Make love
Eat
Make love
Watch a video.
He cried, ‘Oh Jesus, no, not Streep again. C’mon darlin’, I watched Out Of Africa with you, but I swear, I can’t go another session with her.’
They watched The Untouchables instead.
She’d been seeing Ryan for two weeks, twice he’d stayed over. On the video nights. Little did he realise, she’d planned on the whole Streep catalogue. Most days she felt:
Queasy
Exhilarated
Nervous
Giddy
Had no appetite
Phone fixated.
And realising, said, ‘Oh shit, I love him.’
She was acting like a schoolgirl, trying out his name, projecting babies, wanting to talk about him incessantly. Tried to burst her own balloon with:
He’s married,
Kids,
Said he won’t leave.
But no, that balloon of hope just climbed on up there.
He’d said, ‘You look good in red.’ Changed her whole wardrobe. Oh yeah.
She turned on the telly, got local news, London Tonight.
The top story was:
RETURN OF THE CLAPHAM RAPIST
She felt dizzy. Another attack had taken place, the details were the same: a black woman, a knife, an alleyway.
‘It can’t be!’ she cried.
A local councillor followed demanding an inquiry into police methods. And then he asked, ‘Who was the man killed in a police decoy operation?’
The phone rang. She picked it up, heard, ‘You and McDonald in the Super’s office at nine sharp.’
‘Yes, sir.’
She rang Brant. He sounded groggy and she told him the news. He didn’t reply for a moment, then, ‘It’s a copycat.’
‘But what about the guy who attacked me?’
Deep intake of breath and he snarled back, ‘When a guy jumps you in a dark alley, and puts a knife to yer throat, he’s up to no good, believe me.’
‘But maybe he wasn’t the Clapham Rapist.’
‘Well he was some bloody area’s rapist and good friggin’ riddance.’
He slammed down the phone. She started to cry … wanted to drink, then rang Ryan.
He answered, ‘Yeah?’
‘Help me.’
‘I’m on my way.’
She tried to compose herself. Decided she’d only tell him a little.
When he arrived, he put his arms round her and she told him the lot. He’d made her a cup of sweet tea and held it while she drank. When she’d finished her story, he said, ‘I’d never have took you for a copper.’
‘Because I’m black.’
‘Cos you’re beautiful.’
Fright night
Neville Smith was doing good. A stockbroker, he had a house in Dulwich, two kids at boarding school, and his new car. An Audi. As he gazed at it he said, ‘Vorsprung Techniquo.’
It was that and more.
Neville liked to drive fast and just a tad recklessly. He truly believed that ninety percent of drivers had no right to be there. They all had the look of National Assistance. He liked to cut them up and take the road. Austin Micras, Ka’s, Datsuns, ‘all garbage,’ he said.
There’d been a diversion so he found himself heading for the Elephant roundabout. If he could make the light, he’d gain time. He swerved in front of a Rover almost touching the fender. He definitely took paint and made the light. He could see the driver and his passenger shouting at him. The adrenalin rush made him near euphoric and he put up the two fingers.
Through the lights and he accelerated, shouted, ‘Morons!’
The Rover pulled in near the park and Tommy Logan asked, ‘You got the number?’
‘Sure did, guv.’
‘Good man, I want to know who he is by lunchtime.’
The driver was speed dialling, said, ‘I’m on it.’
Two days later, Neville was relaxing over a gin and tonic. His wife asked, ‘How about sushi?’
He took his cue, followed with the expected line, ‘If you knew sushi like I know sushi…
They both laughed, not so much humour as the ease of familiarity.
‘Will you open the wine darling while I prepare the table?’
‘Of course.’
He’d done that and was about to glance at the news when the door bell rang.
He said, ‘I’ll go.’
Opening the door, he saw two heavy set men. One asked, ‘Do you own an Audi?’ And gave the registration.
‘Yes I do … why?’
The first said, ‘You’ve got dirt on the side.’
‘What?’
Then he was pushed backwards and the men followed him in closing the door. The first man began to slap Neville across the face. His wife came running, started to scream.
Tommy Logan kicked her in the stomach, said, ‘Don’t start.’
Now Tommy moved over to Neville and spun him round, face down on the stairs. Tore Neville’s pants down and said, ‘Do yah want it, eh? Want some of this?’
Tommy stood back, asked, ‘Have I got yer attention?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘No.’
Tommy lashed out with his fist, roaring ‘I’m the guy you cut up in traffic.’
Another blow and, ‘And gave the two fingers to.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry now, sorry we caught you.’
Neville was blubbering, ‘Let me make it up to you … money…
‘Shaddup!’ Tommy said. And, as if he’d just thought of it, ‘Course, the car’s to blame.’
Neville, sensing a tiny shimmer of hope, said, ‘You’re right … one gets carried away.’
Tommy smiled said, ‘It must be punished … bad car.’
Tommy pushed Neville out to the garage.
Took a look round then said, ‘My man has just the ticket.’
Mick came in, dragging the woman and carrying a hurley, handed it to Tommy, who took it and gave a slow swing. Asked, ‘Isn’t it a beauty?’
Handed the hurley to Neville, said, ‘Go on … won’t bite you.’
For a moment, as he held it, a fire touched his eyes.
Tommy laughed, ‘Don’t even think about it or I’ll make you eat it.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Punish the car, beat the living daylights outta it and keep saying “bad car”.’
Tommy looked over at Neville’s wife, said, ‘If you don’t, my man there is going to fuck her all over this garage. Trust me, he’s an animal.’
Neville lifted the hurley, said, ‘Bad car.’
Say cheese
Brant was sitting in his armchair, smoking and thinking. In his career, he’ d broken two major cases with a hunch. He’d acted on them when all the evidence pointed elsewhere. He’d play what he knew, then let it settle, add in the possibilities and bingo, he’d get an answer.
Now he sat bolt upright in his chair, said, ‘Jesus.’ Then he got on the phone, said, ‘It’s Brant.’
‘Sergeant, how are you? Did the bugging device work?’
‘Like a dream.’
‘Good, do you need something?’
‘A hidden camera.’
‘No problem, where is it to go?’
‘In a kitchen.’
‘Mmm, tricky to install.’
‘It’s my own kitchen.’
‘Right … when?’
‘Now.’
‘Gimme yer address, I’ll be there in an hour.’
Brant gave it, said, ‘I appreciate it.’
‘A pleasure.’
‘I’ll watch for you.’
The man laughed, said, ‘Sergeant, leave the surveillance to us, it’s what we do.’
That evening when Cheta arrived, she was carrying bags of groceries. First off she gave him a swallowing kiss, then pushed him off, with ‘Hombre … my caballero, first we eat.’
Needling, he said, ‘Let’s go out.’
No way. She indicated the bags of stuff.
‘This is especial, now … you relax, the kitchen is mine … no hombres allowed.’
He made as if to follow, ‘That’s not very liberated.’
She threw her hands, mock horror, said, ‘I am Spanish.’
‘OK … what’s on the menu?’
‘Paella … with the recipe of Andalucia, gorelax.’