He was dressed in a tan linen suit with a pair of Bally loafers. His face looked carbolic-shined. He looked like a boy. It tore at her heart. Jesus. Now he was repeating the line for effect: ‘Gave me nothing’. Lingering, slow-lidded look, then: ‘… nothing at all’.
Eddie looked up, awaiting praise. Falls got to her feet, said, ‘Come here.’
He smiled, answered, ‘I love it when you’re dominant.’
He moved right to her, turned his head to kiss her and she kneed him in the balls, said, ‘Rhyme that, you bastard.’
Dropped to the floor like a bad review. She thought of Brant and what he’d say.
‘Finish it off with a kick to the head.’
Part of her was sorely tempted, but the other half wanted to hug him. Summoning all her resolve, she bent down and grabbed hold of the linen jacket and began to drag him. One of his tan loafers came off. Got him to the door and with the last of her strength, flung him out. Then she gathered up the flowers, the chocolates and the loose shoe, threw them after him. Then she slammed the door, stood with her back against it for a while, then slumped down to a sitting position.
After a time she could hear him. He tapped on the door and his voice,
‘Honey… sweetheart… let me explain…
Like a child, she put her fingers in her ears. It didn’t fully work: she could still hear his voice but not the sense of the words. It continued for a time then gradually died away. Eventually she moved and got to her feet, said, ‘I’m not going to cry anymore.’
She had a shower and had it scalding, till her skin screamed SURRENDER. Then she found a grubby track suit and climbed into it. It made her look fat.
She said, ‘This makes me look fat… good!’
Opened the door cautiously. No Eddie. Some of the flowers still strewn around clutched at her heart.
Falls had seen all sorts of things in her police career, but these few flowers appeared to be the very essence of lost hope.
At the off-licence, she ordered a bottle of vodka and debated a mixer. But no, she’d take it bitter, it was fitting.
Back home, she drank the vodka from a mug. A logo on the side said:
Bit later she put on Joan Armatrading and wallowed in total delicious torment.
Near the end of the bottle, she threw the music out of the window.
End of the evening, she took a hammer to the mug and bust it to smithereens.
Brant was booted and suited. The flat had been cleaned by a professional firm. They hadn’t actually been paid yet, but assured of ‘police protection’. He was well pleased with their work. The suit was genuine Jermyn Street bespoke. A burglary there had brought Brant to investigate… and pillage. If a look can speak columns, then this suit spoke like royalty. You could sleep in it and have it shout: ‘Hey, is this class or what?’
It was. The shoes were hand-made Italian loafers and whispered of effortless arrogance. He wore a Police Federation tie, a blotch on any landscape, and a muted shirt. He gazed at himself in the new full-length mirror and was delighted, said: ‘I ain’t half delighted.’ The whole outfit was clarion call to Muggers United till they saw his face, and rethought: ‘Maybe not.’
He took his bleeper in case the ‘E’ rang. He needed access. A genuine Rolex completed the picture. Alas, it was so real it appeared a knock-off and supplied a badly needed irony to his whole appearance. He said aloud: ‘Son, you are hot.’ As he left he slammed his new steel-reinforced door with gusto.
It’s been heard in south-east London that ‘a copper’s lot is a Volvo’. Brant was no exception. He found it a distinct advantage to have a recognisable cop issue. Saved it from being nicked. Others said: ‘Who’d bloody want it?’ As he unlocked his car, a few drops of rain fell. He said: ‘Shit.’ And remembered his old man one time, saying: ‘Ah! Soft Irish rain.’ His mother’s reply: ‘Soft Irish men, more like.’
A woman approached, dressed respectably, which revealed absolutely nothing. Not to Brant. She said: ‘Excuse me?’
‘What?’
‘I hate to trouble you, but my car’s broken down and I’m without change. I need three, perhaps four pounds to get a cab.’
‘You need a new line, lady.’
And he got into the Volvo. She watched him, astonishment writ large, and as he pulled away, she said clearly: ‘Cunt.’
He laughed out loud. The night had begun well.
‘Tooling up’
‘Tonight… tonight… tonight… we go… oh yeah.’ On the floor, he’d spread a tarpaulin, and now JL began to lay weapons down: two sawn-offs, one canister of CS gas, three baseball bats and a mess of handguns.
He looked to his brother first, said: ‘OK, Albert, pick yer poison.’ Al took a handgun, tested it for weight, and then jammed it in the back of his jeans. Kev whistled: ‘Very fucking cool. Mind how you sit down.’
He snatched the sawn-offs and chucked them to Doug and Fenton, said: ‘’Cos you guys are a blast.’
He took the handguns and, holding them down by his sides, added: ‘No need for the bats, eh? This is purely a shooting party’ Albert smiled, thought of the gun he’d looted. Now he’d be truly loaded.
Fiona Roberts knew her marriage was bad, and often woesome. But she was determined to keep it. If it meant lying down with the dogs… or dog, then she’d suffer the fleas. She wasn’t sure how to dress for a blackmail date. Did you go mainline hooker or bag lady? A blend of the two perhaps. When Brant had said he wished to ‘woo’ her, she’d nearly laughed in his pig face. But instinct had held her tongue and she knew she could maybe turn everything round. So she agreed, he was to pick her up at Marble Arch. Ruefully she reflected it was a hooker’s landmark. A cab took her there and, as she paid the fare, the driver said: ‘Bit cold for it, luv.’
‘How dare you!’
‘What?’
‘Your implication. I don’t think I know what you are saying.’
‘Get a grip, darlin’. I didn’t mean nuffink unless civility has been outlawed.’
‘Hmmph!’
She slammed the door and he took off with her tenner.
Brant was turning into the Arch with the radio blaring. Chris Rea was doing ‘Road to Hell’ and Brant hoped it wasn’t an omen. He stopped, flung open the door, shouted: ‘Hiya, ducks!’
She’d been expecting the Volkswagen Golf, but realised he’d keep her on the hop. As she got in she saw him eying her legs but refrained from comment. Without a word he did a U-turn and swung back towards Bayswater. A highly dangerous move.
She said: ‘Illegal, surely?’
‘That’s part of the rush.’
She smoothed her dress over her legs and he asked: ‘Hungry?’
‘Why, have you another greasy spoon to slum in?’
‘Hey!’ And he gave her a look. She could have sworn he appeared hurt and she thought: ‘Good.’
He swerved to avoid a cyclist and said quietly: ‘I’ve booked at Bonetti’s.’
She didn’t say anything, and he added: ‘Well?’
‘Well what? I have never heard of it.’
‘It’s in the Egon Ronnie.’
‘Ronnie? That’s Ronay.’
‘Whatever, I thought you’d be pleased.’
