Taming the Alien

… mah personal protection. How dat be?’

‘I’d hate to leave you … defenceless.’

Big Jamal grin. ‘Sheet, I git by somehows.’ He stood up, said, ‘Gis a mo.’

‘Sure.’

The woman hunched down on the floor, lotus style. Collie could see her knickers, and more, he could see she saw. Then she raised a brownie to her mouth began to nibble …

gnaw … gnaw … gnaw.

She asked, ‘See something you like?’

‘Nope.’

‘Are you queer?’

The dust was popping along his brain and tiny colours were exploding on the edge of his vision. He didn’t answer, tried to focus on the brightness. In Stephen King’s novel It, the clown says, ‘Come into my bright lights’. Then it shows rotten razored teeth. Collie looked at the woman, half expecting her to do likewise.

The trance was broken by the return of Jamal. He carried an oil clothed bundle, sat and unravelled it. A gleaming gun slid onto the table. Collie whistled. ‘A bloody cannon.’

Jamal gave the big grin. ‘It’s a Ruger six speed, see what’s on de barrel there?’

It read ‘Magnum’.

Jamal put a closed fist down alongside the gun, said, ‘Here de icing on de cake!’ And opened his hand. Six dum dum bullets rolled out. ‘They puts a fat hole in de target.’

‘How much?’ Jamal held up five fingers. Collie shook his head. For the next ten minutes they haggled, giggled, fingered. Eventually, they settled on three. The dope had kicked in and with full ferocity. It took Collie ages to count out the price, but finally it got done.

The woman glared at them. If dope is meant to mellow you, no one had told her. And she was sufficiently out of it not to disguise her aversion. Collie looked at her, then laid a five spot on the pile. ‘Buy sweets for the child.’ Set them off again.

Jamal pulled his zipper down, said, ‘Git some o dis mama.’ She didn’t move so he added, ‘I ain’t axin you, bitch.’ He picked up the Ruger, put a dum dum in.

Collie said, ‘Hey Jam … don’t handle my weapon!’

They were off again, huge hilarity. Just ebony and ivory crackin’ up, having a walk on the wild side. The woman approached, hunkered down and took Jamal in her mouth. Collie closed his eyes. This he didn’t need to see. Loud groans followed.

‘Sheeet, arghh … fuck it …

When Collie opened his eyes, Jamal said, ‘I need a cigarette.’

The woman was wiping her mouth, a brightness in her eyes as if to say: Top that.

Collie got to his feet, said, or tried to say: ‘Time to rock ’n’ roll.’

Jamal asked, ‘Yo bro, ya wans a BJ?’

Collie looked at the woman who was now smirking. ‘Thanks, but I already ate.’

Jamal’s laughter followed him out into the street.

Collie had tucked the gun in the waistband of his jeans. At the back, of course.

Fist

‘HOW D’YA FEEL ABOUT blood sports?’

McDonald was taken aback by Roberts’ question. He’d earned some kudos, he didn’t want to blow them. ‘You mean like coursing, fox hunting?’

‘No, I mean pugilism.’

‘Ahm …

‘It’s bare fisted boxing, like Harry S Corbett, Diamond Jim … There’s a bout at The Elephant tonight.’

‘And we’re going to bust ’em?’

Roberts laughed, said, ‘There’ll be over two hundred punters gathered. Hard asses. We’re going to have a wager.’

‘But Guv — isn’t it illegal?’

‘Course it is, why d’ya think it’s exciting?’

As Roberts predicted, there were at least two hundred gathered. All men, and as per, the very air bristled with unspoken aggression and excitement. The ‘bout’ was to take place at the sheltered car park to the rear of the Elephant. When they got there, Roberts said, ‘Back in a mo.’

McDonald was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, felt he smelt of cop.

A punter said, ‘Wanna drink, John?’

And offered a flask.

‘Sure.’ Best to blend. He took a swig and near choked, felt molten lava run down his throat, burning all in its path. He gasped, asked, ‘What … was … that?’

‘Surg and chicken soup.’ Surg as in surgical spirits. The infamous White Lady of south-east London drinking schools. He could only hope to fuck that the guy was kidding.

When Roberts returned, he collided with a young guy. There was a moment it hung there, then Roberts said, ‘Excuse me.’ And Collie nodded.

The fighters emerged to a mix of cheers, catcalls, whistles. Roberts said, ‘The big guy, he’s from Liverpool and evens favourite. The other is a London boy.’

Both men were bare-chested, wearing only shorts and trainers. No frills. The London boy was runtish but he had a wiry look. In contrast, the Liverpudlian was a brick shit-house. His muscles had muscle and he exuded confidence.

Roberts said, ‘Best get yer wager on.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re not going to have a go.’

‘Oh … right … ahm.’

‘See the guy in the black suit? He’s the bookie.’

‘OK … how much … I mean … would five be enough?’

Roberts scoffed, ‘Don’t be so Scottish … have a decent go. I’ve already dun Liverpool, so you take “the boy”.’

‘But he’s the underdog.’

‘All the better. Hurry up, now.’

A bell sounded and the bout began. Each round was approximately five minutes but it wasn’t rigid — the third round lasted ten.

McDonald had grown up in Glasgow and as a copper he was accustomed to violence. But this spectacle sickened him. It was the crunch of bare knuckles on bone. Real and stereophonic. He asked, ‘What are the rules?’

‘There aren’t … sometimes biting isn’t allowed.’

‘Sometimes?’

‘Shut up and watch … I think your boy’s in trouble.’

He was.

Bleeding from his eye and mouth, he looked for escape. None available.

Then all of a sudden he seemed to be electric, and headbutted Lou, who staggered back. Like a terrier, the boy went after him, and with three blows to the head, Lou was down.

The boy walked round him then kicked him in the back of the head.

All she wrote.