Кен Бруен - Blitz

Barry was a good-looking guy, or so two women had told him. Okay, so they were hookers, but didn’t that count? He was twenty-eight, six-foot in height, weighing in at close to two hundred pounds. Not a guy to fuck with. Few did, except for the police who seemed to fuck with him all the time. He had brown hair, shaved to a No. 1; gave his scalp a blond polished appearance. Blue washed-out eyes, a hook nose and a stab of a mouth.

He’d been a regular at a gym in Streatham and could bench impressively. A unisex joint, he liked to ogle the women in their spandex. What he’d do was oil all over, get the sweat rolling and flex the pecs. If the women noticed, they hid it well. A gay had come on to him in the saunas and he’d slapped him up the side of the head.

Slapped him hard.

That was all he sang.

Barry liked to read, but only crime, especially true crime. Had them all:

Ann Rule

Joe McGuinness,

Edna Buchanan

Jack Olsen.

He’d studied these books. Sociopaths, psychopaths, serial killers, he couldn’t get enough. For him, those guys rocked. Focusing on their profiles, he found total identification. Bundy, Gacey were his role models. Their lives fascinated him, how they took it all the way. No fucking hostages, like never. Barry’s lucky number was eight so he decided to kill that number of cops.

Years ago, a particularly brutal one had given him a hiding. Outside a pool hall in Peckham, Barry had had one too many Supers. He’d gone upstairs and was giving it large to some Pakis over table number three. The cop had arrived.

Alone.

Barry had said,

‘Fuck off, pig.’

Turned to accept the approval of the pool punks. An almighty blow landed, rocking him from the crown of his head to the tip of his arse. Sprawled him across table ten. He couldn’t believe it — the cop had flattened him with a cue. What about procedure, civil liberties? Didn’t anyone read the fucking liberal newspapers? Then he was turned over and the pool ball jammed into his mouth, the cop saying,

‘It’s Sergeant Brant to you, fuck face.’

Grabbed Barry by the seat of his pants and pulled him down each painful step of the stairs. To roars of approval from the Pakis. On the street, he was bundled to his feet, the cop saying,

‘Here’s where I put me size nine up your arse.’

And did.

The shame, the humiliation, plus the task of ejecting the ball from his mouth, Barry hadn’t been back to that hall since. He’d bashed some Pakis though, every chance he got. Brant was the pinnacle of his list. When he’d killed the initial seven, he’d go for Brant with something spectacular. Made him hot just planning it.

Sometimes I think I know what it was about and how everything happened. But then, I shake my head and wonder. Am I remembering what happened or what other people think happened? Who the hell knows after a certain point?

Some years back, Brant had had the hots for the late Mrs Roberts. All that tight-ass Dulwich snobbery got him cooking. He’d caught her in bed with a young stud, did what he did best:

   blackmail.

In return for saying nothing, she had to go out on a date. Brant got suited and booted, took her to a flash joint in Notting Hill, surprised her with his charm. Just as she felt her interest quicken, he was summoned away to a particularly Peckinpah case. The fall-out got him knifed in the back and he’d left her alone after that. An A-list villain had taunted Roberts about his Sergeant shafting the missus. One drunken night, Roberts asked him straight out if there was any truth in the story. Brant answered,

‘Aren’t we mates, guv?’

Managed to slide a sneer and a whine into the question.

The evening after the crematorium, Brant came to muttering,

‘Yeah, mates!’

His hangover was a classic. Big, roaring and merciless, he spotted remnants of green chicken under a chair, prayed:

‘Don’t let me have eaten that.’

Stomach lurch and he was on his knees over the toilet bowl. After the upchuck, as he cleared the tears from his eyes, he saw he had indeed eaten the green. The phone rang and he shouted,

‘Fuck off.’

It didn’t.

He snapped the receiver, growled,

‘What?’

Super Brown, who said,

‘Sergeant Brant, where on earth have you been?’

‘Giving succour to the Chief Inspector, as ordered, sir.’

‘Well, get your botty over to the Oval, an officer is down.’

‘Sir?’

‘On the double, Sergeant.’

Click.

Holding the dead phone, Brant said,

‘Botty?’

Falls had dressed to impress. Okay, so Porter Nash was gay, and this wasn’t like a date. But you never knew where an evening might take you. She wore a white sheath and gasped at how black her skin appeared, said,

‘Yo’ looking foxy, girl.’

She was.

Two stud pearls for that Essex effect; keep the punters confused, get them thinking,

‘High yaller.’

Then, a moment, what would Rosie say? Not anything, not any more. Her best friend, a white cop. Then an HIV junkie had bitten her and she’d killed herself. The loss washed over Falls anew.

Rosie’s pig of a husband had said — regarding the funeral arrangements:

‘No police, thank you very much, and especially none of those vulgar wreaths in the shape of helmets.’

Falls had thought then and still did: Fuck you, asshole.

Sent the biggest, most ostentatious one she could get. Shape of a big, blue, Met helmet. Now, she went to the cabinet, took out a bottle of scotch, said,

‘Just a tiny one, get me stoked.’

She’d had some problems with booze, okay, so it had been said she’d a major problem. Like, it killed her father and she hadn’t the money to bury him. Three large. God, the mortification; phew-oh, Brant came through with the readies, said,

‘You owe me, Falls.’ He collected... and not financially. To make it worse, he’d saved her from the Clapham Rapist. Christ, she’d never be free of him. The way he liked it. Drank the scotch fast, it hit like love, warming artificially and ruefully. She thought: Just as artificial.

Cynic that.

Rosie, white girl as she was, used to play Leonard Cohen. Falls would chide,

‘Girl, yo’ want to hit de blues? Lemme git you Nina Simone.’

A line of Leonard Cohen’s shifted itself from her grief... something about the future and about it being murder.

Got that right, Greek boy.

She caught a number 36 bus, rode the top deck as far as Paddington Station, the booze bubbling in her blood. The conductor was a brother, said, near sang,

‘Sho’ looking fine.’

She smiled and he pushed,

‘Yo’ all wanna drink after mo shift?’

Gave him the full Railton Road glare, he backed way off.

The Sawyers Arms was a halfway decent pub. Mix of navvies, travellers and trainee yuppies, not the worst. Porter had the corner table, drinks all set. He stood, said,

‘You beauty.’

Gave her a big hug, that turned some heads, like she gave a rat’s, said,

‘Let me see you.’

He stepped back, wearing a suede tan jacket, open white shirt, navy chinos, police shoes. But the guys always did. She said,

‘ Baaaad jacket.’

‘From Gap.’

‘Whatever.’

They were full delighted with each other, she lifted her tiny glass, sniffed, made a face. He said,

‘Tequila slammer.’

‘And you?’

‘Scotch.’

They touched glasses, drank deep, he reached in the jacket, took out Menthol Superkings and a chunky lighter, she said,

‘Mixed metaphor.’

He loved that, said,

‘I love that. The menthol is for the light-on-your-feet brigade and the lighter is for the whole YMCA gig.’

She wasn’t sure she got all that, but who cared? His mobile phone went, she said,