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‘You can’t bust me, the shit’s not mine.’

‘You’re carrying it.’

‘This is high-grade charlie. I lose that, I’ll get a cap in the head.’

Then he bolted.

She was too tired to pursue and chances were, she wouldn’t catch him anyway. Intending to turn the stuff in later, she’d continued her beat. Late in the afternoon, a shoplifter had kicked her ankles and screamed abuse. Falls was trying hard not to think about Metal, how his face had looked in death. For a respite, she’d gone into a department store, used their bathroom. Locking herself in a cubicle, she’d let out a breath of bone-weariness. Felt the package in her pocket, took it out, unwrapped the paper. She knew the rituaclass="underline" using the bowl as a support, she got out her nailfile, carved three lines, took a fiver, rolled it and snorted. Waited, then hit the next two.

Nirvana.

It hit her brain running, lit up the whole world, a rush of well-being enfolded her. She felt the cold drip down her throat and wanted to punch the door in delight. Bounced out of there with wings on her feet. A store detective asked,

‘Is everything okay, officer?’

She gave him a brilliant smile, said,

‘Everything is beautiful.’

The man, in all his years on the job, had rarely seen a cop smile and he’d never seen one smile in Brixton. He wondered what she was on.

Coke users say that no subsequent hit ever equals the first. Ever after, it’s always the pursuit of that first, unequalled high. Falls could vouch for that. The rest of the week, she snorted at regular intervals and though it was a rush, it was never that rush. She told herself,

‘Soon as I finish this batch, that’s it, put it down to experience and move on.’

She couldn’t.

Busted a drug dealer’s pad in Coldharbour Lane and as she confiscated the dope, said,

‘I’m going to let you off with a caution.’

The dealer, who knew his market, stared at her inflamed nostrils and jerky movements, said,

‘Getting yourself a little habit, officer?’

She clipped him on the side of the head. Later, she was horrified.

‘I hit him! What is happening here?’

She upped her intake.

There’s an after-hours club near the Railton Road called ‘The Riff’. They don’t advertise, as there’s no need. Frequented by both sides of the law, it’s a neutral zone where the usual business is on hold. Cops liked it because they could drink till dawn and it was cheap. The villains liked it for much the same reasons, plus that they got to gauge the cops. There was rum or rum and coke to drink. Nobody seemed to mind. Round three in the morning, a little weed appeared and kept the proceedings mellow. Nelson had been going there recently. Since the disaster with Falls, he was consumed with her. So, instead of heading home, he went to the club. The war stories distracted him. He found he was developing a taste for rum.

A Rasta called Mungo sometimes sat with him, talked about football. Once he’d offered Nelson a spliff, saying,

‘Chills you way down, man.’

‘I’m chilled enough.’

Friends would be stretching the terms of their contact but they were easy in their banter. This evening, Mungo seemed agitated. Nelson said,

‘Maybe you should do one of your funny cigarettes.’

‘I got me a problem, man.’

‘You want to tell it?’

Mungo grew more nervous, glanced round, said,

‘This club we got here, it works right?’

‘Seems to.’

‘Yeah, like we got’s both side of the street, man. Nobody too uptight about their calling, like we got ourselves a demilitarised zone.’

Nelson smiled — the description fit — thought at least fifty per cent of the patrons were heeled. Carrying everything from knives through bats to shooters. He had a blackjack in his inside pocket. You drink late in Brixton, you need more than an attitude. Mungo misunderstood the smile, protested,

‘This is a good vibe, man; no strutting your stuff in here, no posing.’

‘You want to cut to the chase?’

‘Like, I’m getting there bro’, just so’s you know I’m not, like, infringing on borders, you know what I’m saying?’

Nelson had no idea where this was going. Truth was, he had a buzz on — the rum, especially with coke, went down smoothly. You’re sitting there, sipping and next thing, you’re getting shit-faced. It crept up on a person, in a pleasant fashion. He wasn’t sure he wanted Mungo to lay a downer on him, said,

‘Hey, let’s forget it. What about another drink?’

‘Man, I don’t want to bum you out but there is serious shit happening.’

Nelson rubbed his eyes, went,

‘I’m listening.’

‘A cop is taking down dealers.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, ripping off the product, man. People is getting concerned. Some of these dealers, they’re, like, serious folk. You fuck with them, they get biblical, even with a cop — especially a wo-man.’

‘Whoa, back up, let me see if I’m getting this? A female police officer is taking down dealers?’

‘That’s it bro’, and she a sister too.’

Took Nelson a moment to join it up, alarm bells ringing in his head, he asked,

‘You got a name?’

‘Falls.’

I felt like the top of my head was going right round. Terrifying, and ten minutes later, I’d put coke up my nose. That’s how bad it was... You get up in the morning and the mirrors covered in smears of cocaine and the first thing you do is lick the mirror.

Elton John

Brant and Porter went through Barry’s flat like a tornado. Porter said,

‘This guy is smart, nothing incriminating.’

Brant held up a series of photos, said,

‘Likes himself, though. Half a dozen snaps here.’

‘Take them.’

When they got back to the station, the news had broken about the young policeman in Hyde Park. Brant said,

‘Let’s go public with Barry.’

‘You think?’

‘Least we’ll find the fuck.’

The Six O’Clock News carried the photo, asking Barry Weiss to urgently contact the police. Barry, in a drunken stupor, missed the broadcast. The cab driver, sitting in a pub, went,

‘I know him.’

Called it in. By nine, an army of police were combing the hotels of Bayswater and Paddington and, by 10.30, had a hit. Porter got a call, inviting him along for the bust. When he and Brant arrived, the street had been cordoned off. Armed police were in the hotel lobby, led by an officer named Thomas. He knew Porter from their Kensington days, asked,

‘How are they treating you in the sticks?’

‘Like visiting royalty.’

Thomas gave Brant the once-over, said,

‘Yeah, I bet. Your boy is in room 28. The manager says he hasn’t moved since returning late this afternoon, apparently the worse for wear, drink-wise. We have a passkey and are ready to go.’

He handed the key to Porter, who turned and walked towards 28. Brant, on his right, suggested,

‘Take him down fast, make sure he stays there.’

Porter nodded, listened at the door, inserted the key, turned it, opened the door slowly. Darkness. Moved a step into the room, found the light switch, flicked it on and moved aside as the stampeding troops rushed in. Barry, unconscious amid tangled sheets, was pounced on by a half-dozen men, handcuffed and thrown to the ground, Brant looked in the bathroom, shook his head. Barry opened his eyes, went,