stress didn’t help the condition much either. Ten minutes before Brant appeared, and he had a shit-eating grin, Porter asked:
‘What?’
Brant fixed his pants, said:
‘For an ugly cunt, she sure has a lovely mouth, who’d have guessed.’
Took Porter a moment before the penny dropped and he asked, near shocked:
‘Oh, come on, you didn’t… Jesus, I mean… you wouldn’t?’
Brant gave him an innocent look, said:
‘Never look a gift hooker in the mouth.’
WPC Andrews couldn’t believe it, she was hooked up with McDonald. The desk sergeant glared at her, asked:
‘You got something on your mind, Constable?’
She shook her head, what could she say. McDonald didn’t look any happier, but these days he always looked like that. The sergeant said:
‘There’s been a complaint about noise in a flat on Cold-harbour Lane, the local residents are making waves. So get over there, sort it out.’
Andrews wanted to ask if it was a good idea to send two white cops to Brixton but followed McDonald as he headed out. As she struggled to keep up with the rapid pace he was setting, she asked:
‘Am, how’ve you been?’
He never looked at her, answered:
‘Fucking hunky-dory.’
And that nailed that.
Brixton, as usual, was teeming, and they got lots of snide remarks as they moved through the crowds. Coldharbour Lane was unusually quiet, and McDonald asked:
‘What’s the name?’
‘Name?’
‘Yeah, of the person we’re supposed to be cautioning.’
‘Oh.’
She had to consult her notebook, not easy at the pace he was maintaining, and he said:
‘Before the winter, yeah?’
‘Jamil, he’s in the ground-floor flat, Number 19.’
McDonald grinned, said:
‘Jamil, bet he votes Tory’
They banged at the door and no reply, so McDonald gave a look around, then put his boot to it and it gave way. Andrews said nothing, simply followed him inside. Music was blaring from the first flat on the ground floor and McDonald said:
‘Jamil, I presume.’
The door opened and a white woman came crashing out, screaming obscenities, stopped on seeing them, and went:
‘Oh…’
Andrews asked:
‘Is Mr Jamil at home?’
The woman stared at her as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing, then: ‘Mister… That is fucking priceless, but if you mean the no-good, lying, cheating bastard who think he’s Bob fucking Marley then yeah, Mister Jamil is home… and receiving guests.’
She gave a hysterical laugh. Andrews didn’t know who Bob Marley was, her tastes tended to Beyonce and J. Lo. The woman headed for the street, said:
‘Bust his ass good.’
McDonald said:
‘Sounds like grounds to enter.’
And went into the flat. Andrews felt this was definitely one of those times to call for back-up but followed anyway. The smell of weed hung in the air like cordite. African spears, shields, knives lined the walls. It took them a moment to see through the haze. Sitting in a low chair, back to the wall, was a bald man, black as coal, dressed in shorts only. His body was slick with oils. The music was deafening. He peered at them through slit eyes, said: ‘You muthahfuckahs want?’
McDonald moved to the music console, turned it off. The silence was total, then the man asked:
‘The fuck you doing, whitey?’
McDonald moved to the table, picked up a bag of weed, said:
‘You’re busted, bro.’
The man smiled, displaying gold teeth and a scarlet tongue. He looked at Andrews, said:
‘Yo a foxy bitch, yeah?’
Andrews tried to take charge, said:
‘If you’d care to accompany us to the station.’
Even McDonald turned to look at her. In the moment McDonald looked away, Jamil put his hands under the chair, produced a sawn-off, said:
‘Surprise.’
McDonald couldn’t believe this was happening again. He remembered the last time he’d stared into the barrel of a gun. The seconds before the guy pulled the trigger, sweat pouring off his face and the fucking awful pain. The months of
‘What?’
Brant fixed his pants, said:
‘For an ugly cunt, she sure has a lovely mouth, who’d have guessed.’
Took Porter a moment before the penny dropped and he asked, near shocked:
‘Oh, come on, you didn’t… Jesus, I mean… you wouldn’t?’
Brant gave him an innocent look, said:
‘Never look a gift hooker in the mouth.’
WPC Andrews couldn’t believe it, she was hooked up with McDonald. The desk sergeant glared at her, asked:
‘You got something on your mind, Constable?’
She shook her head, what could she say. McDonald didn’t look any happier, but these days he always looked like that. The sergeant said:
‘There’s been a complaint about noise in a flat on Cold-harbour Lane, the local residents are making waves. So get over there, sort it out.’
Andrews wanted to ask if it was a good idea to send two white cops to Brixton but followed McDonald as he headed out. As she struggled to keep up with the rapid pace he was setting, she asked:
‘Am, how’ve you been?’
He never looked at her, answered:
‘Fucking hunky-dory.’
And that nailed that.
Brixton, as usual, was teeming, and they got lots of snide remarks as they moved through the crowds. Coldharbour Lane was unusually quiet, and McDonald asked:
‘What’s the name?’
‘Name?’
‘Yeah, of the person we’re supposed to be cautioning.’
‘Oh.’
She had to consult her notebook, not easy at the pace he was maintaining, and he said:
‘Before the winter, yeah?’
‘Jamil, he’s in the ground-floor flat, Number 19.’
McDonald grinned, said:
‘Jamil, bet he votes Tory’
They banged at the door and no reply, so McDonald gave a look around, then put his boot to it and it gave way. Andrews said nothing, simply followed him inside. Music was blaring from the first flat on the ground floor and McDonald said:
‘Jamil, I presume.’
The door opened and a white woman came crashing out, screaming obscenities, stopped on seeing them, and went:
‘Oh…’
Andrews asked:
‘Is Mr Jamil at home?’
The woman stared at her as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing, then: ‘Mister… That is fucking priceless, but if you mean the no-good, lying, cheating bastard who think he’s Bob fucking Marley then yeah, Mister Jamil is home… and receiving guests.’
She gave a hysterical laugh. Andrews didn’t know who Bob Marley was, her tastes tended to Beyonce and J. Lo. The woman headed for the street, said:
‘Bust his ass good.’
McDonald said:
‘Sounds like grounds to enter.’
And went into the flat. Andrews felt this was definitely one of those times to call for back-up but followed anyway. The smell of weed hung in the air like cordite. African spears, shields, knives lined the walls. It took them a moment to see through the haze. Sitting in a low chair, back to the wall, was a bald man, black as coal, dressed in shorts only. His body was slick with oils. The music was deafening. He peered at them through slit eyes, said: ‘You muthahfuckahs want?’
McDonald moved to the music console, turned it off. The silence was total, then the man asked:
‘The fuck you doing, whitey?’
McDonald moved to the table, picked up a bag of weed, said:
‘You’re busted, bro.’
The man smiled, displaying gold teeth and a scarlet tongue. He looked at Andrews, said:
‘Yo a foxy bitch, yeah?’
Andrews tried to take charge, said:
‘If you’d care to accompany us to the station.’
Even McDonald turned to look at her. In the moment McDonald looked away, Jamil put his hands under the chair, produced a sawn-off, said:
‘Surprise.’
McDonald couldn’t believe this was happening again. He remembered the last time he’d stared into the barrel of a gun. The seconds before the guy pulled the trigger, sweat pouring off his face and the fucking awful pain. The months of
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