Кен Бруен - Blitz

‘Thing!’

‘What?’

‘You said somefink... You think you’d at least be able to speak properly.’

The cop was debating getting out, had his hand on the handle, said,

‘Piss off.’

Barry registered shock-horror, said,

‘Oh my God! Is that any way to develop public confidence in the police?’

The cop narrowed his eyes, said,

‘I won’t tell you again. Get lost.’

‘But I have a question.’

‘What question?’

‘What would you do if I called you a cunt?’

Before the cop could get out, Barry said,

‘Ah... just as I thought.’

And shot him twice in the face.

Turned to walk quickly across the road, managed to jump on a 36 bus and in five minutes, he was in the centre of Peckham. Caught another bus from the opposite direction and felt the rush as the bus came towards the panda. A crowd was swarming and by peering down, he could see the policeman’s cap on the ground. He thought: Shit, that would have made a brill trophy.

All the crime books were big on trophies.

I found a kind word with a gun more effective than a kind word.

The papers went ape:

   Cop Killer Terrorises City

   Madman Menaces Met

   Second Police Execution

Superintendent Brown lashed his officers. He’d taken a bollocking from early in the morning as even the Home Secretary called. He was determined to pass it along. Brant was at the back of the briefing, sipping a large Starbucks. Porter Nash glanced at him and got a wink. Brown was winding down, said,

‘Due to the recent death of his wife, Chief Inspector Roberts is on extended compassionate leave. As you are all too well aware, we have a scarcity of senior officers due to the current crisis worldwide. In view of this, we are promoting Sergeant Porter Nash to acting inspector and temporary head of the inquiry.’

The room was shocked, even Brant was paying attention. A hand went up and Brown said,

‘Yes?’

‘Shouldn’t we promote from within?’

The Super glared at the questioner, added his name to the shit list, said,

‘The powers that be have decreed we need perspective on this one. Already we are the focus of a media circus. As acting Inspector Nash arrived from the prestigious...’

He paused, biting the words, letting the implication wash over them, before continuing,

‘...West London Branch of our glorious Met, he’ll satisfy the demands for the professional policing we seem to lack here in our primitive South East Division.’

Spontaneous applause.

Save Brant, who was staring openly at Porter. They both knew the immediate meltdown of this. Porter was Brant’s superior. Brant thought: The Super’s finally shafted me; just bent me over and did it.

He half-admired the nastiness of the scheme. Plus, a gay in the driving seat was the ideal scapegoat.

West London that.

In the canteen, Brant sat in a corner, lit a Weight. No one approached till Porter arrived and asked,

‘Get you something?’

‘Ah.’ Brant took a deep breath, before continuing, ‘A Sid Vicious and two Club Milks. I think my sugar level’s dropped.’

Gladys, as always, was delighted to serve the poof, and ventured:

‘Might I congratulate you on your... elevation?’

‘Thanks, Gladys, but it’s only a temporary position. I’m sure Chief Inspector Roberts will return soon.’

She put her hands on her hips, said,

‘That fellah’s away with the fairies... oops... oh-my-God, I didn’t mean anything. No offence.’

Porter smiled and she admired his teeth. If only straight men would devote such energy to their appearance. She was becoming hot for the pillow-biter.

He said,

‘Two teas, sugared; oh, and two Club Milk biscuits.’

Gladys fixed a malevolent eye on Brant, said,

‘You be sure that devil pays for his own.’

‘I will.’

As he walked away, she whispered,

‘Mind your back.’

Then bit her tongue; probably not an appropriate caution for a nancy boy.

Brant wolfed down the Club Milks, rolled the wrappers in a ball, bounced them off a new recruit’s head then turned to Porter, said,

‘Sorry, would you have liked one?’

‘I don’t do sweet.’

Brant enjoyed that, said,

‘Must put that in my notebook. Something you learnt in Knightsbridge, no doubt.’

‘Kensington.’

Brant sucked his tea, as if he were draining it past his gums, answered:

‘What?’

‘I was in Kensington not Knightsbridge.’

‘What’s the fucking difference?’

‘A lot if you own Harrods.’

Porter took out his kingsize Menthol, knew the effect they’d have on Brant, asked,

‘Got a light?’

He did.

Brant didn’t rise to the bait and Porter learnt a little. He knew the fearsome rep. Rumours of Brant’s playing vigilante, taking bribes, bugging the Super’s office, messing with Roberts’ wife, losing a suspect at Heathrow, his neardeath from a knife in the back. He asked,

‘Are you as black as you’re painted?’

At first he thought Brant hadn’t heard, was about to repeat the question when the eyes locked on his, asked,

‘Are you as nancy as they say?’

Porter finished the cig, said,

‘Touché. The thing is, are we going to have a problem?’

Now he got to witness the full neon of Brant’s smile, but no trace of humour or warmth. Brant said,

‘We already have a problem, a sick fuck is killing police officers and he’s just started.’

‘I meant, between us.’

Brant stood, brushed crumbs from his jacket and said:

‘I know what you meant. I’m not your thick Paddy, least not always. Problem? Not unless you follow me into public toilets. Hadn’t we better move our arses, at least look like you know what you’re doing.’

Porter got up, thinking he’d made a total mess of the ‘let’s get it all out in the open’ crap. He did realise that whatever went down, ‘open’ was not a terrain on which Brant operated.

   Dancing

      With

        Jack

           D

There’s a terrific book on death by Bert Keizer called Dancing with Mr D.

It’s a cracker.

After Rosie’s suicide, Falls had tried to find some sense to the act. As she’d torn through the literature of grief (and she’d discovered a thriving industry there), she’d found only this book was of any help.

That and Jack Daniels.

Pour that sucker over ice and you didn’t even need the books. Falls, after the Porter night out, had decided on a night in. Take a long Radox bath, the old scruffy bathrobe, a takeaway pizza and who’d be hurting? She’d had the bath, got the robe on, when the doorbell rang.

‘Fuck,’

she said.

Answered it... to a Hitler Youth.

A few years back, she’d found a young skinhead scrawling ‘Nazi’ on her wall. He’d spelled it wrong. She’d given him the price of a cup of tea even as the term ‘black bitch’ rolled in his mouth. An unlikely friendship had begun. Over the next few months she’d lent him books, music, money. He didn’t mention to his cronies of this tainted affair. It was a long time before he even gave his name. Or rather, his nickname. A Saturday evening, he’d drifted over; there was never an ‘orchestrated arrangement’, he showed or he didn’t. He’d asked,

‘Can I watch the football?’

‘Sure.’

‘I didn’t bring nothing.’

‘You drink beer?’

‘Course I do, whatcha’ implying? I’m not a bleeding pooftah.’

Falls enjoyed him immensely. His blend of front and fragility stirred a feeling she didn’t even bother trying to analyse. Taking a six-pack of Amstel from the fridge, she said,