Heard that eerie cackle, like some crazed banshee, the guy said:
‘Here I am, doing your work for you, and I don’t detect… sorry, no pun intended, I don’t sense any gratitude.’
Andrews came in, put the tea on his desk, spilling a part on his files. He glared at her and she scarpered. He returned his attention to the call, asked:
‘Sorry, mate, what am I supposed to be grateful for?’
A moment’s hesitation, then:
‘Don’t be coy, Inspector, Canary Wharf… ring any bells?’
Roberts decided to go with it, said:
‘We discovered the body of a man there, so?’
A sound of irritation, then:
‘Don’t play silly buggers with me, Inspector, I’m trying to keep you in… how do they term it… ah yes, in the loop, but you’re trying my patience.’
Roberts felt a small victory. He’d annoyed the bastard, get him angry, he’d got careless. He said:
‘Are you telling me the man we found is connected to the shooting of Sergeant Brant?’
The guy’s voice had upped an octave, and he said:
‘Very good, Inspector. Yes, he was the shooter, if a rather poor one, so I felt it best to terminate his contract.’
Roberts chanced a gulp of tea, it burned like a mother, made him near retch and… no fucking sugar. He’d have Andrews’s arse, he asked:
‘You’re telling me you killed him, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Bravo, Inspector, you’re finally on the same page.’
This was one of those expressions that got up Roberts’s nose, nearly as bad as… singing from the same hymn sheet.
Roberts asked:
‘And now, where we do go from here?’
Another chuckle and the guy said.
‘You’re familiar with the expression, if at first…?’
Roberts felt a surge of adrenaline, asked:
‘You’re not seriously going to try again?’
As he said it, the voice said:
‘See, we’re singing from the same hymn sheet.’
Click.
He was gone.
The cops don’t want anybody to have guns except them-I wonder why?
10
McDonald prepared for his meet with the old-age vigilantes, that’s how he thought of them, get a pension and get armed. He wore a black track suit, put a knit cap in his pocket, pulled on a black windbreaker, and in the side pocket, slipped his Walther PKK.
This weapon he’d taken off a drug dealer in Brixton. It gave him a sense of power that continued to amaze him. He’d stood in front of the mirror, the weapon in his right hand, hanging loosely by his side, casual but lethal, a half smile on his face, asking his reflection:
‘You wanna fuck with me? Huh, that what you want?’
Why it came out in an American accent was not something he analysed. It just seemed to run with the deal. It felt… fitting. He’d levelled the gun at his reflection on many nights when he’d overindulged in the marching powder, thinking of the coke.
Man, that shit sneaks up on you, you start, like what, the odd line? Then a few more at the weekend, you know, ease the brewskis along, then fuck, next thing Monday mornings, you wake, you are brewing coffee, hopping in the shower, popping bread in the toaster.
Are you, fuck?
You’re on your knees on the carpet, scraping up dust and hopefully remnants of cocaine and the damn question of course, You got a little Jones going here, fellah? Naw, course not, so your nose streamed a bit, it was fucking England, damp weather, what’d you expect?
Lately, he’d cut back on the old nose candy, got himself up to speed, in the real sense, scored some amphetamines, now those babes, they kept you sharp, kept you in the game and man, he so wanted to be a player, and if they wouldn’t let him be a force in the Force, then fuck ‘em, he’d get his own followers. So, they were old, you can’t get it all.
He put a few tabs of the speed in his trouser pocket and, yeah, he was ready to roll. He saluted himself in the mirror, said:
‘Let’s go dispense some frontier justice.’
He got the tube to Balham. The old codger had a council house just down from the station. He came out of the station and the minute he hit the street, he could feel the vibe, not exactly drums beating but the blood in the wind, the simmering violence in the air. He smiled, it was gonna be a good one. On his way to the house, two different guys gave him the hard stare, the granite-eyed question:
‘The fuck you looking at?’
He loved it, the dope cruising in his veins, the Walther snug in his jacket. He began to hum the theme from The Sopranos.
His fervour faltered a little when he got into the house and old Bill introduced him to the crew. Jesus, how old were they?
Four of them, none under seventy. Bill said:
‘Meet the gang.’
McDonald snapped:
‘No names, this is a professional gig.’
Got their attention.
Already, from the street, he could hear the shouts, yahoos of the coming evening. One of the men looked nervously towards the window, and Bill said:
‘It’s early yet, they’re just warming up, come midnight they’ll be in full roar.’
McDonald said nothing for a moment, then asked:
‘You get everything?’
Bill, anxious to please, went to get the equipment and one of the guys asked McDonald:
‘You’re a copper?’
He had an edge, an accusation to his question.
McDonald said:
‘I’m your best hope is what I am.’
A guy wearing a tartan scarf asked:
‘What do you think we can do, they’re running riot out there?’
McDonald said:
‘We’re going to reclaim a tiny part of Great Britain.’
They stared at him with scepticism and he said:
