‘What’s the deal on the snacks? I didn’t order them.’
Chuckle from the barman, he nodded towards Porter, said:
‘Experience, darlin’. Been as long in this game as I have, you know your punter who’s going to want his salt ‘n’ vinegar. This way I save a trip.’
Falls took the glasses, handed one to Porter, said:
‘He’ll need paying.’
It was twice what Porter would have guessed; he didn’t figure on much return from his twenty. The barman was back at the bar when Falls shouted:
‘Pack of B amp;H.’
Got the look.
Porter sniffed his drink, asked:
‘Vodka? At those prices, they must be doubles.’
She nodded and took a hefty slug, Porter couldn’t drink it neat and shouted towards the bar:
‘Bottle of tonic… slimline.’
When the barman sniggered, Porter realised he was sounding like Arthur Daley which would never be a good idea. When the tonic and cigs came, the barman glared at Porter. As he left, Porter asked:
‘What was that about?’
Falls was opening peanuts, said:
‘He’s homophobic.’
‘Ah, come on, you’re saying he knows I’m gay?’
Falls eyed him and, with little affection, a shard of granite across her pupils, said:
‘Everybody knows.’
He let it slide. There’d been a time when he and Falls had been best mates. Almost from the off, they’d bonded, went dancing, drinking together. Then she’d bought into a shitpile of trouble. A skinhead she’d been friendly with was murdered and her life began to spiral. Porter’s promotion had sealed their separation. He was worried by the speed of her drinking. Her trouble with the booze had definitely worked against her attempt at sergeant. He asked:
‘How are you and Nelson doing?’
This was a detective from Vauxhall who’d saved Falls’ job then had begun a relationship with her. Porter had only met him a few times and found him to be aggressive and worse, dull. Vital qualifications for the Met. She signalled for another round then answered:
‘Nelson? Nelson is history.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She let her face show major surprise, gasped:
‘Oh, you knew him?’
‘Not really.’
Now her lip curled and she snarled:
‘Then why the fuck are you sorry? For all you know, I’m well shot of him.’
Porter stood up, shrugged his shoulders
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
A young cop came in, saw them and came over, said:
‘Sir, you’re wanted, it’s the bombing.’
Porter looked at Falls, asked:
‘Coming?’
‘I’m getting bombed here. You run along, do senior officer stuff.’
Some find themselves through joy, some through suffering and some through toil. Johnny had till now tried nothing but whiskey. A process that left him feeling like somebody new every day.’
2
Angie James was seriously deranged. She’d learnt that early and just as quickly had learnt to hide it. Took her a while to grasp that other people had a sense of right and wrong. Her radar operated on feeling good or feeling cheated. There was little in between. Imitation was her salvation, miming what others expressed honed her survival skills.
But at a cost.
Attempting to incinerate her family as a teenager got her a two-year spell in a psychiatric unit. The best two years she’d had as she’d discovered the power of sex.
And what a dizzying power it was.
Her face was pretty in an unremarkable way. Make-up made you notice. Long afternoons with fashion mags taught her how to shape and hone her body to the level of desirability. Clothes added the rest. Going before the review board, she’d learnt enough to feed them the responses they wanted.
At the age of 28, she’d only made one serious error in the intervening years. One night in a pub, she’d opened a guys face — from the left eyebrow to the chin — with an open razor. Not because she was angry but from a vague interest in seeing his reaction. She did a year in Holloway where she seriously maimed a bull dyke.
For her time there, she was celling with a woman in her fifties named Beth, doing ten to fifteen for a string of post office heists. In a prison dispute Angie had waded in and saved her from a serious beating, purely out of boredom. Beth was grateful, lent her books, cosmetics, cigarettes. One stiflingly hot July day, she’d said:
‘Angie, you should be set up for life, you know that?’
Angie didn’t answer, busy with a Cosmo quiz.
‘I’m serious, hon, get yourself a stash, head for Florida, marry one of the rich fucks there, hump him to a heart attack.’
‘How do I get the stash?’
Beth was a bit drunk, on prison hooch. It tasted like rotgut but got you there and fast. She wanted Angie to have the dream she’d never achieved, said:
‘There’s only one sure crime, pays big with little risk and you do it right, you’re set.’
Angie had moved on to an article telling how to give better oral sex, asked:
‘What’s the crime?’
Beth took another swig of the booze, tried to focus, said:
‘Extortion.’
‘Yeah, and that works how?’
Beth had to lie down, the brew was packing a wallop like a baton. She completely lost her train of thought, was even finding it difficult to remember who the hell Angie was. But Angie was finally interested, pushed:
‘Come on, girl, what’s the deal?’
Gradually and painfully, she learnt the master plan. Bomb a building then demand a payment not to bomb any more. Angie sneered:
‘That’s it, that’s the answer? It’s fucked is what it is.’
Beth had passed out.
Six months after Angie’s release, Beth was blinded by a dodgy batch of brew. Even if Angie had written, as she’d promised she’d do but didn’t, Beth couldn’t have read the letters.
Angie was seeing two brothers, Ray and Jimmy Cross. Ray was the brains and Jimmy the muscle. Small-time operators, they were crazy about her. That she serviced both didn’t bother either of them. Their main attraction was a Mews they rented off the Clapham Road. It was crammed with hot DVDs, laptops, bogus designer label fashion. They’d been eating curry, chugging Special Brew and vaguely watching Dumb and Dumber.
Jimmy said:
‘I found some dynamite today.’
Ray threw a can at him, said:
‘You stupid fuck, how are we going to flog that?’
Angie sat up, asked:
‘Where did you find it?’
Delighted to have her attention, Jimmy rushed:
‘We was doing a spliff in that old house on Meadow Road, I pulled a tarpaulin aside and there it was, a crate of the stuff.’
Ray opened a fresh Special, shouted:
‘Get rid, you hear.’
Angie was up
‘No, no, I’ve an idea.’
3
Brant went:
‘Ahh…’
The hooker finished up, wiped her mouth and got to her feet. Brant stretched, said:
‘There’s brewskis in the fridge, grab us two.’
She glared at him, wanted to shout:
‘Get them yourself, yer fucking pig!’
But she’d known him longer than she wanted to remember, went to the kitchen, rinsed her mouth, spat, said:
‘Good riddance.’
There was a small mirror over the sink and she checked her face. The reflection told the harsh truth: a tired hooker with way too much mileage, the lines of twenty years and all of them hard. Brant from the other room: