A White Arrest

Virgin? What’s your problem. Whore? What’s your number. Naomi Wolf (Rocking Years)

Sent flowers every other day, she said: ‘I am blessed full. Not a cloud to be seen… almost. One or two tiny niggles, hardly worth consideration: one, he couldn’t take her to his flat; two, she couldn’t phone him. Weighted against the other gold, these were nothing — right?

Rightish! No point even sharing those with Rosie. Why bother? But: ‘Rosie, whatcha think about..?’ And Rosie: ‘Oh God, that’s very ominous.’

Falls was raging: ‘Ominous? When did you swallow a dictionary?’ That’s it, no more input from Ms Know-it-all.

The doorbell went and she felt her heart fly. At a guess, more roses. With a grin, she opened the door.

Not Interflora.

A bag lady. Well, next best thing. A middle-aged woman who could be kindest described as ‘frumpy’, and you’d be reaching. Her hair was dirt grey, and whatever shade it had been, that was long ago. Falls sighed. The homeless situation was even worse than the Big Issue’s warnings. Now they were making house calls. She geared herself for action: arm lock, a few pounds and the address of the Sally… she’d be history.

The woman said: ‘Are you WPC Falls, the policewoman?’

Surprisingly soft voice. The new Irish cultured one of soft vowels and easy lilt, riddled with education.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Nora.’

Falls tried not to be testy, said: ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but you say it as if it should mean something. It doesn’t mean anything to me.’

The woman stepped forward, not menacingly, but more as if she didn’t want the world to hear, said: ‘Nora Dillon, Eddie’s wife.’

Falls had dressed for confrontation. The requisite Reeboks, sweatshirt and pants. She sat primly on her couch, letting Eddie hang himself. First, she’d considered sitting like Ellen Degenes. That sitcom laid-back deal, legs tucked under your butt, yoga-esque. Mainly cool, like tres. But it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Since Dyke City, when Ellen had come out of the closet, was she a role model? ‘We think not,’ said Middle America. So, Eddie arrived with red roses, Black Magic and a shit-eating grin. He’s even quoting some of his poetry. Like this:

I gave you then

a cold hello

and you

being poorer

gave me nothing

nothing at all.

He was dressed in a tan linen suit with a pair of Bally loafers. His face looked carbolic-shined. He looked like a boy. It tore at her heart. Jesus. Now he was repeating the line for effect: ‘Gave me nothing’. Lingering, slow-lidded look, then: ‘… nothing at all’.

Eddie looked up, awaiting praise. Falls got to her feet, said, ‘Come here.’

He smiled, answered, ‘I love it when you’re dominant.’

He moved right to her, turned his head to kiss her and she kneed him in the balls, said, ‘Rhyme that, you bastard.’

Dropped to the floor like a bad review. She thought of Brant and what he’d say.

‘Finish it off with a kick to the head.’

Part of her was sorely tempted, but the other half wanted to hug him. Summoning all her resolve, she bent down and grabbed hold of the linen jacket and began to drag him. One of his tan loafers came off. Got him to the door and with the last of her strength, flung him out. Then she gathered up the flowers, the chocolates and the loose shoe, threw them after him. Then she slammed the door, stood with her back against it for a while, then slumped down to a sitting position.

After a time she could hear him. He tapped on the door and his voice,

‘Honey… sweetheart… let me explain…

Like a child, she put her fingers in her ears. It didn’t fully work: she could still hear his voice but not the sense of the words. It continued for a time then gradually died away. Eventually she moved and got to her feet, said, ‘I’m not going to cry anymore.’

She had a shower and had it scalding, till her skin screamed SURRENDER. Then she found a grubby track suit and climbed into it. It made her look fat.

She said, ‘This makes me look fat… good!’

Opened the door cautiously. No Eddie. Some of the flowers still strewn around clutched at her heart.

Falls had seen all sorts of things in her police career, but these few flowers appeared to be the very essence of lost hope.

At the off-licence, she ordered a bottle of vodka and debated a mixer. But no, she’d take it bitter, it was fitting.

Back home, she drank the vodka from a mug. A logo on the side said: I’m too sexy for my age.

Bit later she put on Joan Armatrading and wallowed in total delicious torment.

Near the end of the bottle, she threw the music out of the window.

End of the evening, she took a hammer to the mug and bust it to smithereens.

Brant was booted and suited. The flat had been cleaned by a professional firm. They hadn’t actually been paid yet, but assured of ‘police protection’. He was well pleased with their work. The suit was genuine Jermyn Street bespoke. A burglary there had brought Brant to investigate… and pillage. If a look can speak columns, then this suit spoke like royalty. You could sleep in it and have it shout: ‘Hey, is this class or what?’

It was. The shoes were hand-made Italian loafers and whispered of effortless arrogance. He wore a Police Federation tie, a blotch on any landscape, and a muted shirt. He gazed at himself in the new full-length mirror and was delighted, said: ‘I ain’t half delighted.’ The whole outfit was clarion call to Muggers United till they saw his face, and rethought: ‘Maybe not.’

He took his bleeper in case the ‘E’ rang. He needed access. A genuine Rolex completed the picture. Alas, it was so real it appeared a knock-off and supplied a badly needed irony to his whole appearance. He said aloud: ‘Son, you are hot.’ As he left he slammed his new steel-reinforced door with gusto.

It’s been heard in south-east London that ‘a copper’s lot is a Volvo’. Brant was no exception. He found it a distinct advantage to have a recognisable cop issue. Saved it from being nicked. Others said: ‘Who’d bloody want it?’ As he unlocked his car, a few drops of rain fell. He said: ‘Shit.’ And remembered his old man one time, saying: ‘Ah! Soft Irish rain.’ His mother’s reply: ‘Soft Irish men, more like.’

A woman approached, dressed respectably, which revealed absolutely nothing. Not to Brant. She said: ‘Excuse me?’

‘What?’

‘I hate to trouble you, but my car’s broken down and I’m without change. I need three, perhaps four pounds to get a cab.’

‘You need a new line, lady.’

And he got into the Volvo. She watched him, astonishment writ large, and as he pulled away, she said clearly: ‘Cunt.’

He laughed out loud. The night had begun well.