Кен Бруен - Blitz

‘I thought you might be a cider man.’

As always he searched her face for a sign of ridicule. What he saw was a lovely woman, real prize and almost forgot her colour.

Almost.

Later she heard him roar as the game finished, asked,

‘Who won?’

Suspicious, he near jeered,

‘What do you know?’

‘Leeds against Man U... right?’

‘So?’

‘Was Ian Harte playing?’

‘He’s a wanker is what he is.’

And Falls was delighted anew. She loved his predictability. In her mind, he was her project. Turn him, you could turn anything, anyone.

Dream on.

She’d finally got his name.

      ‘Metal’.

Falls laughed out loud. Blitzed on beer, he’d finally told her. Realising by his furious face that she’d fucked up, she tried to rally, went:

‘I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing with you.’

She knew how weak that was. He was on his feet, spittle on his lips, shouting,

‘But I’m not laughing. You see me laughing?’

A takeaway pizza — heavy crust — and more beer eventually calmed him down. That plus her ‘2 Pac’ T-shirt. Wait till he discovered the dude was black; he thought it was an ad for beer. She’d asked gently,

‘So, how did you get... such... an unusual name?’

“Cos.’

‘Yes?’

‘I used to be a headbanger, like heavy metal, I’d get a blast of glue, go mental.’

‘And now?’

He shrugged, began,

‘Since I joined the British National Party...’

Stopped.

To gauge her response, couldn’t detect a dial tone, continued,

‘I stopped all that shit.’

She pulled the tab on a beer, handed it over, said,

‘Now you stomp people.’

‘Only wogs. And Pakis. Pooftahs sometimes.’

Now she was answering the door to him, dressed as a Hitler Youth. She asked,

‘What?’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Not in that garbage.’

He glanced round nervously, bit his lower lip, said,

‘I’m in trouble.’

‘Come in.’

She moved to the window, folded her arms, waited.

He finally spoke:

‘Can I get a brewski?’

‘No. What did you do?’

He began to pace, then,

‘I think we killed a geezer.’

She went out to the kitchen, got the Jack, two mugs, brought them out. He eyed the bottle, said,

‘Rocking.’

She said, ‘Sit down.’ And felt like his mother.

Poured large wallops, handed a mug over. His mug bore the logo:

      ‘Marsha Hunts’... Men’

He said he and a ‘unit’ had been patrolling Vauxhall. Falls asked,

‘Looking for bower?’

He stared at his boots. Doc Martens with reinforced steel toe-caps. He gulped down the drink, near choked, sputtlered, then said,

‘Just keeping it safe for white blokes.’

Now she was leaning over him, said,

‘John — oh yeah, I know your name and your thick file from Juvenile Records — it’s ball-busting time... you ever foul my home with any more racist shit or name-calling, I’ll make you eat those Doc Martens.’

Metal was afraid; she seemed to have completely lost it, a hardness in her eyes like granite. She slapped his head, asked,

‘Who’d you hurt?’

‘A sand nigger... sorry... an Arab-type guy.’

‘How bad?’

‘He wasn’t moving.’

He got his tobacco, began to roll a cig. She snapped,

‘Don’t you smoke in my house.’

He slipped the gear back into his pocket. Falls’ face was creased in concentration. Then:

‘Okay, I’ll look into it—’

‘Thanks, I...’

‘Shut up, I haven’t finished. If the man is dead, you’re on your own; in fact, I’ll nick you myself. Go home and wait till you hear from me.’

He stood up and she added,

‘It’s choice time, John. If you haven’t killed this time, you’ll either quit them Nazis or quit coming here. Do you follow?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

As he went out, he asked,

‘Are we like... you know... still mates?’

‘I don’t know.’

Shut the door.

I have two ways of acting...

with

or without

the horse.

Brant had a new snitch, the life and blood of any police force. In his time, Brant had met some beauts. One way or another, they’d all come to a nasty end. One memorable Cypriot guy had been literally kebabbed to death. It had put Brant right off lamb souvlakis. His latest was old for the trade. Just over sixty, he’d been in nick for thirty of those years. His name was Radnor Bowen. No one knew if this was his actual name but as his speciality had been break-ins on Radnor Walk, it could have gone either way. Thus the severity of his sentencing; judges don’t like scum from ‘south of the river’ to get notions.

He was tall and thin, with open, warm eyes. You’d take him for a kindly uncle and he’d take you for everything you’d got. He’d been trying a new career until Brant had decided to run him.

Radnor was aware of Brant’s rep, plus the knowledge that his predecessors had come to a bad end; he was determined to outsmart the Sergeant. They met in an Irish pub off the Balham High Road. This time Radnor had got there first, was nursing a half of bitter. It tasted like warm piss, a potion he’d been forced to drink on his first stretch. He looked round the huge saloon, posters of the Wolfe Tones abounded. A framed picture of ‘The men behind the wire’. Coming attractions were advertised on the walls and these included tribute acts to:

   Daniel O’Donnell

   Brendan Shine

   Dale Haze and The Champions.

He shuddered — the originals were horror enough. An ashtray on the table contained the words:

   ‘Players Please’

He wondered if it was an omen. You don’t spend half your life in stir without acquiring superstitions. He was wearing a Crombie overcoat, silk cravat, blazer, grey slacks and highly polished black shoes. The barman had him clocked as ex-army. The pose of ramrod-stiff back was a further legacy of prison.

He knew what Brant would want. The cop killer, the whole south-east was buzzing with rumours. Radnor intended to make this his jackpot, a payoff that would take him to a small cottage in Cornwall and safety. The door opened and Brant strode in, looking as feral as ever.

Brant marched over to the bar, got a scotch and had some words with the barman. No money changed hands. Then he came over to the table. Brant was wearing a semi-respectable suit and a Police Federation tie. He asked,

‘Been here long?’

‘Just arrived.’

Brant got his cigs out, fired up, said,

‘You’ll know what I want.’

‘I do.’

‘So, spill.’

Radnor focused, said,

‘I’m on to something.’

‘What?’

‘I need paying.’

Brant smiled, dropped his cig in the bitter, said,

‘Oh, sorry.’

Radnor gave a sad smile, didn’t answer. Brant leant over, asked,

‘What had you in mind?’

‘Serious money.’

‘Whoa... like retirement benefit?’

He let his hand rest on Radnor’s knee, said,

‘Bony fucker, aren’t you?’

Is there an answer to this, an answer that bears some relation to sanity? If there is, Radnor hadn’t got it. Brant began stroking the knee, said,

‘But you don’t have the brains of a chicken... do you?’

Then Brant twisted his fingers and jolts of pain shot through Radnor’s thigh, along the testicles to lodge in his gut. Tears ran from his eyes as Brant continued,

‘I doubt if you’ve any Irish blood in you, you’re an out-and-out chap, the English gent in your poncy cravat and fucked coat. Me now, I’ve a wild streak of the Celt, makes me unpredictable. Them Irish, did you know they invented kneecapping? Answer me.’