Brant said, ‘If you’ll pardon the pun, we’re the heat.’
The guy smiled, let them know he could be a fun person, asked, ‘Got a warrant?’
‘Why? You done somefing?’
And everybody smiled. The guy was enjoying it, said, ‘What the hell, c’mon in.’
The flat was a shithole. The guy said, ‘It’s a shithole, right, but I just moved in and …
Brant said, ‘From Croydon.’
‘Yeah!’
‘We heard.’
He stretched out on a sofa, waved his hand. ‘Park it wherever.’
Brant parked it right next to the guy’s head, still smiling. The guy sat up, decided to pull the ‘blokes’ routine and nodded towards Falls. ‘You didn’t need to bring a cunt with yah.’
And got an almighty wallop on the side of his head.
Brant said, ‘Here’s how it works, boyo — you call her names, I’ll wallop you … OK?’
Too stunned to reply, the guy looked at Falls, thus failing to see the second sledgehammer punch to the back of his head. It knocked him out on his face and he whinged, ‘I didn’t say nuffink that time.’
Brant hunkered down, said, ‘I hadn’t finished explaining the rules. See, if you even look like you’re going to call her a name, I hammer you. Get it now?’
The guy nodded.
Falls had long since despaired of Brant’s methods. She owed him three large for her father’s funeral and was obliged to suffer in silence.
When they were leaving, Brant said to the guy, ‘They think you’re an arsonist. Me? … I dunno, but if there’s another fire soon, I’ll put you in it.’
Back on the street, Falls said in exasperation, ‘I need a holiday.’
‘Yeah? Anywhere nice?’
‘Some place far, like America.’
‘And you need money, is it? How much?’
She was too enraged to answer.
Brant was humming a Mavericks tune as he put his key in the door. He felt fucked and looked forward to a cold one — lots of cold ones — and maybe a sneak peek again at Beavis And Butthead Do America.
Stepping inside his flat, his inner alarm began.
Too late.
The baseball bat tapped him smartly on the base of his skull and two thoughts burned as the carpet rushed to meet him.
a) Not this shit again
b) The carpet sure is worn
When he came to, many pains jostled for supremacy — his head … the rope round his neck … the ache in his lower back …
The Alien said, ‘I wouldn’t move if I were you. See, what I’ve done is tie a rope round your neck and connected it to yer feet. You move either, you slow strangle. But, don’t sweat it — you’ll catch on quick.’
Brant tried to move and the strangle hold tightened. He went: ‘Urgh … uh …
And Fenton said, ‘Exactly! I think you’ve got it.’
Brant’s pants and Y-fronts were around his ankles and he felt a baseball bat lightly tap his bum. For a horrific moment, he envisaged rape of an American variety.
Fen said, ‘I hear you’re a hard ass. Time to change that. For the next few weeks when you try to sit, remember: keep yer bloody nose outta people’s business.’
A whistle began to scream from the kitchen and Fen said, ‘I put the kettle on. Handy, those whistle tops, eh? No boiling over. Excuse me a mo!’
Brant was awash in cold sweat. Rivers of it coursing down his torso. Fear was roaring in his head.
Then, ‘Okey-dokey … here we go. I’ll pour …
And white hot pain electrified Brant’s brain.
Fiona Roberts was stalled in traffic. Cars were blocked all the way down to the Elephant. Her husband had many proclamations, most of a police bent. Among them was, ‘If you’re caught in traffic, keep the windows shut.’
Yeah, yeah.
She could hear a blast of rap from a nearby car and glanced over. A man with dreadlocks was giving large to a mobile. How he could hear anything above the music would be nothing short of miraculous. He caught her eye and gave a huge dazzling gold capped smile. Not too sure about her response, she looked away. Didn’t do to encourage the game. A woman’s head appeared at her elbow and a distinctly Irish accent whined, ‘Gis the price of a cuppa tea, missus, and I’ll say a prayer for ya.’
Fiona had never mastered the art of street encounters. As a cop’s wife she’d learned zero except the response of confusion.
Like now. She muttered, ‘I’ve no change.’
And the woman spat in her face.
The shock was enormous. As the spittle slid down her cheek, a symphony of horns began and shouts: ‘Eh, get a bloody move on!’ ‘Shift yer knickers darlin’!’
She did. As the Americans say — ‘Who ya gonna call?’
Her husband would crow, ‘What did I say? … Didn’t I tell you about windows, eh? Didn’t I say?’
The Ford Anglia 205E saloon is a classic. You gaze at it, you can almost believe the fifties and sixties had some worth. See your reflection in the chromed wing mirrors, you can almost imagine you have a quiff stuck in Brylcreem heaven with sleek brushed sideburns. The wheels are a collectors wet dream — rubber tyres with separate chrome hubcaps. Note that word ‘separate’. The difference twixt class and mediocrity. Ask Honda as you whisper British Leyland. Throw in Harley Davidson and you’ve got one pissed off Jap. Roberts called his Anglia ‘Betsy’. In the fifties, it was easier to name the car than the child. Roberts was financially strapped. A mortgage in Dulwich, a daughter in boarding school. And he was hurting big time. Now that he’d been diagnosed with skin cancer, he’d flung the lot — caution, care, budget — to the cancerous wind.
The car was a bust. It didn’t overstretch his finances so much as shout BLITZKRIEG.
He wasn’t sorry, not one little bit. He loved — nay, adored — it. Kept it in a lock-up at Victoria. The garage belonged to a mate of Brant’s and he was glad to oblige the police. Well glad-ish. Come a pale rider. In the nineties in London. Come joy riders. Bringing anything but joy.
Patience isn’t high on their list of characteristics. They opened the lock-up no problem, but couldn’t get the Anglia to start. So … so they burned it where it was. The fire took out three other garages.
When Roberts arrived, the blaze had been brought under control, but too late to save anything. The fire chief asked, ‘That your motor in there?’
‘Was.’
‘You’ll be insured?’
Roberts gave him the look. ‘I’m a cop — what do you think?’
‘Uh-oh.’
‘Yeah.’
They watched the flames for a bit and then the chief said, ‘There’s a cup o’ tea going … fancy one?’
‘I don’t think tea will do it.’
‘You could be right. Me, I take comfort where I find it.’
‘Gee, how philosophical … maybe I should be glad the fire gives heat to the neighbours.’
‘See — you’re sounding better already.’
Before Roberts could respond to this gem, his bleeper went and the Chief said, ‘Could be a long night.’
‘It’s been a long fuckin’ life, I tell you.’
But the Chief already knew that.
As Roberts sighed and turned away he ran a turn through his favourite noir movies. Always from the forties and fifties. What surfaced was Barbara Stanwyck to Keith Andes in Clash By Night:
‘What do you want, Joe, my life history? Here it is in four words:
BIG IDEAS, SMALL RESULTS.’
Yeah, the story of it all.
Brant had passed out from shock. Now, as he came to, he curled up in anticipation of horrendous pain.
Curled up?
He thought — What? — and rolled easily onto his side. No pain. No rope.
Trembling, he moved his hand to his ass … wet and cold.
Cold water.
He’d been suckered with the oldest psych trick in the book.
Rage and relief fought for supremacy as he got shakily to his feet. Stumbled to the cupboard and got a bottle of Black Bushmills. He’d been keeping it for a four star moment like getting the knickers off Fiona Roberts. Twisted the top savagely, let the cap fall and chugged direct. Did this bastard burn … oh yeah!