half-wit, you called me for that?’

‘I thought it might be a break, sir.’

‘Porter Nash lives in Renfrew Road, don’t you know anything? And sonny, what’s this I hear about you ratting out a doctor?’

McDonald looked at the phone, wanted to scream at the Super, say:

‘And what am I doing for you, eh? What do you call this?’

He said,

‘Sir, it’s a setup.’

‘Nobody likes a fink, especially a fink who gets caught. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Yes sir, absolutely.’

Click.

McDonald rummaged around in the glove department of his car, found some mints, popped them in his mouth. He wished he still smoked but was determined to get ahead. Cigarettes were for the likes of Brant. As he sucked on the mint, he took a small camera from his pocket, shot off a few of Porter’s building. With any luck, he’d get Brant and Porter in an embrace, fix them both.

Porter was eating muesli when Brant stirred. First thing of a morning, he was not a pretty sight. He stretched, reached for a cigarette, retched violently. Porter prayed he wouldn’t vomit on the futon, asked,

‘Don’t you want some breakfast?’

‘Coffee, two spoons, no sugar.’

When Porter brought it, Brant scratched his arse, asked,

‘Did you interfere with me?’

‘Yeah, right.’

As Brant slurped at the coffee, Porter asked,

‘Any idea who we’re looking for?’

‘A nutter, hardest type to catch. I checked out a gym in Streatham yesterday, got the name of a guy who might be worth a visit.’

‘You want me along?’

‘No, you’re lead: you’re up to your eyes in bullshit.’

Brant shook himself, stood, said,

‘I’m off.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t be a stranger.’

Brant looked at his shoes, then:

‘What I was saying last night...’

‘Stays with me.’

A pause, then:

‘I was just tired.’

‘Sure, grab some shuteye.’

As Porter let him out, Brant said,

‘The other thing...’

‘What?’

‘About you being a good cop.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I meant it.’

‘Thanks.’

As he moved down the hall, Brant added

‘For a pooftah.’

Porter shut the door.

Outside, Brant stopped, looked up at the building. McDonald started clicking; he’d swear there was a look of longing on Brant’s face. Blown up in stark black and white, Porter’s address in block letters on the top, it would tell its own story.

After Brant had gone, McDonald waited.

Twenty minutes later, Porter was down and McDonald nailed him. A little creative editing, the two men could be united in print. Nice big poster on the notice board, call it ‘Hands-on policing’ maybe. McDonald felt better than he had for a long time.

Dan Fante used to say he was a compulsive writer because his strength came from being an insane drunk. On being asked why he quit drinking, he answered:

The voices in my head were trying to kill me. One in particular, I called it Jimmy. Jimmy was truly a dangerous motherfucker. I had three suicide attempts behind Jimmy. As for therapy, I’ve been Rol fed, Re-birthed, even done Reichian Therapy and that’s just the Rs.

Barry Weiss was having a mixed day. He’d won a prize, that was the up-side. Every month, he bought Bizarre magazine: man he loved that sucker. Gathered all the weird and crazy shit, put it between glossy covers and was seriously deranged. Interviews conducted by people with names like Billy Chainsaw — Barry loved that dude. The most whacked-out letter each month received a bottle of absinthe. Barry had written six times... Nothing.

Then bingo.

Postman knocked early and there it was, he’d won. Unwrapping the parcel, he punched the air, shouted,

‘ Bizarre rules!’

This was his letter:

‘I’m writing from Fraggle Rock, the name for the Psych. Ward in Brixton Prison. Bizarre was given to me by a six-foot-two transvestite who’s here for attempting to mug a Tory backbencher. Her name is Miranda. I think I’m developing a crush, a bottle of absinthe would definitely improve our relationship.’

And he’d given his own address as a ‘care of. He was so up on the win, he had a slug immediately, knocked him flat on his arse, and he said,

‘That is the bollocks.’

The bad news was, he was out of ammunition, went:

‘How did that happen?’

On the fingers of his left hand, he counted:

‘Okay, let me see here: the traffic warden, one bullet; the woman cop, two or three?’

He couldn’t recall, continued,

‘The guy in the patrol car, two?’

Truth was, Barry had been drinking since lights out, hammering the vodka in. A car boot sale on Clapham Common, some Ukranian guy was selling rip-off Stoli in batches of six. Barry wasn’t altogether sure whether he’d killed anyone else. He hated to have to alter his modus operandi. The serials he admired, they’d all had a signature. Discontinuing the Glock was unprofessional. Still, he’d call the newspaper guy, tell him he was making the deal more personal. He’d rented a locker at Waterloo Station, put all the stuff connected to the killings in there, just in case he got rousted. His beloved crime books, he gave to the Salvation Army ’cos he hated those fucks.