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

Brant finally got home he was beginning to sober up. A foul taste on his mouth, he blamed it on the early Cornish pasty. He never blamed whisky. His sobriety was sealed when he saw the door of his flat off its hinges. He roared: ‘Bastards! Not to me, not ever!’
    The living room was destroyed. Ripped and gutted photos. But his beloved book collection: the McBains were shredded, the delicate Penguin covers torn to pieces. Piled on top were remnants of Matthew Hope and Evan Hunters. To cap it, urine had been sprayed all over. Tears blinded him and a sob-whisper: ‘Yah fuckin’ animals.’
    He ran to the bedroom, tried to ignore the used condom on his pillow, went deep into his dirty laundry, extracted a bundle of undies, roared in triumph: ‘Ah, yah stupid bastards,’ extracted a Browning automatic, fully loaded, shoved it in the waistband of his trousers and stalked out. Left the door as it was, said: ‘Daddy’s gone a-hunting.’
    Brant’s shoulder took the door off the basement flat. He felt that was poetic justice at the very least. Inside, the occupant began to rise from bed. But Brant was over and kneeling on his chest within seconds, saying: ‘Sorry to disrupt your sleep, Rodney.’
    ‘Mr Brant, oh God. Mr Brant, what’s going on?’
    ‘Someone turned my gaff, Rodders, someone very bloody stupid, and by lunch today you’ll have their names for me, else I’ll move in with you.’
    ‘Your gaff, Mr Brant? No one would have the bottle, unless it were junkies, yes, has to be, they don’t know from shit.’
    ‘The names, Rod, by lunchtime. Am I clear?’
    He let his full weight settle and Rodders gasped, then managed: ‘OK Mr Brant, OK.’
    Brant got up, asked: ‘Got any aspirin? My head is splittin’.’
    As he left, Rodney asked: ‘My door, Mr Brant, who’s gonna see about that?’
    Brant looked at it with apparently huge interest, then said: ‘Don’t leave it like this, it’s a bloody open invitation, know what I mean?’
    Rodney rang Brant at 11.50, said: ‘I found the geezers who done yer, Guv.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘They’re junkies, like I said. A guy and his girlfriend. Yer own crowd as it happens.’
    ‘What, they’re coppers you mean?’
    Rodney didn’t know if this required a polite laugh. Brant’s humour was more lethal than his temper. He decided to play it straight, said: ‘Ahm, like Micks, you know, Oirish. But they’ve been here a bit so they speak a mix of Dublin and London.’
    ‘So where do I find these cultural ambassadors?’
    ‘They have a pitch at the Elephant and Castle, in the tunnels there. He sits and she begs.’
    ‘How Job Centre-ish, eh?’
    Rodney felt sweat gather on his brow. Any dealings with Brant had this effect. He hoped to terminate the call with: ‘They’re easily recognisable as they wear a band aid under the left eye.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Fuck knows.’
    ‘OK Rodders, you done good. Stay in touch.’
    ‘Definitely’
    And he put the phone down. His heart was whacking in his chest. However bad he felt, he knew it was way beyond what a set of junkies would soon be experiencing. But he shrugged it off, saying: ‘For all I know, they’re Ben Elton fans.’
    Brant found them in jig time. Sure enough they were in the tunnels, begging and band-aided.

Unlikely lad
    T HE MAN WAS SITTIN G on a blanket and the woman was pacing. They had the uniform intimidation: combat jackets, Doc Martens and an air of menace. No dog, surprisingly. Brant looked up and down. Nobody about. He kept his head down and walked up to them, giving the London look of cowardly expectation. He saw the woman smile as she moved to block his path, whining: ‘Few bob for a cup o’ tea, mistah?’
    As he drew level, he swung round and smashed his shoe into the man’s face, then whirled and ran her into the wall. Checking again for onlookers, he then pushed her down beside the man. A symphony of shocked groans came from them: ‘Whatcha do dat for, ya cunt?’
    ‘Ah...
    Brant hunkered