Ammunition

11

Falls appeared for duty with her stripes proudly displayed on her arm, she tried to appear cool with it, but a shit-eating grin threatened to engulf her features at any time. The other cops, grudgingly went:

‘Sarge.’

The term like bile in their respective throats. She was summoned to Brown’s office. She was confident the Super had a little congratulatory speech prepared, the first black female sergeant! She thought to herself:

It’s been a long time coming.

And she resolved to be suitably humble and, what was the term, yeah, self-effacing.

She knocked on the door, her sense of anticipation at its zenith. She was taken aback to see PC Lane there, the fuck was he doing at her moment? Lane was the lamest cop on the force, so bland he could only be described as beige. He’d had one moment of glory when he was photographed with Tony Blair, but old Tony had lost a lot of kudos since then. Even Lane’s wife had removed the framed photo from their mantelpiece, replaced it with the Dalai-lama, always a safe bet. He never said nowt, and people were vague as what exactly he ever did. The Super was huddled over papers, took five minutes before looking up, and when finally he did, he said:

‘Ah, Falls, you’re late.’

No Sergeant.

He leant back, addressed her, and Lane, asked:

‘Are you familiar with the happy-slapping scandal?’

Falls wanted to shout:

‘You pompous prick, it’s in the papers every bloody day.’

She conceded she was and Lane simply nodded. The Super said:

‘Good, then you know what’s involved. Now I don’t give a toss what they do in the rest of the country but not on my patch, do you understand?’

Falls couldn’t believe it, this was the plum assignment, she tried for control, asked:

‘And, sir, what is it you wish us to do?’

Brown’s face clouded, he caught the tone, barked:

‘Kennington seems to be the most popular site for the little bastards, get down there, stamp it out.’

Falls waited for more and the Super said:

‘I’m assigning PC Lane to accompany you. He has teenagers so he knows how they think, if anyone on the damn planet can ever be said to know that.’

The fact that Lane’s kids were grown adults was not something Lane mentioned.

Falls asked:

‘Is that all… sir? ’

Brown was back in his papers, said:

‘Tell my secretary to bring my tea, and to make sure the biscuits are fresh, they were stale yesterday.’

And they were dismissed. There was no sign of his secretary and Lane, worried, asked:

‘Should we try and find her?’

Falls gave him her most withering look, said:

‘Take a wild fucking guess?’

For the next week, they covered the Kennington Road, with Falls sitting in the car and Lane on foot patrol. You’re the sergeant, you’re going to walk the beat with a constable?

Lane wasn’t happy, but he didn’t have a whole lot of choice and the odd times he did get to spend with Falls, she was so crabby, irritable, he was relieved to get back on solo patrol. They didn’t find any Happy Slappers but did grab two pickpockets, warned off the inevitable hookers, and were mainly bored out of their minds.

Lane, used to dull assignments, took it as more of the same, but Falls was seething. She went to see Brant, and he was on the verge of being discharged, sitting up in bed, reading a porn magazine. Most guys, sneaking a peek at one of these, if someone enters the room, they try and hide it, but Brant, he lay it open at its provocative page. Falls asked:

‘How do the nurses like your choice of reading?’

He looked almost the same as before, except his face was visibly thinner and his skin a greyish pale. His spirit, that seemed as lethal as ever, he said:

‘The nurses gave it to me.’

He stared at her sergeant’s stripes, said:

‘Welcome to the club.’

She suddenly felt slightly ashamed of them, Brant knew she’d gotten them under false pretences. As if reading her mind, he said:

‘Don’t sweat how you got them, just be sure to make full use of the rank.’

She blurted out about her current assignment, and he gave his demonic smile, said:

‘You know why Brown is so gung ho to grab one of these slappers?’

She repeated the speech the Super had given them and he snorted, said:

‘Bollocks, his wife was a victim.’

She was going to ask him how he knew, but then information was his currency.

He said:

‘Those guys on the door, protecting me, bum a cig off one of them, the fat fuck, he has a. pack of Embassy.’

She said:

‘Isn’t smoking forbidden?’

And got the look.

He said:

‘Hon, when you’re a wounded cop, you can do what the fuck you like.’

She opened the door and, sure enough, one of the cops was fat and did have the cigs. He handed them over with:

‘Any chance he might buy his own?’

Falls nearly laughed, said:

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

As Brant created a cloud of smoke above his head, Falls filled him in on the discovery of the dead body, the guy who’d shot Brant, and the subsequent call to Roberts. Brant listened without comment and Falls finally asked:

‘Aren’t you worried about the next attempt?’

He dropped the cig on the floor, said:

‘Put your sergeant’s heel on that, there’s a good girl.’

She picked it up, extinguished it in a glass of water, then, on consideration, put the soggy thing in her jacket. Brant was highly amused, said:

‘Come back this evening, you can do a clean sweep.’

And immediately lit another. He had a way of constantly irritating a person and once he knew you were fucked, he never let up. And despite all that, there was no better guy to have in your corner. She repeated her question, and he said:

‘I hope he takes a shot at me sooner rather than later.’

Anyone else, you’d call it bravado. He said:

‘You want off this shite detail you’re on?’

She said of course, but there hadn’t been a single instance. Brant shook his head, said:

‘Christ, no wonder you could never pass the exam.’

She winced, and he let that hover, then said:

‘Get hold of a mobile phone, with the camera on it, then grab the first fuck you see. Bring him in.’

She stared at him, asked:

‘You mean plant it on a person?’

He laughed, the one that had no relation to warmth or indeed humour, said:

‘Well, he’s hardly going to plant it on himself.’

She hated to admit it to herself, but she’d do nigh anything to get off the assignment, asked:

‘What about Lane?’

This time, he dropped the butt in the glass of water, it made a soft plink. He said:

‘Lane could give a fuck. How do you think he’s put in eighteen years and never made noise? You’re the sergeant, you tell him what’s happened, after you nick the culprit.’

She was beginning to like the sound of the set-up and asked:

‘But the guy, whoever we choose, won’t he claim it’s a set-up?’

Brant smiled.

‘Don’t they all.’

Before she left, she asked:

‘How are you feeling in yourself, they say a… a shooting can take a long time to recover from. You could take early retirement?’

For once, he actually showed some emotion, surprise principally, asked:

‘And do what, become a Happy Slapper? This is the only gig I know.’

She was as the door, then said:

‘Porter saved your life, you know that? He covered you with his body.’

Brant wasn’t comfortable, said:

‘He’s a fag, any chance to jump on my bones.’

She’d finally gotten a chance at Brant, took it, said as she closed the door:

‘You owe him, big time.’

The fat guard called after her:

‘Hey, where’s me cigarettes?’

Without turning, she said:

‘He put them in water, they look lovely, real decorative.’

She went to a phone warehouse, bought the cheapest model she could find, then outside Kennington Tube Station she handed the phone to Lane, said:

‘Get my pic’.

She adopted an expression of shock, like she’d just been slapped.

Two hours later, she selected her target, a guy in his twenties, walking with a swagger, elbowing people aside as he strutted towards the station. Falls said:

‘There’s our Happy Slapper. You just saw him slap me and here’s his phone.’

Lane didn’t say anything, just took the phone, Falls got out of the car and deliberately collided with the guy. She made it look like he’d attacked her, and began to scream blue murder. Lane was out of the car, and despite whatever reservations he’d felt, he went full into the scenario, producing the phone camera, saying loudly:

‘He photographed the attack!’

His tone a mix of outrage and disbelief, three pedestrians bought what they thought they were witnessing and grabbed the young man, throwing punches at him, going:

‘You animal.’

A woman helped Falls to her feet, said:

‘The pig actually photographed you!’

Falls was astonished at how well it had gone, and Lane’s participation added the nice touch of reality.

The young guy, named John Coleman, was too flabbergasted to speak, plus he was hurting from the punches he’d received from the witnesses. Lane arrested him, cuffed him, and shoved him in the car, Falls took the names and addresses of the pedestrians, who were more than willing to help.

Since the attacks on London, people were more than keen to get involved. Bombs were one thing, but that you couldn’t walk down the street without getting a slap in the face and… being photographed while it happened, it was just too much outrage.

Falls got back in the car, letting Lane drive, she was shaking from the physical tussle and the sheer andrenaline of the encounter.

Lane put the car in gear, and Falls glanced back at the Happy Slapper. He seemed to be in a daze. Falls said:

‘That will teach you to push people around.’

He looked up, his face a riot of confusion, said:

‘But I don’t even have a mobile.’

Falls held up the phone, asked:

‘And what do you think this is?’

Lane gave an odd sound, as if he had something nasty in his mouth. He felt Falls was really pushing the envelope on this one. The young man tried:

‘It’s not my phone, you can’t make this stick.’

Falls held up a sheet of paper with the witnesses names, said:

‘We’ve enough ammunition here to put you away for two years, if you’re lucky’.

She turned back to Lane, said:

‘You did good.’

He was maneuvering into a space outside the station, took a moment, said:

‘Not how I’d term it myself.’

Falls decided not to pursue it.