he was sincere. Now he said:
‘Here’s my card, my insurance will cover it, but might I be totally reckless…’
Here he paused, gave a self-conscious laugh, added:
‘Good Lord, I’ve been reckless enough with my driving, but may I go for broke and invite you to a little dinner?’
The mood of madness seemed to envelope them, on one of the busiest routes in Southeast London. As drivers honked furiously he had her answer:
‘Couldn’t I have a big dinner?’
Signed, sealed, and delivered.
She parked her car, and he said:
‘Give me your keys and your address. I’ll have one of my staff bring it for repairs and have it outside your door in the morning. How would that be?’
Staff!
Better and better.
She wanted to roar:
‘That would be fucking wonderful, you’re wonderful, shit, life is a cabaret.’
And then she was in the front seat of his car, and they were en route to eat. She thought:
‘Am I stark raving bonkers? He could be a serial killer and here I am, along for the slaughter, like a teenager.’
It gave her a delicious thrill. She hadn’t been out on the edge for so long, it was a rush of almost cocaine level. He said:
‘I’m Don Keaton, and forgive me for not shaking hands but I think I’ve had enough road accidents for one night.’
She clocked his hands, no wedding band, not that that meant a whole lot these days but it was a start. And his hands had a light tan, and looked strong, long fingers like an artist. She tried not to gush as she said:
‘I’m Elizabeth Falls.’
Another first, she almost never gave her Christian name. He asked:
‘Elizabeth, you like Italian?’
She’d have eaten vegetarian, said:
‘Love it.’
He smiled over at her, said:
‘I think you and I are going to get on good.’
She was already wondering if the sheets on her bed were clean. Wanted to say:
‘Don, you just scored, babe.’
After years of trauma, shitty luck, murderous experiences, here was the lottery all in one. He said:
‘I’ve an admission to make, Elizabeth.’
She prayed to every saint she’d ever heard of:
Don’t, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t let him be gay.
He said:
‘I don’t know any black people.’
And looked ashamed. She wanted to hug him, said:
‘I’ll be all the black you need.’
The restaurant was in Kennington, and the maitre’d greeted Don by name. When they were seated, he asked:
‘The usual dry martini?’
Don looked at Falls who nodded and another waiter brought massive menus. Falls asked:
‘Will you order for us?’
He did, a blaze of spaghetti alla chitarra, linguine, garganelli, taglierini, fusilli, and a whole pile of stuff she’d never heard of.
Don said:
‘The house wine is especially good, or do you want to see the wine list?’
She didn’t.
They ate like vultures, greasy, uncouth, and with passion. Half-way through, suffused with wine, he said:
‘You eat like an Italian.’
She shook her head, said:
‘No, like a person who’d been reared with hunger.’
It was the best night of her life. Don was a stockbroker and she asked:
‘You mean like rich.’
He nodded and asked:
‘And what about you, what do you do, Elizabeth?’
That moment.
Truth or dare?
Most times, she mentioned it, it distorted the balance, guys either got off on it, a weird gig about shagging a cop, a party dazzler, as:
‘This is my black girlfriend, she’s a cop.’
And the resultant queries, have you ever shot anyone or worse, the boy’s own:
‘Show me your truncheon.’
Or they got scared, took off. Mostly they took off. So she was silent for a second and he stared at her then she thought:
It’s a magical night, go for broke.
Levelled her gaze, said:
‘I’m a policewoman.’
He never faltered, straight out:
‘That’s wonderful, we need people like you.’
And so the evening of alchemy continued, she could do no wrong. Went back to his penthouse… yes, a penthouse on Mayfair, and fucked like demons. She had to put her hand on his chest, say:
‘Whoa, let me catch a breath here.’
Her pleasure was his primary concern, and when did that happen? In the morning he drove her home, said:
‘I might be falling in love with you, Elizabeth.’
She fell into her own bed, muttering:
‘God, I owe you. Like BIG TIME.’
She slept the sleep of the truly contented, smiled in her sleep and emitted little groans of pleasure.
Roberts hadn’t been down to East Lane Market for a long time and his first thought, was:
Where did all the English go?
The number of former Soviet nationals was staggering. It was packed and he recognized a pickpocket he’d arrested once. The guy named, originally enough, Dip, tried to pretend he didn’t see Roberts. He began to move quickly through the crowd but Roberts caught him up, asked:
‘Yo, what’s your hurry, buddy?’
Dip acted surprised, went:
‘Ah, Chief Inspector, good to see you.’
Roberts stared at him, the guy seemed down on his luck, shabby clothes and an air of desperation. The very last thing a guy in his line of work needed to look was desperate. Roberts said:
‘Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.’
A stall was situated at the middle of the market, and Roberts got two roasting cups, said:
‘It’s hot, mind those fingers, eh.’
Dip took a sip, said:
‘It’s instant; I hate instant.’
