The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead by Ken Bruen

for?’
    Kevin gave a nasty laugh. ‘Don’t be so bleedin’ wet. It can only improve those wankers, give ’em that unplugged feel. Now pay attention, I want to show you somefin’.’
    He bent down and pulled out a long box from under the couch. He flipped the lid off and took out a rifle, said: ‘Feast yer eyes on this, isn’t it a beauty?’
    ‘Is it real?’
    ‘Real? You friggin’ moron. It’s a Winchester 460 Magnum. See that scope? Pick the hair outta yer nose from a rooftop.’
    He pulled the bolt all the way back. A cartridge in the chamber slid home and he swung the barrel round into Albert’s face, said: ‘Grab some sky, pilgrim.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Put yer bleedin’ hands up.’
    Albert slowly did so and Kev leaned closer, whispering: ‘Make yer peace, Mister.’
    ‘Kev!’
    The gun went up an inch above Albert’s head, then the trigger was pulled. The impact slammed the stock into his shoulder and knocked him back. The bullet tore into the wall, decanting a plastic duck. Albert stood in open-mouthed shock, and Kev, on his ass, on the floor, exclaimed: ‘Fuck me, now that’s fire power. What a rush.’

‘Like a bad actor, memory always goes for effect.’
James Sallis, Black Hornet
    B RANT COMES TO AND hears the most awful screeching, like someone is tearing the skin off a cat. Someone is indeed tearing the skin off a cat, on The Simpsons, in the ‘Itchy and Scratchy’ cartoon. The noise is deafening and Brant reaches up to turn it off. Pain in the major league as his body moves. His arse naked and he shudders to think why. But thank fuck he didn’t go out... did he? His mind was careering in every direction. From one side surfaced a recent documentary he’d seen on the American Marine Corps. No matter what shit went down, they’d up, kick ass and shout: ‘Semper Fi!’
    He gave a weak attempt at it now, but it came out like a piss – flat and narrow. Then he rolled onto his stomach and visualised a harsh five military push-ups, and tried.
    ‘Semp –’
    And collapsed, muttering: ‘Bollocks.’
    Brant finally got to his feet, limped to the shower, caught sight of himself in the mirror.
    Bad idea.
    Pot belly. No, worse, a drooping one. Grey hair on his chest like sad brillo pads. He thought of the word ‘bedraggled’, said: ‘I’m bedraggled.’
    Too kind. It just didn’t cut it. Call it fucked, more like. The shower was all he knew of heaven and hell, then to the medicine cabinet and two, no, fuck it, three Alka Seltzer. Ahh. Oh shit oh sweet Mary and Joseph, stay down. Nope. Up comes a technicolour yawn. Sweat pouring down his body, he couldn’t pull his head up and so saw the multicoloured spread. Yup, there’s the Seltzer. Useless fuckers, and be-gods, is that an E? Gimmie an E... gimme an... oomph-ah Paul McGrath. Now he tried again, with Andrews Liver Salt, and popped two soluble aspirin in the milk. Here we go.
    Oh yes, there is a God, it stayed. Took one more shower. He knew a sharp belt of booze would fix him right up for an hour or less, and from there, it’s flake city.
    True, he’d managed to get Sally back for a time. Had sworn all the promises. Would have done it on the bible if needed. But alas, he couldn’t make the pledge in his heart, where it most counted. Through work, booze and the sulking silences, he’d lost her all over again.
    Then, as the caffeine danced along his nerve endings, he vaguely remembered young Tone. Oh shit, the kid had come to the door. Brant lit a shaky Weight, and tried to change mental tack. He couldn’t recall what he’d said to the lad, but oh, oh he knew it was rough. Was it ever otherwise?
    He turned to shout for Meyer Meyer, then remembered that too.

Atonement in white
    ‘I LIKE JAMIROQUAI,’ said Tone.
    ‘Yeah? Me, I like Tricky.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    He knew if he said yeah a bit, it gave him cool. Not ice or brain-dead, but hip without pushing it. Like he had attitude without having to work at it. He badly wished he’d