Кен Бруен - Blitz

‘Ahm, no, yes... I guess one would surmise...’

‘Ah, shut up with your fake Hampstead accent. As I was saying, kneecapping, it’s a nasty business. They fix you up as best they can, but you always have a limp. How does that sound, “Radnor the gimp”. How does that go down in your retirement package?’

Brant looked at the barman, said,

‘Yo, innkeeper, a brandy and port and a large scotch before closing time.’

Then he grinned at Radnor, all teeth, no warmth, said,

‘Christ, decent help is hard to find, know what I mean? Here’s what we’ll do: have a nice stiff drink, fortify our resolve, maybe a pack of ready salted or are you a cheese and onion man?’

Radnor managed to croak,

‘Cheese and onion.’

‘Good man, that’s the ticket. Barkeep, a selection of your freshest crisps, no expense spared.’

A man entered, took a stool at the bar. Radnor checked him out of professional habit. Brant did the same. The barman arrived with a tray of crisps and the drinks, put it down in the centre of the table. Brant said,

‘Well, go on Rad, pay the man.’

Radnor had to dig deep, produced a note and Brant said,

‘Keep the change.’

Sly smile from the barman. When he got back behind the counter, he said to the man on the stool:

‘Get you?’

‘A pint of lager and something for yourself.’

Bigger smile from the barman, the day was improving by the minute. Brant raised his glass, said,

‘Okay, tell me.’

Radnor took a deep breath, felt he was moving through a minefield, said,

‘There’s a guy who’s been shouting his mouth off; he was in that poncy gym at Streatham, beat a homosexual half to death there. When the management had a word and mentioned the police, he said: “I’ll be giving them something to worry about very soon”.’

Brant stopped mid chew, crisps lodged in his teeth, said,

‘That’s it?’

‘The guy is a nutter.’

‘Fuck, if we pulled in every wanker who said that, we’d be up to our arse in suspects. What’s his name?’

‘I don’t know. I’m meeting up with a guy who’ll give me that.’

Brant stood up, said,

‘Don’t bother, I’ll go the gym, ask the manager.’

Radnor, his dream evaporating, pleaded,

‘Don’t I get something?’

‘You’ve got cheese and onion... what more do you want, you greedy bugger?’

And he was gone.

At the bar, the man had been watching them. The barman said,

‘That’s a cop and his snitch.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, that piece of garbage that left, he’s Brant, a total pig; and the git in the cravat, he’s flogging him information.’

The man looked impressed, said,

‘You seem pretty sure.’

‘I’m the boss, it’s my job to know.’

He tapped his nose with his index finger.

Barry Weiss studied the man who’d remained and contemplated offing him but decided against it. He’d a full programme. Instead, he said to the barman,

‘Like another?’

Illusions can make you jump to conclusions.

Like off a bridge.

Porter Nash had spent the day organising the teams. Officers tracked down every lead, went door to door, compiled a list of police haters. This last job was massive, and it had had to be narrowed down to a workable size. He finally got home at midnight, put a vegetarian meal in the microwave, zapped that. Tore off his work clothes and put on an old judo outfit from his days of aspiration. He took a large bottle of Evian from the fridge, drank deep. Could feel a slight relaxation at the base of his skull.

Porter lived at Renfrew Road in Kennington, opposite the old police training college. There was some neat irony in that but he hadn’t the time to infer it. The apartment was spacious, he had the entire top floor. Painted white, it had expensive, comfortable furniture, state-of-the-art music centre, mega TV, the works. An alcove had been siphoned off to hold his computer, printer, neat stacks of paper.

Now, he selected Puccini, turned it on low, enough to dance along his senses without serious involvement. The microwave pinged and he removed the meal. He’d bought a stash of these at Selfridges. Sat at his wooden table, prepared to eat. His doorbell rang, took him by surprise. It crossed his mind to get the police special from underneath the bed but as he had no sense of peril, decided to act on that. Opened the door to Brant, said,

‘Sergeant?’

‘Evening all. Not disturbing anything, am I?’

Porter gave him the full stare. Brant was dressed in a boilersuit, a very dirty one, as if he’d been crawling through a dumpster. Maybe he had. If half the stories were true, he actually lived in one. Brant raised an eyebrow, asked,

‘Going to ask me in?’

‘I was in the middle of a meal.’

‘Go ahead, I’d some spare ribs earlier, stuck in me teeth.’

Porter stood aside, watched as Brant took in the apartment and heard him say,

‘The Japs have a word for this... this type of bare look, don’t they?’

Porter coming behind, was impressed, said,

‘Yes, minimalist.’

‘Shite was the word I’d in mind.’

And Porter eased a gear, seeing how easily Brant engaged you then, wallop; he’d have to remember that. Brant was wrinkling his nose, not an easy task, asked,

‘What do I smell, that stuff the hippies use?’

‘Patchouli oil.’

Brant gave a knowing smirk, said,

‘To cover the “wacky baccy”, eh? Doing some of the weed are we, a little recreational drug use?’

Porter didn’t bother to answer, moved to the table and stared at his cold dinner. Brant at his elbow asked,

‘What the hell’s that? Jeez, you need to get some meat in you, a thick juicy steak, get the blood flowing.’

Porter moved to a chair and Brant asked,

‘Don’t I get a drink, first time to your pad and all that?’

‘In the bottom press, help yourself.’

Brant hunkered down, pulled the door to reveal a range of spirits, went,

‘Fuck, no wonder you stay home. Hit you with anything?’

‘No, I’ve some water here.’

Brant splashed some Armagnac into a heavy crystal glass, took a deep gulp, said,

‘Wow, that kicks.’

Porter could feel his eyes closing, watched Brant continue his tour, pick up a book, read:

‘ This Wild Darkness; Diary of My Death. Who the hell is Harold Brodkey?’

‘It’s an account of his death from Aids.’

‘A fag, eh?’

‘Does it matter?’

Porter had, despite his resolution, allowed a note of testiness to tinge his tone. Brant was delighted, said,

‘Mattered to him. Me, I only read McBain. I saw him once, in the distance, wish I’d spoken to him. Tell you what, I’ll lend you one, get you away from this morbid shit.’

Porter shook himself, said,

‘Nice as this chat is... is there a point?’

‘I need your advice.’

‘Advice?’

He was truly surprised. Brant said,

‘I don’t care about you being a pillow-biter. Fuck, I don’t give a toss what people do, long as they keep it the fuck away from me. But I respect you, there’s not many I do.’

Porter was up, moved and poured a scotch, a large one, took a sip, said,

‘What’s the problem?’

Brant drained the glass, seemed to retreat, a baffled look in his eyes. Then, as if summoning all he’d got, he focused, said,

‘I’m losing it.’

‘In what way?’

‘I’m blanking out. Not often but enough to be worrying. I don’t want to talk, eat... not even drink. It takes a huge effort to drag myself out of bed.’

He stopped, unsure how to continue, so Porter asked,

‘What do you want to do?’