Taming the Alien

2. Get a gun

He got a gun. Finally, he was a fully fledged commuter. Right down to his Reeboks and war stories. To complete the picture he ate sushi and liked Ingmar Bergman.

The weapon was a Glock. It came to prominence as a terrorist accessory — made mostly of plastic, it got through metal detectors without a bleep. Lightweight, easy to carry and conceal; even the cops took to it. As their no-mention second gun, the true back-up.

Now Josie nudged Sean, said, ‘Rock ’n’ roll.’

He grunted, added, ‘Roadkill.’

They moved.

Their tried and tested method was for Josie to approach the vic and whine, ‘Gis a few quid, mate.’ Sean then did the biz from the rear. Simple, deadly, effective. It got them Brant, the young copper and one per cent of the Borough of Lambeth. Why change? Indeed.

But Sean did.

Perhaps it was the Rolex. Julian was wearing the Real McCoy. A present from his first lover. So genuine, it looked fake.

Josie did her part, only altering the currency to suit the geography. The song now coming from the bar was Lou Reed’s ‘Perfect Day’. If fate had a sense of the dramatic, ‘Walk On The Wild Side’ would have been apt; but it has an agenda, which rarely includes humour, and almost never timing.

The dance began as before. Josie strode up to Julian, whining, ‘Gis a few bucks, Mistah.’

Sean, if not exactly the pale rider, pulled rear. For one hilarious moment, Josie’s accent confused Julian. He thought she was saying, ‘Gis a few fucks Mistah.’ He was about to tell her that — ‘Gee sister, you sure dialled the wrong number,’ when Sean, breaking their routine, went for the Rolex like a magpie on speed. Grabbed for the wrist.

Julian shrugged him off, crying, ‘What the …?’ Then reached for the Glock in the small of his back. He was a child of the movies, he knew you carried it above yer bum. Thus explaining perhaps ‘cover yer ass’. A homophobic would interpret it differently and more crudely. Whatever …

The gun was out, held two handed in Sean’s direction. Sean, who’d expected a drunken vic, was enraged, shouted, ‘Gimme the watch, yah bollocks!’

Julian shot him in the face. Then the Glock swivelled to Josie and she dropped to her knees, pleading, ‘Aw, don’t kill me mistah, he made me do it, I swear.’

The CIA responses are hard to beat, that is:

Catholic

Irish

Appalling.

Julian felt the power, the deer kicking the leopard in the nuts. Adrenalined to a new dimension, he asked, ‘Tell me, bitch. Tell me why I shouldn’t off you. You deserve to be wasted. Go on — beg me. Beg me not to squeeze the trigger.’

She begged.

Full frontal

When Brant came too, he’d no idea where he was. What he did know was he was in pain. Ferocious pain. He stirred and realised he was half on the floor, half on the sofa. Still half in the bag. Gradually, it came back:

Ireland

Pat’s house

Pub crawling

Quay Street

Dancing Irish jigs.

Dancing! He prayed — ‘Please Jesus let me be wrong about the dancing!’

He wasn’t.

He was clad in his grey Y-fronts. Not grey by choice but cos he’d washed them white with a blue shirt. Sweat cascaded off his face and he said, ‘I’m dying.’

The door opened and Pat breezed in bearing two steaming mugs of tea. ‘Howyah, you’re wanted on the phone.’

‘What?’

‘An English fella and by the sound of him a policeman. Likes giving orders.’

‘Roberts?’

‘That’s the lad.’

Lawrence Block in Even The Wicked:

‘It’s a terrible thing,’ he said, ‘when a man develops a taste for killing.’

‘You have a taste for it.’

‘I have found joy in it,’ he allowed. ‘It’s like the drink, you know. It stirs the blood and quickens the heart. Before you know it, you’re dancing.’

‘That’s an interesting way to put it.’

Brant gulped the tea and roared, ‘Jesus, I’m scalded.’

‘Aye, it’s hot as Protestants.’

But something else, something that kicked. Pat smiled, said, ‘That’ll be the hair of the dog.’

‘Bloody Rottweiler, was it?’

A moment, as the liquid fought his insides, near lost and Brant got ready to puke. Then lo, it crashed through and began to spread ease.

Pat said, ‘Yah better get to the phone.’

Brant said, ‘OK,’ and thought: ‘Ye Gods, I do feel better.’

Roberts said, ‘Got you outta bed, did I?’

‘Naw, I was playing golf, had to rush in from the ninth.’

‘Eh?’

Brant scratched his balls, couldn’t believe how better by the minute he was feeling. Maybe he’d never leave Ireland.

Roberts said, ‘I had a hell of a job to locate you.’

‘I’m undercover.’

‘Under the weather, it sounds like. You’re not pissed now are you? I mean it’s not even ten in the morning.’

‘Haven’t touched a drop.’

Roberts took a deep breath. He had startling news and he wanted to be startling with it. The plan was to meander, dawdle, and plain procrastinate.

Get to it e … v … e … n … t … u … a … l … l … y.

Like that.

What he said was, ‘They’ve caught the Band-Aiders.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Yeah.’

Brant wanted to roar:

Where?

When?

Who?

Why?

But instead repeated, ‘Jesus!’

Roberts figured that counted as ‘startled’, so he said, ‘The deadly duo tried to mug a punter in New York, but