Кен Бруен - Blitz

Roberts felt a great weariness, said,

‘Bon voyage.’

Now she near shrieked:

‘We need money, we need you to sell up.’

Roberts counted to ten then tried,

‘You tell Tariq to come and see me. We’ll have a little chat.’

His daughter threw her eyes to heaven, then,

‘Talk to you? Nobody can talk to you. Mummy said it was like talking to a brick wall.’

He didn’t know how to proceed, so he said nothing. This riled her further. She spat:

‘Oh, you’re so pathetic, I hate you.’

And stormed out, slamming the door. He wanted to shout:

‘Oh yeah? Give me back my fifty quid then.’

It crossed his mind to have Brant drop in on Tariq, expose him to that mind-set. Instead, he’d gone to the drinks cupboard and found nothing but bottles of red wine. He vaguely remembered going out the day after the funeral and buying another batch. Now he surveyed the empty bottles and thought he’d better shape up. Managed to stand under the shower and felt a degree better. Then he looked in the mirror and the shock made him gasp. An unshaven, red-eyed lunatic was staring back. That was it for any hope of shaving. He put on a crumpled suit, a grubby shirt and headed out, resolving to stock up on groceries, household goods, all that citizen shit. When he got to Safeway, the security guard eyed him closely. He hurried in, got a trolley and began to move down the aisle. He was lost. The shelves seemed stacked with huge amounts of washing powder. All he wanted was soup — as in one packet — some milk, bread and maybe a few slices of ham.

Heard someone whisper,

‘Guv?’

Turned to face Falls. She was dressed in a white tracksuit, emphasising her blackness. She looked in his empty trolley, asked,

‘What are you doing?’

‘Shopping.’

Falls pushed the trolley aside, asked,

‘What do you need... everything?’

‘Some red wine.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. We need to get the essentials.’

He wanted to say,

‘The wine is essential.’

But went with,

‘I’ll wait outside.’

He stood near the off-licence, wondering would he risk going for a bottle? A woman was passing, pulling a girl of eight or so by the hand. She stopped, rummaged in her bag, found some coins and shoved them at him, said in a testy tone,

‘That’s all the change I’ve got.’

And moved on, the little girl looking back, asking,

‘Mum, is that a wino?’

‘Sh... shu... shush, he’ll hear you.’

He stared at the coins in his hand, shock sneaking along his spine. Falls appeared, pushing a heavy trolley, shouted,

‘Give me a hand, eh?’

He put the coins in his pocket. Falls was driving a Daewoo, he asked,

‘This yours?’

‘Belongs to a neighbour, I do her shopping too.’

Opened the boot, began to put the stuff in, asked,

‘You all right?’

‘Never better.’

Back at his house, she surveyed the wreckage, asked,

‘Have you been camping here?’

He sank into a chair, said,

‘Give it a rest.’

She did.

He dozed, was awoken to the smell of cooking. The room was spotless. Falls handed him a mug, said,

‘It’s soup, you’re frozen.’

To his surprise, it was good, awakened his appetite. She provided French bread, slices of meat and he ate it all, said,

‘Christ, that was good.’

She gave a radiant smile. Lit up the whole room and he realised with astonishment that he’d almost never seen her do that. He said,

‘I think I’ll be okay now.’

Falls stared at him for a long moment, considered, then:

‘Yes, I think you just might.’

‘I’m going to sell this house.’

‘Great idea.’

‘You think?’

‘Yeah, who the fuck wants to live in Dulwich?’

‘I thought everybody did.’

He was genuinely astonished. She gave another of the smiles, asked,

‘How many black people do you know? I mean, as friends?’

‘Ahm...’

‘That’s what I thought.’

She got all his soiled clothes in the washing machine, warned,

‘Use fabric softener.’

‘Why?’

‘Jeez... men! Take it on trust, okay?’

She debated her next question, decided to risk it, went,

‘I need a favour.’

He watched her face, gauged the intensity, asked,

‘What?’

‘A kid I know is in trouble. I need to get him off the hook.’

‘Police trouble?’

‘Yes.’

‘How bad?’

‘He and his mates gave a guy a good kicking.’

‘And your interest is?’

Falls hung her head, her voice low, said,

‘The skinhead, remember him?’

‘Sure, he looked out for you when you went down the shitter.’

He paused, then exclaimed,

‘Aw no, tell me you cut him loose, what? You thought you could change him? Jesus, Falls, it’s him. He’s the one did the kicking? Aw, for crying out loud.’

A silence between them, she had no defence, leastways none that would sound reasonable. Roberts gave a deep throat clearance, then:

‘Okay, I’m not in any position to lecture you here. There’s a DI, he’ll know about it, he owes me from way back. His name is Nelson.’

‘Thanks, sir, I really appreciate...’

Roberts’ hand was up:

‘Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t met Nelson. He’s a piece of work; fact is, he makes Brant appear downright liberal.’

Get yourself a gay boyfriend! It’s fantastic.

They’re great cooks, they love shopping and

they’re really frightened of you.

Brant checked his notebook:

   Barry Weiss, with an address in New Cross.

Brant decided to head home, shower, then pay a visit to the guy. By the time he got to his flat, he felt his mind begin its shut down. Inside, he made some tea, tried to focus on what he was to do first. Oh yeah, shower. He sat in the armchair, put the tea on the floor for easy reach. The TV was directly in front, he stared at the blank screen. The tea went cold, he didn’t move, just continued to stare at the screen.

Barry Weiss was in a phone kiosk, rang The Tabloid, got put through to the Dunphy, said,

‘There’s a fire at Sirinham Point. That’s Meadow Road... but a match from the Oval Cricket Ground.’

‘A fire?’

‘And you’ll want to know what your angle is?’

‘Ahm... yes... please.’

‘The second-floor flat, at the back, you’ll find number three. You can count, right?’

‘A third copper?’

‘Gee, no wonder you’re the crime capo. In case they start any nonsense about copycats, I used a new system.’

‘Can you elaborate?’

‘A hammer. Blunt enough for you? It was for him. I’ll be eating brains for a week.’

Click.

Dunphy was rewinding the tape when the phone went again. He grabbed it, heard

‘I thought of a name.’

‘Name?’

‘Is there an echo? Don’t keep repeating everything, it’s very annoying. “The Blitz”, like Blitzkreig, know how to spell that?’

‘Yes, but...’

‘It’s not negotiable.’

‘The other papers...’

‘Are shite, just do it.’

Click.

The Tabloid led with:

Brant, if he’d turned on the telly, would have found it top story on every channel. He didn’t. Continued to sit motionless, his mind a vacuum of white noise.

Porter was up to his arse in reporters, phones, leads, frustration. He shouted,

‘Where the hell is Brant?’

No one had seen him. A tabloid guy named Dunphy, who had tapes of the killer, was demanding an interview. Porter had ignored him. It took three days for Brant to appear. When he did, his face had the look of a man who had been to hell and only part ways returned. Porter said,