Ah, the hell with it, I’ll score some snow, solve the whole deal.
The madness passed. Sure, she’d lose weight and:
Her job
Her home
Her mind.
Had been round that block more than once. A slice of Danish was perched beside the coffee-pot. Moving fast, she grabbed it, slung it in the bin, shouted:
‘See if I care.’
A pile of notes, outlining the talk she should give at the school, was on the floor. She’d read them once, the very first paragraph proposed:
‘The officer should immediately establish a rapport with the students.’
Yeah, right.
Like tell them where to score some Grade-A dope.
The wanker had obviously never heard of Brixton Comprehensive, the first on Falls’s list. The ‘students’ were usually armed-knives, bottles, bats, sharpened combs-and the only rapport they sought was with the local crack dealer.
Falls knew the assignment was one step from the street. The urge to chuck, to walk, was overpowering. But, like Brant, the job was in her blood. Despite the previous years of disaster, she still got a buzz from being a cop. Nothing on earth equalled the rush of hitting the street. Brant knew, had said:
‘You’re an adrenaline junkie and no matter what rolls down the pike, this is the only work that gets your mojo cranking.’
A horn beeped, McDonald. She grabbed the notes, useless as they were, took a longing look at the Danish, headed out. A battered Volvo was at the kerb, McDonald behind the wheel. If she’d expected civility, she’d be waiting. She got in, said:
‘Morning.’
Tried to put some warmth behind it. He gave her a look of withering contempt, muttered: ‘Yeah, whatever.’
And hit the ignition, burned rubber, blasted into traffic. Falls studied him as he drove. A shot cop is a gone cop, so police lore said. Had to agree when you saw the compressed lips of McDonald. A native of Edinburgh, he’d been a hot-looking guy, women referring to him as ‘that hunk.’
Not no more.
He’d aged overnight, strands of grey in his once luxurious hair. Deep lines along his cheeks, and a habit of grinding his teeth. Add to this a simmering rage, and he was almost a Brant clone.
Without the smarts.
Falls wondered why he didn’t jack. The humiliation of being partnered with her was like neon in his eyes, writ mean. She asked as they pulled up outside the school:
‘You want to run through this?’
‘What?’
‘For the kids, maybe lay down a plan of action.’
He turned off the engine, snapped at the keys, said:
‘Here’s a plan, fuck ‘em.’
Falls, in her previous case, had had a one-night fling with a lethal female bomber. She tried to blot out the memory. As they approached the school, he suddenly stopped, asked:
‘Is it true you slept with that cunt?’
If he’d pulled a knife, stuck it in her guts, he couldn’t have wounded her more. Inside, kids were roaring and running along the halls. The scene looked like Bedlam unleashed. Falls wished she was armed. And the first person she’d shoot was McDonald. A middle-aged black woman, weariness leaking from every pore, approached, asked:
‘Is there a problem, Officers?’
She didn’t address McDonald, but stared at Falls, black sisterhood in her eyes.
Falls said:
‘We’re here for the “Meet the Kids” scheme.’
The woman smiled, not from humour, but along the lines of ‘You’re not serious.’
She held out her hand, said:
‘I’m Mrs Trent.’
McDonald ignored her, and Falls took her hand, felt the wetness that acute stress brings, said:
‘Delighted to meet you.’
She offered tea and McDonald went:
‘Can we get on with this?’
They could.
The class was composed of mainly black teenagers, a few Asians, and two whites. The atmosphere was hostility on speed. McDonald positioned himself at the back of the room. Falls had no choice but to go behind the desk, and try a cheery ‘Hi, y’all.’
No response.
She got out the useless notes, began:
‘The modern police force…’
And narrowly missed her eye being taken out by a flying missile. The class dissolved in guffaws as she lost her composure, began:
‘Who threw that?’
One of the white kids, a wannabe Eminem who had to work harder to impress the black kids, sniggered, said;
‘Bin Laden.’
Falls looked to McDonald, who was staring at his feet, as if he was someplace else.
He probably was.
Falls turned back to the class, said:
‘We are not the enemy’
The white guy shouted:
‘No, you’re just a cunt.’
McDonald was off his feet, sprinted to the desk, got the guy by the hair, and back-handed him twice, said:
‘Shut your mouth.’
There was a stunned silence. The kid had tears in his eyes and McDonald stared at him, said:
‘Hey tough guy, you peed your pants.’
The black guys began to applaud, and McDonald bowed, said:
‘That’s police work.’
He then moved to the top of the class, Falls moving quickly aside, and he asked:
‘Anyone want to know about the first fucker I shot?’
The rest of the session was a huge success and when they were done, the kids clamoured around McDonald, asking when he’d return.
As they left the school, the principal hurried over, said:
‘What on earth did you say? They loved you.’
McDonald gave a smile, Brant-like in its cunning, said:
‘I slapped one round the ear-hole.’
She gave the tolerant grin they learn in teacher training, based on grim fortitude, said:
‘No, seriously though, if you ever give up police work, you have a real gift for communication. Might I get you some refreshments?’
No, they had to get on. The woman was still smiling as they drove away.
Falls asked:
‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’
