Taming the Alien

Roberts let it go. Londoners … you gotta love them. Bit later the git leans on the bar, asks, ‘You like videos?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Fillums, mate. Yer latest blockbuster — see it tonight in the privacy of yer own gaff. Be like ’aving the West End in yer living room.’

‘Pirates, you mean.’

‘Whoa, John, keep it down, eh?’

Roberts sighed, laid his warrant card on the counter.

‘Whoops …

Roberts put the card away, said, ‘I thought in your game you could spot a copper.’

‘Usually yeah, but two things threw me.’

‘Yeah, what’s those then?’

‘First, you have manners.’

‘And …?’

‘You actually paid.’

Fenton got his nickname thus: During the movie Alien, he killed a guy — the scene where the creature crashes outta John Hurt’s chest. He’d used a baseball bat. Near most, it was his weapon of choice. The guy, Bob Harris, had stitched up his mates. They were doing life-plus on the not so sunny Isle of Wight. Mind you, the ferry over had been scenic. Fenton was offered two large to payback. He did it gratis. What are mates for?

Oh, Bob liked his horror flicks and was a particular aficionado of Ridley Scott’s work on Alien. Could wax lyrical about the used hardware look of the scenes. Shite talk.

Fenton had called round, six pack of Special and some wacky-backy. They’d done a tote, got munchies and cracked the brewskis. Fenton asked, ‘Yo, mate, still got Alien, have you?’

‘Oh yeah, good one. Wanna see it now?’

‘Why wait?’

Indeed.

Fenton said he’d grab some cold ones from the fridge as they got into the flick. Bob was on the couch, glued to the screen, yelping about the ‘vision’ of Allen Dean Foster. Fenton unzipped the Adidas hold-all and took out the Louisville slugger. It had black tape wound tight on the handle, tight as cruelty. He gave the bat a test swing, and yeah, it gave the familiar whoosh of long and comfortable use.

The crew of The Nostradome were sitting down to their meal and John Hurt was getting terminal indigestion.

Bob shouted, ‘Yo … Fen! You don’t wanna miss this bit!’

Fen came in, put his weight on the ball of his right foot, pivoted, and swung with all he had, saying, ‘I won’t miss, buddy.’

And wallop — right outta the ball park.

The crew on the TV screen gave shouts of horror and disgust at the carnage. Fenton let the movie run, he hated to leave things unfinished.

Fenton had a meet with Bill in The Greyhound near the Oval. It’s always hopping, but no matter how tight, Bill gets to sit on his tod down the end. All the surrounding seats are vacant. Not free but empty, like McDonalds cola. A time back, a pissed Paddy decided to have a seat right up close to Bill, said, ‘Howya.’

Bill didn’t look, said, ‘You don’t wanna perch there, pal.’

‘Pal? Jaysus, I don’t know you. Buy us a double, though.’

A muscle man outta the crowd slammed Paddy’s ears in a simultaneous clatter. Then had him up and frog marched out to the alley. There, his arm was broken and his nose moved to the right. After, sitting against the wall, he asked, ‘What? … What did I say?’

Bill and Fenton went way back. Lots of cross referenced villainy. Masters of their respective crafts. Bill asked, ‘Drink?’

‘Rum ’n’ coke.’

‘Bacardi or …?’

Fen smiled, ‘Navy up.’

An old joke. Just not a very good one. Bill was drinking mineral water — Ballygowan Sparkling.

The drinks came and Fen said. ‘I dunno Bill, I must be getting old, but I could never get me head round paying for water.’

Bill took a sip and winced. ‘What makes you think I pay?’

‘Nice one.’

They sat a bit in silence. You could nigh hear the bubbles zip, like pleasant times, like fairy tales.

Then, ‘We found her.’

‘Great.’

‘You’re not going to like it.’

‘Gee, what a surprise.’

‘She’s in America, like you thought — San Francisco — living with a teacher, name of Davis.’

‘A teacher … wow.’

Bill said, ‘Let it be, Fen,’ and got the look, boundaries being breached. He sighed. ‘Sorry … you’ll need a wedge.’

‘Big time.’

Bill rooted in his jacket, took out a fat manila envelope, said, ‘There’s a cop, name of Brant, needs sorting.’

‘When?’

‘Soon as.’

‘How far in?’

‘Not fatal but educational.’

‘Can do.’

Fen got up and Bill said, ‘Oi, you didn’t touch yer rum.’

‘Hate that shit.’

And he was gone.

Brant had taken Falls with him to interview a suspected arsonist. No proof had surfaced but the Croydon cops swore he was the man. Now he’d moved to Kennington and, hey, coincidence, a warehouse was gutted on the Walworth Road. He was in his early thirties with the eyes of a small snake. He’d answered his door dressed in a denim shirt, cutoffs, bare feet.

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.’