‘And what will it cost me?’

You did business with Brant, it always cost, a lot, and if it was only money but no, something you had to compromise yourself with. He said:

‘I’ll think of something.’

She asked:

‘How will you get the papers?’

He laughed out loud, then:

‘Do you really want to know?’

She didn’t, and he said:

‘Thought so.’

Then he added:

‘Sergeant.’

And here it was, the official confirmation of it. All those years of slogging away and now she was Sergeant Falls. Years ago, she’d been the wet dream of the nick, all the coppers had the hots for her, and her blackness only added to her appeal. But the job, the job had turned her into a female Brant almost, and the appreciation of her went down the toilet. And the new bitch, Andrews, she was the current prize. Falls had fallen prey to coke, booze, and she knew they suspected she’d had some involvement in the death of a notorious cop killer. She’d managed to block that whole episode out of her head.

Sometimes, in her nightmares, she’d see a hammer and on waking, drenched in sweat, she’d resolve not to dwell on it, muttering:

‘Just more bad shit.’

The past was not so much another country as a minefield of horror. She shook herself, physically ridding her psyche of bad karma, whispered:

‘Moving AYEon, girl.’

Focused on her new status… status… Sergeant… Sergeant Falls, had a ring to it, the ring of a winner. The phone went and she figured Brant. The price to pay. It was Porter Nash. They’d been the best of mates once, minorities battling together.

Hadn’t lasted.

Mores the Brixton-ed pity.

Porter Nash got right to it, said:

‘Brant’s been shot.’

Hit her like a… hammer?

Took her a moment to grasp, and she asked: