‘I know you?’
Let a little hard dribble in there too, so the guy would know, this was not the day to be fucking with him. The guy’s smile widened and he said:
‘No, but you’re going to.’
With that, he punched Coleman in the gut, hard, and pushed him back into the flat, closed the door, Coleman was doubled up and the guy looked at him, walloped him twice across the face, said:
‘That’s to get the smirk off you.’
The man strode on in, asking:
‘Where’s the kettle, I’d kill for a cuppa?’
Coleman managed to mutter:
‘I’m going to call the police.’
The man, without even looking back, said:
‘I am the police.’
He’d found the kettle, was plugging it in, asked:
‘Get you something or you good?’
Coleman chanced a glance at the door and the man said:
‘Bad idea, I’d have to break one of your legs and you wouldn’t like that, oh no, not one bit. Do you have any bread, a cuppa is not the same without a nice slice of toast.’
By the time the man had fixed his tea and toast, and settled himself into an armchair, Coleman had recovered enough to walk in, stand by the table, keeping that between him and this… lunatic.
The man, midbite, said:
‘You know the song, clowns to the left of me, clowns to the right of me?’
The fuck was he on about?
Before Coleman could reply, if there was one to this, the man said:
‘Well, sonny, in your case, it’s cops, all over your unlucky arse.’
He reached in his pocket, and Coleman was convinced he was going to shoot him.
Instead he pulled out an envelope, slapped it on the table, said:
‘Your going-away money.’
Coleman, hating himself, echoed in an almost childish voice:
‘I’m going away?’
The man smiled, delighted, said:
‘See, you catch on fast. You take a nice six-month vacation, get away from all this lousy weather, and when you come back it will all be over. You can go back to your shitty, boring life.’
The contempt in the man’s voice gave Coleman a false sense of courage, and he snapped:
‘What if I don’t?’
The man wiped some crumbs off his suit, said:
‘Don’t you hate when that happens?’
Then he abruptly stood up, said:
‘If you don’t, forty kinds of hell will descend on you.’
As he headed for the door, he suddenly turned and Coleman instinctively ducked. The man laughed, asked:
‘How much time do you think you’d serve for the stash under your mattress?’
Coleman was confused, further, asked:
‘You mean like… heroin?’
The man had the door open, said:
‘No, I mean, under your mattress.’
Colemanfollowed him out into the corridor, in spite of himself, went:
‘I don’t do that stuff.’
‘Bet you a fiver you’ll look, though. Gotta run, good people out there needing our protection. Don’t bother writing, you just kick back, relax.’
When Coleman went back inside, he was trembling and his stomach hurt. He swore he wouldn’t look under the mattress.
That lasted for tops, four minutes, he pulled the blankets, tore the mattress off, no heroin but a single sheet of paper, that read:
Had you going…
31
Falls was drinking, seriously. She’d sworn so many times she’d keep a lid on it, rein it in.
Yada yada.
I mean, c’mon, the whole Happy-Snapper gig, threatening her whole career, that snake Lane, not backing her up, and McDonald eating his gun.
Fuck.
Who wouldn’t drink?
And then, having to go to Brant… again… and making the pact with the devil. When she’d asked:
‘What are you going to do about the Happy Snapper?’
He’d given a satanic smile and asked:
‘You really want to know?’
Guess not.
As she’d been leaving, he said:
‘Think… biblical.’
That was the whole point, she didn’t want to… think, at all. Thus, the vodka, Stoli went down like a prayer, albeit a brief one. It was nine in the evening, she was dressed in her old Snoopy nightshirt, it was old and comfortable, she was on her second… third? drink, with a mixer of bitter lemon, low cal, of course, like that made a fat bit of difference. Bitter it certainly was. Tupac was on the speakers, with ‘Thugs Get Lonely Too.’
Christ, that sang to her.
The doorbell went and she figured… Brant, with results, she gulped another swig, get in gear for… whatever.
Opened the door to Angie.
Dressed to kill?
Short black leather skirt, black tight T-shirt, black tights, with a sheen, or was it the vodka? And a suede jacket over her shoulders. She was carrying a bag, said:
‘Goodies.’
Falls felt such an overwhelming hatred for the cow. Here she was again, fucking with Falls’s life, bringing chaos and destruction and with that knowing smirk. She looked mock hurt, asked:
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
Falls stepped aside. At least the guy wasn’t with her, what was his name… Coleman, yeah.
Angie literally skipped in, looked round, said:
‘Oh dear, sweetie, we haven’t been doing much cleaning, have we?’
She began to unload the bag, bottles of vodka, snacks, and what looked like a packet of weed… to a cop.
She said:
‘I’ll get the glasses, shall I, though I see you’ve already got a jump start.’
Falls felt an icy calm descend on her, and she decided, this was going to end. One way or another. This bitch was out of her life. She watched as Angie bounced around, full of that malignant confidence, the total control she was accustomed to exerting.
She poured herself a large glass, settled herself on the sofa, letting lots of thigh show, and asked:
