Ken Bruen - Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

‘Don’t be like that, I only wanted to make sure everything went smoothly. Iron out any problems, that’s all – cross my heart, straight up.’

‘It’s good, I’m glad I met you here.’

‘You are.’

‘See… see that spot over there, that’s where I near killed the mugger, you heard about it right… wot I went to the nick for.’

He backed off, not noticeably but a gradual edging away, I went with him, continued, ‘I never told anyone this Jimmy, not a soul, but I want to tell you… fuckit, I need to tell someone…’

He was glancing round, avenues for escape. I slapped my open right hand on his shoulder, said, ‘Jim, I enjoyed it… but wait… hang a mo’… I want to do it again so badly… Know wot I mean?’

Both barrels in the cashier’s face and the blast threw her from her till. I’d been holding the shotgun in her direction, Doc a few feet away was roarin’, ‘Everybody get the fuck down – now .’

And one of the great British traditions came to play – a bastard ‘had a go’. A fuck in a blazer, near seventy. I’d taken my eyes off him and he walloped me across my shoulders with his walking stick – my fingers had squeezed the trigger as I stumbled forward. Doc leapt for him, clubbed him with the gun’s stock. Now everyone was screaming. The girl was dead, had to be, so I thought I’d salvage something, shouted, ‘Who’s next… eh… who wants some more!’

And I cranked two shells in, let them see it.

Silence.

It had been going so well. The incendiaries Doc had planted at the cop shop, Tesco’s and the Masonic Lodge went off in sequence. More noise than damage and we’d been in the bank seconds later. Now it had turned to shit. Doc gave me a look and I roared, ‘Get the fuckin’ money.’

He did.

Filled two bin-liners, he’d been right in that department. Looked more than we’d ever pulled but we hadn’t looked at murder either. I mean… they’d believe it was an accident?… I didn’t mean it M’Lud… honest – that’s why I was carrying a 12-gauge, only for demonstration purposes. Yeah, a judge would understand. Good-night Irene. With good behaviour we’d be out in 2701.

As usual we’d two cars. Outside waiting was the ‘borrowed’ – a Vauxhall Tigre Coupe with automatic form. Our legit one was back at the Services Stop. A Volvo 850 GLT T5, the four-door saloon. Chosen purely for its top speed of 149 mph and the acceleration didn’t hurt either – 0-622 mph in 74 seconds. I could vouch for that. Its beauty though – drop a couple of gears to bring the turbo on line, kick on the throttle and yer off. Meatloaf’s ‘Bat outa Hell’ on yer tapedeck… eat fucking dust. I wished it was outside the bank. Our system was for Doc to now take my shooter, and double-armed he’d stand as I rushed to the car with the cash. It had always worked before. Seemed to again.

I slung the bags in back and shit, heard sirens, put the Coupe in gear. Doc came edging out slow, his back to me. A woman stepped from a doorway between us. Cassie!

Dressed in black, short bomber jacket and mini skirt, she took the pose beloved of movie posters. Feet apart, both hands on the pistol, ready to kick ass. Before I could react, she fired four times, taking Doc in the legs. He went down like an elephant, the shotguns sprawling uselessly. She turned, looked right at me and smiled, began to tighten her finger on the trigger. I hit the ignition, into gear and drove off. Near collided with a school bus and then I was outa Treesmead, going like a demented thing. My pounding near deafened me to all else and I kept shouting – ‘get to the rest stop, get the Volvo… get, get, get…’ – as if ritual would deliver me.

You ever see that movie Predator with Arnie. A character says, ‘You lose it here, you’re in a world of hurt.’ I was living the line. Kris Kristofferson used to whine, ‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose’ – as I gunned the Volvo I sang that. But some survival instinct forced a plan. In Sidcup I stopped, went into Boots and bought a pack of razors and the large rapid-tan. Next I got a large duffle bag. On form there. I pulled into a layby and with a reasonably steady hand, shaved my head then applied the tan all over it. By the time I hit London, I’d be orange, tanned or nicked. If you want to go to ground in London, Notting Hill Gate has a lot in its favour. The small Indian-run hotels are only interested in cash. Calling the police is not high on their priorities. There’s a huge cosmopolitan floating population and, it wasn’t my manor.

When I checked in, I looked like a brown Kojak. I didn’t recognize me. First off I collapsed on the bed and slept for nigh twelve hours straight. If I dreamt I don’t recall it and nor would I wish to. I’d given the manager a week’s money up front and thus ensured, if not welcome, at least acceptance.

I came to with my heart hammering. For a moment I thought I was back in prison and as I realized where I was, relief chased terror to become anxiety. Crawled from the bed and moved to the small sink, it had a cracked mirror. Near coronary all over again as a bald brown head peered back… shouted – ‘What the fuck?’

Had the french whore’s bath, washing from the basin, then took stock. I’d need clothes, re-tanning, and a whole shit pile of luck. The hotel was in Coburn Gardens, off the main strip. It had a rundown sleaziness that fitted my appearance. I was on time for breakfast and was ready to hammer caffeine. A radio was playing as I entered the dining area – The Mavericks with ‘It’s a Crying Shame’. This fitted about every area of my life.

The room had six tables and I manoeuvred to an empty one. A young Indian girl asked, ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee please.’

Krishna bless her I thought as she brought a pot and two tough bread rolls. She eyed me warily and I guess my bullet head was responsible. There’s something intrinsically psychotic about a shaved skull. I mean, even women look creepy when they’re skin-scalped. Look at Sinead O’Connor!

I loosened some teeth on the bread rolls and horror!… stared at the white back of my hands. Fuck, I’d neglected to tan them. A guy in his fifties in a decrepit suit, sat, asked, ‘Join you?’

‘You already have.’

He extended his hand, ‘Harris… in textiles… you?’

‘In bits.’

‘Excuse me.’

He had a north of England burr, unpleasant over brekkie and he said, ‘I’m from up North lad, no work there, the Social popped me in here.’

‘This is a welfare hotel?’

‘Not all of it lad, they have some rooms for short-term emergencies. You’re a seaman, am I right?’

‘How astute.’

He got his rolls and made fast work of them, eyed mine, said, ‘You’ll be having them lad?’

‘Hey, you want more, ask them.’

‘Two per man, that’s the regulations, don’t want to rock the boat, if you’ll excuse the pun.’

His face was a map of blackheads – some must have dated from his teens. I drank my coffee quickly. He said, ‘There’s a major change coming.’

‘You wot?’

‘To Notting Hill Gate. I’ve been reading up. Got to keep abreast of your surroundings, key to the top.’

I’d already had enough, time to cut him off at the knees, said, ‘A code that’s obviously stood you in good stead.’

Lost on him.

‘You’ll have seen Newcombe House, ugly place beside Waterstones.’

‘Hard to miss.’

‘Well, they’re going to create small piazzas outside that… and Boots. They’ve plans for new benches, railings, and a hundred and thirty trees have been planted.’