Taming the Alien ib-2 Read online

  Taming the Alien

  ( Inspector Brant - 2 )

  Ken Bruen

  Ken Bruen

  Taming the Alien

  To Fall falling have fallen in love

  Falls knew the guy would hit on her. With such a short mini, it was nigh mandatory. She sat, tasted her drink, waited.

  Yeah … here he was.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He gave a quizzical look. ‘Not yet you don’t mind, or not yet to joining you?’

  Falls shrugged and tried to look at home in the bar. Not easy to carry off when you’re:

  a) English

  b) Female

  c) Black.

  He sat.

  She asked, ‘Do you swim?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just that you have a swimmer’s shape.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, no … no I don’t, not since Jaws, anyway.’

  She gave a laugh. ‘There’s no sharks in England.’

  He gave a tolerant smile. Nice teeth. Asked, ‘How long since you shopped on the Walworth Road?’

  She laughed again, thought, Good Lord, if I’m not careful I’ll be having me a time.

  He then proceeded to lay a line of chat on her. Not great or new, but in there.

  She held up a finger, said, ‘Stop.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, you’re an attractive man. But you already know that. We’d date, get excited, probably have hot sex.’ He nodded, if uncertainly, and she continued. ‘I know you’d have a good time — shit, you’d have a wonderful time — and I’d probably like it too. But then the lies, the fights the bitterness … Why bother?’

  He thought, then said, ‘I like the first part best.’

  ‘Anyway, you’re too old.’ And it crushed him. One fell swoop and he was out of the ballpark. No stamina and they hadn’t even started. It didn’t feel good.

  ‘Oh hell,’ she thought. ‘Revenge is supposed to be sweet.’

  Her father, in a rare moment of sobriety, had said: ‘If you’re planning revenge, dig two graves.’

  He sure as Shooters Hill was in one, and she was contemplating the second. All because Eddie Dillon had smashed her heart, her trust into smithereens. The married bastard.

  Roy Fenton tasted the tea, went, ‘Euck … argh … and called to the waitress.

  ‘Yo, Sheila, how can you fuck-up a tea bag?’

  Sheila didn’t answer. The Alien was known in the Walworth Road cafe and most of south-east London. What was known was his reputation, and that said people got hurt round him.

  His cousin had been part of the ‘E Gang’. A group of vigilantes who’d hanged drug dealers from Brixton lamp-posts until they’d been slaughtered in a crack house on Coldharbour Lane. Smoke that!

  No one called Fenton ‘The Alien’ to his face. At least not twice. He read his poem, chewed the tea:

  UNTITLED

  And he had his books,

  second-hand

  and nearly twenty, neatly stacked

  A tape recorder, German made, some prison posters

  Same old ties, some photos too

  And the camera, convincing lies.

  For the booze

  a Snoopy mug,

  two shoes too tight

  And English jeans

  A silly grin with still,

  the cheapest jacket

  off the rack during some sales.

  A belt

  its buckle made of tin … and clean

  with undies, unmatched songs

  and a hangover

  God bless the mark

  the usual London cover.

  A watch

  Timex, on plastic strap.

  He stopped. Remembering … When Stell had come to the ’Ville, him six months into the three years, and said: ‘Ron, I got pregnant.’

  And he didn’t know what to say. ‘I dunno what to say.’

  And she’d begun to weep, him asking, ‘What … what’s the matter, darlin’?’

  And her head lifting, the eyes awash in grief.

  ‘Ron … I had an abortion.’

  And he was up. Remembered that. Head-butting the first screw, taking down a second without even trying and then: the clubs, the batons. Raining down on him, like the purest Galway weather. Harsh and unyielding.

  Did three months on the block, lost all remission and got an extra year. Not hard time, hate time. Fuelled and driven by a rage that never abated. The head screw, a guy named Potter. Not the worst; in many ways a decent sort. Still some humanity lingering. He gave a hesitant smile, almost put his hand out. No chance.

  But tried anyway.

  ‘Give it up Ron, she’s not worth it.’

  Fenton spat on his tunic.

  The other screws moving forward but Potter, waving them back, said, ‘Have this one on me, Ron.’

  He’d searched every pub in north London. Should have known better than to step outside the south-east in the first place. Jeez … North! Highbury and shite talk.

  Word was, she was in San Francisco. OK. He could do that … but he would need a wedge, a real buffer. He was working on it …

  During lock-down he’d begun to write the poem. One toilet roll, with a midget William Hill biro. Gouging it down.

  One of the nick fortune tellers saying: ‘I can see yer future, Ron.’

  ‘Yeah? See a double scotch anytime soon?’

  The tier sissy who’d blown him then saw the poem, said, ‘You should send that to a magazine.’

  Gave him a fist up the side of the head, said, ‘Don’t touch my stuff.’

  But got to thinking …

  One lazy Saturday, Millwall were two down, he’d idled through a magazine and these words hit him like a pool cue:

  POETRY

  FREE APPRAISAL

  CASH PRIZES

  PUBLICATION

  So he sent it off.

  ‘Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.’ The psycho Dex used to say it all the time. Dex, they found him in a bin liner on a heap in Walworth. An old copy of The Big Issue down his Y-fronts. Liked to read, did old Dex. And talk. But talked too much. A black chick took his throat from ear to mouthy ear.

  She was dead ’n’ all.

  Since Derek Raymond died, so did all the characters.

  He sent the poem.

  They replied:

  Dear Ronald,

  If we may be permitted the liberty of addressing you thus …

  Fenton thought, ‘Uh-huh, watch your wallet,’ but read on:

  Our panel of specially selected judges have chosen your poem to go forward to the Grand Final. The winner receives a thousand guineas.

  All entries will be published in a lavish volume that all good book stores must have. As you’ll appreciate, the cost of printing is high for a book of such quality. For a stipend of fifty pounds, we can reserve your own engraved copy. Please hurry as demand is limited.

  Of course, your donation in no way affects the outcome of the Grand Final which, as we stated, is for ONE THOUSAND GUINEAS!

  We eagerly await your prompt reply.

  Yours,

  P Smith, Co-ordinator

  The World of Poetry Inc.

  He wrote back:

  Dear P. Smith,

  Take my end outta the thousand large.

  Yours,

  R.Fenton

  Convict

  If you turned right on the Clapham Road, you could walk along Lorn to the Brixton side.

  Few do.

  Brant had his new place here. The irony didn’t escape him.

  Lorn … forlorn.

  Oh yeah.

  Since he’d been knifed in the back, he’d been assigned to desk duty, said: ‘Fuck that for a game o
f soldiers.’

  His day off, he’d go to the cemetery, put flowers on PC Tone’s grave. Never missed a week. Each time he’d say, ‘Sorry son. I didn’t watch for you and the fucks killed you for a pair of pants.’

  What a slogan — Trousers to die for.

  The Band Aid couple had gone to ground or Ireland. No proof it was them. Just a hunch. Some day, yeah … some day he’d track ’em.

  Only Chief Inspector Roberts knew of Brant’s hand in the murder of the boy. He wouldn’t say owt. Brant’s own near death had somehow evened it out for Roberts.

  Odd barter but hey, they were cops, not brain surgeons.

  Chief Inspector Roberts was aging badly. As he shaved, he looked in the mirror, muttered: ‘Yer aging badly.’

  Deep creases lined his forehead. The once impressive steel grey hair was snow white and long. Clint Eastwood ridges ran down his cheeks. Even Clint tried to hide them. Wincing is cool … sure … maybe till yer dodgy forties, but after that it comes across as bowel trouble.

  Roberts loved the sun, nay, worshipped it — and cricket. Too many summers under long hours of UV rays had wreaked havoc. Worse, melanomas had appeared on his chest and legs. When he’d noticed them he gasped, ‘What the bloody hell?’

  He knew … oh sweet Jesus did he ever … that if them suckers turned black, you were fucked. They turned black.

  The doctor said, ‘I won’t beat around the bush.’

  Roberts thought: Oh, do … if necessary, lie to me — lie big — beat long around any bush.

  ‘It’s skin cancer.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  After he thought, I took it well.

  Was ill as a pig when he heard about the treatment.

  Like this: ‘Once a week we’ll have radiation.’

  ‘We? You’ll be in there with me?’

  The doctor gave a tolerant smile, halfways pity to building smirk, continued: ‘Let’s see how you progress with the ‘rad’, and if it’s not doing the business we’ll switch to laser.’

  Roberts wanted to shout, ‘Beam me up Scottie! Signpost ahead … The Twilight Zone.’

  He let the doctor wind down. ‘Later on, we’ll whip some of those growths away. A minor surgical procedure.’

  ‘Minor for you, mate.’

  The doctor was finished now, probably get in nine holes before ops, said: ‘We’ll pencil you in for Mondays, and I’d best prepare you for two after effects:

  1. You’ll suffer extreme fatigue, so easy does it.

  2. It leaves you parched — a huge thirst is common.’

  He had a mega thirst now.

  Right after, he went to the Bricklayers. The barman, a balding git with a pony-tail and stained waistcoat, chirped, ‘What will it be, Guv?’

  ‘Large Dewars, please.’

  ‘Ice … water?’

  ‘What, you don’t think I’d have thought of them?’

  ‘Touchy.’

  Roberts didn’t answer, wondering how the git would respond to rad. As if abbreviation could minimise the trauma. Oh would it were so. Dream on.

  Robert’s other passion was Film Noir of the forties and fifties. Hot to trot. Now, as he nursed the scotch, he tried to find a line of comfort from the movies. What he got was Dick Powell in Farewell My Lovely:

  I caught the blackjack right behind my ear.

  A black pool opened up at my feet.

  I dived in. It had no bottom.

  Yeah.

  He’d given the git behind the bar a tenner, and now he eyed the change. ‘Hey buddy, we’re a little light here.’

  ‘Wha …? Oh … took one for me. I hate to see anyone drink alone.’

  Roberts let it go. Londoners … you gotta love them. Bit later the git leans on the bar, asks, ‘You like videos?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Fillums, mate. Yer latest blockbuster — see it tonight in the privacy of yer own gaff. Be like ’aving the West End in yer living room.’

  ‘Pirates, you mean.’

  ‘Whoa, John, keep it down, eh?’

  Roberts sighed, laid his warrant card on the counter.

  ‘Whoops …

  Roberts put the card away, said, ‘I thought in your game you could spot a copper.’

  ‘Usually yeah, but two things threw me.’

  ‘Yeah, what’s those then?’

  ‘First, you have manners.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘You actually paid.’

  Fenton got his nickname thus: During the movie Alien, he killed a guy — the scene where the creature crashes outta John Hurt’s chest. He’d used a baseball bat. Near most, it was his weapon of choice. The guy, Bob Harris, had stitched up his mates. They were doing life-plus on the not so sunny Isle of Wight. Mind you, the ferry over had been scenic. Fenton was offered two large to payback. He did it gratis. What are mates for?

  Oh, Bob liked his horror flicks and was a particular aficionado of Ridley Scott’s work on Alien. Could wax lyrical about the used hardware look of the scenes. Shite talk.

  Fenton had called round, six pack of Special and some wacky-backy. They’d done a tote, got munchies and cracked the brewskis. Fenton asked, ‘Yo, mate, still got Alien, have you?’

  ‘Oh yeah, good one. Wanna see it now?’

  ‘Why wait?’

  Indeed.

  Fenton said he’d grab some cold ones from the fridge as they got into the flick. Bob was on the couch, glued to the screen, yelping about the ‘vision’ of Allen Dean Foster. Fenton unzipped the Adidas hold-all and took out the Louisville slugger. It had black tape wound tight on the handle, tight as cruelty. He gave the bat a test swing, and yeah, it gave the familiar whoosh of long and comfortable use.

  The crew of The Nostradome were sitting down to their meal and John Hurt was getting terminal indigestion.

  Bob shouted, ‘Yo … Fen! You don’t wanna miss this bit!’

  Fen came in, put his weight on the ball of his right foot, pivoted, and swung with all he had, saying, ‘I won’t miss, buddy.’

  And wallop — right outta the ball park.

  The crew on the TV screen gave shouts of horror and disgust at the carnage. Fenton let the movie run, he hated to leave things unfinished.

  Fenton had a meet with Bill in The Greyhound near the Oval. It’s always hopping, but no matter how tight, Bill gets to sit on his tod down the end. All the surrounding seats are vacant. Not free but empty, like McDonalds cola. A time back, a pissed Paddy decided to have a seat right up close to Bill, said, ‘Howya.’

  Bill didn’t look, said, ‘You don’t wanna perch there, pal.’

  ‘Pal? Jaysus, I don’t know you. Buy us a double, though.’

  A muscle man outta the crowd slammed Paddy’s ears in a simultaneous clatter. Then had him up and frog marched out to the alley. There, his arm was broken and his nose moved to the right. After, sitting against the wall, he asked, ‘What? … What did I say?’

  Bill and Fenton went way back. Lots of cross referenced villainy. Masters of their respective crafts. Bill asked, ‘Drink?’

  ‘Rum ’n’ coke.’

  ‘Bacardi or …?’

  Fen smiled, ‘Navy up.’

  An old joke. Just not a very good one. Bill was drinking mineral water — Ballygowan Sparkling.

  The drinks came and Fen said. ‘I dunno Bill, I must be getting old, but I could never get me head round paying for water.’

  Bill took a sip and winced. ‘What makes you think I pay?’

  ‘Nice one.’

  They sat a bit in silence. You could nigh hear the bubbles zip, like pleasant times, like fairy tales.

  Then, ‘We found her.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You’re not going to like it.’

  ‘Gee, what a surprise.’

  ‘She’s in America, like you thought — San Francisco — living with a teacher, name of Davis.’

  ‘A teacher … wow.’

  Bill said, ‘Let it be, Fen,’ and got the look, boundaries being breached. He sig
hed. ‘Sorry … you’ll need a wedge.’

  ‘Big time.’

  Bill rooted in his jacket, took out a fat manila envelope, said, ‘There’s a cop, name of Brant, needs sorting.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon as.’

  ‘How far in?’

  ‘Not fatal but educational.’

  ‘Can do.’

  Fen got up and Bill said, ‘Oi, you didn’t touch yer rum.’

  ‘Hate that shit.’

  And he was gone.

  Brant had taken Falls with him to interview a suspected arsonist. No proof had surfaced but the Croydon cops swore he was the man. Now he’d moved to Kennington and, hey, coincidence, a warehouse was gutted on the Walworth Road. He was in his early thirties with the eyes of a small snake. He’d answered his door dressed in a denim shirt, cutoffs, bare feet.

  Brant said, ‘If you’ll pardon the pun, we’re the heat.’

  The guy smiled, let them know he could be a fun person, asked, ‘Got a warrant?’

  ‘Why? You done somefing?’

  And everybody smiled. The guy was enjoying it, said, ‘What the hell, c’mon in.’

  The flat was a shithole. The guy said, ‘It’s a shithole, right, but I just moved in and …

  Brant said, ‘From Croydon.’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘We heard.’

  He stretched out on a sofa, waved his hand. ‘Park it wherever.’

  Brant parked it right next to the guy’s head, still smiling. The guy sat up, decided to pull the ‘blokes’ routine and nodded towards Falls. ‘You didn’t need to bring a cunt with yah.’

  And got an almighty wallop on the side of his head.

  Brant said, ‘Here’s how it works, boyo — you call her names, I’ll wallop you … OK?’

  Too stunned to reply, the guy looked at Falls, thus failing to see the second sledgehammer punch to the back of his head. It knocked him out on his face and he whinged, ‘I didn’t say nuffink that time.’

  Brant hunkered down, said, ‘I hadn’t finished explaining the rules. See, if you even look like you’re going to call her a name, I hammer you. Get it now?’

  The guy nodded.

  Falls had long since despaired of Brant’s methods. She owed him three large for her father’s funeral and was obliged to suffer in silence.