When the horrors came, as come they do, Brant held her tight, wiped the spittle from her mouth. When the sweats coursed down her body, Roberts changed the bed linen, got her a fresh T-shirt.
DAY 3:
Brant’s shift. Falls had slept for eight hours. She woke, her eyes focused, asked, ‘Can I have a cup of tea?’
‘Toast?’
‘OK … I think.’
She could. Two slices, lightly marged. Then she got outta bed, didn’t stagger, said, ‘I could murder a large gin.’
‘Darlin’, it’s near murdered you.’
‘I know … and yet …?’
Brant went and found a drop in one of the pile of bottles, said, ‘There’s a taste in this, enough to fuel you to the off licence.’ He held out the drink. ‘What’s it gonna be, darlin’?’
Perspiration lined her forehead, a tremor hit her body, she said, ‘I ache for it.’
He didn’t speak.
Then she shut her eyes, tight like a child before a surprise. ‘Sling it.’
He did.
Later, after another shower, she asked, ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘You and the Guv … helped me.’
‘Well, they say you owe me three large, I’m protecting me cash.’
‘I’ve resigned.’
Brant stood up, said, ‘Don’t be stupid, I’ll see you at the station. Be on time, WPC.’
‘Which party would you like to be invited to?’
‘The one’, I said, ‘least likely to involve gunfire.’
(‘Midnight In The Garden Of Good and Evil’ — John Berendt)
Collie was having a party for one. It’s not difficult to prepare such an event. You buy enough booze for six and don’t invite anyone. He’d laid out on his coffee table:
4 Bottles of Wild Turkey
2 Six Packs of Bud.
1 Cheese Dip and
The gun.
The gun isn’t always a prerequisite, it depends who’s after you.
Music.
Verve with ‘Lucky Man’, over and over.
To complete the festivities, he’d put down four lines of coke.
Ready to party.
When the phone rang, he picked up the receiver, breathed, ‘Yeah?’ Lots of muscle in it.
A pause at the other end, then, ‘So you’re home.’
Collie recognised Bill straight off, answered, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You screwed up.’
‘Wasn’t my fault, sir, I thought she was his bit of gear.’
‘Didn’t the handcuffs signify something else?’
‘I didn’t see them, sir … I thought they was holding hands … I can fix it, though.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll do Brant.’
‘And you call that fixing it?’
‘I dunno, sir … tell me and I’ll do it … I done the taxi driver good, didn’t I?’
A long pause, a sigh, then: ‘You did the taxi driver?’
‘Yes, sir, one shot, clean as anything.’
OK. Stay home, don’t go out … Can you do that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’
When Brant got home, there was an envelope under his door. No stamp. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It read:
‘THE AIRPORT SHOOTER LIVES AT:
FLAT 4, 102 VINE STREET,
CLAPHAM JUNCTION.’
Brant picked up the phone, dialled, then heard Falls say, ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Brant. Wanna be a hero?’
There’s a hospital on the outskirts of Acapulco called La Madonna D’Esperanza.
The Virgin of Hope.
It’s a mental hospital, and hope is pretty scarce.
Pan along Corridor C, turn left towards the windows and there’s a man in a wheelchair. He’s silent because he’s learnt she won’t appear if he speaks. His hands rest on the rug covering his lower torso.
If he keeps his eyes glued to the panes, she’ll eventually come, and then he’ll whisper:
