‘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?’
‘Stare at a wall, do nothing, absolutely nothing.’
Porter put the glass down, chased his cigs, lit one, blew out a cloud of smoke, said,
‘It’s burn-out.’
‘What?’
‘You’re on meltdown; a couple of days doing nothing, you’ll start to come back.’
‘You sound pretty sure.’
‘I am, I’ve been there.’
‘You?’
‘Sure, I was fucked nine ways to Sunday.’
Brant’s turn to be surprised, he looked at the futon, sat down carefully, as if it might bite, said,
‘I don’t read you as a guy who gets frazzled.’
Porter paused, held a finger up as Puccini hit ‘Viena la Sera’, whispered,
‘Bimba dagli occhi pieni di malia.’
‘What?’
‘The next piece, it’s my favourite.’
He paused, then:
‘Two years ago, we’d a paedophile on the loose, luring kids into his car at Holland Park. We knew who he was but couldn’t catch him in the act. The kids were too traumatised to identify him, plus he was connected. A showbiz agent, he had heavy juice to call on. The guys at the nick, they classed me on a par with him... because of my sexual orientation. Put used condoms in my locker, sugar in the petrol tank... the usual stuff.’
Porter took a deep breath.
‘I was under massive pressure, chugging valium, mainlining caffeine, smoking again, anyway, I took things into my own hands. Broke into the creep’s house, four in the morning, mashed his privates with a baseball bat. A time later, I was burnt out, took a leave of absence, hid in my house and right after, I got transferred.’
A sound disturbed him, louder than the music. Brant was snoring, his head back on the up-rest, mouth open, dribbling spit. Porter got some blankets, covered him, said,
‘Goodnight, sweet prince.’
I wake frightened now; it is a strange form of
fright — geometric, limited, final.
PC McDonald, still hurting from being cold-shouldered by his colleagues, had begun shadowing Brant. He’d been surprised to find him enter the building at Renfrew Road. Was he seeing a woman, checking out a lead... what? He called the Super. He’d been warned:
‘This is my private number, if you call me, it better be good; unless you have Brant’s balls, don’t call.’
Now the Super said,
‘McDonald!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m due at the Regional Dinner in ten minutes, this had better be vital.’