Кен Бруен - Blitz

‘Don’t answer.’

‘I’ll have to.’

He did. Listened, his face clouding. Said,

‘Okay.’

Turned to face her, said,

‘Officer down.’

Perhaps we unconsciously avoid situations for which we are ill-equipped, even if avoiding them entails an amount of immediate suffering.

Outside the pub, Porter said,

‘I’ve transport.’

Falls gave him a look, said,

‘You told me we were going to get legless.’

‘So?’

‘So how come you brought wheels?’

Porter hung his head, said,

‘I hadn’t thought it through.’

She didn’t believe him, said,

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Okay, Falls.’

‘Okay? What the hell is okay?’

‘I wasn’t going to drink much.’

‘But you were going to let me drink lights out.’

‘Yes.’

They’d reached a red Datsun he’d indicated was it. He said,

‘This is it.’

‘The poof-mobile.’

That stung but he rode it out, got the car in gear and she asked,

‘What sort of mate is that?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. We go for a night out and you’re planning to be Miss Prim.’

He swerved to avoid an Audi, let down his window, shouted:

‘Get some driving lessons.’

She looked at him, regretted again he was gay, said,

‘You sounded like Brant.’

He grimaced, said,

‘Nobody sounds like Brant.’

He got a break in traffic, cut across a black cab, got some serious speed on. Both of them were thinking of the fallen officer but neither wanted to mention it. He said,

‘I’d have had a few drinks.’

‘Forget it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What did I say? Didn’t I just say forget it?’

He took a deep breath, said,

‘It’s a WPC.’

Falls stared out the window, then said,

‘Is she dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Porter knew about the suicide of Falls’ friend. For her the death of a WPC was doubly hard. He said,

‘I didn’t get any more details.’

‘She’s dead, what more is there?’

‘I mean... you know... her name... or what happened.’

‘We’ll know soon enough.’

They were coming up on Waterloo. Falls said,

‘I used to live here.’

‘Yeah? What was that like?’

‘Shite.’

He laughed then stopped abruptly, feeling guilty. She asked,

‘You’ve had some of these?’

He knew she meant police deaths but pretended not to follow, asked,

‘Some of what?’

‘Officer down.’

‘Yeah, a few.’

They were coming up on Kennington Road, could see the mess of blue lights ahead. Porter said,

‘The word is out.’

Police cars were everywhere, causing chaos. Any motorist complaining got short shrift. It was not a night to worry about public relations. A traffic cop flagged down their car. As Porter opened the window, the cop said,

‘There’s no way through, you’re going to have to wait.’

It wasn’t a request, it was an order. The cop’s face was grim, his eyes saying, ‘Give me lip and I’ll have your ass.’

Porter produced his warrant card; the cop examined it closely, said,

‘Sorry, sarge, I thought you were civilians.’

He grabbed an eyeful of Falls, the sheath dress, her legs, asked,

‘New uniform?’

Porter let it hang a moment then,

‘Watch your mouth.’

The cop, taken aback, muttered,

‘Just kidding.’

Porter was out of the car, in the guy’s face, going,

‘An officer is down and you’re kidding?’

Falls was behind him, said,

‘Porter, come on.’

Porter looked at his car, then back to the cop, said,

‘I’m leaving this vehicle in your hands. I’ll expect it to be well cared for.’

The cop indicated the chaos building from all directions, groaned,

‘Aw, sarge.’

Porter had already turned away, was marching towards the Oval. Falls shouted,

‘Wait up!’

As she caught up, he said,

‘When I was stationed at Kensington...’

‘You were stationed at Kensington?’

‘Yes, a sergeant there, named Carlisle, one of the best cops I’ve ever known...’

Falls was thinking: Carlisle, Porter Nash, no wonder they got a west London gig. He continued,

‘I was taking a lot of flak over being gay, he took me aside, said,

“Front the bastards up”.’

‘What did he mean?’

‘Don’t hide who I am, put it right in their faces, let them deal with it.’

‘Did they?’

‘Some... the point is, he showed me it’s about being a copper, all the rest is irrelevant.’

‘He was white, hetero?’

‘Yes.’

‘Easy for him to say then.’

Porter rounded on her, fire in his eyes, near roared:

‘He was decapitated in a high-speed chase. The driver of the stolen vehicle was fourteen. You think it mattered then what colour Carlisle was, or what his sexual orientation was?’

They’d reached the Oval; a canopy had been erected near the station. Falls said,

‘They’ll have her in there.’

Porter said,

‘Wait here.’

And he approached the officers standing outside the station.

Falls heard a low whistle, turned to face Brant, he said,

‘That is some dress.’

Brant looked shocking, as if he’d been on the booze for a week. She said,

‘You look shocking.’

‘I’ve been consoling the Chief Inspector.’

‘How is he?’

Brant stared at the canopy then back to her, said,

‘Fucked.’

I spit in the black ash and rub it between my

fingers and my palms and then I take the ash and

draw a cross upon my face

A cross to keep the fear away

A cross to keep the fear—

A cross to keep—

A cross.

The dead policewoman was Sandra Miller. Not even a south Londoner; originally from Manchester, she’d come to London two years before. Spent six months in telephone sales, drove her demented. She’d applied to Ryanair and the Met Police, figuring one way or another, she was going to fly. The cops replied first, then Ryanair. What she did was compare the uniforms. Decided the police had a slight edge. Plus she relished the expression on people’s faces when they asked,

“And what do you do?”

Being a glorified waitress on a cut rate airline didn’t have the same impact. Found she enjoyed being a WPC.

Assigned to South-East District, she got a bedsit in Camberwell and set about policing them streets. She’d been on the job a year when Barry had randomnly selected her for death. Two shots and her life was done.

The Super had appeared at the scene, as did every cop for miles around. To make sure your face was seen. A horde of uniforms had been despatched to canvass residents of buildings overlooking the crime scene and beyond. Brown was talking to detectives when Brant appeared. Brown tried to disguise his loathing for the Sergeant, said,

‘I’m busy here. You’ll be briefed in the morning along with everybody else.’

To his surprise, Brant didn’t move; stood there with that habitual smirk. The Super snapped:

‘Was there something?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Can’t it bloody wait? This is a murder inquiry.’

Brant stared at the traffic, then turned, said,

‘There’s a witness.’

‘What, why wasn’t I told?’

‘I’ve been trying to tell you for the past half-hour but your...’

He moved his arm in a definite gesture of contempt to indicate McDonald.

‘... driver said you were busy.’

The Super saw the detectives around them suppress a smile. He tried for authority, asked,