Taming the Alien

‘You know the law isn’t for people like us.’

‘What is?’

‘That’s another thing I’ve been trying to figure out for years.’

(Lola Lane to Bette Davis in Marked Woman).

As Roberts walked towards The Greyhound, a holy-roller pressed a leaflet into his hand. He glanced at it, read:

‘The God We Worship Carves His Name On Our Faces.’

He figured it might be true, especially as it was said that Brant had the devil’s own face. The light in the pub was dark and it took a minute for his eyes to adjust. The barman asked, ‘What can I do for you, John?’

‘Eh?’

‘A drink. You want one or not?’

‘Is Bill here?’

‘Who’s asking?’

Roberts leant over the counter, not sure he’d heard it right, then decided to go for it. ‘Tell him it’s the Old Bill.’

He wasn’t sure but he thought he heard a malicious laugh. Bill was in his usual place and if not master of all he saw, he certainly had its attention. A novel lay opened in front of him, one of the Charlie Resnick series by John Harvey. Roberts glanced at the title — Rough Treatment.

Bill said, ‘My kind of copper.’

Roberts didn’t think he meant him. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘No, I don’t mind. Get you somefin’?’

‘Nice toasted sarnie I reckon, I missed breakfast.’

‘They do a good un here, cheese, tomato … shoot the works.’

‘Course.’

That done, they sat in silence a bit. Their relationship went back a long way, almost the old code. When villains kept villainy internal and cops kept some other agenda. More a show of respect than any actual feel for it.

The sandwich came and Roberts got right to it. As he finished the first half Bill said, ‘Jeez, you did miss brekkie.’

‘Yeah, we had a son kill his old man — phoned it in himself.’

‘Funny old world, eh?’

Roberts pushed the plate away. ‘How’s Chelsea?’

Bill had a daughter with Down’s syndrome. Now seven years old, she was the true joy of his life, his one vulnerability. ‘She’s doing good, full o’ verbals.’

Thus the pleasantries, time for biz.

Roberts tried to inject hard into his voice, not too much, but there. ‘My sergeant got a call.’

‘Yeah?’

‘That’s Detective Sergeant Brant.’

‘A man of reckless inclination.’

‘He’ll want to see the messenger.’

‘Ah!’

‘Keep up appearances on every side, can’t have some laddie shoutin’ the odds in his local.’

‘No fear.’

‘Why’s that then?’

‘Took a trip, to America.’

‘Sudden.’

‘A mad desire to see his missus.’

‘I wouldn’t want to have this chat again … Bill.’ It sounded like what it was — a threat.

Bill said tightly, ‘I’m a bit confused over yer concern for the said Sergeant.’

‘We’ve got mileage.’

Bill considered then went for the cut. ‘You’re a big hearted bloke, Mr Roberts.’

‘Eh?’

‘Well, if one of my lads was putting it to me missus, I’d be more than a tad miffed.’

Roberts was taken aback, near lost it, but rallied. ‘Low shot, Bill, I’d have figured you for a more mature angle.’

Bill didn’t answer. Roberts stood, put some money on the table and walked away.

At the door he heard, ‘Hey Old Bill, Brant likes maturity. You ask down the nick — he likes ’em downright middle aged.’

Falls had the golden oldies show playing. Playing loud.

Jennifer Rush with ‘The Power of Love’.

A sucker song.

As she belted out the lyrics, Falls threw in the obligatory Ohs … Uhs … and hot Ahs … Being black helped cos she felt the music.

Reluctantly, she turned the radio off. Being hot at nine in the morning was wasted heat. She put on a light khaki T-shirt, loose and blousey. Then white needle cords, very washed, very faded. A dream to wear, like skin that didn’t cling. At the dentist, she’d flicked through a copy of Ebony and read that needle cord was coming back.

Where had they been?

She thought: ‘Not this pair. One more wash and it’s disintegration city.’

Checking the date of the magazine, it was February ’88.

Oh.

Falls felt lucky wearing these pants. Plus, she felt hip, not big time or to the point of wearing sunglasses on her hair, but a player. She was wearing a black pair of Keds. They made her feet look tiny and she wished she could wear them in bed. And might yet do so.

Opening her front door, she felt downright optimistic.

Always a bad start.

A skinhead was spraying her wall, it read:

NAZZI RULES? OK.

He was a young fifteen with badly applied tattoos, the usual Doc Martens and black combat trousers. The spraying stopped and his eyes said run. But even a junior skin couldn’t be seen to run from a woman, especially a black one. He fingered the aerosol nervously and pushed out his chest.

Falls asked, ‘Who’s Nazzi?’

‘What, doncha know?’

‘No.’

‘Like Gestapo and shit, ya know.’

‘Oh, Nazi.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then you’ve spelt it wrong.’

‘Ya what?’

‘One “z”.’

He looked at his handiwork, unsure as to what she meant. But hey, if confused, attack. The first rule of the urban warrior. ‘So what? Wogs can’t read.’

Falls did the very worst thing. She laughed. The boy didn’t know which was next:

fight