Barry Lewis was thirty-two-years-old. Tall, with a slight stoop, he had blond hair in a buzz cut. Even features that missed being good looking. He was in shape due to two sessions weekly at the gym. Barry burned with hate. He’d recently lost his job ‘cooking’ at McDonald’s. Prior to that, he’d been with
Burger King,
Pizza Hut,
Pret a Manger.
A brief stint with British Rail was hardly worth mentioning. He never did.
All his supervisors had been black and female. Each time he’d start out well. He had it all:
Punctuality,
Cleanliness,
Friendliness.
He knew how to fit, he just didn’t know how to fit continuously. Slowly, the supervisors would all begin to notice, snap, ‘Wotcha always got yo’ eyes on me, white boy?’
As if he’d look at the bitches. So OK, once or twice he’d sneak a peek. Imagine that black flesh under his hand, all that heat. He swore out loud: ‘I never touched that cow at Burger King.’
Like that. He knew they wanted it.
Or that woman at Pizza Hut who’d asked, ‘Yo Barry, nice boy like you, how come you no got yourself a girlfriend?’
Putting him down. Making him go red and howling, ‘See, seed a white boy blushing.’
Packing his gear at British Rail, the knife was just lying there. It gleamed. Long black bone handle and the shining blade. Took it in his hand, it felt good. No … it felt right, and he mimicked his tormentors, said, ‘Ah- rite.’
Slipped it in his jacket. He’d had no plan, no outline strategy. One evening he’d gone out, had a few beers, loosened up. A trendy pub off Clapham Common, Whitney Houston on the speakers. Jeez, he’d like to do it to her. Yeah, kick fuck outta Bobby Brown first. The woman just drifted into his line of vision.
She was with friends, head back laughing. Yeah, he saw the bitch touching the men on the knees, getting them hot. Followed her out and she said goodbye to the group. Headed off
Next thing he had the knife to her throat, shouting obscenities in her ear. After, he wanted to kill her. The following weeks, the need grew and he went hunting. He wasn’t even sure how many. Only six had gone to the cops.
He was famous. When he read the papers and they’d said, ‘Reign of Terror’, he’d felt omnipotent.
Now who was staring? Who was fucking blushing, eh?
Barry liked to cook. Had an Italian recipe book and was working through it. Regardless of ingredients, he always used garlic and would laugh out loud, thinking, Keep the vamps at bay. It never failed to amuse him.
He went into the new wine bar, had a glass of white. Not bad. Then he saw her. Felt the rush, oh yeah, she was next. Fit all the points,
Pretty
Black
Confident.
It was an added high because he knew he’d kill this one. On her way out, she bumped his back and he said, ‘My fault.’ Falls gave him her best smile.
Rosie had answered a routine call. Disturbance on the ground floor of a high-rise. Probably nothing, but she was sent to check anyway.
All quiet when Rosie got there, she banged on the door. A young woman answered, about twenty-two, her eyes had seen it all and none of it pretty. Launched into it. ‘It’s Jimmy, he’s back on smack, beat me when I said I’d no money.’
Rosie stepped in, asked, ‘Where’s Jimmy now?’
‘He’s nodding off in the bedroom.’
Rosie smiled, said, ‘I’ll have a word, eh.’
‘Tell him I’ve no money, he won’t believe me.’
Rosie went to the bedroom. The curtains were drawn and she tried the light. Nope. A figure was hunched on the bed, long hair hanging down. Rosie said, ‘Jimmy?’ No response. She moved over and put out her hand to touch him.
His hand came up and he sank his teeth in her hand, bit down. Rosie heard the woman scream, ‘Don’t let ’im touch yah, he’s got Aids.’
Brant was standing at the Oval. Roberts was due to pick him up. A guy had been clocking him, sussing him out. Brant was aware without being concerned. He knew it would be a hustle, he figured he’d heard them all. Finally, the guy approached, asked, ‘In the market for a good watch, mate?’
‘Sure.’
The guy looked round, said, ‘I’m not talking yer Bangkok monkeys. None of that rubbish. This is prime.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
‘It’s a Tag.’
When Brant didn’t react, the guy said, ‘Like Tag Heuer, man, top of the heap.’
Brant sighed, said, ‘Are you going to produce it or just keep yapping.’
Brant could see it in the guy’s eyes-‘a hook … gotcha.’
Out came the watch and Brant took it, said, ‘It’s a fake.’
The guy was stunned. ‘It’s no fake.’
Then Brant took out his warrant card and the guy rolled his eyes. Taking off his own watch, Brant tried on the Tag, said, ‘So’s you don’t go away empty handed, I’m going to give you this original.’
The guy took it said, ‘It’s a Lorus!’
‘A real Lorus, not a copy.’
‘Lorus is a piece of shit, worth a fiver tops.’
Brant said, ‘Here’s my lift, gotta go.’
He got in and as Roberts moved into traffic, he looked back. The guy was still staring at the Lorus.
Brant adjusted the watch and Roberts asked, ‘That a Tag?’
‘Yup.’
‘A fake though.’
‘No, it’s the biz. I’m as amazed as you are.’
As they proceeded, Brant continued to sneak glances at it. He was well pleased.
Roberts said, ‘Mr Logan has an office at Camberwell Green.’
‘Yeah, and what’s he floggin’?’
‘Real estate.’
‘Figures.’
They parked in Denmark Hill, walked down.
Brant said, ‘Like in the movies, good cop, bad cop.’
‘I hate that crap.’
‘Me too … so can I be the good guy?’
The office was busy. Three phones going in the outer. A receptionist asked, ‘Can I help?’
Brant showed the warrant card, said, ‘We need a moment of Mr Logan’s time.’
She sighed, truly pissed and said, ‘I dunno, we’re frightfully busy.’
Roberts said, ‘No prob. We’ll go and get
She glared at Roberts, like she hated him, said, ‘Let me see.’ And strode into the back office.
Brant was looking at brochures, asked, ‘You live in Dulwich, guv?’
‘Yeah, me ’n’ Maggie Thatcher.’
