The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (22 page)

So, she told him. ‘I aborted.’

And he’d gone berserk. Across the table at her and it took six guards to beat him into a stupor if not submission. Perhaps the worst horror was him never uttering a sound.

When Jack Davis showed up, she took him. She’d received one call before she left London from Bill who said, ‘Run ... for all you’re worth.’

She did.

As the machine kicked into overdrive, Stella made some decaff. It was the state of low fat living. She’d been starting to talk American, eg ‘carbohydrated’.

The washing was in mega spin and she turned on the radio, it had Star Wars speakers and come-on hyper. It was nostalgia hour and she heard Steeler’s Wheel with ‘Stuck In The Middle With You’. Oh yeah. With Gerry Rafferty in the line up, they’d been touted as Scotland’s answer to Crosby, Stills and Nash, which was pushing the envelope; and then Vince Gill with ‘Go Rest High on that Mountain’ ...

As she’d boarded the plane at Heathrow, a song was playing. Elton John’s homage to Princess Diana. Then and now, Stella felt the song that sang it best, that sang it heart-kicked was Vince Gill.

When she heard it, she saw the photo of Di that would wound the soul of the devil himself. It shows her running in a school race at her boys’ school. Her face is that of a young girl, trying and eager, and mischievous.

Full of fun.

This whole thing Stella had told to Jack and then played the Gill song.

In a rare moment of insight, he’d said, ‘Down those mean streets, a decent song must sometimes go.’

She’d said, ‘That’s beautiful Jack.’

‘No, it’s Chandler pastiche.’

‘Oh ...

B
RANT HAD TO CHANGE
flights at Dublin. There are no direct flights to Galway in the West of Ireland. He had contacted a long neglected cousin who said he’d meet him on arrival.

Brant asked, ‘How will you know me?’

‘Aren’t you a police man?’

‘Ahm ... yes.’

‘Then I’ll know you.’

Brant wanted this crypticism explained but thought it best to leave it alone. Instead, he said, ‘So, you’re Pat de Brun.’

‘Most of the time.’

Brant concluded he was headed for a meet with a comedian or a moron. Probably both.

Brant was already confused by Ireland. At Dublin Airport the first thing he saw was a billboard, proclaiming:

‘Costa l’amore per il caffe’

Unless he’d boarded the wrong flight and was now in Rome, it didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t they be touting tea, or jeez, at the very least, whisky?

His cousin, Pat de Brun, was smiling and Brant’s old responses kicked in. ‘What’s the joke, boyo?’

‘Tis that you look bewildered.’

And more bewildered he’d get. Pat said, ‘You’ll be wantin’ a drink, or, by the look of ye, the hair of the dog.’

Brant let it go and followed him to the bar. A middle aged woman was tending and declared, ‘Isn’t the weather fierce?’

Pat ignored the weather report and said, ‘Two large Paddies.’

Brant half expected two big navvies to hop on the counter. The drinks came and Pat said, ‘Slainte.’

‘Whatever.’

They took it neat, like men or idiots. It burned a hole in Brant’s guts and he went, ‘Jesus.’

‘Good man, there’s a drop of Irish in yah after all.’

‘There is now.’

Brant’s travel plans were:

1. London to Dublin

2. Dublin to Galway

3. Overnight stay

4. Shannon to America

So far so something.

A tape deck was playing ‘Search for the Hero Inside Yourself’. Both men were quietly humming. Brant said, ‘Not very Irish is it?’

Pat finished his drink and answered, ‘Nothing is anymore. My name is Padraig but there’s no way a Brit like yourself could pronounce it.’

The drink was sufficiently potent for Brant to try. He said, ‘Pawdrag.’

‘Good on yah, that’s not bad; but lest I be living on me nerves, let’s stick to Pat.’

Brant swallowed. ‘Or Paddy.’

Pat de Brun was a distant cousin of Brant. Migration, emigration and sheer poor pronunciation had mutated
de Brun
to
Brant
.

Go figure.

Brant was to find Pat a mix of pig ignorance, slyness and humour. If he’d been English, he’d be credited with irony. Apart from sporadic Christmas cards, they were strangers but neither seemed uncomfortable. Course, being half-pissed helped. Brant took out his Weights and offered. It was taken and the bar woman said, ‘I could do with a fag myself.’

They ignored her. As Pat blew out his first smoke, he coughed and said, ‘Jaysus ... coffin nails.’

‘Like ’em?’

‘I do.’

‘Good.’

Envious glances from the woman. But she didn’t mind. Men and manners rarely met.

Brant said, ‘I better get a move on.’

Pat was truly surprised, asked, ‘What’s your hurry, where are you going?’

‘Well ... America ... but I better check into a hotel.’

Pat got red in the face ... or redder; near shouted, ‘There’ll be no hotels for the de Bruns! The missus is in Dublin for a few days so you’ll be stoppin’ with me.’

Brant was tempted, answered, ‘If it’s no trouble.’

‘But of course it’s trouble, what’s that ever had to do with anything?’

A point Brant felt couldn’t be bettered. When the bar woman put them out, she pocketed the cigarettes.

F
ALLS HELD HER BREATH
as the Doctor began to speak. ‘Well, Miz ... or Miss – I never know the PC term.’ And he looked at her. The expression of the misunderstood male run ragged by women’s demands.

She wanted to shout, ‘Get on with it you moron,’ but said tightly, ‘Miz is fine.’

‘All right, Miz ... And he looked at his notes.

She supplied: ‘Falls.’

‘Quite so. Well, Miz Falls, you are pregnant. Three months, in fact.’

She was speechless. Now that it was confirmed she felt a burst of happiness and finally said, ‘Good!’

If the doctor was expecting this response, he hid it well. ‘Ah ... when there’s, ahm ... no
Mr
Falls, one isn’t always ... pleased.’

‘I’m delighted.’

‘So I see. Of course, there are alternatives, once the initial euphoria has abated, one might wish for ... other options.’

She wanted to smack him in the mouth but said, ‘I’m keeping my baby. I am not euphoric, I am, as I said, delighted.’

He waved his hand dismissively like he’d heard this nonsense a hundred times, and said, ‘My secretary will advise you of all the details. Good day Miz Falls.’ As she was leaving, he said, ‘I suppose one ought to say felicitations!’

‘You what?’

‘It’s French for congratulations.’

‘Oh, I know what it means, doctor, but I doubt that you do ... in any language.’

The secretary typed out all the data and as she handed it over, said, ‘Pay no heed to him, he’s a toss-pot.’

‘Aren’t they all?’

‘W
ILD, WILD ANGELS’ BY
Smoky was pouring from a gay bar in the lower reaches of the East Village. A near perfect pop song, it contains all the torch a fading queen could ask for.

The Band-Aiders wanted out of New York and they wanted out now. Josie and Sean O’ Brien were the names they were currently using. Their brains were so fucked from chemicals, they weren’t sure of anything save their Irish nationality, but years of squatting in south-east London had added a Brixton patois to their accents. Their one surety was they wanted to hit California, and hopefully hit it fucking hard. Sunshine and cults – what could be better?

And wow, had their luck ever held out? First, they broke into Brant’s flat and though he’d found and threatened them, they got him first. Next, they murdered a young cop named Tone for his new pants – a pair of smart Farahs. Beaten him to death with a nine wood, not that they were golfers. Golf clubs had replaced baseball bats as the weapon of choice for a brief time in Brixton. Things had returned to normal, though, and bats had now reemerged for walloping the bejaysus outta punters.

That Brant would come a-hunting never occurred to them.

Josie had once been pretty, a colleen near most, blue eyes, pert nose and dirty blonde hair.

But that was well fucked now.

Brixton

squats

sheer viciousness

and of course, every chemical known to boogie had wrought havoc.

Her hair was now a peroxided yellow, as once touted by Robbie Williams. Her skin was a riot of spots and sores. Crack cocaine had given her the perpetual sniffles.

And if
she
was rough, Sean was gone entirely like Sid Vicious ... two years after his death.

They’d got into America as part of a punk band entourage. They’d then ripped off the band and pawned the instruments. Now broke, they resorted to what they were – urban predators. Prey was best from gay bars.

But their amazing run of luck was about to dive.

From the shadows, they watched a group of men on the sidewalk. Obviously stewed, they were saying goodbyes with laughter and hugs.

Sean said, ‘I’d kill for a cuppa tea.’

‘Yeah, gis two sugars wif mine, yah cunt!’

They giggled.

Sean watched as one man broke away, and muttered, ‘I’ll give him a good kickin’, I will.’

‘Yeah, we’ll do the bollocks!’ Josie felt the rush of adrenalin, the juice kicking into override. She gasped,
‘Crank it up muttah-fuckah!’
Even the boys in the hood would have admired her accent, not to mention her sentiments.

As the man moved off alone, Sean said, ‘Show-time!’

Julian Asche was thirty-five years old. A successful architect, it had taken him a long time to accept his homosexuality. But New York is a good place to come out. To hear the women tell it, try finding a guy who
wasn’t
:

gay

married

lying

OR

all three.

As a seasoned Manhattanite, he’d paid his city dues. Found a way to cohabit with cockroaches, ignore the homeless and be mugged twice. He’d declared, ‘Enough already!’ and, ‘This shit ain’t happening to me again!’

Thus, he was left with two choices:

1. Leave

2. Get a gun

He got a gun. Finally, he was a fully fledged commuter. Right down to his Reeboks and war stories. To complete the picture he ate sushi and liked Ingmar Bergman.

The weapon was a Glock. It came to prominence as a terrorist accessory – made mostly of plastic, it got through metal detectors without a bleep. Lightweight, easy to carry and conceal; even the cops took to it. As their no-mention second gun, the true back-up.

Now Josie nudged Sean, said, ‘Rock ’n’ roll.’

He grunted, added, ‘Roadkill.’

They moved.

Their tried and tested method was for Josie to approach the vic and whine, ‘Gis a few quid, mate.’ Sean then did the biz from the rear. Simple, deadly, effective. It got them Brant, the young copper and one per cent of the Borough of Lambeth. Why change? Indeed.

But Sean did.

Perhaps it was the Rolex. Julian was wearing the Real McCoy. A present from his first lover. So genuine, it looked fake.

Josie did her part, only altering the currency to suit the geography. The song now coming from the bar was Lou Reed’s ‘Perfect Day’. If fate had a sense of the dramatic, ‘Walk On The Wild Side’ would have been apt; but it has an agenda, which rarely includes humour, and almost never timing.

The dance began as before. Josie strode up to Julian, whining, ‘Gis a few bucks, Mistah.’

Sean, if not exactly the pale rider, pulled rear. For one hilarious moment, Josie’s accent confused Julian. He thought she was saying, ‘Gis a few fucks Mistah.’ He was about to tell her that – ‘Gee sister, you sure dialled the wrong number,’ when Sean, breaking their routine, went for the Rolex like a magpie on speed. Grabbed for the wrist.

Julian shrugged him off, crying, ‘What the ...?’ Then reached for the Glock in the small of his back. He was a child of the movies, he knew you carried it
above
yer bum. Thus explaining perhaps
‘cover yer ass’
. A homophobic would interpret it differently and more crudely. Whatever ...

The gun was out, held two handed in Sean’s direction. Sean, who’d expected a drunken vic, was enraged, shouted, ‘Gimme the watch, yah bollocks!’

Julian shot him in the face. Then the Glock swivelled to Josie and she dropped to her knees, pleading, ‘Aw, don’t kill me mistah, he made me do it, I swear.’

The CIA responses are hard to beat, that is:

Catholic

Irish

Appalling.

Julian felt the power, the deer kicking the leopard in the nuts. Adrenalined to a new dimension, he asked, ‘Tell me, bitch. Tell me why I shouldn’t off you. You deserve to be wasted. Go on –
beg
me. Beg me not to squeeze the trigger.’

She begged.

W
HEN BRANT CAME TOO
, he’d no idea where he was. What he did know was he was in pain. Ferocious pain. He stirred and realised he was half on the floor, half on the sofa. Still half in the bag. Gradually, it came back:

Ireland

Pat’s house

Pub crawling

Quay Street

Dancing Irish jigs.

Dancing! He prayed – ‘Please Jesus let me be wrong about the dancing!’

He wasn’t.

He was clad in his grey Y-fronts. Not grey by choice but cos he’d washed them white with a blue shirt. Sweat cascaded off his face and he said, ‘I’m dying.’

The door opened and Pat breezed in bearing two steaming mugs of tea. ‘Howyah, you’re wanted on the phone.’

‘What?’

‘An English fella and by the sound of him a policeman. Likes giving orders.’

‘Roberts?’

‘That’s the lad.’

Lawrence Block in
Even The Wicked
:

‘It’s a terrible thing,’ he said, ‘when a man develops a taste for killing.’

‘You have a taste for it.’

‘I have found joy in it,’ he allowed. ‘It’s like the drink, you know. It stirs the blood and quickens the heart. Before you know it, you’re dancing.’

‘That’s an interesting way to put it.’