Ammunition

22

Brant was shaking, not just his hands, his whole body. He was back in his home, a small house on the aptly named… Forl Road… as in forlorn. It had amused him once, not no more, he was dressed in a track suit, a navy blue London Met job. That normally tickled him as he’d nicked it from the Super. Sticking it to his boss had been among his favourite amusements

The painkillers they’d given him at the hospital weren’t worth a shite, he said aloud:

‘These aren’t worth a shite.’

To the empty house.

The doctor had told him he was sure to experience posttraumatic stress disorder. Like it was fucking mandatory, and if he didn’t, he’d be letting the side down. Yeah, well, bloody newsflash, he was feeling it, okay, happy now, you gobshites. And the rage-he’d always operated on a blend of anger, agitation, and aggressiveness-it was who he was.

Brant had been hurt before, knifed in the back by a couple of crazy kids who’d burned his dog… and what the fuck, as he thought of that damn animal, the dog that is. He felt a tear welling in his eye. Now he was seriously angry, to ride with the fear. Crying like a damned bitch.

Fuck no, no way.

After the knifing, he’d gone right back on the streets, meaner than ever and those two, the stabbing duo, they were dirt, literally, buried years ago and good fucking riddance. But this, this gut-twisting feeling, the sweat popping out on his brow, the tremors, Jesus.

Yeah, fine, he was of Irish descent, he knew the painkiller that never failed. Tore open his drinks cabinet, nigh splintering the wood, grabbed the bottle of Jameson, a twenty-five-year-old beauty he’d been saving, twisted the cap off as if he was twisting the neck of some bugger, got a lethal measure poured into a heavy Waterford tumbler, and drank deep, waited for the magic to light his belly.

He held the glass up to the light, sighed as the sun caught the intricate pattern. The odd time Brant had guests and, let’s face it, not many called on Brant, unless to do serious damage. Porter, when he’d been unknowingly writing Brant’s book. Brant had literally nicked the yarns and sold them as a book to a high-speed agent, and the damn thing was good to go, near ready to be published.

Fuck.

Porter had marvelled at the glass, commented:

‘What a beautiful piece of real craft.’

Fags, they were into that fancy shite.

Brant, looking away, as if he were welling up, a near choke in his voice had said:

‘Me old mum brought them over from the old country, t’was all the poor creature had to leave me when she passed.’

Truth to tell, the cunt had left him nothing but bitterness, and she spent no more money on crystal than she spent time on her son.

Porter was suitably impressed and relayed the moving story to Roberts at a later date. Roberts had laughed, said:

‘He took them off a pimp he busted on the Railton Road.’

Porter had been raging, but what, confront Brant, yeah, right so he let it slide.

Brant was feeling better, picked up the phone, let it ring, then heard:

‘Yeah?’

Tired voice, husky with cigs, bad booze, and worse men, He said:

‘How you doing, Alanna?’

This was Lynn, a hooker who’d been around almost as long as Brant and they had history, a lot of it not so bad, he’d saved her arse more than once and ridden it a lot more. She said:

‘I thought they shot you’

He laughed, genuinely amused, a rare occurrence for him. He laughed often but very rarely with conviction, he said:

‘Just a flash wound.’

Like John Wayne, shrugging off massive bullet wounds.

Brant had watched The Shootist more times than he’d eaten late night kebabs in Piccadilly Circus. She asked:

‘What’cha want, Sarge?’

Letting lots of the London hard leak over the question, let him know she was still a player, a tired one but hooking, you didn’t expect to be energized. He said:

‘A shag.’

She was silent and he could hear her lighter click, a gold Colibri he’d given her. She said:

‘So, what else is new, give me twenty minutes. You’re home I take it?’

‘Home and horny.’

Click.

He wasn’t horny, in fact, he never felt less like sex. The doctor had told him that gunshot victims often lost their usual appetites. He was fucked, pun intended, if he was going to let that be true. He took another wallop of the whisky, feeling better by the minute, and went upstairs, knelt down in his bedroom, and lifted up the carpet. He had a floor safe, got it opened, and took out his favourite piece.

The Sig Sauer, model 225. It had been revised to carry eight rounds of 9mm Parabellum ammo, he even had the grown-up version, the 226, which jacked fifteen rounds.

He thought:

Ammunition.

And aloud said:

‘Yah little beauty.’

It was as close to affection as he got.

Lynn had said once:

‘Little boys and their weapons.’

He’d of course, mounted her, muttering:

‘Try this weapon.’

He could see Rodney Lewis in his mind, the big-shot city trader, smirking at him and Porter. Brother of a fucking rapist, and Brant was in, no doubt. He’d paid for the hit on him and would definitely try again.

That type always did.

Brant racked the Sig, said:

‘Mr Lewis, you are dead fucking meat.’

He felt much better, must be the Jameson, worked every time.

He put the gun in his belt, walked, no, swaggered down to wait for Lynn.

The fear, nearly abated… nearly.