Ammunition (4 page)

‘It’s Porter Nash, sir.’

Silence for a moment, then:

‘I’m in the middle of a round of golf. This better be good.’

Porter took a deep breath, said:

‘Sergeant Brant has been shot.’

No hesitation now:

‘Is he dead?’

‘No, sir, he’s going to pull through, thank god.’

Porter could hear Brown tell someone else and presumed he was already pulling out all the stops, getting all personnel mobilized, Brown said:

‘You might thank god, laddie, others would see it differently.’

Porter knew that Brant had been a constant problem to Brown and all the brass, but he’d expected at least a show of vague concern.

Nope.

Wasn’t going to get it. He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, asked:

‘Would you like the details of the shooting, sir?’

‘You think they’ll improve my chances of getting on the green in less than two strokes?’

Roberts was staring at Porter, obviously aware of how it was going, Porter said:

‘No sir, I don’t see how it could possibly improve your… performance.’

Porter could have been mistaken but he heard what sounded awfully like a titter?

Brown said:

‘Tell Roberts, he’s his mate, if an animal like Brant could be said to have such. Personally I doubt it.’

Click.

Roberts watched Porter slam the mobile on the palm of his hand, said:

‘He was full of concern I’d guess.’

Porter wanted to hit somebody, said:

‘He was full of shit is what he was.’

Roberts thought there might be hope for Porter yet and asked him if he fancied a pint? And to his astonishment, Porter agreed, giving his number to the nurses station lest there be any change. On their way out, a large man stopped them, asked in a Yank accent:

‘How’s our boy doing?’

Porter said:

‘He’s going to be fine, you want to come for a jar?’

‘Is that like a beer?’

Roberts, already out of all patience, snapped:

‘Do we look like we’re going for a cup of tea?’

And kept moving. The Yank looked to Porter who just shook his head and indicated he should just trail along.

He did.

They went to the Black Lion, recently taken over by a retired cop named Sully They got a table at the rear and Sully limped over, the cause of his retirement. He said:

‘Real sorry to hear about Brant.’

Roberts said:

‘Yeah, bring me a large Scotch and whatever these fellahs want?’

The Yank went into a long query about the variety of beers, and Roberts said:

‘Hey, can you get to it, we’ve had a long fucking day. You want to drink or write a fucking column on ale?’

The Yank was delighted, hostility was his favourite gig. He said:

‘Bring me a pint of that bitter you guys drink, and any chance it might be like chilled.’

Sully said:

‘Not a chance in hell.’

Porter ordered a gin and slim-line tonic, the other two giving him a withering look.

There was a silence as they waited for the drinks, Roberts tapped his fingers on the table, irritating them all, himself most of all, but no one commented.

Porter said:

‘I’d kill for a fag.’

He had been diagnosed as diabetic so cigs were out, but it didn’t stop the craving, in fact, not being able to made it worse. Roberts laughed and Porter realized what he’d said…
thought, uh-oh,
Fag for a fag
. It eased the tension, and the Yank put out his hand to Roberts, said:

‘We haven’t been introduced, I’m L. M. Wallace and you’re Roberts, the chief inspector?’

Roberts reluctantly took his hand, said:

‘I know who you are, you’re going to tell us how to run things, just what we need.’

The drinks came, Roberts was reaching for his wallet but Wallace beat him to it, said:

‘My treat.’

He raised the pint, inspected it, then said:

‘I’m not here to tell you jack shit, buddy. I’m here in an advisory position, not my idea I can tell you that, I could be back home, watching the Yankees having their ass handed to them.’

Porter raised his glass, said:

‘Hey, here’s to cooperation, right?’

Roberts drained his shot in one, shouted:

‘Sully, same again.’

Wallace clinked his glass against Porter’s, said:

‘Here’s looking at you, bro.’

He knocked off most of the pint in one toss, said:

‘Jesus H. Christ, that’s piss.’

Then he settled back in his chair, asked:

‘So, who shot your sergeant?’

Are we all bare-faced liars?

—Jonathan Aiken,
gaoled Tory minister

FALLS HAD FINALLY left the hospital, the nurse telling her Brant was comfortable and got the look from Falls, who asked:

‘He was shot in the back a few hours ago and he’s comfortable?’

The nurse, white, was never entirely at ease with black people, they seemed so angry all the time. She ventured:

‘It’s what we say, you know, to reassure the relatives.’

Falls was beginning to enjoy the mind fuck, asked:

‘You noticed that Sergeant Brant is white?’

‘Am… yes.’

Falls took her time, then:

‘So, how do you figure I’m related to him?’

The nurse fled.

Falls headed for the pub, she had her new rank to celebrate, went to The Oval pub right beside the station, bought a copy of The Big Issue from the homeless guy, who said:

‘Sorry to hear about Brant.’

‘Course, word would have spread all over the South-East,
Brant downed at last. She muttered something, and the guy interpreted it as
keep the change
. She liked this pub, no cops, lots of villains, but then where didn’t?

The barman, surly git, growled:

‘What will it be?’

He hadn’t twigged her for the heat, or he’d have changed his tone. Falls said:

‘Large gin and tonic and a pack of B & H.’

The guy sniggered, said:

‘See that machine over there, the one that says “cigarettes” in large bright letters, guess what it’s for?’

Falls was tired, and the letter in her bag was burning a hole. She leaned over to the guy, said:

‘I’m Sergeant Falls, and I’m in a real fucking bad frame of mind, so how about you bring me what I ordered. I’ll be sitting over there in the corner.’

He did.

Even had the cellophone off the packet, one of the cigs perked up, Falls gave him a tenner and poured a tiny hint of the tonic in the glass, no need to screw up perfectly fine gin with tonic. She knocked back a sizeable wallop, sat back, waited for the jolt. It came fast and she let out a barely audible sigh. The guy brought her change and she snapped:

‘Same again.’

She was going to be massacred, see what the night would produce then. She waited till she was half through her second double before she allowed herself to think about the letter.

A time back, the Vixen case, a particularly nasty psycho named Angie, who took out two brothers and countless more they only suspected. Worse, she had deliberately targeted Falls, became her friend. And Falls, she cringed, despite the gin, blushed,… Jesus, the memory… on one very drunken occasion… her lover. It had nigh on destroyed her career and only a miracle in the form of Brant had saved her arse.

Angie was caught and pulled down heavy jail time. Falls had breathed a sigh of relief and only hoped some other crazy bitch would put a shiv in Angie’s back. She opened the latter, realized her hands were shaking, read:

Girlfriend
,

How are you sweetie?

I’ve missed you
.

Your black, creamy skin, your wild, abandoned love-making, your lovely face got me through so rough times here on her

Majesty’s Service
.

Wonderful news
.

I’m out
.

Aren’t you delighted?

I know you are
.

I know you long for me
.

Patience, my black meat
.

I have few a loose ends to put right, but then I’ll be round. I see you’re still at the same address
.

We’ll make up for all the lost time
.

Soon, my lover
.

Be patient
.

Xxxxxxxx

Your own fox

Falls wiped her brow, sweat was pouring off her, the gin she hoped. The bar guy was over, asked:

‘Hot enough for yah?’

Falls fixed her steel eyes on him, said:

‘Fuck off’

He loved it, said:

‘God, I love it when babes talk dirty.’

And he was gone before Falls could reply.

She couldn’t believe it, Angie was out and stalking her. Panic gripped her. Angie was among the craziest of a whole series of deranged lunatics she’d met in her time on the force.

And to say she had
ammunition
on Falls was putting it mildly. Falls lit a cigarette, her hands a little steadier. The only person who could really deal with this type of psycho was Brant.

Feeling the drinks, Falls got to her feet and wondered if she should call a cab, she wasn’t sure if she was in any shape to drive.

The bar guy said:

‘You come back and cheer us all up soon, you hear.’

Brant would have given him a wallop up the side of the head.

McDONALD WAS HOME, shaking his head in disbelief. The events of the day had staggered him. Just when he truly believed his life was fully in the toilet, the cavalry had arrived—in the guise of an old codger.

Go figure.

After he had bashed the young hooded girl and invited the old man for a cuppa, it had never once occurred to him that his whole future was about to change. They’d gone to a transport caff, one of the few real English places still existing, the old man prattling on about the country having gone to the dogs… though he might have well said…
wogs
.

Which meant he had either a lisp or a serious hard-on for foreigners. They’d ordered bacon sarnies, a neon-lit nightmare of carbos, and, of course, a large pot of tea, brewed with Lipton’s real tea, none of that tea-bag shite. The sandwiches arrived, dripping fat and lard, just the way McDonald adored them. As they ate, with relish, the old man, mid bite, asked:

‘So, how come a bright young copper like yourself is pulling garbage duty?’

McDonald thought about giving him a sob story but decided to tell the truth, said:

‘There’s no tolerance any more for hands-on policing.’

This seemed to be exactly the answer the old man was hoping for. He extended his hand, said:

‘I’m Bill Traynor, fought for my country and what do I get?’

McDonald put three sugars in his tea, ventured:

‘Sweet fanny all I’d say.’

Bill was nodding, said:

‘Too bloody right, mate. Where I live, we’re tormented by young Pakis, playing loud music, insulting our wives, sneering at us as we go to the post office, and don’t even mention the darkies. They wait for us to collect our pensions, not that you could feed a frigging cat on what they give us, and they jump us after we collect.’

He was gasping for breath, took out an inhaler, said:

‘Me bloody lungs are shot but before I go, I’d like to make a stand, are you following me?’

McDonald had a fair idea but he’d let Bill spit it out, said nothing and simply stirred his tea:

Bill looked round, then said, in nearly a whisper:

‘A group of us have formed an association, a band of men to take back our streets, but we’re old, how effective can we be.’

He stared at McDonald, and seeing nothing to warrant handcuffs, took the plunge, said:

‘Now if we had a bright young ballsy fellah to lead us, we might make a difference, do you follow me so far?’

McDonald thought how complicated was it, a bunch of pensioner vigilantes, he nearly laughed but Bill added: