Rosie, who was more than endowed, shook her head. ‘No you don’t … believe me.’
‘Men prefer big boobs.’
‘Men are pigs.’
And they laughed. Falls got serious and said, ‘Rosie, I’m worried.’
‘What, that men are pigs?’
‘No … I’ve been sick three mornings …
Rosie shrieked, ‘Oh God, are you …?’
Falls shushed her quick, said, ‘Jeez, keep it down!’
‘You’re telling the wrong person, me girl.’
And they got the serial giggles. Lots of the cops glared. If there was laughing to be done, the men would do it.
Rosie lowered her voice. ‘You’ve got to find out.’
‘Oh God, I can’t!’
‘Get one of those do-it-yourself tests from Boots.’
Further speculation was halted as the duty sergeant put his head round the door and shouted: ‘We’ve got a would-be rapist shot!’ A cheer went up. ‘Oi, that’s enough of that. I need two WPCs … c’mon, snap to it.’
As they headed out Falls said, ‘Leastways if I am I’ll get decent boobs.’
Rosie laughed. ‘You’ll be jiggling more than them!’
The shooting had taken place off Camberwell Green. A man had attacked a woman in her kitchen, but she broke away and somehow managed to shoot him.
The flat was packed with cops. Falls was directed to the woman. She was sitting on a kitchen chair, her face white with shock. A loud moaning could be heard from the sitting room. Falls closed the door.
The woman asked, ‘Is that him?’
‘I think so.’
‘I thought I’d killed him.’
Falls patted her shoulder, asked ‘Like a cup o’ tea love?’
‘I’m sick of tea.’
‘Do you want to talk about what happened?’
‘I was washing up and next thing I was grabbed … but I’ve been taking classes … in self defence. So I stomped on his instep and bit his arm.’
‘Good girl.’
The woman was animated, into it. ‘He let go and I hit him with the saucepan — here.’ She indicated her chin. ‘And I heard a crack. He started roaring and I walked out to the sitting room. Got my Dad’s gun and then … I shot him. I missed a few times, I think.’
When everything was being wrapped, the woman touched Falls’ hand. ‘What will they do to me?’
‘Well, I think you’ll get off, but I believe you should get a medal.’
The man had been shot once in the upper leg. Once on the stretcher, Falls managed to get near him. He said, ‘The bitch tried to kill me … I’ll sue …
Falls leant over, asked in a soft voice, ‘Does it hurt?’
He gave a macho smile. ‘No, it’s not so bad.’
Falls shot out her hand, pounded once on the wound.
‘Any better?’
Lies are the oil of social machinery
(Proust)
When Brant heard of Falls’ treatment of the rapist, he was well delighted, thought: ‘Yer coming along, lassie.’
He’d been to see the Super and been granted a period of leave. Twixt sickdays and holidays, he’d a block of time owing.
The Super, keen to be rid of him, suggested, ‘Might be time to consider getting out.’
Brant gave a police manual smile, a mix of servility, spite and animal cunning, and said, ‘We’d miss you, sir.’
He headed to the canteen and met Roberts en route, said, ‘Lemme get you a tea, Guv.’
‘And you’ll pay for it.’
‘Course.’
‘It would be a first.’
In the canteen, Brant got two Club Milks and two sweetened coffees, then said to the cashier, ‘Bung it on the Chief Inspector’s tab.’
‘We don’t ’ave one.’
‘Time to start, boyo.’
Roberts couldn’t get Bill’s accusation out of his head, that Brant had been with his wife. He said, ‘I went to see Bill.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Tried to wind me up.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Said you’d been jumping my missus.’
Brant’s heart jumped, but said smoothly, ‘Jeez, would I be so stupid? … I mean … apart from everything, I’d like to think we were mates.’
They both tasted the lie, let it roll around a bit and decided it would suffice. Not great or even satisfactory but almost sufficient … it would do.
Brant ate his Club Milk. First he nibbled the chocolate round the edge, then chomped the biscuit loudly. Roberts had a horrible picture of him nibbling his wife.
Brant gestured to the second biscuit. ‘Going to have it, Guv?’
Roberts wasn’t, but no way could he stomach Brant eating it. ‘I’ll get to it later.’ He slipped it into his pocket. Days later, after his first radiation treatment, he’d find it congealed in his hankie, latched to his keys like a tumour.
Brant said, ‘I watched
‘Yeah?’
‘I love that boyo, Harry Dean Stanton. He’s one of a battered outlaw gang led by Jack Nicholson. He tells a great yarn.’ Brant stopped and Roberts didn’t say anything. A tad testy, Brant asked, ‘You want to hear this story or not?’
‘Oh … yeah, of course.’
‘He says when he was a kid, he had a favourite dog. One day his father came home and found the dog with its nose in the butter, so he shot it. Later on, a guy says to Harry Dean: “You don’t like people much” — and Harry says — “Not since the dog put his nose in the butter”.’
Roberts wasn’t sure how to respond and finally said lamely, ‘Must see that.’
Brant was agitated, asked, ‘Don’t you get it?’
‘Course I do.’ But he didn’t. Worse, they both understood that. A moment comes, a friendship can move up a notch or is lost.
The moment was lost irretrievably.
They have to get you in the end Otherwise there’d be no end to the pointlessness
