Taming the Alien ib-2 Page 2

  When they were leaving, Brant said to the guy, ‘They think you’re an arsonist. Me? … I dunno, but if there’s another fire soon, I’ll put you in it.’

  Back on the street, Falls said in exasperation, ‘I need a holiday.’

  ‘Yeah? Anywhere nice?’

  ‘Some place far, like America.’

  ‘And you need money, is it? How much?’

  She was too enraged to answer.

  Brant was humming a Mavericks tune as he put his key in the door. He felt fucked and looked forward to a cold one — lots of cold ones — and maybe a sneak peek again at Beavis And Butthead Do America.

  Stepping inside his flat, his inner alarm began.

  Too late.

  The baseball bat tapped him smartly on the base of his skull and two thoughts burned as the carpet rushed to meet him.

  a) Not this shit again

  b) The carpet sure is worn

  When he came to, many pains jostled for supremacy — his head … the rope round his neck … the ache in his lower back …

  The Alien said, ‘I wouldn’t move if I were you. See, what I’ve done is tie a rope round your neck and connected it to yer feet. You move either, you slow strangle. But, don’t sweat it — you’ll catch on quick.’

  Brant tried to move and the strangle hold tightened. He went: ‘Urgh … uh …

  And Fenton said, ‘Exactly! I think you’ve got it.’

  Brant’s pants and Y-fronts were around his ankles and he felt a baseball bat lightly tap his bum. For a horrific moment, he envisaged rape of an American variety.

  Fen said, ‘I hear you’re a hard ass. Time to change that. For the next few weeks when you try to sit, remember: keep yer bloody nose outta people’s business.’

  A whistle began to scream from the kitchen and Fen said, ‘I put the kettle on. Handy, those whistle tops, eh? No boiling over. Excuse me a mo!’

  Brant was awash in cold sweat. Rivers of it coursing down his torso. Fear was roaring in his head.

  Then, ‘Okey-dokey … here we go. I’ll pour …

  And white hot pain electrified Brant’s brain.

  Fiona Roberts was stalled in traffic. Cars were blocked all the way down to the Elephant. Her husband had many proclamations, most of a police bent. Among them was, ‘If you’re caught in traffic, keep the windows shut.’

  Yeah, yeah.

  She could hear a blast of rap from a nearby car and glanced over. A man with dreadlocks was giving large to a mobile. How he could hear anything above the music would be nothing short of miraculous. He caught her eye and gave a huge dazzling gold capped smile. Not too sure about her response, she looked away. Didn’t do to encourage the game. A woman’s head appeared at her elbow and a distinctly Irish accent whined, ‘Gis the price of a cuppa tea, missus, and I’ll say a prayer for ya.’

  Fiona had never mastered the art of street encounters. As a cop’s wife she’d learned zero except the response of confusion.

  Like now. She muttered, ‘I’ve no change.’

  And the woman spat in her face.

  The shock was enormous. As the spittle slid down her cheek, a symphony of horns began and shouts: ‘Eh, get a bloody move on!’ ‘Shift yer knickers darlin’!’

  She did. As the Americans say — ‘Who ya gonna call?’

  Her husband would crow, ‘What did I say? … Didn’t I tell you about windows, eh? Didn’t I say?’

  The Ford Anglia 205E saloon is a classic. You gaze at it, you can almost believe the fifties and sixties had some worth. See your reflection in the chromed wing mirrors, you can almost imagine you have a quiff stuck in Brylcreem heaven with sleek brushed sideburns. The wheels are a collectors wet dream — rubber tyres with separate chrome hubcaps. Note that word ‘separate’. The difference twixt class and mediocrity. Ask Honda as you whisper British Leyland. Throw in Harley Davidson and you’ve got one pissed off Jap. Roberts called his Anglia ‘Betsy’. In the fifties, it was easier to name the car than the child. Roberts was financially strapped. A mortgage in Dulwich, a daughter in boarding school. And he was hurting big time. Now that he’d been diagnosed with skin cancer, he’d flung the lot — caution, care, budget — to the cancerous wind.

  The car was a bust. It didn’t overstretch his finances so much as shout BLITZKRIEG.

  He wasn’t sorry, not one little bit. He loved — nay, adored — it. Kept it in a lock-up at Victoria. The garage belonged to a mate of Brant’s and he was glad to oblige the police. Well glad-ish. Come a pale rider. In the nineties in London. Come joy riders. Bringing anything but joy.

  Patience isn’t high on their list of characteristics. They opened the lock-up no problem, but couldn’t get the Anglia to start. So … so they burned it where it was. The fire took out three other garages.

  When Roberts arrived, the blaze had been brought under control, but too late to save anything. The fire chief asked, ‘That your motor in there?’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘You’ll be insured?’

  Roberts gave him the look. ‘I’m a cop — what do you think?’

  ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They watched the flames for a bit and then the chief said, ‘There’s a cup o’ tea going … fancy one?’

  ‘I don’t think tea will do it.’

  ‘You could be right. Me, I take comfort where I find it.’

  ‘Gee, how philosophical … maybe I should be glad the fire gives heat to the neighbours.’

  ‘See — you’re sounding better already.’

  Before Roberts could respond to this gem, his bleeper went and the Chief said, ‘Could be a long night.’

  ‘It’s been a long fuckin’ life, I tell you.’

  But the Chief already knew that.

  As Roberts sighed and turned away he ran a turn through his favourite noir movies. Always from the forties and fifties. What surfaced was Barbara Stanwyck to Keith Andes in Clash By Night:

  ‘What do you want, Joe, my life history? Here it is in four words:

  BIG IDEAS, SMALL RESULTS.’

  Yeah, the story of it all.

  Brant had passed out from shock. Now, as he came to, he curled up in anticipation of horrendous pain.

  Curled up?

  He thought — What? — and rolled easily onto his side. No pain. No rope.

  Trembling, he moved his hand to his ass … wet and cold.

  Cold water.

  He’d been suckered with the oldest psych trick in the book.

  Rage and relief fought for supremacy as he got shakily to his feet. Stumbled to the cupboard and got a bottle of Black Bushmills. He’d been keeping it for a four star moment like getting the knickers off Fiona Roberts. Twisted the top savagely, let the cap fall and chugged direct. Did this bastard burn … oh yeah!

  He leaned against the cupboard and waited for the four stars to kick in. They did. Fast. And he muttered, ‘Jaysus.’

  After a few more slugs, he moved to the armchair and with a steady hand, lit a Weight. He knew who his assailant was. The so called ‘Alien’, the legendary fuck. Only one person would have the balls to set him loose. With Fenton it was just a job, but to the one calling the shots, it was personal. Brant began to savour how he’d boil the two of ’em together. Not with bloody cold water either.

  Leigh Richards was a snitch. What’s more, he was Falls’ snitch, passed on by Brant who said, ‘The most vital tool for police work is a grass. One of their own who’ll turn for revenge, spite or money. But mainly money. Fear, too, that helps. I’m giving you this piece of garbage, ’cos I can no longer stomach ’im.’

  After meeting Leigh, Falls could understand why. Years ago, Edward Woodward made his name playing a character called Callan. He had a sidekick named Lonely. Leigh was the Lonely of the turn of the century. No specific reason that made him distasteful. Everything about him was ordinary. So much so that he looked like a photo-kit. Everybody and nobody. If there’s such a thing as auras, then his spelt ‘repellent’.

  He said
to Falls, ‘This is a new departure for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Working with a woman.’

  Falls had a constant urge to lash out at him. Ordinarily, she was no testier than your average Northern Line commuter, but once in Leigh’s presence, she felt murderous. She said slowly, ‘Listen, shithead, we’re not working together. We never have, never will — am I getting this across?’

  He had his hair cut in a French crop. This is a crew-cut with notions. His eyes never met yours, and yet, he never ceased watching you. That’s what Falls felt — she felt watched.

  He put up his hands in mock surrender, said, ‘Whoa, little lady! No offence meant.

  I like niggers, anyone will tell you Leigh Richards isn’t a bigot. Go on, ask anybody … you’ll see. Live and let live is my motto.’

  If Falls had sought Roberts’ advice, he’d have said, ‘Never trust a grass.’ He knew from bitter experience. More, he could have recounted the lines from The Thin Man:

  ‘I don’t like crooks.

  And If I did like them, I wouldn’t like crooks who are stool pigeons.

  And if I did like crooks who are stool pigeons, I still wouldn’t like you.’

  Roberts would have liked to rattle off the lines anyway because he liked to. Plus, he’d love to have been Nora Charles’ husband. But she didn’t ask and the lines stayed on celluloid — unwatched and unused.

  Instead, Falls counted to ten and then she smacked Leigh in the mouth. His feelings, not to mention his mouth, were hurt.

  He said, ‘My feelings are hurt,’ and he figured it was time to rein Falls in. Let her see a little of his knowledge, know who she was dealing with. He said, ‘I know you. I know yer Dad died recent, and more, you couldn’t cough up the readies to plant him.’ He had her attention and continued, ‘My old Dad snuffed it too. See this belt?’

  In spite of herself, she looked. It appeared to be a boy scout one, right down to the odd buckle.

  ‘When I went to the morgue, the guy said: “It’s all he left, shall I sling it?” Oi! I said, that’s my estate!’

  Falls didn’t smile, but Leigh could go with that. He’d smacked her right back and never even had to raise his hand or his voice.

  She asked, ‘There’s a moral in there?’

  ‘Like the great man said — “Be prepared!”’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Baden Powell, founder of the scouts.’

  Falls gave a harsh chuckle, said, ‘They weren’t real popular in Brixton.’

  ‘Oh …

  ‘But let me give you a little story.’

  Leigh didn’t care for the light in her eye. He’d heard blacks got funny when they mentioned Brixton. Shit — when anybody mentioned it. He said: ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘I insist. The cat asked: “Do you purr?” “No,” said the ugly duckling. “Then you’ll have to go.”’ She let Leigh digest this then, ‘So, you’re a snitch … then snitch.’

  ‘I’ll need paying.’

  ‘After.’

  ‘It’s good information.’

  ‘Mr Brant was anxious to locate two Irish people, a man and a woman.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He believes they can help with his … ahm … recent accident.’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’

  ‘I know where they went.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘One of them was wearing a nice pair of Farahs as he boarded the plane — a plane for Amer-i-kay.’

  In spite of herself, she uttered, ‘Jesus.’

  Leigh was excited, babbled on, ‘According to my sources, a certain young copper was wearing said pants on the night of his demise.’

  Falls grabbed both his wrists and, Brant-style, leant right into his face, said, ‘Their names?’

  ‘Josie … and Mick … that’s all I know.’

  She squeezed harder.

  ‘Belton … OK! Mick Belton — you’re hurting me!’

  She let go, then reached in her purse and began to gather loose notes. He said in alarm, ‘For Godsake, don’t do it like that — palm it!’

  She did and he squeezed her fingers during the move, said, ‘I have a good feeling about us.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She sounded near warm.

  Emboldened, he risked, ‘You’ll find me more than satisfactory in the … ahm … And here he winked.

  She whispered, ‘And you ever talk to me like that, you’ll find it in Brixton among the used condoms and other garbage.’

  Then she was up and moving. He waited till she was a distance, then said, ‘Yah lesbian!’

  The Alien was sitting in The Greyhound, in Bill’s private corner. He was drinking a mineral water, slowly savouring the sparkle. Bill arrived with two minders. They branched off to man both ends of the bar. Fenton said, ‘Impressive.’

  Bill looked back at them. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Oh definitely, real menace.’

  Bill sat down and nodded to the barman. A bowl of soup was brought and two dry crackers. They were encased in that impossible to open plastic. Bill nodded at them, said, ‘Get those, eh?’

  ‘Why don’t you call the muscle, give em a chance to flex.’

  Bill smiled, ‘You wouldn’t be trying to wind me up would you Fen?’

  ‘Naw, would I do that?’

  Bill was quiet for a bit, then, ‘You did the biz?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Didn’t overdo it, did yah?’

  ‘Naw, just put a frightener to him — he’s mobile but dampened. You’ll have no more strife.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want any of this coming back on me, Fen.’

  ‘It’s done, you’ve no worries. He’s tamed — nowt for him now but nickel and dime till he gets his shitty pension. He’s bottled out.’

  Bill passed over a fat package. ‘A little bonus, help you find yer feet in America … you’ll be off soon.’

  ‘Soon as shootin’.’

  They both gave a professional laugh at this, not that either thought it as funny or even appropriate.

  This is how the call came in.

  ‘Hello, is that the police?’

  The desk sergeant, weary after an all-nighter, answered, ‘Yeah, can I help?’ Not that he had a notion of so doing.

  ‘I’m about to eat my breakfast.’

  ‘How fascinating.’

  ‘When I’ve finished, I’ll wash up, and then I’m going to kill my old man.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘He molested me till I was twelve. Now I think he’s going to start on my little brother …

  The sergeant was distracted by a drunk being manhandled by two young coppers. At the pitch of his lungs, he was singing: ‘The sash my father wore … No big deal in that, unless you noted the man was black. Thus perhaps giving credence to the expression ‘a black protestant’ or not.

  When the sergeant got back to the call, he couldn’t hear anyone on the line. Testily he repeated, ‘Hello … yello?’

  Then two shots rang clearly down the receiver and he knew, without thinking:

  Shot gun — 12 gauge — double o cartridges

  and muttered, ‘Jesus!’

  A homeless person with a grubby T-shirt proclaimed, ‘Jesus loves black and white but prefers Johnny Walker,’ and touched Fiona Roberts on the arm. She jumped a foot off the ground thinking: ‘They’ve even reached Dulwich’.

  He said, ‘Chill out, babe.’ Even the displaced were going mid-Atlantic.

  She ran. No dignity. No finesse. Out ’n’ out legged it.

  Inside her home she said aloud, ‘I know! I’ll never go out again — that’ll do it.’ And received a second jump when her daughter Sharon approached suddenly. ‘Christ, Sharon, don’t do that — sneaking up on a person.’

  ‘Get real, Mom.’

  Fiona thought: ‘A nice cup o’ tea, that will restore me,’ and went to prepare it. She glanced in at the blaring TV. Regis and Kathy Lee were discussing manicures for dogs.

  ‘Sharon … Sharon! Why is t
he telly so loud? … Why do you always need noise?’

  The girl threw her eyes to heaven and sighed, ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘What? … What’s to understand? Tell me!’

  Chewing on her bottom lip, the girl said, ‘Cos yer old, Mum.’

  Fiona scratched the tea and headed upstairs for a Valium — a whole shitpile of mother’s little helpers … sorry, old mother’s little helpers.

  When Charlie Kray, brother of the twins, tried to flog cocaine, three of his customers turned out to be undercover cops. A true sting. Over seventy, Charlie was found guilty, despite his own lawyer calling him a pathetic case. Who Charlie called was Bill. Like this.

  ‘Bill?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s Charlie.’

  ‘Hi, son, I’m sorry about yer bit o’ grief.’

  ‘They set me up Bill.’

  ‘I know, they put you right in the frame.’

  ‘You know me, Bill — I ’ate drugs.’

  ‘We wouldn’t be ’aving this chat if it were otherwise.’

  ‘Thanks, Bill. Reggie always said you were the bollocks.’

  ‘Was there somefing, Charlie?’

  ‘Is there owt you can do for us, mate? I go in, it’s life … at my age.’

  ‘Wish I could, son but it’s solid. You’re going down, but I can ’ave a word, make it cushy as possible.’

  A pause. Defeat hanging full, then resignation.

  ‘Yeah, righto Bill … Will you look out for my old girl?’

  ‘Course, you don’t ’ave to ask.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll get up my way, bring us in a bit o’ cheer.’

  ‘Course I will, soon as.’

  But he never did. Bill wasn’t a visitor and in this case he didn’t even send the help.

  That book was writ.

  When Roberts had proposed to Fiona, her family had raised huge objections. Roberts had told his own father of their view. His father, a man of few words, said, ‘They’re right.’

  ‘What — you think I’m not good enough for her?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about you. As usual you’ve got it backwards.’

  Roberts was pleased, then said, ‘They’ve money.’

  ‘Ah! … Well, perhaps you have class. Now it’s possible we’ll get money, whereas …