He stood back, gently took hold of one end of the linen top, and pulled with all his might, the whole lot crashing across the room, the crystal glass shattering in bits.
Jamil was released on bail. The prosecutor lodged objections, but the judge, mindful of McDonald’s actions and the huge press interest, allowed him to go. Outside the court, Jamil gave a speech to the TV, focusing on the injustices meted out to black people. McDonald watched at home, the Sig in his hand, three lines of coke in his system, and a fixed grin on his face. Flicked his wrist and the gold bracelet moved satisfyingly He said:
‘You’re fucked, you bastard, and you don’t even know it.’
He had his plan prepared, it had taken him a coke-fuelled night to put it all together. He’d kill the child molester and put the gun back under Jamil’s floorboards, then he’d arrest Jamil, proving it was him who’d offed the child molester. This would show that McDonald was involved in, not only catching a killer, Jamil, but indirectly, the child molester. So okay, he knew there were a fair few holes in the scheme but overall, it was solid, the coke told him it was marvellous, and besides, he didn’t have a whole lot of other avenues to explore.
His phone rang. He jumped and then took a deep breath, picked it up, heard:
‘McDonald, it’s Falls. I a… wanted to know if you were doing all right.’
He was stunned she’d call, the last time he saw her, she’d walloped him and his impulse was to say go fuck yourself, but hey, he needed all the help he could get so he said:
‘I’m hanging in there.’
Then figured sympathy would be good as he hadn’t had a shred of it to date, added:
‘It’s rough. I feel as if I’m falling apart.’
She rose to the bait and he smiled as she gushed:
‘I know how you feel, I’ve been there and it’s the pits. Is there anything I can do?’
McDonald focused, figured there might even be the pity fuck in this, and he’d always wanted to have the black bitch, all sorts of pay-offs were forming in his fevered mind so he said:
‘It would be good to talk to someone.’
And then remembered that women loved this crap so he added the buzz word:
‘If only there was someone to share with?’
He was grinning now, this was how Brant operated and no doubt, Brant was a winner. He could already picture it, the black cow under him, as he plummeted into her, giving it large, and nearly laughed out loud. She took the bait:
‘Oh I know, that’s the worst bit, not having anyone to talk to, the isolation is desperate.’
He had to take a moment to stop himself from guffawing, then:
‘Would… would you talk to… me?’
And the crazy bitch jumped in:
‘I’d be honoured. Would you like to have a drink this evening?’
He let a break enter his voice and was amazed, he never knew he had this shit in him, said:
‘I’m… so grateful, thank you.’
Now he could hear her choking up, jeez, they’d have a bawl fest right here on the phone, sobbing like they were on Oprah. She said:
‘The Oval. It’s quiet on a Tuesday, say around eight, how would that be?’
‘Thank you, I can’t tell you what it means, I’ll never be able to articulate my gratitude.’
‘You’re welcome and call me Elizabeth, okay?’
He wanted to say:
‘Call me stud.’
It was a typical car service crew, evenly split between retired and retarded, with a few degenerate gamblers thrown in. Surprisingly, no drunks, but then maybe they’d hired me for my potential.
24
This could be our last song together, oh yeah, I’m like history, I’ve enjoyed this diary but this is not only the final entry, it’s THE END OF THE AFFAIR. If you’ve gathered how much I liked The Killer Inside Me and, if you’ve been paying attention, Ford was fucked, and his enemies closing in. But did he have an ace up his sleeve.
READ THE GODDAM-BOOK.
I’m looking over my shoulder as I write as time is like, really on the out. The cop, Brant? The one I figured was a lot smarter than he played it, well he paid me a little visit, yeah, on his own docket so to speak, and guess what? He’s going to kill me! How fucking ironic is that? And yes, I believe him. You kind of had to be there. He’s a psycho, an out-and-out lunatic, and what’s worse, I think he’s going to enjoy the act. He
intends playing first, get me spooked, get me frantic, and he’s succeded. As the Americans say, WHO AM I GOING TO CALL?
I can’t believe it’s all gone so pear-shaped, I was on a roll, just taking it nice and easy and then the woman blew it to hell. Like the aforementioned book. So what am I going to do? I’m getting rid of this bloody diary is what, but I couldn’t resist a farewell entry. And like all the do-gooders ask, did I make a difference? Is this little corner of London more civilized, more considerate? I’m afraid not. Too little time, too many assholes. That’s all.
Last page of The Killer Inside Me says: ‘Yeah, I reckon that’s all unless our kind gets another chance in the Next Place. Our kind. Us people.’
25
When Crew emerged from his office at the end of an exhausting day, Brant was leaning against a car, toothpick in his mouth. Crew didn’t know whether to ignore him but found himself drawn to approach. Brant didn’t move, simply adjusted the toothpick in his mouth. Crew asked:
‘Is this it, you’re going to harass me?’
‘Yup.’
Crew thought he detected a softening of Brant’s attitude, asked:
‘The other evening, what you said, you were messing with my head, yes?’
‘Nope.’
‘You can’t seriously think you’ll get away with that… that threat?’
‘Sure do.’
Then Brant’s phone rang and, almost lazily, without taking his eyes from Crew, he reached in his pocket, took it out, answered.
Crew took the moment to move away fast, looked back to see Brant listening intently. When he rounded a corner, he ran like hell.
Brant heard:
‘Sergeant Brant?’
