‘They owe me and wanted to show their appreciation, and trust me, guv, there is no better appreciation than that of a grateful hooker.’
Roberts put down his glass, tried to look like he was the boss, said:
‘I’ll have to go, we have a major case going down and I’m… what? Hanging out with hookers.’
Brant forced another drink into Roberts’ hand, nodded, said:
‘Tell you what, we give it ten minutes and then we’re history. What can happen in ten minutes, am I right?’
Reluctantly, Roberts agreed. Ten minutes was nothing and it wasn’t as if he was pissed or anything, though he did feel a slight buzz. Brant signalled to one of the women and indicated Roberts. She smiled, began to move in their direction. The music had increased in volume and a neighbour banged at the door to complain, said he was going to call the police. He was not happy to learn they were already present before the door was slammed in his face.
Someone passed a spliff to Brant and he muttered that he’d have to report drugs on the premises before he inhaled enough weed to put a smile on even Edwina Currie’s face.
He patted Roberts on the shoulder, said:
‘Ten and counting, right boss?’
Falls was having a night in, she and Andrews having spent a day doing traffic and nothing, nothing on earth was as tedious as that. It also meant working with traffic wardens, and nobody moaned like those fuckers. Not even the public could rise to the level of whining achieved by wardens.
Andrews had screamed at one:
‘Hey, we’re trying to help you out here, we’re not the goddamn enemy.’
Falls was beginning to like this girl and tried hard not to. You got close to a copper, you got hurt — it was set in stone. But this girl, she had true grit and a low level of tolerance, qualities that Falls loved. The warden tried for sympathy:
‘You don’t know what it’s like to have to do this stuff.’
Andrews looked to Falls who gave her the okay, so she said:
‘And guess what? We don’t want to know. Get a real job, try doing meals on wheels or go on the dole, but primarily, stop bitching.’
Like that.
Days such as those, you wanted to get home, get wasted and shut out the world. Falls had already started. First she had a shower, then put on an old cotton dressing gown with a picture of Garfield on the front. He had a question mark over his head. Falls often wondered what the question was; it never once occurred to her to wonder about the answer.
A bottle of vodka was chilling in the fridge and that’s what she wanted herself, to chill. She was drinking from a bottle of Bud and that couldn’t seriously be considered drinking, could it? She liked the habit of drinking from the neck, it was laid-back and showed you were with the game. So, okay, she’d already had three but hell! She was home, and who was counting, anyway?
The empties sat on her coffee table, but on coasters. That proved she wasn’t some kind of slob, not letting things go. She had a bag of weed in her bedside cabinet so she could seriously mellow out later. Her coke days were in the past, had to be.
She turned on the telly and swore: the ending credits were rolling on EastEnders. She channel-surfed until she hit MTV and there was Christina Aguilera strutting her stuff, with a song titled ‘Dirty’. Falls had to look twice to make sure that, yes, she was wearing what seemed to be cowboy chaps or whatever the hell they called those leather things that went on over jeans. Lest you be in any doubt as to what the song was, the word ‘Dirty’ was emblazoned on Christina’s knickers. Falls got into the beat of it and had to admit that the energy made you want to party.
No way was it the Bud doing the business. You’d need another ten before you could start to like Aguilera on any serious sort of level. Then a black guy called Redman joined Christina and he did that whole bad boy, gangsta rap gig. In truth it was a mess but got your motor churning.
Then Coldplay were up with ‘Scientist’: earnest white boys doing the Dire Straits/Travis rock-cred act. She liked this too and knew about this group as Gwyneth Paltrow was said to be pursuing an intense romance with the lead singer. Falls took a long look at the guy. He was unshaven, very pale and never smiled. Yeah, Gwynnie would love that gig.
The name of the group worked for Falls, she felt it had that nice ring of Brixton. If you had to describe how to survive the streets, you could do worse than say… ‘Coldplay’… and if that didn’t make sense, then you belonged in Hampstead.
She stretched out on the sofa, felt the day ease on down and thought it was nice to just fold in front of the TV and, like, hang. The niggling line ‘Get a life’ tried to intrude but she moved it on along. The bottle of vodka should be nicely chilled and she’d be making a run at it real soon.
The doorbell rang and it startled her. Since the days with her last man, Nelson, the bell put the fear in her, making her think that he’d come to read the riot act and drag her sorry ass off to rehab.
Dark days indeed.
‘Course, she reasoned, she could just ignore it but no, here it was again, and whoever it was, they were leaning on the buzzer, determined to get an answer. Sighing deeply, she got up, went to answer it.
She threw the door open.
At first she didn’t recognise the person. A blonde woman in a black bomber jacket, carrying two Tesco bags. She gave a huge smile, said:
‘Hi, girlfriend!’
Angie, the woman who’d saved her purse.
Falls knew there was something wrong with this. Did she give out her address? As a rule, she never did. Cops only gave that to other cops and even then, to a very select few. But she’d been drinking vodka and her memory at such times was far from reliable.
Angie said:
‘So, do I get to come in or do I just drop these goodies here and run?’
‘Shit, sorry… course, come in.’
As she breezed past Falls, the smell of her perfume was downright seductive. Falls would have to ask her the brand.
Angie plonked the bags on the coffee table and surveyed the room, the empty bottles were like a neon sign.
She said:
‘Cosy.’
Falls felt mortified. If it had been a man it would have been bad enough but you never wanted another woman to see you might be a slob. Especially not a classy woman like Angie.
Falls said:
‘I just got home, never quite got round to tidying.’
Angie went to the bags and pulled out a bottle of vodka, bags of crisps, peanuts, wine, carton of cigs and a mess of napkins, said:
‘I didn’t know what to get so I got everything.’
Falls was conscious of her ratty dressing gown and said:
‘Just let me change.’
Angie put up her hand, said:
‘No way, girl, you look comfortable and unless you have some guys stashed, let’s have us a girlie night.’
She began to open the vodka, said:
‘Yo, Elizabeth, get some glasses. We don’t want to drink from the bottle — least not yet, am I right?’
Falls went to the kitchen, rinsed out some glasses, tried to get with the game. The Bud had made her fuzzy and she felt she’d better slow down and let Angie catch up.
Back to the living room and Angie was on the couch, the bottle opened. She was wearing a very short skirt and Falls marvelled at her shapely legs.
Angie caught the look, asked:
