‘Ever hear of River Phoenix?’
‘No, where is it?’
‘It’s a person, was a person, a young actor. What’s with you? Don’t you watch movies?’
‘Just westerns.’
‘Well, they say that drug killed him.’
Cross would have been more impressed if John Wayne had been the victim. Brant had sighed and walked away. No matter what stories he heard about Brant, and there were always new variations, Cross liked him. He was the old-school type copper: thick, ruthless, fearsome.
And he’d do you a favour. When Cross moved into Sirinham Point, Brant had patched him into a cable TV line. Cross had moaned,
‘Jeez, sarge, I don’t think I can afford that.’
‘Nobody can, you won’t be getting any bills.’
‘How come?’
Brant had stared right through him, asked,
‘You really want the answer?’
Pause.
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Thought not, couple of weeks, I’ll fix up all that digital crap too.’
‘I owe you, Brant.’
‘Join the queue.’
The one passion of Cross’s diminishing life was Sky Sports. With the big screen, he’d sit there all day, a six-pack, cod ‘n’ chips, some saveloys for variety and how content could one man be? He was a Leeds supporter, going all the way back to Norman Hunter. He wasn’t too happy about Robbie Keane but relaxed when they bought Fowler. It was four on a Thursday afternoon, he was eating fried bread topped with mayo when his bell went. As he approached the door, crust in his mouth, he asked,
‘Who is it?’
‘Cable guy.’
Afterwards, even Barry would concede that ‘it got away from him’. Sure, he’d intended to bash the guy — why else had he brought the hammer? — but he’d lost it big time, really did a number on the poor fuck. Talk about overkill. Bits of brains on the wall, in Barry’s hair. He said aloud:
‘Now, that’s bizarre.’
Had started out well enough, the cop had let him in, seemed nervous about ‘being billed’. Barry had decided to play a little, replied,
‘But you are The Bill.’
...And set off the cop’s antennae. Barry blamed the absinthe, stuff made you whacko. He saw the light go in the eyes and had to quickly swing the hammer.
Missed.
Bloody fucking fresh air and Cross had rabbit punched him but hadn’t fully connected.
Else...
Of all the dumb luck, the fuck had tripped on the carpet as he prepared to pummel Barry. No more screwing around. Barry, hurting from the punch, was on him, screaming:
‘My bloody neck, you could have killed me!’
Raining blows on the guy’s face, lost in a Technicolor blur of blood and fragments. Till a banging on the ceiling snapped him out of it. With revulsion, he’d jumped away from the mess beneath... And, okay, threw up.
DNA that.
What else could Barry do? He’d have to torch the whole building. Teach the fuck above to pound on a person’s ceiling. In the kitchen, if an alcove could be called thus, Barry finished the fried bread. Said,
‘Mayo... what’s that about?’
Found the beer and a massive thirst, drained two cans, in, like... jig time. His clothes were ruined, he couldn’t possibly leave in them. Went through the cop’s meagre wardrobe and settled for a police jacket, the all-weather black job. Now that was a trophy. A pair of tan slacks, way too big in the waist so he’d to double belt them. A sweatshirt with the logo:
Clancy Brothers Live.
Yeah, how old was that?
Naturally, he’d gone through the guy’s wallet. Twenty quid and a photo of a plain woman with three kids. He took both, found some lighter fuel and built a mound on the body, using clothes, newspapers and ten copies of Goal. Poured the fuel on the lot, said,
‘You Kings of New England.’
He’d seen Cider House Rules on Sky Movies and the line had lodged. Most valuable of all, he found Cross’s address book. Now, not only did he have a list of cops’ homes, he even had a personal phone number for Brant. At the door, he tossed a match and moved fast.
I felt terribly tired, speed tired, like coming down from a crystal meth jag after a twenty-hour card game. The body still wants to run, nerved endings torqued to the pulsing tips of fingers and toes, but behind it, you start to shut down.
Roberts was trying to read the Observer Magazine, an article about ‘Wagonistas’. It’s sobriety but not the old-fashioned recovering addict, AA meetings stuff. This was being sober for a great lifestyle, for fashion, for economics. It was ten in the morning; Roberts lifted his mug, drank some of the red wine. He’d read once that it was good for the blood and heart. Though, if you drank it all day, maybe you were missing the point.
He was certainly missing his mouth.
A tremor caused the mug to hit the bridge of his nose and the stuff to spill down his front. He jumped up, trying to brush the liquid off. Wearing a pink dressing gown belonging to his wife, he hadn’t shaved or washed in days, knew he was going down the toilet but couldn’t summon up the energy to care. His daughter had been on a flying visit and borrowed fifty quid, then asked,
‘Are you going to sell the house?’
‘What house?’
She’d sighed eerily like her mother, then,
‘This house. You can’t live here, not with all Mummy’s things.’
‘And where will I go?’
‘To a bedsit, like all solitary older men.’
He thought he’d misheard, repeated,
‘Old... me?’
‘Oh, Daddy, you were always old. Tariq says you should be retired.’
‘You’re still with him then?’
‘Of course, he’s my karma; we’re going to Bombay to meet his family.’
Roberts felt a great weariness, said,
‘Bon voyage.’
Now she near shrieked:
‘We need money, we need you to sell up.’
Roberts counted to ten then tried,
‘You tell Tariq to come and see me. We’ll have a little chat.’
His daughter threw her eyes to heaven, then,
‘Talk to you? Nobody can talk to you. Mummy said it was like talking to a brick wall.’
He didn’t know how to proceed, so he said nothing. This riled her further. She spat:
‘Oh, you’re so pathetic, I hate you.’
And stormed out, slamming the door. He wanted to shout:
‘Oh yeah? Give me back my fifty quid then.’
It crossed his mind to have Brant drop in on Tariq, expose him to that mind-set. Instead, he’d gone to the drinks cupboard and found nothing but bottles of red wine. He vaguely remembered going out the day after the funeral and buying another batch. Now he surveyed the empty bottles and thought he’d better shape up. Managed to stand under the shower and felt a degree better. Then he looked in the mirror and the shock made him gasp. An unshaven, red-eyed lunatic was staring back. That was it for any hope of shaving. He put on a crumpled suit, a grubby shirt and headed out, resolving to stock up on groceries, household goods, all that citizen shit. When he got to Safeway, the security guard eyed him closely. He hurried in, got a trolley and began to move down the aisle. He was lost. The shelves seemed stacked with huge amounts of washing powder. All he wanted was soup — as in one packet — some milk, bread and maybe a few slices of ham.
Heard someone whisper,
‘Guv?’
Turned to face Falls. She was dressed in a white tracksuit, emphasising her blackness. She looked in his empty trolley, asked,