How do I know all this? Because I’m crazy, you can always trust the information given you by people who are crazy; they have an access to truth not available through regular channels.
The call came to the main desk of The Tabloid, was re-routed to the Chief Crime Correspondent, a man named Dunphy. He picked up, said,
‘Yeah?’
‘I have information on the police killing.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
A pause, then Barry said,
‘Have some fucking manners.’
Dunphy sat up straight, recognising a tone, asked,
‘What?’
‘I’m offering information, you don’t even say hello.’
‘Hello.’
‘That’s better.’
‘I’m glad you’re happy.’
Another pause, then:
‘I’m not fond of sarcasm. Maybe I’ll start on journalists when I finish my cop quota.’
Dunphy hit the record button, eased his voice a notch, said,
‘We got off on the wrong foot, let’s start over; what did you say your name was?’
‘Jesus, what a corny ploy. I’m not sure you’re up to the task.’
‘Task?’
‘Yeah, reporting from inside the cop killings.’
‘You’re a cop?’
‘Ah, you’re too fucking dumb.’
Click.
Dunphy lit a cigarette, a light sweat on his forehead, knew he’d screwed up. He was about to listen to a replay when the phone rang, he grabbed it, said,
‘Yes?’
‘One more chance.’
‘Great.’
‘And learn some manners.’
Manners weren’t Dunphy’s strong point but he could fake it, as he did most things. He tried,
‘I appreciate your calling.’
‘Where are you on the food chain?’
Dunphy wasn’t sure what this meant, said,
‘I’m not sure what that means.’
‘Do you have any clout, are you one of the movers and shakers?’
‘Oh... I run the Crime desk.’
‘I can make you famous.’
Now he desperately wanted to let some obscenities fly; instead, he said,
‘That would be good.’
‘Which do you prefer... seven... or eight?’
He knew better than to ask ‘what’ so he went with,
‘Seven.’
‘Seven it is.’
‘May I ask, seven what?’
‘Seven more cops to kill, bye.’
Click.
Dunphy ejected the tape, headed for the editor’s office, wanted — after all these years — to shout:
‘Hold the front page!’
Barry came out of the phone kiosk, power was surging through his system, he couldn’t believe the rush, went:
‘Fucking hell.’
He’d had a journalist grovelling, actually had the guy kissing his arse and this was only the beginning. The thing to do now was to show he was serious. The gun was hidden in the waistband of his jeans, tucked against his spine. Like in the movies. Well, this was his movie and he was going to give them Acopalypse Now, not to mention Redux. A police panda car was parked at the beginning of Camberwell New Road. Just the driver. Barry paused, waited to see if there was any sign of a partner.
Nope.
The window was open, the officer listening to the radio. Barry took another look around, as is mandatory in Camberwell. If a cop car parks, everybody legs it, it’s almost the law. Barry wanted to play, said,
‘Yo’ there, policeman.’
The cop turned, gave him the full stare, asked,
‘You want somefink?’
Barry snapped back:
‘Thing!’
‘What?’
‘You said somefink... You think you’d at least be able to speak properly.’
The cop was debating getting out, had his hand on the handle, said,
‘Piss off.’
Barry registered shock-horror, said,
‘Oh my God! Is that any way to develop public confidence in the police?’
The cop narrowed his eyes, said,
‘I won’t tell you again. Get lost.’
‘But I have a question.’
‘What question?’
‘What would you do if I called you a cunt?’
Before the cop could get out, Barry said,
‘Ah... just as I thought.’
And shot him twice in the face.
Turned to walk quickly across the road, managed to jump on a 36 bus and in five minutes, he was in the centre of Peckham. Caught another bus from the opposite direction and felt the rush as the bus came towards the panda. A crowd was swarming and by peering down, he could see the policeman’s cap on the ground. He thought: Shit, that would have made a brill trophy.
All the crime books were big on trophies.
I found a kind word with a gun more effective than a kind word.
The papers went ape:
Cop Killer Terrorises City
Madman Menaces Met
Second Police Execution
Superintendent Brown lashed his officers. He’d taken a bollocking from early in the morning as even the Home Secretary called. He was determined to pass it along. Brant was at the back of the briefing, sipping a large Starbucks. Porter Nash glanced at him and got a wink. Brown was winding down, said,
‘Due to the recent death of his wife, Chief Inspector Roberts is on extended compassionate leave. As you are all too well aware, we have a scarcity of senior officers due to the current crisis worldwide. In view of this, we are promoting Sergeant Porter Nash to acting inspector and temporary head of the inquiry.’
The room was shocked, even Brant was paying attention. A hand went up and Brown said,
‘Yes?’
‘Shouldn’t we promote from within?’
The Super glared at the questioner, added his name to the shit list, said,
‘The powers that be have decreed we need perspective on this one. Already we are the focus of a media circus. As acting Inspector Nash arrived from the prestigious...’
He paused, biting the words, letting the implication wash over them, before continuing,
‘...West London Branch of our glorious Met, he’ll satisfy the demands for the professional policing we seem to lack here in our primitive South East Division.’
Spontaneous applause.
Save Brant, who was staring openly at Porter. They both knew the immediate meltdown of this. Porter was Brant’s superior. Brant thought: The Super’s finally shafted me; just bent me over and did it.
He half-admired the nastiness of the scheme. Plus, a gay in the driving seat was the ideal scapegoat.
West London that.
In the canteen, Brant sat in a corner, lit a Weight. No one approached till Porter arrived and asked,
‘Get you something?’
‘Ah.’ Brant took a deep breath, before continuing, ‘A Sid Vicious and two Club Milks. I think my sugar level’s dropped.’
Gladys, as always, was delighted to serve the poof, and ventured:
‘Might I congratulate you on your... elevation?’
‘Thanks, Gladys, but it’s only a temporary position. I’m sure Chief Inspector Roberts will return soon.’
She put her hands on her hips, said,
‘That fellah’s away with the fairies... oops... oh-my-God, I didn’t mean anything. No offence.’
Porter smiled and she admired his teeth. If only straight men would devote such energy to their appearance. She was becoming hot for the pillow-biter.
He said,
‘Two teas, sugared; oh, and two Club Milk biscuits.’
Gladys fixed a malevolent eye on Brant, said,