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

down. Grabbed the man by the hair, said: ‘What’s with the bandages, dudes?’
    The man was hurt but still managed to look amazed: ‘What?’
    ‘The Band Aids Bros, what’s the deal?’
    ‘’Cos if I’m cut, she bleeds.’
    Brant smiled and lashed out with his open palm into the woman’s face, said: ‘Hey, pay attention.’
    She tried to spit, then asked: ‘Whatcha pickin’ on us for, mistah? We dun nothing to youse.’
    He banged their heads together as a man entered the tunnel. Brant said: ‘You turned over a gaff, the wrong one, believe me. Now you have two days to compensate me for the damage, or I am talking major hurt. I’ll leave it to you guys to figure out how much it should be. Else... well, I’ll come looking for you.’
    The man drew level and asked: ‘Anything wrong here?’ Brant stood up, said: ‘Naw, I’m doing a survey on urban deprivation.’
    The man peered at the battered couple, said: ‘Good Lord, they’re bleeding.’
    ‘Yeah, but see, they have band aids, that should do it.’ As Brant strolled off, he calculated the pair’s collective age at about sixty. They had the air of a hundred and sixty.
    Never-no-mind, he thought. Like all junkies, they’d been dead for years, the news just hadn’t reached their fried brains yet.
    Shannon watched the cricket story fade from page one to back towards the horoscopes. His story! But unlike the ‘E’ outfit, he didn’t get angry. Time was on his side and he knew how to instantly pull it back. He’d been to military shops on the Strand and quite openly bought a crossbow.
    The proprietor had said: ‘Alas, I’ve only three arrows.’
    The Umpire smiled, said: ‘Then thrice shall I smite them.’
    The proprietor couldn’t give a toss if he answered in Arabic, said: ‘Whatever.’ And he put the goods in a M&S bag, warning: ‘Careful how you handle ’em,’ and pocketed the money.Now the Umpire dry-tested the bow and found it slack. He tightened and tested for over an hour till it gave a taut zing. He couldn’t believe how easy it had been to kill his second cricketer. At the very least, he’d expected a uniform on the beat. But zip, nada, tipota.
    When he’d begun his crusade, he found most of the team addresses in the phone book. That strengthened his conviction and zeal. Three of them with south-east London homes. Better and better. The sheer power of the bolts enthralled him. As he saw the wicket-keeper stumble down the steps, he felt exhilaration. But cunning ruled. He quickly put the weapon in the M&S bag and simply walked away. Shannon began to reemerge as the two personalities roared: ‘Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.’
    PC Tone was what used to be called a raw youth. He didn’t have acne but it was close. At twenty-three years of age, he looked seventeen. Not a big advantage in south-east London. But he had four O-levels and one A-level. The changing Met looked at exams, not faces. When Brant first clapped eyes on him, he’d said: ‘For fucksake.’
    Tone worshipped the Sergeant. The rep of violence, rebellion and fecklessness was irresistible. That Brant despised him didn’t cool his devotion since Brant seemed to despise everyone. Tone figured if he could attach himself to Brant, he’d learn the real method of policing. Not an easy task, as most times he was told: ‘Piss off boy’ Until this morning.
    He’d been summoned, so to speak. Brant was in the canteen, wolfing down a glazed doughnut. The only person to have his own drinking vessel, even the brass got plastic cups. His was a large chipped mug with Rambo on the side. A logo read: I’m a gas. But the g had faded. Brant gave a big smile, particles of sugar in his teeth, said: ‘Have a seat, boyo.’
    Tone was 6’1” and awkward. Roger McGough might have used him for the PC Plod poems. He had his hair cut short and gelled. His face was made up of regular features and his whole demeanour suggested ‘unlikely lad’.
    He sat.
    Brant gave him a full