Judging by the pool of congealed vomit, near his head, he’d eaten it… some anyway, as he spotted some green-looking meat with thin bones near the door, unless he’d offed the woman.
The way he was acting these days, fuck, anything was possible. He pulled his jeans off and then had to throw up, still on the floor, said:
‘Nice… real class, wouldn’t Mum be proud now.’
He crawled on his belly to the press near the bed, ripped open the door, and thank fuck, the silver wrap was still there. He managed to organize a line, spilling white powder like dandruff, due to his shaking hands, and got a line or four done, if badly, kept saying:
‘So spill freely, we can inhale that later, just get the bastard thing into your system.’ Maybe being still half drunk helped, but the coke hit quick and the ice down his neck was a sign of better things to come. He lay on his back with a sigh of relief, vomit still on his chin, did he care?
Like fuck.
Shouted weakly:
‘I love nose candy.’
And he did.
Whether it loved him was a whole other metaphysical gig he wasn’t prepared to go into.
Ten minutes later, he did a few more, keep the am, lines of communication open, he was laughing intermittently now, knew it couldn’t be a healthy sign. AND AS COKE DICTATES, SOMETHING MAD, he went into his living room, which looked like the wreck of the Hesperus, rooted under some seat covers, and grabbed his newest possession.
A Makarov 9mm automatic, he’d bought it for what… ninety quid, from a Russkie he’d been drinking with, in some dive off the Railton Road. Ivan had told him it was the preferred weapon of the Eastern bloc agents.
Yada, yada, what the fuck ever, but did it work?
He’d meant to test it on the whore but kept getting wasted and forgetting.
The coke hit another level, of almost euphoria, and he said:
‘Happiness is a warm gun.’
Fucking Beatles, yeah. Even of Paul had his troubles, the wife having legged it.
Did he have any Beatles shit?
The phone rang, and he nearly shot himself in the foot, barely got his finger away from the release.
Picked up, it was Falls, and it flashed across his fevered brain, get her over, give her one, and then she told him:
He forgot all about the Beatles.
He was fucked, more so that McCartney and like bollocks, he never got to have a wife who could leg it.
Tears were running down his face. They were going to arrest him.
Him.
Once, the brightest star in the Met.
The Super had said so.
David Grey, on his album, had whined:
Something about where’d it all go wrong?
Ah, sweet Jesus.
He pleaded:
‘Falls, Liz, yeah, it’s Liz, right… what should I do, what can I do?’
He wanted her to save him, was that so damn hard?
There was a pause, and then she said:
‘Run’
He thought it must be the dope, he had music references littered all over his head. Wasn’t ‘Run,’ the title of that Snow Patrol song?
Falls gulping the dregs of her double had the mobile slightly down from her ear, but she still heard the sound of the shot.
She would hear it for the rest of her life.
25
As Falls stormed into the station, the cops got one look at her enraged expression and got out of her way.
Real fast.
Andrews, still smarting about the weight quip, got in her path and was literally shouldered aside.
The desk sergeant, never a Falls groupie, whispered:
‘On the rag, eh.’
If she’d heard that, he’d have eaten it.
Count on it
But perhaps there is karma, some kind of cosmic balance, as later that evening, watching his beloved Liverpool beat the shite outta Newcastle United, his telly blew up.
Go figure.
Falls didn’t knock on Roberts’s door, just barged in and before he could mutter:
‘What the… ’
She launched.
‘Well, Chief Inspector, I made the call, as you ordered, to McDonald, remember… he’s a cop.’
She paused, was that… is a cop or… was?
Roberts feigned indifference, his face showing, shit happens, he asked:
‘He want any help from you?’
She gave a smile, if a blend of rage and murderous intent can produce such, said:
‘I told him to run.’
Roberts gave a nasty chuckle and Falls wondered how she’d ever liked this prick. He said:
‘He’d be wise to take it.’
She had to physically rein herself in, a wave of bile rose in her gut, and she said, spinning on her heeclass="underline"
‘Be a tad difficult with a fucking bullet in his skull.’
And she stormed out, slamming the door with all her might, hailed a cab, said to the driver:
‘Take me to The Clapham Arms.’
He wasn’t all that sure where it was, but something told him not to ask. He’d figure it out.
There were no smoking decals all over the taxi and as she put a cig between her lips, he ventured:
‘Wanna light?’
Little fanfare the exit make
Unheralded is the lone departure
26
These lines, from a little-known Irish poet, might well best describe McDonald’s exit from London.
The brass were quick to shut down the whole story, and a new terrorist alert kept the focus off some poor schmuck eating his gun.
Favours were called in, threats made, and the whole sorry episode was allowed to simper, slouch away.
McDonald ’s parents were told he was killed in a tragic accident, and they couldn’t afford to come down to London so the Met had him cremated and sent him by second-class mail from Paddington.
His mother put the urn over the fireplace, right beside a photo of Charles and Diana, no one had yet told her that Charles was married again, the odd visitor was a little startled to be told, that’s my boy there, on the mantelpiece.
Brant, on hearing the news, said:
‘Silly bugger.’
Roberts felt a daily sense of guilt.
Porter wished he’d known him better.
Falls, Falls went on a massive bender and midway through this, she was in a pub in Balham.
Balham?
Don’t ask.
It was a bender.
She’d hit that lucky third vodka where the hangover has abated and you’re even considering a touch of grub, considering, not actually going to eat.
A woman appeared, a young man in tow, said:
‘Hey, sweetie, might we join you?’
Angie.
The vixen.
And the young guy, Jesus, the bloke she’d framed for the Happy-Slapper gig. She was truly lost for words.
Angie was dressed to fuck, black leather mini, black boots, and a blouse that bore testament to the miracle of the Wonderbra.
Angie sat, said to the guy:
‘Be a dear, get some drinks in, and oh, a large vodka for our favourite policewoman.’
Falls rallied.
‘The fuck do you want, you crazy bitch?’
Angie laughed, nothing she liked better than warfare, she said:
‘To see you, darling. I get hot just remembering our love-making.’
And Falls felt her face burn. Must be the damn booze, does that to you. Before she could utter a scathing reply, Angie said:
‘The young dreamboat with me, you know him, or course, I was hoping we might work out something, make this whole silly charge… how should I put it… evaporate?’
Falls took a deep swallow of her almost neat vodka, then:
‘Never happen. He’s going down and with any luck, you’ll be joining him.’
The guy was back, carrying a tray of drinks. He looked at Falls with pure hatred, plonked her drink down so it spilt, sat down, Angie cooed:
‘Liz, sugar, you remember John… John Coleman, the poor lamb you set up or do you set up so many you forget their names. He sure won’t forget yours.’