Read Online The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead by Ken Bruen - Free Book Online

Wesley, the monster who signed his suicide note with a threat: ‘I don’t know where I’m going but they better not send anyone after me.’
    Class act. Kev had copied it down, carried it like a prayer of the damned. Damnation was romantic as long as it didn’t hurt. When his brother Albert was born, they left something out, some essential connection that kept him two beats behind. Kevin was his brother and bully. The other two crew members were ciphers, their sole purpose being to fill prisons or football stadiums, and they were partial to both. Go in any bookie’s after the big race, they’re the guys picking up the discarded tickets, the human wallpaper. When God chose the cast, he made them spear carriers. Rage began early in Kev. A series of homes through Borstal to the one where the big boys play. Prison. In Wormwood Scrubs, he was made to bend over by a drug dealer and thus began his lock on their trade. Discovering Burke gave a hint of crusade to his vision and the seeds of vigilantism were sown. The Michael Winner Death Wish series was a revelation. When Bronson eliminated a guy, the audience stood up and cheered. Kev began to see how he could become famous, heroic and use a gun. If he got to settle personal scores, well hell, that was just how the cookie crumbled. The first weapon he got was a replica Colt and he spent hours in front of the mirror striking poses. Mouthing defiance: ‘Bend over! You fucking bend over now... Hey, arsehole... Yeah, you!’ He got Taxi Driver on vid and finally came home. Here was destiny, and in his movie he’d insist George Clooney played him. Get the chicks hot. At times, standing by Brixton tube station, he’s see black guys come past in cars whose names he couldn’t even pronounce. Rap music pouring from the speakers and arrogance on the breeze. He’d grit his teeth and mutter: ‘You’re going down, bad-ass.’ When he got the crew together, he laid it out as a blend of Robin Hood meets Tarantino and how they’d be front page of the Sun. Doug and Fenton didn’t care either way and, if it provided cash, why not? Albert did what Kevin said, as always. The ‘E’ was born and ready to rock ’n’ roll.

Band aid
    A S BRANT AND ROBERT s headed for the pub, they passed a urinating wino. Delirium tremens hit him mid-piss and his body did a passable jig. Brant said: ‘A river-dancer.’
    The pub was police-friendly. Meaning if you were a cop, they were friendly, if you weren’t, you got shafted. A blowsy barmaid greeted them: ‘Two officers.’
    Brant smiled and said: ‘My kind of woman.’
    ‘Friendly?’ said Roberts.
    ‘No, big tits.’
    Roberts ordered two pints of best and Brant added: ‘Two chasers, Glenfiddich preferably.’
    Roberts said: ‘Cheers.’
    ‘Whatever.’
    ‘You know, Tom, we should do this more often.’
    ‘We’ve never done it before.’
    ‘Oh, are you sure?’
    ‘I’m positive, Guv.’
    ‘Hey, Tom, no need for that here, we’re not standing on rank.’
    But he did not offer an alternative. Brant sank the short, said to the barmaid: ‘Maisie, same again.’
    ‘That’s her name?’
    ‘Is now.’
    Four drinks passed. Roberts offered: ‘You’re a single man now.’
    ‘That’s me.’
    ‘No kids.’
    ‘None that I’ve admitted to.’
    Six drinks later, Brant’s turn: ‘You and yer missus, Guv, doing all right?’
    ‘Well, she’s doing something, not that she tells me, mind.’
    Eight drinks later, Roberts: ‘I think I’m pissed.’
    ‘Naw, it’s early yet.’
    Closing time. Roberts: ‘Fancy a curry? I could murder a chapati.’
    ‘Yeah, let’s get a carryout. Molly!’
    ‘I thought she was Maisie.’
    ‘Naw, it’s Molly, they’re always Mollies.’
    Midnight.
    Sitting outside the pub attempting red hot curry, Brant said: ‘D’ya want to kip at my place?’
    A passing bobby stopped, said: ‘What’s all this then?’
    It took Roberts a few moments to focus, then he slurred: ‘Yer bloody nicked, son.’
    When