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‘You be sure that devil pays for his own.’

‘I will.’

As he walked away, she whispered,

‘Mind your back.’

Then bit her tongue; probably not an appropriate caution for a nancy boy.

Brant wolfed down the Club Milks, rolled the wrappers in a ball, bounced them off a new recruit’s head then turned to Porter, said,

‘Sorry, would you have liked one?’

‘I don’t do sweet.’

Brant enjoyed that, said,

‘Must put that in my notebook. Something you learnt in Knightsbridge, no doubt.’

‘Kensington.’

Brant sucked his tea, as if he were draining it past his gums, answered:

‘What?’

‘I was in Kensington not Knightsbridge.’

‘What’s the fucking difference?’

‘A lot if you own Harrods.’

Porter took out his kingsize Menthol, knew the effect they’d have on Brant, asked,

‘Got a light?’

He did.

Brant didn’t rise to the bait and Porter learnt a little. He knew the fearsome rep. Rumours of Brant’s playing vigilante, taking bribes, bugging the Super’s office, messing with Roberts’ wife, losing a suspect at Heathrow, his neardeath from a knife in the back. He asked,

‘Are you as black as you’re painted?’

At first he thought Brant hadn’t heard, was about to repeat the question when the eyes locked on his, asked,

‘Are you as nancy as they say?’

Porter finished the cig, said,

‘Touché. The thing is, are we going to have a problem?’

Now he got to witness the full neon of Brant’s smile, but no trace of humour or warmth. Brant said,

‘We already have a problem, a sick fuck is killing police officers and he’s just started.’

‘I meant, between us.’

Brant stood, brushed crumbs from his jacket and said:

‘I know what you meant. I’m not your thick Paddy, least not always. Problem? Not unless you follow me into public toilets. Hadn’t we better move our arses, at least look like you know what you’re doing.’

Porter got up, thinking he’d made a total mess of the ‘let’s get it all out in the open’ crap. He did realise that whatever went down, ‘open’ was not a terrain on which Brant operated.

   Dancing

      With

        Jack

           D

There’s a terrific book on death by Bert Keizer called Dancing with Mr D.

It’s a cracker.

After Rosie’s suicide, Falls had tried to find some sense to the act. As she’d torn through the literature of grief (and she’d discovered a thriving industry there), she’d found only this book was of any help.

That and Jack Daniels.

Pour that sucker over ice and you didn’t even need the books. Falls, after the Porter night out, had decided on a night in. Take a long Radox bath, the old scruffy bathrobe, a takeaway pizza and who’d be hurting? She’d had the bath, got the robe on, when the doorbell rang.

‘Fuck,’

she said.

Answered it... to a Hitler Youth.

A few years back, she’d found a young skinhead scrawling ‘Nazi’ on her wall. He’d spelled it wrong. She’d given him the price of a cup of tea even as the term ‘black bitch’ rolled in his mouth. An unlikely friendship had begun. Over the next few months she’d lent him books, music, money. He didn’t mention to his cronies of this tainted affair. It was a long time before he even gave his name. Or rather, his nickname. A Saturday evening, he’d drifted over; there was never an ‘orchestrated arrangement’, he showed or he didn’t. He’d asked,

‘Can I watch the football?’

‘Sure.’

‘I didn’t bring nothing.’

‘You drink beer?’

‘Course I do, whatcha’ implying? I’m not a bleeding pooftah.’

Falls enjoyed him immensely. His blend of front and fragility stirred a feeling she didn’t even bother trying to analyse. Taking a six-pack of Amstel from the fridge, she said,

‘I thought you might be a cider man.’

As always he searched her face for a sign of ridicule. What he saw was a lovely woman, real prize and almost forgot her colour.

Almost.

Later she heard him roar as the game finished, asked,

‘Who won?’

Suspicious, he near jeered,

‘What do you know?’

‘Leeds against Man U... right?’

‘So?’

‘Was Ian Harte playing?’

‘He’s a wanker is what he is.’

And Falls was delighted anew. She loved his predictability. In her mind, he was her project. Turn him, you could turn anything, anyone.

Dream on.

She’d finally got his name.

      ‘Metal’.

Falls laughed out loud. Blitzed on beer, he’d finally told her. Realising by his furious face that she’d fucked up, she tried to rally, went:

‘I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing with you.’

She knew how weak that was. He was on his feet, spittle on his lips, shouting,

‘But I’m not laughing. You see me laughing?’

A takeaway pizza — heavy crust — and more beer eventually calmed him down. That plus her ‘2 Pac’ T-shirt. Wait till he discovered the dude was black; he thought it was an ad for beer. She’d asked gently,

‘So, how did you get... such... an unusual name?’

“Cos.’

‘Yes?’

‘I used to be a headbanger, like heavy metal, I’d get a blast of glue, go mental.’

‘And now?’

He shrugged, began,

‘Since I joined the British National Party...’

Stopped.

To gauge her response, couldn’t detect a dial tone, continued,

‘I stopped all that shit.’

She pulled the tab on a beer, handed it over, said,

‘Now you stomp people.’

‘Only wogs. And Pakis. Pooftahs sometimes.’

Now she was answering the door to him, dressed as a Hitler Youth. She asked,

‘What?’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Not in that garbage.’

He glanced round nervously, bit his lower lip, said,

‘I’m in trouble.’

‘Come in.’

She moved to the window, folded her arms, waited.

He finally spoke:

‘Can I get a brewski?’

‘No. What did you do?’

He began to pace, then,

‘I think we killed a geezer.’

She went out to the kitchen, got the Jack, two mugs, brought them out. He eyed the bottle, said,

‘Rocking.’

She said, ‘Sit down.’ And felt like his mother.

Poured large wallops, handed a mug over. His mug bore the logo:

      ‘Marsha Hunts’... Men’

He said he and a ‘unit’ had been patrolling Vauxhall. Falls asked,

‘Looking for bower?’

He stared at his boots. Doc Martens with reinforced steel toe-caps. He gulped down the drink, near choked, sputtlered, then said,

‘Just keeping it safe for white blokes.’

Now she was leaning over him, said,

‘John — oh yeah, I know your name and your thick file from Juvenile Records — it’s ball-busting time... you ever foul my home with any more racist shit or name-calling, I’ll make you eat those Doc Martens.’

Metal was afraid; she seemed to have completely lost it, a hardness in her eyes like granite. She slapped his head, asked,

‘Who’d you hurt?’

‘A sand nigger... sorry... an Arab-type guy.’

‘How bad?’

‘He wasn’t moving.’

He got his tobacco, began to roll a cig. She snapped,