‘John, John, sure you don’t want to come to the club?’
‘No, I’ve an early start.’
Barry wanted to add,
‘Earlier than you think, mate.’
The man turned left, walked unsteadily and Barry caught up, said,
‘John.’
John turned and Barry moved in close, saying,
‘Jeez, John. What’s your hurry?’
Kneed him in the balls, caught him as he fell, got him to a doorway, took a look around. No one paying any attention, Barry went through his pockets, saying,
‘If you’d gone to the club, you’d have got really hammered.’
Took his wallet, loose change and heard people coming along, he stepped away, moved quickly up the street, thinking, A curry, I could really murder one.
The local police put John’s attack down to the usual mugging. He protested,
‘He took my wallet, my wages were in there.’
‘Hey, you could have been killed.’
‘Sure, like that was ever going to happen.’
I’m just admitting that there are such things for us to think about in this day and age when a man can’t wear a hat anymore on the street.
McDonald planned to solve the attacks on the pensioners. Roberts had told him to case the post office and report back. He said, ‘Will I? Will I fuck.’ This was his time to shine, get noticed and back into the Super’s good books. He’d not mention Roberts at all. Let the whole glorious event be his. Waking early, he felt ready, his mind alert. Wore casual clothes and, at the post office, asked for the boss, showed him his warrant card, outlined the plan. The guy was all cooperation, showed him a counter from which he could see everything without being seen.
Perfect.
Meant he could sit if it proved to be a long day. It did. After four hours, he was bored rigid. The staff kept him supplied with tea and now he badly needed to pee. Then thought: Hello, you again.
Twice a guy in his twenties had passed him, an hour apart. The guy was so ordinary, he almost hadn’t registered: dressed in a parka, thick black-rimmed glasses and lank long hair. You looked at him, your eyes kept moving as your mind said ‘geek’, ‘nerd’ and searched for something more interesting. McDonald locked on him. The guy had a furtive, shifty look. Then he turned, headed for the door. McDonald went after him. The boss, sensing drama, asked,
‘You see something?’
But got no reply.
Outside, McDonald couldn’t see the geek, thought he’d lost him. Rage and frustration tore through his mind. Then, in the small café across the road, he spotted him, ordering takeaway chips. When he came out, McDonald positioned himself to follow. The geek walked towards Lee Road, took a right and entered a building. McDonald was close behind, saw the geek go up the first flight of stairs and was almost on top of him as he searched for his keys. McDonald said,
‘This your place?’
‘Who are you?’
‘The police. I asked you a question?’
‘Yes, yes it is. Is something wrong?’
‘Let’s take it inside.’
The geek opened the door and McDonald pushed him in. The chips fell and McDonald felt them squish beneath his boots. He slammed the door and moved after the geek, glanced round the flat. To his surprise it was neat, with books tidily arranged, newspapers and magazines stacked on a small table. He asked,
‘What are you, a student?’
‘Ahm, yes, accountancy. Look, I don’t know what you want...’
McDonald had seen Brant in action, heard the stories told with awe and admiration. What Brant did was ignore all the rules and get away with it. McDonald was tired of toeing the line and getting nowhere. He was going to have some of that maverick magic. He was nose to nose with the geek and head-butted him. The glasses and nose broke in unison. McDonald then gut-punched him and walked over to the window, opened it wide. He couldn’t believe the rush, the sheer power he felt. Indicating the window, he said,
‘You’re going out that if I don’t get the answers I want.’
The geek was crying now, on his knees, sniffed,
‘Tell me what you want. I haven’t done anything.’
McDonald stood over him, went,
‘You’re crying. Were the old folk crying when you attacked them, eh?’
‘What?’
He began to stand up, blood pouring from his nose. McDonald was about to berate further when the geek lunged, he had hold of McDonald’s shirt and they fell back against the window. McDonald tried to break the grip, hit out with his left fist, the geek staggered, tried to get his balance and fell out the window. McDonald was stunned, heard the thump and took a quick look. The geek had landed in a utility yard, his neck turned at an impossible angle. McDonald said,
‘Oh fuck.’
For a moment, he was lost, then jerked into motion. Out the door, down the stairs and on to the street, he knew he should call an ambulance but tried to reason with himself:
‘No, no, it’s too late.’
Passing a pub, he wanted to go in, hammer down a line of whiskies. But he might never stop. His heart was pounding, fright coursing through his system.
Brant arrived at the station looking like he’d been up all night, which he had. Porter said,
‘Jeez, you look rough.’
‘I feel it.’
‘How is Falls?’
‘She’s up, moving around but in that zone of delayed shock.’
Porter was swamped with reports, files, said,
‘I don’t suppose she feels it but she was lucky. If not for the skinhead, she’d be another statistic.’
Brant got out his Weights, cranked the Zippo and was soon engulfed by smoke. Porter sat, seemed to weigh something, then,
‘How do you feel about weddings?’
‘Weddings? Jeez, I give them a wide berth. Why, you thinking of taking the plunge?’
‘Not me, my father.’
‘You’re kidding, you mean you’ll be legitimate then?’
‘I’m serious, he’s 65 and he’s going to marry his secretary who’s, like... thirty.’
‘And you want me to go?’
‘I’d have asked Falls but under the circumstances... I don’t want to turn up on my own.’
Brant ground out the cig on the floor, gave a tight smile, said,
‘Sure, long as they don’t have me down as your... significant other.’
Porter lightened, said,
‘They don’t think much of me but I don’t think even they would see me as that desperate.’
Brant stood.
‘Don’t knock it, boyo. Couple of drinks and I improve out of all recognition.’
‘Christ, it would take an awful lot of drink. It’s Saturday, at The Carmelite Church on Kensington Church Street.’
Brant turned to face him, asked,
‘Catholic? I’s a catholic gig?’
‘So, you have a problem there?’
‘No, but there’s always a shitload of guilt in the air. Add booze and watch out.’
‘That’s why I’m taking you.’
‘For the aggro?’
‘No, the guilt.’
1983
It was a beautiful day. Walked on the street and a little kid, she was six or seven, with another kid, yelled, ‘Look at the guy with the wig’ and I was really embarrassed, I blew my cool and it ruined my afternoon. So I was depressed.