Ammunition

6

McDonald was freezing his nuts off. The cold weather had come with a goddamn vengeance and no matter where he stood, the cold seemed to seek him out, lash him. He was outside the Shopping Centre in Balham, wondering if he’d risk hopping off for a coffee when a group of hoodies passed, teenagers with the hoods pulled up to cover their faces. You couldn’t tell if they were male or female. As they moved by, one of them spat on his shoes.

He lost it, grabbed the figure, dashed him against the wall, said:

‘You want to play games, how’d you like this one, called headbanging.’

He let go and the hood had slipped, revealing a girl, in her late teens, her forehead pouring blood, one of the boys whined:

‘Why’d you do that?’

McDonald smiled, said:

‘Because I can, now get the hell out of here.’

They slumped off, muttering darkly. A pensioner had been watching and McDonald figured, here we go, the old geezer will report me. Did he care? Not a lot. The man said:

‘Let me shake your hand.’

And did.

McDonald was astonished, said:

‘Thank you.’

The man beamed, said:

‘That’s the spirit that put the Great in Britain.’

McDonald asked:

‘Fancy a cup of tea, a bacon sarnie?’

Roberts and Porter were still at the hospital, a doctor approached, asked:

‘Who’s the ranking officer?’

He was looking at Porter, as if he knew it was him, so Porter, said:

‘That would be Chief Inspector Roberts here.’

The doctor was disappointed, sighed, said to Roberts:

‘We’ve got the bullet out and he will be okay, but we’re keeping him in Intensive Care for twenty-four hours, purely precautionary.’

Roberts let his chest relax, didn’t realise how tight he’d been holding himself, Porter said:

‘Thank Christ.’

The doctor asked:

‘Has his family been informed?’

Before Porter could speak, Roberts said:

‘We’re his family’.

The doctor thought, poor bastard, and Roberts asked him:

‘What about headaches?’

The doctor was puzzled, said:

‘He was shot in the back, I don’t think it will necessarily cause headaches.’

Roberts stared at him, said:

‘Not Brant. Me, my head is opening.’

The doctor paused, then:

‘You’ll find a pharmacy on the ground floor.’

And stomped off

Roberts said:

‘Pompous bugger.’

Porter said:

‘The superintendent hasn’t shown.’

Roberts said:

‘He doesn’t know.’

Porter couldn’t believe it, said:

‘I don’t believe it. Shouldn’t he be informed?’

Roberts was rubbing the front of his face, looking tired, said:

‘You’re so worried, you call him.’

Took a while to locate the superintendent, but eventually Porter was given his mobile number by a very irate secretary who cautioned:

‘You better have a very valid reason for disturbing him.’

And hung up.

The Super answered with a gruff:

‘Who the hell is this?’

Not a very promising opening, Porter ploughed on:

‘It’s Porter Nash, sir.’

Silence for a moment, then:

‘I’m in the middle of a round of golf. This better be good.’

Porter took a deep breath, said:

‘Sergeant Brant has been shot.’

No hesitation now:

‘Is he dead?’

‘No, sir, he’s going to pull through, thank god.’

Porter could hear Brown tell someone else and presumed he was already pulling out all the stops, getting all personnel mobilized, Brown said:

‘You might thank god, laddie, others would see it differently.’

Porter knew that Brant had been a constant problem to Brown and all the brass, but he’d expected at least a show of vague concern.

Nope.

Wasn’t going to get it. He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, asked:

‘Would you like the details of the shooting, sir?’

‘You think they’ll improve my chances of getting on the green in less than two strokes?’

Roberts was staring at Porter, obviously aware of how it was going, Porter said:

‘No sir, I don’t see how it could possibly improve your… performance.’

Porter could have been mistaken but he heard what sounded awfully like a titter?

Brown said:

‘Tell Roberts, he’s his mate, if an animal like Brant could be said to have such. Personally I doubt it.’

Click.

Roberts watched Porter slam the mobile on the palm of his hand, said:

‘He was full of concern I’d guess.’

Porter wanted to hit somebody, said:

‘He was full of shit is what he was.’

Roberts thought there might be hope for Porter yet and asked him if he fancied a pint? And to his astonishment, Porter agreed, giving his number to the nurses station lest there be any change. On their way out, a large man stopped them, asked in a Yank accent:

‘How’s our boy doing?’

Porter said:

‘He’s going to be fine, you want to come for a jar?’

‘Is that like a beer?’

Roberts, already out of all patience, snapped:

‘Do we look like we’re going for a cup of tea?’

And kept moving. The Yank looked to Porter who just shook his head and indicated he should just trail along.

He did.

They went to the Black Lion, recently taken over by a retired cop named Sully They got a table at the rear and Sully limped over, the cause of his retirement. He said:

‘Real sorry to hear about Brant.’

Roberts said:

‘Yeah, bring me a large Scotch and whatever these fellahs want?’

The Yank went into a long query about the variety of beers, and Roberts said:

‘Hey, can you get to it, we’ve had a long fucking day. You want to drink or write a fucking column on ale?’

The Yank was delighted, hostility was his favourite gig. He said:

‘Bring me a pint of that bitter you guys drink, and any chance it might be like chilled.’

Sully said:

‘Not a chance in hell.’

Porter ordered a gin and slim-line tonic, the other two giving him a withering look.

There was a silence as they waited for the drinks, Roberts tapped his fingers on the table, irritating them all, himself most of all, but no one commented.

Porter said:

‘I’d kill for a fag.’

He had been diagnosed as diabetic so cigs were out, but it didn’t stop the craving, in fact, not being able to made it worse. Roberts laughed and Porter realized what he’d said… thought, uh-oh, Fag for a fag. It eased the tension, and the Yank put out his hand to Roberts, said:

‘We haven’t been introduced, I’m L. M. Wallace and you’re Roberts, the chief inspector?’

Roberts reluctantly took his hand, said:

‘I know who you are, you’re going to tell us how to run things, just what we need.’

The drinks came, Roberts was reaching for his wallet but Wallace beat him to it, said:

‘My treat.’

He raised the pint, inspected it, then said:

‘I’m not here to tell you jack shit, buddy. I’m here in an advisory position, not my idea I can tell you that, I could be back home, watching the Yankees having their ass handed to them.’

Porter raised his glass, said:

‘Hey, here’s to cooperation, right?’

Roberts drained his shot in one, shouted:

‘Sully, same again.’

Wallace clinked his glass against Porter’s, said:

‘Here’s looking at you, bro.’

He knocked off most of the pint in one toss, said:

‘Jesus H. Christ, that’s piss.’

Then he settled back in his chair, asked:

‘So, who shot your sergeant?’