Кен Бруен - Blitz

Suddenly thought: A hammer!

He had one; a solid, heavy job. It meant getting up close. Aloud he shouted:

‘Moving to Defcon One!’

Sergeant Cross lived in a studio apartment at Sirinham Point. Nineteen floors of crap with a view of the Oval Cricket Ground if you lived on the west side, floors eleven to nineteen. Cross had his on the second floor, east side. What he got to watch were nuns. Right opposite was a convent. If there’s a stranger place for them, Cross couldn’t think of it. There was a huge statue of some saint just inside the gate. Saturday nights — post football, post pub — the statue got to wear a Millwall scarf. Once, it had been a Man-U trophy. He had been tempted to climb the gates, have it away. But there were rumours of guard dogs in the grounds.

Nuns and Rottweilers: urban living in the zeitgist.

Cross had seen the Mother Superior once and figured they didn’t need the dogs. He had been married and — par for the course with the job — was divorced. His kids hated him and the settlement was crushing the life out of him. He was lucky the council gave him a push up the waiting list. Now, but two months from retirement, he was keeping a low profile. He went to work, volunntered for nothing and kept his mouth shut. When he got out, he had a job lined up with Marks and Spencer. Want to talk cosy number? Bust rich Arabs and receive praise for it. Cross was delighted to be leaving. Christ, they had a faggot heading up the murder inquiry. And the streets! Crack cocaine had opened the deluge and every bargain-basement chemical was out there. He couldn’t even keep track of the names. Recently, he’d been told of GHB, said,

‘You mean like grievous bodily harm?’

Laughed in his face. It was liquid ‘E’, all the joys of ecstasy and no payback. Like there was ever such a drug. If he’d learned anything, it was payback. Every bloody thing cost and there was no free ride.

Ask the nuns.

He’d asked Brant who explained ‘Gamma Hydroxy-butyric Acid’, said it usually ended in coma. Brant had asked:

‘Ever hear of River Phoenix?’

‘No, where is it?’

‘It’s a person, was a person, a young actor. What’s with you? Don’t you watch movies?’

‘Just westerns.’

‘Well, they say that drug killed him.’

Cross would have been more impressed if John Wayne had been the victim. Brant had sighed and walked away. No matter what stories he heard about Brant, and there were always new variations, Cross liked him. He was the old-school type copper: thick, ruthless, fearsome.

And he’d do you a favour. When Cross moved into Sirinham Point, Brant had patched him into a cable TV line. Cross had moaned,

‘Jeez, sarge, I don’t think I can afford that.’

‘Nobody can, you won’t be getting any bills.’

‘How come?’

Brant had stared right through him, asked,

‘You really want the answer?’

Pause.

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Thought not, couple of weeks, I’ll fix up all that digital crap too.’

‘I owe you, Brant.’

‘Join the queue.’

The one passion of Cross’s diminishing life was Sky Sports. With the big screen, he’d sit there all day, a six-pack, cod ‘n’ chips, some saveloys for variety and how content could one man be? He was a Leeds supporter, going all the way back to Norman Hunter. He wasn’t too happy about Robbie Keane but relaxed when they bought Fowler. It was four on a Thursday afternoon, he was eating fried bread topped with mayo when his bell went. As he approached the door, crust in his mouth, he asked,

‘Who is it?’

‘Cable guy.’

Afterwards, even Barry would concede that ‘it got away from him’. Sure, he’d intended to bash the guy — why else had he brought the hammer? — but he’d lost it big time, really did a number on the poor fuck. Talk about overkill. Bits of brains on the wall, in Barry’s hair. He said aloud:

‘Now, that’s bizarre.’

Had started out well enough, the cop had let him in, seemed nervous about ‘being billed’. Barry had decided to play a little, replied,

‘But you are The Bill.’

...And set off the cop’s antennae. Barry blamed the absinthe, stuff made you whacko. He saw the light go in the eyes and had to quickly swing the hammer.

Missed.

Bloody fucking fresh air and Cross had rabbit punched him but hadn’t fully connected.

Else...

Of all the dumb luck, the fuck had tripped on the carpet as he prepared to pummel Barry. No more screwing around. Barry, hurting from the punch, was on him, screaming:

‘My bloody neck, you could have killed me!’

Raining blows on the guy’s face, lost in a Technicolor blur of blood and fragments. Till a banging on the ceiling snapped him out of it. With revulsion, he’d jumped away from the mess beneath... And, okay, threw up.

DNA that.

What else could Barry do? He’d have to torch the whole building. Teach the fuck above to pound on a person’s ceiling. In the kitchen, if an alcove could be called thus, Barry finished the fried bread. Said,

‘Mayo... what’s that about?’

Found the beer and a massive thirst, drained two cans, in, like... jig time. His clothes were ruined, he couldn’t possibly leave in them. Went through the cop’s meagre wardrobe and settled for a police jacket, the all-weather black job. Now that was a trophy. A pair of tan slacks, way too big in the waist so he’d to double belt them. A sweatshirt with the logo:

   Clancy Brothers Live.

Yeah, how old was that?

Naturally, he’d gone through the guy’s wallet. Twenty quid and a photo of a plain woman with three kids. He took both, found some lighter fuel and built a mound on the body, using clothes, newspapers and ten copies of Goal. Poured the fuel on the lot, said,

‘You Kings of New England.’

He’d seen Cider House Rules on Sky Movies and the line had lodged. Most valuable of all, he found Cross’s address book. Now, not only did he have a list of cops’ homes, he even had a personal phone number for Brant. At the door, he tossed a match and moved fast.

I felt terribly tired, speed tired, like coming down from a crystal meth jag after a twenty-hour card game. The body still wants to run, nerved endings torqued to the pulsing tips of fingers and toes, but behind it, you start to shut down.

Roberts was trying to read the Observer Magazine , an article about ‘Wagonistas’. It’s sobriety but not the old-fashioned recovering addict, AA meetings stuff. This was being sober for a great lifestyle, for fashion, for economics. It was ten in the morning; Roberts lifted his mug, drank some of the red wine. He’d read once that it was good for the blood and heart. Though, if you drank it all day, maybe you were missing the point.

He was certainly missing his mouth.

A tremor caused the mug to hit the bridge of his nose and the stuff to spill down his front. He jumped up, trying to brush the liquid off. Wearing a pink dressing gown belonging to his wife, he hadn’t shaved or washed in days, knew he was going down the toilet but couldn’t summon up the energy to care. His daughter had been on a flying visit and borrowed fifty quid, then asked,

‘Are you going to sell the house?’

‘What house?’

She’d sighed eerily like her mother, then,

‘This house. You can’t live here, not with all Mummy’s things.’

‘And where will I go?’

‘To a bedsit, like all solitary older men.’

He thought he’d misheard, repeated,

‘Old... me?’

‘Oh, Daddy, you were always old. Tariq says you should be retired.’

‘You’re still with him then?’

‘Of course, he’s my karma; we’re going to Bombay to meet his family.’