Кен Бруен - Blitz

‘Drink that like a good man.’

Roberts did. He didn’t want to ask, wanted to postpone whatever was coming. The whiskey kicked like a mugger. Warmth invaded his stomach. The Super said,

‘There’s been some bad news.’

‘Oh?’

‘Your wife...’

The Super couldn’t recall her name so plunged on. ‘She’s been in a car accident.’

‘Is it serious?’

‘She’s dead.’

Roberts stared at his empty glass. The Super leant over, added a fresh jolt. Roberts asked,

‘How did it happen?’

‘She was rear-ended in Dulwich. Killed instantly.’

Roberts walloped down the drink, shuddered and said,

‘Maggie Thatcher lived down the road.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Yeah, she put property values through the roof. My mortgage is a killer.’

Then, realising what he’d said, he gave a bleak smile.

The Super stood, said,

‘We’ll get you home. Your son will have to be told.’

‘Son?’

‘Yes, your boy?’

‘I have a daughter.’

“Course you do, my memory is not the machine it was. Let’s get you going, eh?’

While not quite being the bum’s rush, it was in the neighbourhood. The Super came round the desk, put a hand around Roberts’ shoulders. Roberts said,

‘I could go another round of that malt.’

‘Better not, laddie. Alcohol on an empty stomach and all that.’

Roberts got to his feet, staggered, said,

‘I never liked her, you know?’

The Super wanted him out and now, said,

‘It’s shock, Chief Inspector, you don’t mean that.’

As roaring alcohol does, it turns nasty as quick as benevolent. Belligerence clouded Roberts’ face and he near shouted:

‘Listen up, you prick. Christ, you’re so used to barking orders, you never hear anybody. I loved her, I just never liked her.’

The Super, stunned at the verbal attack, tried not to react, said in the voice ‘the manual’ suggested for such circumstances:

‘I’m going to forget that last outburst. We’ll put it down to trauma.’

A knock on the door. The Super said,

‘Come in.’

PC McDonald, gorgeous as ever, entered. He took, as Woody Allen says,

   ‘Handsome lessons.’

He was the Super’s new hatchet boy. Though from Glasgow, he managed to convey the culture of Edinburgh. That is, he’d ironed out the creases so his accent resembled Sean Connery’s burr. Recently, his carelessness had nearly cost WPC Falls her life. He knew that Brant knew that. More than ever, in collusion with the Super, he hoped to shaft:

      Brant

      Roberts

      Falls

      The Scottish Tourist Board.

The Super said,

‘Constable, please see to it that the Chief Inspector gets home and stay with him.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Inwardly he sighed. Babysitting that git did not come into his plans. He led Roberts outside, where a Volvo was waiting. Roberts said,

‘A bloody Volvo!!

‘Car pool is tight today, sir.’

Got Roberts in the back and slid behind the wheel. Adjusted the mirror so he could get a good look. Didn’t much stomach what he saw. A dowdy officer, looking like he’d done a month’s night duty on the Railton Road. Roberts asked,

‘Got a cigarette?’

‘Don’t smoke, sir.’

‘Me neither, but what the fuck has that to do with anything?’

I don’t know what all the fuss is about Fred Astaire’s dancing. I did the same thing, in high heels and backwards.

PC falls was attempting to re-touch her roots. Not her hair, her heritage. Reared in Brixton, she’d been proud of her colour.

Black was beautiful.

...and she’d begun to lose it.

Chip

  Chip

    Chip

      Away.

The foundations of her confidence had eroded. Not without reason. The death of her father, the loss of a pregnancy, suicide of her best friend, indebtedness to Brant and her flirtation with alcoholism.

Who wouldn’t be hurting and badly?

She was.

Of all the loss, in truth, she most missed herself. At a recent knees-up Brant, in his bastardised Irish fashion, had played Van Morrison. That Belfast dude knew about ghettos. She’d been mesmerised.

Brant had said,

‘Van’s the man.’

‘Might be.’

But Brant knew he’d struck a chord. Gave her the wolf smile, all teeth and malevolence. Thus she’d bought Astral Weeks . In an attempt to re-black, she’d bought:

the huge selling platinum albums by Tupac Shakur. Then, on the news, she’d seen teenage members of The West Side Boyz Militia with ‘2 Pac’ on their T-shirts. She checked him out and found that he’d been a hot actor and was murdered after a Mike Tyson fight in Las Vegas. In Brixton Market, she’d bought a framed picture of him to put on her shelf. Wasn’t doing the job though.

Recently, she’d taken the Sergeant’s exam. Brant had said,

‘You’re a shoo-in. The fucks won’t flunk a black chick.’

Chick!

Mind you, it was nothing compared to names he’d called her in the past.

She failed.

A WPC from Asia passed so The Guardian wouldn’t be revving up. What Falls had done was call Porter Nash. An openly gay sergeant, he was her new best friend. He’d answered with:

‘Yell-o.’

‘Porter, it’s Falls.’

‘Hi, hon.’

‘I failed the exam.’

‘The bastards.’

‘Can you help me?’

‘With what, hon?’

‘A night out.’

‘Done deal.’

‘Thanks, Porter. I want to get legless.’

‘Like tequila?’

‘Love it.’

She’d never had it.

‘There’s a pub near Warwick Square, right by Paddington Station called The Sawyers Arms. Meet you there at eight.’

She visualised the map, then,

‘Porter!’

‘What?’

‘That’s west London.’

‘So? You need to circulate.’

She injected whine and cred into her voice, an impressive feat, said,

‘It’s not my manor. Wot dey say to a black girl from Brixton ?’

He laughed, a warm sound, said,

‘It’s Paddington, they do black.’

Reverting to her own voice, she said,

‘But they do to blacks... what?’

‘My bleeper’s going, dress hot... we’re clubbing.’

Click.

When he’d been assigned to her nick, word preceded him. His rep was good: ‘street cop’, the best recommendation. But larger than that, he was gay; that he’d risen to sergeant was a bloody miracle. The day of his arrival, graffiti appeared on the toilet walls.

In the gents and ladies.

What the liberals term ‘Informed discrimination’.

Yeah.

The canteen was jammed for the first coffee break. No one was going to miss this. Even Gladys, the tea lady, was a-tingle. When Porter arrived, a hush fell. He’d gone to the counter, got a tea and two sugars. What the cops called ‘a Sid Vicious’. They’d all seen Sid and Nancy . Gary Oldman, wrecked on every chemical known to man, shouts at his record company rep, who had asked what he wanted:

‘Cup a tea, yah cunt... and two sugars.’

Gladys admired Porter’s courtesy. His lovely voice, saying:

‘Please.’

And wonders, ‘Thank you’.

She said to her husband later,

‘Say what you like but them ‘nancy boys’ have lovely manners.’

After Porter had his tea, he stood and moved to leave. All eyes on him, he turned at the door, said,

‘Even I’d draw the line at blowing Brant.’