Ken Bruen - Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

I thought I’d plant him shortly.

‘I let my housing officer know I was aware of these renovations.’

‘Why?’

‘To show I’m willing to be part of it, to live here. I’m attracted by the air of bohemia.’

I stood up but he didn’t shut it.

‘It used to be called Knottynghull.’

‘Fascinating.’

And left him rambling.

I forced my mind to block out the image of the dead cashier. Jesus! And Doc going down like a shot bull. Think survival – think, think, think…

Out on the street I went to Oxfam, bought shirts, jeans and jackets. Left them off at the hotel, dressing down, dressing dead. Peeled off a thick wad of notes, headed out anew. Kept my eyes averted from the news-stands. Not up to that yet. Bought a walkman in W.H. Smith and picked up a heap of tapes in the Music & Video Exchange. The streets were jammed, every tongue spoken save English. Had to go to High Street Kensington to find a tanning centre. Booked an intensive week of sessions and the girl said I could be in right away. Strapped the walkman to my undies and lay on the sunbed, saying – ‘bake me senseless’. It did.

Come outa there with my skin on fire. I’d played tapes and heard nothing, played them mega-blast and heard diddly. My mind fear-focused in Treesmead bank. Like prison, I got away from there but I’d never get free.

Chose a crowded pub, ordered a large Scotch, then asked, ‘Got a paper?’

‘Wotcha want, Sun or the Guardian ?’

‘Lemme have a look at both.’

Took them to a corner seat, did one swallow to the drink and let it hit, picked up the Sun wishing I smoked.

Staring back from the front page was myself and the headline, ‘Mad Dog Shoots Two’.

Two!

This was the gist of the story: ‘In a bloody raid yesterday, a crazed gunman killed a young cashier. For no apparent reason, he pushed a shotgun in her face and fired. He then shot his accomplice.’

Wot!

‘Witnesses said the gunman wanted to kill everybody but was restrained by his partner. Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Foss (retired) tackled the vicious killer but was clubbed to the floor. The gunman then turned on his accomplice, shooting him at point-blank range. It’s believed the man, though critical, will survive. Estimates for the haul put the amount taken in excess of half a million.’

My head was reeling and I got another double. Sank that, didn’t help, read on, ‘A massive police search was launched. They are anxious to interview David Cooper, a car dealer from Lambeth. The public are cautioned not to approach this man but to telephone the numbers given below.’

Put the paper aside, turned to the sports page. The photo of me was from my prison days, I hadn’t looked like that in years. Swore under my breath. No one had seen Cassie – jeez, wot sort of luck did she have. Worse, the bastards figured I shot Doc… fuck, what if Doc believed that. I was way past shit creek.

Picked up the Guardian, same story but less sensation and only half the front page, same lousy photo. At least they weren’t screaming ‘Mad Dog’. On page three was a short column on the suspension of Chief Inspector Noble, pending investigation. Nothing on the accountant.

I left the pub and tried to tell myself the Scotch had jizzed me up. What I got was tired. Caught sight of myself in the huge window at C &A and didn’t half throw a fright. A bald, baked psycho – then amended that to include the tag Rich-ish. I mean, it said so in the Sun.

For the next three days, I sizzled thru the tanning sessions, shaved my skull daily, ignored newspapers and slept like a dead thing. Walked… wow, did I ever – mile on mindless mile, all through Hyde Park. Watched the water at the Serpentine, read the hooker cards at Marble Arch, tried to formulate a plan.

I’ve always liked me grub. Doc said ‘a meat and potatoes man’, in every sense. When the cash was high, I’d do steak at least twice a week. Gimme one of them pepper jobs, pile on the roast spuds and I could imitate contentment. Other times I like the meat rare, see the juice flow on out. Or hit a mega breakfast – double sausage, bacon, puddin’, and splash fried eggs all over. Convict’s delight. Now, the very thought of any of that made me retch. I’d gone into MacDonalds, ordered a Big Mac and the sight of it made me throw up. I didn’t need a psychologist to tell me why. Wouldn’t the Sun love it – ‘Mad Dog Goes Veggie’.

If this was the only price, I’d consider it light penance. I feared it was but a beginning – don’t cry for me Treesmead. Yeah, like that. I checked the accommodation notices in the newsagents and liked the sound of this:

Room in quiet house for respectable

gent. Non-smoker preferred.

Situated just off Portobello Road, it was owned by a widow in her forties. A no-nonsense type, she’d rely on instinct not references, even her name was to the point – Mrs Blake. I said, ‘Harris… in textiles… up North.’

And gave her the honest if dim expression. I got the room. Two huge bonuses, no other lodgers and no TV. She said, ‘I don’t hold with it.’

What else could I add but, ‘Me neither.’

She’d provide breakfast and an evening meal on Sunday – did I have any preference foodwise? I told her I was vegetarian and she asked, ‘You’re not some sort of new age traveller…?’

‘No, no – my wife, before she died, couldn’t take meat, so I tried to make it easier. After she passed away, I suppose it’s silly, but I felt it would be disloyal.’

She put up her hand, ‘You needn’t say any more, I understand completely.’

I’d scored big but had to be careful I didn’t overdo it. If she thought it was odd a Northerner had a London accent, she didn’t say. I’d considered running the area’s proposed developments by her and flourishing with Knuttyhill but decided not to play silly buggers. If I could get four to five days’ avoidance of news reports, I’d not have to learn the cashier’s name, age, home-life aspirations. I knew any details would lodge forever tormenting.

My old man was weather-tanned from being on the roof with the pigeons, he’d also lost his hair. As I sat in my new room the horrible realisation hit that I was now his spittin’ image. The old adage – ‘study your enemy well lest it’s him you become’. Too late! Come full bloody circle to be him. If I’d known that in Battersea, I’d have gone off the roof too.

Walking towards Ladbroke Grove, my skin was settling into its colour and the Bruce Springsteen song ‘Till The Light Of Day’ was in my head.

I smiled as the words bounced on my soul but I’d learnt it’s possible to survive within the darkness. If I could just step a little further… Yeah, time to rock ’n’ roll.

From the repo business, I’d learnt where to get a car, to get it fast, cheap, and semi-legal. I headed for Ladbroke Grove. An Asian guy was running the yard, he’d some mileage himself and not due to age. The marks on his face were the remnants of an acid attack, one eye was closed. I tried not to stare, looked at the lot’s drawing point – a white Bronco. He said, ‘For the rapid mover.’

‘Didn’t move very rapid for O.J.’

‘Ah see, since then… is very popular.’

I moved to an Aston Martin, liked its condition but he wouldn’t budge from a ridiculous sum. Sure, I could afford it but I couldn’t afford the attention. Instead, did a reasonable deal for a battered Mini and drove outa there. Even in that, it felt good to be mobile, almost in control.

Parked in Holland Square and went to a phone, took a while but eventually got Doc’s priest. He said, ‘Who is this?’

Jeez, I liked the note of petulance, how busy was the fuck. I said, ‘This is Cooper.’