Free Vixen (Inspector Brant) by Ken Bruen

see something? Oh Jesus, tell me. I can take it.’
    And he remembered Burt Reynolds in
The End
saying exactly the same thing, then, when he’d heard the worst, howling like a baby. The technician, putting the x-ray in a huge envelope, said:
    ‘The porter will wheel you back.’
    Porter Nash grabbed his wrist, said:
    ‘The porter? I’m Porter, tell me the news. I’m a cop, did you know that and believe me, I can give you shit till Sunday if I want.’
    The technician looked around, then whispered:
    ‘Do you smoke?’
    Oh God, it was true. The dreaded messenger was banging on the gates. Porter felt the air go out of whatever remained of his black lungs and the guy said:
    ‘Reason I ask is, you can slide in the back there, grab a drag and I’ll keep the door closed.’
    PorterNash wanted to giggle, he felt hysteria rising. Smoking his cigarette and trying to get his mind in gear, he focused on a poem by Jack Mulveen he’d memorised one quiet afternoon. How the hell did it go? The title was ‘The Coffin Maker’s House’.
    He could recall the first verse.
    A creaking dilapidated sign of carved wood
Swung where a rusted steel swivel stood
A sway of Gothic letters whispering
‘John Green, Coffin Maker, Est. 1919.’
    The technician shouted:
    ‘Yo, Officer, they want you.’
    Ask not for whom the bloody bell tolls. He finished the cig and prayed it hadn’t finished him. The porter wheeled him back upstairs and they got him a bed. He was reattached to all the tubes and the nurse asked:
    ‘Like a cup of tea, love?’
    She was black with huge luminous eyes and he thought of Falls, wondering if she knew of his plight. No sign of Roberts or Brant or indeed any cop.
    He answered:
    ‘I’d really appreciate that.’
    She stared at him and he said:
    ‘What?’
    ‘You have lovely manners.’
    What she thought was:
    Fag.
    When the painkillers kicked in, Porter couldn’t believe the ease. He remembered Arnie’s line in
Predator:
    You lose it here, you are in a world of hurt.
    He began to feel sleepy, and when the tea arrived he was already dozing. A nurse came and said cheerfully:
    ‘Mr Nash, we need some more blood.’
    ‘You’re kidding. I like, gave pints already, what’s the deal?
    ‘We need to keep an eye on your blood sugar.’
    He didn’t know what this meant but didn’t ask for fear she’d tell him, so he said:
    ‘My name is Porter Nash.’
    She began to do shit to his arm and said:
    ‘Impressive name.’
    As she drew the blood, she was humming. There are few things as annoying as that, except for Muzak, and the worst bit is you start to try and identify the goddamn tune. He couldn’t, said:
    ‘I give up.’
    She was finished and asked:
    ‘You give up what, love?’
    ‘The song, the one you’re humming, what is it?’
    She seemed lost for a moment then:
    ‘Oh… it’s “Feel”.’
    The sleep had retreated and he near barked:
    ‘And that tells me what exactly?
    She gave him a playful pat on the shoulder, said:
    ‘It’s Robbie Williams, he’s gorgeous. Don’t you listen to the radio?’
    ‘I listen to classical music. Like, for example, yesterday, when I got home, I had Avro Part and then Górecki.’
    Heard himself, realised he sounded like his father, like a complete prig. His dad was a highly successful businessman, had remarried the previous year. A memorable event to which Porter had taken Brant.
    The father has asked Brant:
    ‘How come you’re hanging out with a fag?’
    Or words to that effect.
    Then he’d offered Brant a job. To Porter’s everlasting delight Brant, in typical form, had said:
    ‘I’d never work for an asshole like you.’
    Brant had brought a hooker to the reception and told all her occupation. She’d done major trade in the afternoon: they weren’t called working girls for nothing.
    Porter had listed his father as next of kin on the admission sheet. And here he came, striding up the ward, looking like he couldn’t believe people were actually takento public