Ammunition

26

These lines, from a little-known Irish poet, might well best describe McDonald’s exit from London.

The brass were quick to shut down the whole story, and a new terrorist alert kept the focus off some poor schmuck eating his gun.

Favours were called in, threats made, and the whole sorry episode was allowed to simper, slouch away.

McDonald ’s parents were told he was killed in a tragic accident, and they couldn’t afford to come down to London so the Met had him cremated and sent him by second-class mail from Paddington.

His mother put the urn over the fireplace, right beside a photo of Charles and Diana, no one had yet told her that Charles was married again, the odd visitor was a little startled to be told, that’s my boy there, on the mantelpiece.

Brant, on hearing the news, said:

‘Silly bugger.’

Roberts felt a daily sense of guilt.

Porter wished he’d known him better.

Falls, Falls went on a massive bender and midway through this, she was in a pub in Balham.

Balham?

Don’t ask.

It was a bender.

She’d hit that lucky third vodka where the hangover has abated and you’re even considering a touch of grub, considering, not actually going to eat.

A woman appeared, a young man in tow, said:

‘Hey, sweetie, might we join you?’

Angie.

The vixen.

And the young guy, Jesus, the bloke she’d framed for the Happy-Slapper gig. She was truly lost for words.

Angie was dressed to fuck, black leather mini, black boots, and a blouse that bore testament to the miracle of the Wonderbra.

Angie sat, said to the guy:

‘Be a dear, get some drinks in, and oh, a large vodka for our favourite policewoman.’

Falls rallied.

‘The fuck do you want, you crazy bitch?’

Angie laughed, nothing she liked better than warfare, she said:

‘To see you, darling. I get hot just remembering our love-making.’

And Falls felt her face burn. Must be the damn booze, does that to you. Before she could utter a scathing reply, Angie said:

‘The young dreamboat with me, you know him, or course, I was hoping we might work out something, make this whole silly charge… how should I put it… evaporate?’

Falls took a deep swallow of her almost neat vodka, then:

‘Never happen. He’s going down and with any luck, you’ll be joining him.’

The guy was back, carrying a tray of drinks. He looked at Falls with pure hatred, plonked her drink down so it spilt, sat down, Angie cooed:

‘Liz, sugar, you remember John… John Coleman, the poor lamb you set up or do you set up so many you forget their names. He sure won’t forget yours.’

She squeezed his thigh, his eyes never left Falls, Angie continued:

‘We have a proposition for you, love. You drop this nonsense against John, and I won’t sell my night of torrid sex with black, recently promoted sergeant. Does that sound… reasonable?’

Falls was fucked, knew it, reacted by taking on the stare of Coleman, leaned over to him, said:

‘Keep looking at me like that and I’ll take your fucking sheep’s eyes out.’

He pulled back, way back.

Angie was thrilled.

‘See, John, didn’t I tell you she was a downright tigress?’

Angie raised her glass, asked:

‘So, let’s toast our deal, what do you say, Liz, cherry pip?’

Falls threw her vodka in her face, stood up, said to the guy:

‘You ever give me a fucking look again, I’ll cut your balls off.’

And she stormed off.

Angie, in a warm tone, shouted:

‘See you at your place soon. Drinks on me, darling.’

Outside, Falls had to stand against the wall for a moment, try to get a grip on her world that was spiralling so far down the toilet, she didn’t even know if it was worth flushing. A homeless guy approached, asked in a concerned tone:

‘You okay, missus?’

‘Missus’?

She nearly laughed but was afraid if she started, she might never stop. She linked his arm, asked:

‘How about I buy you a big drink, mate, how would that be?’

He concurred it would be just dandy.

They were halfway down the street when he tried to put his hand up her skirt, and with almost reluctance, she broke his nose.