Ken Bruen - Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

Silence… then, ‘Where are you Mr Cooper?’

‘Cornwall.’

‘Well laddie, I suggest you hotfoot it to the nearest police station and give yourself up.’

‘Did I ask for your advice Padre… how is Doc?’

‘He’s recovering – if such a thing is possible after such treachery. Thank God you’re not an Irishman.’

‘It’s not how it seems. Tell Doc I’d never do that.’

‘Really Mr Cooper, do you think I’m an eejit. I’m afraid Doc has had to give you up.’

‘What!’

‘He owes you nothing – I strongly advised him to do so.’

‘Tell me Padre, do you still want the money…’

‘The money…’

‘Half a million quid, yer own little lottery win.’

‘Em…’

‘How would this be Padre – seeing as Doc is singing… why don’t you try whistlin’. Yeah, fuckin’ whistle real hard.’

Banged the phone down hoping I deafened him.

There’s an Italian restaurant beside Holland Park famous for its pizza. I ordered a double cappuccino, no chocolate spread, I hate that. A woman was seated at the next table in full verbal to a young girl, ‘It’s true, the pill for men, can you imagine. As if there’s a woman on the face of this earth who’d trust a man to take the responsibility. Oh yes dear, I’m on the pill, cross my heart, honest.’

I tuned her out. With her mouth, they’d need a pill that included deafness.

The phone had brought me way down. What did I expect. Doc was only doing to me what he believed I’d done to him. He was the only friend I ever had. If a friend could truly be the ideal, someone who believed in you despite the evidence of, jeez because of it. Holy Moley, wouldn’t that be good. Dream on sucker.

I could take a stab at such nobility. Yeah, get the shrine built to Laura, pay the school fees for the daughter, make sure Doc had cash for his old age.

The cappuccino came, chocolate on top and I muttered ‘fuck ’em’.

What I’d do was find Cassie. As I was leaving I gave the waiter a pound, he said, ‘Ah scuzi, is not right.’

‘Neither was the coffee so we’re even.’ Michael Caine in Mona Lisa used to say to Bob Hoskins, ‘It’s the little things George.’ He had a point.

I went and did a further session on the sunbed. I was tanning deep and crispy. When I got back to my new accommodation, the landlady said, ‘I do declare, you seem to get browner by the minute.’

I felt she was going to add… ‘and balder’.

But discretion won out. Upstairs, I shaved yet again. I’d bought a watchman’s cap, you know those wool jobs that pull down over yer ears and neck. By Christ, they’re warm and just a tad off, like a mugger’s outfit. Said… ‘time to get armed’ and drove through to Islington in the evening. Be nice to see the gun dealer again, he was such a ray of sunshine.

Parked near the green and strolled down. I was wearing jeans and a donkey jacket, Oxfam’s finest – ‘Auf Wiedersein Pet’.

Yeah.

At his door, I pulled the hat on, the less he’d remember the better. Knocked twice. The door opened almost immediately – he was wearing black ski pants, black sweatshirt with ‘CATS’ on the front, bare feet, I said, ‘It’s Cooper, Doc’s friend.’

I heard all sorts of shit in prison. One thing Doc told me from his studies: ‘If you experience deep shock, self-preservation moves into the go area and sometimes never climbs down again. It remains fixed on red alert.’ His smile did that to me now as he said, ‘Come in…’

I thought… uh-uh.

We went to the luxury pad on the top floor and he asked, ‘Drink?’

‘Yeah, some of that Yeltsin stuff again.’

He moved to a sideboard behind me. I sat on the sofa, could hear the clink of glasses then spun round. He was just over me, a syringe in his right hand. I grabbed his wrist and used my other hand to clutch his hair, pulling him up and over. Shot my leg up as a pivot on his chest and used the leverage to fling him from me. Then I righted myself and moved to smack him twice in the mouth… all fight leaving him.

I said, ‘Now look wot you’ve done, gone and got blood on CATS. You want to tell me wot the fuck you’re at… I already had my shots.’

Pulled him into an upright position, grabbed his head and crashed his face with my knee. Heard the nose go – pushed him away. Blood was coursing down his face and I rummaged in his desk for tissues, found a handgun. The Glock, loaded, put it in my jacket. Gave him the tissues and poured two strong drinks. He’d gone into a crouch position and I said, ‘Drink this.’

‘My nose, it feels like a football.’

Let him get some booze and my heartbeat to settle, then asked, ‘What kind of wanker are you? Enough guns here to arm the Met and you come at me with a needle! Like Sean Connery said in The Untouchables - “Trust a wop to bring a knife to a gunfight.” You’re not Italian are you?’

‘It’s for grasses, wot you give squealers, turncoats…’

‘What’s in it?’

‘Smack… heroin.’

‘And.’

‘It’s been cut with bleach.’

‘Nice.’

‘It’s open season on you Cooper. Doc’s friends put together a bounty on you. Even the Old Bill kicked in a contribution.’

I finished the drink, went over to him, took the Glock from my pocket, hefted it, testing the feel. No weight at all, like a plastic toy, asked, ‘If you were me, things being how they are – what would you do? Would you use the syringe or this gun maybe.’

He had no suggestions so I added, ‘Well, you think about it OK’

I got outa there quick. As I headed for my car, I whipped the cap off… jeez, it sure itched. Was back in The Gate in under thirty minutes and that’s impressive. Who could I tell? A shitload of fatigue hit me and I decided to call it a night. My landlady was nowhere in sight and I felt deeply grateful. Sometimes, even the tiniest social interactions are too much. Climbing into bed I put the Glock under my pillow. If they came for me, I was halfway ready. ‘They’ now seemed to comprise most of the population of London.

And dream? Did I ever – a mix of priests with sweat-shirts saying ‘CATS’, Doc with a syringe and my father on a sunbed, a pigeon clutched to his chest. Tobe Hopper stuff. Woke with a saying of my mother’s in my head:

‘Men talk about sex

Women talk about surgery.’

Shook myself to get free, muttering, ‘No wonder he took to pigeons.’ Put on the Oxfam jeans, found a coin in the pocket which meant A: I was getting lucky or B: Oxfam hadn’t bothered their concerned ass to clean ’em. Next a sweatshirt with a hole in the sleeve, then a pair of weejuns, the real thing too. Put them on yer feet, you’re in sole heaven. I felt weary though, thinking – getting older’s getting harder.

Yeah.

Decided I’d nip up to a coffee shop at The Gate, kick start on a chain of espressos.

The landlady was waiting, said, ‘I’ve brewed fresh tea, nice crisp toast.’

‘Shit’, I thought and said, ‘Lovely job.’

Into the kitchen. A gingham tablecloth to match the curtains. The false reassurance of toast popping… to suggest endless possibilities. There wasn’t a rose in a vase but the atmosphere whispered – ‘close call’.

I sat and she fussed round doing kitcheny stuff, said, ‘I nearly did a fry-up but remembered your vegetarianism in time – does it preclude eggs?’

‘No, no, eggs are fine but not today, in fact any day with a yolk in ’em.’

She gave me a blank look and I added, ‘Good of you to bother.’

‘No trouble to tell you the truth.’

When you hear that statement, reach for your wallet or a weapon.

‘It’s nice to have someone to prepare for. Course you know wot it’s like to lose someone.’