Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

PROLOGUE

The blast took her face off. Two seconds of pressure on the trigger and a full shotgun load went roaring out.

We’d been doing good. In with a maximum of ferocity. Get ’em terrorised, shouting ‘Get the fuck down – NOW.’

Push push push.

Let ’em see the guns, hear the manic screaming of very dangerous men.

Doc had planted devices at the

cop shop

Tesco

The Masonic Lodge

They’d gone off like lubrication. You had the noise, smoke, confusion and then we’re in – ‘MENACE’ writ brutal large.

Oh yeah, fuckin’ A.

Bingo, the motherload. More cash than Camelot, two bin-liners overflowing with readies.

Everything hunky-dory… and then…

Then I shot the cashier in the face.

I guess it began with Cassie.

The cop stopped me on Kennington Road. I was having a bad day. As if a neon sign above my head, high-lit to read

‘FUCK WITH THIS GUY’

They’d seen it.

I turned off the engine and waited. A sign of middle age when policemen look young. This one looked ten and had seen too many cop shows. He had the saunter and the cap adjustment. Get that sucker on to look mean. He wasn’t wearing shades but he wanted to… and badly. I expected him to drawl in a Kentucky twang… ‘assume the position’ or, at the very least, ‘what we got here Bubba?’ What he did say was, ‘Do you know why I stopped you?’

I’d no idea as I hadn’t been speeding and the car was in good nick. Tax, insurance, all that good shit was in order. So, I went for it.

‘’Cos you’re a bad bastard.’

My parents were hard-line Presbyterian. Wouldn’t make love standing up lest people thought they were dancing. Fun was indeed the F-word. They were a potent mix, she was from Belfast and he from Glasgow. Settling in London, they brought little as baggage save bitterness. My old man kept pigeons, jeez… I hate them. As a child I feared heights but feared him more. The birds he kept on the roof. Our house was a three-storey one in Battersea, near the power station. The yellow light came creepin’ each evening. Course, that was the time he liked to feed the birds. He’d haul me up there, the yellow light like sickness on my bare legs, fear like regularity in my stomach.

When I was fourteen, I started to grow. An October evening, he’d bullied me as usual on the roof. The cooing of the pigeons as nauseating as cowardice. He was saying, ‘What did I tell you boy, feed them slow. Don’t you listen.’

And I said, ‘Feed them yourself.’

All sorts of shit the Presbyterians can’t get a handle on but leading the field is disobedience. He’d grabbed me by the scruff and hauled me to the edge of the roof, roarin’ ‘Better you should throw yourself to the concrete than fly in the face of your father.’

Through the years I’ve re-played, re-said that scene. I’d like to think it was courage or even anger that forced my answer. Mainly, I believe, the words came from my South-East London education. The streets in all their glory rushing up through my chest to explode ‘Fuck you.’

And he’d clutched at his chest. I’ve since learnt the word ‘apoplexy’, and wow, he got to live it then. Can a face go purple, his sure tried and he toppled over, finally experiencing a moment of flight. Sometimes in dreams, I’ve seen me push him and I know my mother was convinced that I did. When I wake, I don’t feel guilty. Well, the cop had a similar expression but before he could respond, a car came tearing out of the estates, burned rubber at the kerb, and shot off towards the Oval. Two pandas came screeching in pursuit and the cop’s radio blared into static. He shouted into it, ‘Responding… responding.’

He gave me the look, said, ‘Your lucky day but I’ll be watching for you…’

As he started to pull away, I said, ‘I’ll miss you.’

It was that day I met Cassie. On the Walworth Road, I nipped into Marks and Spencers, got some groceries. Time back, Elvis Costello had a song called ‘Watching the Detectives’. I like to do that, see how a real asshole makes a living. I spotted the store’s plainclothes operator near the frozen meat. Which is a fairly apt metaphor… and… he was clocking somebody.

A woman in her thirties, pushing a trolley. Wearing jeans, sweatshirt, Reeboks… pink Reeboks and new. Lookin’ comfortable. She had the moves, like Mary Tyler Moore, the expression. Remember the opening sequence to that show? She picks up a steak, glances at it, near grimaces and chucks it back in the freezer. I loved that, wanted to marry her right then, I was eleven.

She looked like Sarah Miles… or how she used to. Remember, with Dirk Bogarde in The Servant… or Ryan’s Daughter. Before she went ape. It’s the closest the English get to Style. Class is something else, they figure they invented it. She had a loose long coat and you knew it had them big vacuum pockets, only one reason you wear that. But she was quick, I’ll give her that. The package went inside there about as fast as it gets. Not fast enough. A surge of electricity went through the store detective. Time to move. I walked up to her, said, ‘Put it back, you’ve been spotted.’

The shock on her face was mega. I kept going and the detective moved after me. Reached me as I got to the door, said, ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you did, I’d have had her bang to rights.’

He must have been all of twenty-five and, to judge by his eyes, all of them miserable. I asked, ‘Spoil yer day, did I?’

‘I’ll remember you, see if I don’t.’

‘Jeez, everybody’s saying that.’

Not sure how to proceed, he raised his voice: ‘Is that all you’ve to say for yerself?’

‘No… I have more.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah… fuck off.’

When she emerged, I was sitting on the bench outside. She stopped, looked quizzical, asked, ‘Why are you waiting. You’ve no authority out here.’

Yank.

‘You got that right sister, authority was never one of my assets but I’m not a store detective, just a punter.’

Understanding lit her face… then something else… like shame maybe. A horrendous sight.

‘You saved me.’

‘Well…’

‘How can I thank you… oh GAWD… I’m so embarrassed… I get spasms… I…’

‘Wanna eat?’

‘Excuse me?’

I stood up, explained, ‘It’s not a difficult question… but lemme break it down. A: Are you hungry. B: If so, lemme treat you. A new joint has opened down the road… What do you say?’

She appeared to give it serious thought, said, ‘Okey-dokey, how could I turn down an offer like that.’

It looked like the place had just opened, like in the previous five minutes. We sat at a table, admired the unfinished surroundings. A guy built to bounce came over, he had the dazed look of a drinker. Everything about him was big but not muscle, flabbiness. A line of grey sweat nibbled at his temples and upper lip. He’d a bright plastic name tag which read ‘Hi, I’m Bert.’

He didn’t appear pleased to see us. But it wasn’t personal. He’d had a bad day in his past and was holding on to it… and grimly. I asked, ‘Are you Bert?’

‘Who’s asking.’

‘Jeez, take it easy, if you’re hiding out, you’ve picked the wrong disguise.’

The woman said, ‘Bert, how about you bring us some coffee… then we’ll chow down. Give us all a minute to consider the words of Desiderata.’

‘Wha?’

‘Coffee Bert… two coffees… Before Tuesday… OK.’

He rumbled off.

She smiled, said, ‘My hunch is he’s also the short-order chef so cancel them burgers.’

‘Yeah… you’re American.’

‘That a disappointment?’

‘No… I mean… it’s fine. I like yer accent, it’s just… surprising.’

‘You didn’t know Americans were shoplifters.’

‘Not that, what I didn’t know was Americans were bad shoplifters.’

And she laughed. The kind you never expect a woman to have, deep and downright bawdy. Where she goes all the way with it and doesn’t give a toss how she appears. A real whack-it-for-all-its-worth job. I liked that a whole lot. She asked, ‘So… my hero, my saviour, you got a name, we’ve already established you’ve got balls, yeah, ask Bert… See if I’m wrong?’

A woman uses words like that to you… you’re usually paying for the service. I said, ‘It’s Cooper.’

‘That’s it… you were born at High Noon?’

‘Very snappy… with wit like that, you’re wasted in Marks and Spencers… and what’s your name?’

‘Cassie.’

‘Short for Cassandra… yeah? So, they call you Cass.’

She rummaged in her coat, took out a crumpled soft pack of Camel Lights, shook one free and using a matchbook, lit up, dragged deep… said, ‘You’re hard of hearing? Or is it an English thing? My name is Cassie, you got that?’

‘Jeez, over and out, bit testy are you. You’d love my mate, the Doc.’

‘He’s a doctor?’

‘Doc Marten… he’s a villain, thing is… he wears Docs, always did and long before they became a fashion accessory. The traditional black-laced jobs, with steel hubs and tops. Built for kicking… and hard.’

The coffee came, it looked a little like the ketchup and Bert slapped a bill down. I said, ‘Hope you included service.’

He grunted.

She said, ‘Louis MacNeice’s mother died when he was seven.’

I didn’t know how much grief she’d anticipated.

‘Jeez, tough break. I guess I’d be more broke up if I knew who he was.’

‘Don’t look now but Bert is shooting the bird.’

‘He’s what?’

‘It’s an obscene gesture, don’t you guys speak English?’

‘Sure… and if you stick around you’ll learn some.’

‘My mother died when I was seven, so Louis and I are spiritually connected. Wanna drink?’

I looked at the bill, said, ‘Five friggin’ quid, dream on sucker.’

I left a pound on the table and we went outside. I could see Bert through the plate glass window reading the writing on the table. Time he read the writing on the wall. Cassie asked, ‘Can you run?’

‘Wot?’

And she took the ketchup bottle from the coat, shouted, ‘It’s a goddamn homer.’

I could hear the glass shatter as we tore across the road. We reached my car, she asked, ‘This is yours.’

‘Sure is.’

‘Can I drive?’

I gave her the look, said in what I considered a passable twang, ‘In your language… Get real.’

We got in and she sank in her seat, she gave a low whistle, said, ‘Way to go.’

It’s an impressive car, least I think so. A Subaru Impreza, its cousin won the Monte Carlo rally. Yeah, like that. Lemme break it down, it’s turbo charged, two litre, four wheel drive. It’s got bonnet scoop, vents, bumper air intakes, and these mother driving lamps. On the up and up, it goes for near twenty grand. As I hit the ignition, she asked, ‘It looks like it’s cookin’, but is it all flash?’

‘Listen lady, how many cars will hit 30 mph from go in two seconds and show 60 in six before rushing on past 140.’

She gave a low chuckle, mean and nasty.

‘And go right to sleep after.’

I ignored her, manoeuvred past the roundabout at the Elephant and Castle, headed for the Oval. Cassie turned her head, listening attentively.

She said, ‘I hear Morocco, the wail of the minaret, the call to prayer.’

I wondered had I taken a wrong turn in the conversation. Between passing into third gear had I missed something. Asked, ‘Did I miss something?’

‘An automobile like this, with a sexy name, seems a goddamn waste in the city, I mean do you get to hit 100-plus often?’

She had a point, a fairly irritating one but nonetheless… I said, ‘It does the job.’

‘So would a pushbike.’

Before I could sulk she asked, ‘What’s a gal gotta do to get a drink?’

‘We’re near my place, want to go there?’

‘Gets my vote.’

I live in Meadow Road. About an umpire from the Oval Cricket Ground. On the outside, it looks ordinary, one up, one down.

Like that.

The money was spent inside. It’s a little flash but hey, I liked to think I had some moves. I turned the engine off, got out and went round to hold her door. She went Southern belle, drawled, ‘My, my, my… y’all a gentleman Ashley.’

‘Whatever.’

Inside, I led her down the hall and stood back. Let the house do its number. Remote control panels to do near all save shout hello. Cost me a fortune and half that again. She stood in the living room, said, ‘Holy shit, who lives here.’

I hit the remote and the bar glided up.

‘A drink?’

‘Got any Bourbon?’

‘I got Scotch.’

‘Scotch’s good, on the rocks, beer chaser.’

I did that, handed them to her, took a large hit of my own. Yeah, that was it, said, ‘Sit down.’

She did, unlaced her Reeboks, kicked ’em off, curled her feet under her. How do women do that or, more’s the point, why. It looks uncomfortable but she seemed happy with it, asked, ‘So who’d you kill for this?’

I thought I’d let that slide for a bit, see how it shaped, so I asked her, ‘What’s a Yank doing shoplifting in South-East London? I mean, wouldn’t Harrods or Selfridges be more appropriate.’

‘I’m hoping to take my Ph.D. in Metaphysics.’

‘What shop does them?’

She gave a toss of her head.

‘Don’t be a horse’s ass. Ontology is the primary element in metaphysics, you know that I guess.’

‘On… wot?’

‘It’s the ontological dilemma. What really exists as opposed to that which appears to exist but does not.’

‘I appear to have lost you.’

‘Gimme another shot of that Scotch.’

I did and asked,

‘OK, so let’s say you grab this Ph.D. – it qualifies you to do what?’

She shrugged, it caused her breasts to move forward and I felt something move myself.

‘Oh I guess I’ll probably still be stealing but at least I’ll be able to look into the soul of the store detective.’

‘Shit, don’t bother. I already did and it’s a wilderness. Not a place you’d want to visit.’

‘Very deep Cooper. Tell me, are you a winner?’

‘Fuck knows, depends who’s keeping score.’

‘I’m serious here guy. I don’t want to know from losers, you gettin’ this. I’ve been nickled and dimed to death.’

‘Hey… lady, get a grip, look around you, am I hurting here?’

‘What… this proves what exactly. That your taste is way up your ass… and an automobile that ain’t worth shit in the city.’

That was about it, I’d had it. Put down my glass, time to fold her tent. But she stood, came to me, said, ‘Fuck me rough.’

Before I could reply, she put her hand on my crotch, pulled the zip down, took a grip of the action. She purred, ‘Oh you’re ready to pop.’

I was… and in a little while, I did. She was sitting astride me and gave a slow smile, said, ‘I’ve a piece of you now, you’ll never ball any other broad… you hear me?’

‘What’s this… post-coital aggression?’

‘It’s the truth, remember you’ve been warned.’

I didn’t know how to answer this so I didn’t. She rolled offa me, said, ‘You grab some Zzzzz’s and I’ll wake you with a blow job. You’ll come to, so to speak. Sound good?’

Yeah, well it didn’t sound too bad so I grabbed the shut-eye. Dreamt too, of pigeons and breaking glass and store detectives shouting ‘It’s a fair cop.’ Bert was there too but I don’t really recall what he was doing, save sweating.

When I woke, she was gone. Was I disappointed. Well, my body wanted her but my head roared THANK FUCK FOR THAT.

A note was propped on the coffee table. Not a note, a bloody manuscript. Jeez, maybe she’d left me her thesis and how long had I slept. Checked my watch, I’d been out four hours… What? The note consisted of long manuscript pages. I read the first.

Hi lover,

You’ll have slept well. Certainly you’ll have slept long as I added a little something to your drink. I felt you were a tad tense, as you English might say. You’ll find it left you parched so I only drank half your juice.

She was right, I went and got the OJ… swamped it. Read on:

Took me ages to locate the goddamn phone but I guess we both know I already have your number. In my rummaging, I found a sawn-off shotgun and an automatic pistol. How dangerous is this neighbourhood? I confiscated them. Just kidding big guy… lighten up, these are the jokes. And I also discovered boxes of money. Naturally, I skimmed some bills off the top ’cos it’s what I do.

I’ve put down some Louis MacNeice as your education begins NOW. Pay attention, I’ll be asking questions… and WHERE ARE THOSE ESSAYS! Can you smell me offa you… you’re all over me you stallion, you well-hung colossus.

Whoops, here’s my cab. Hate to heat and run but… later… yeah,

Your Cassie

‘Fuck me,’ I said.

Went to check the wardrobes and sure enough, the shoe boxes were open, she’d helped herself to a very generous wedge (of bills). The pistol was gone. So now the bitch was armed. I already knew she was dangerous.

Made some strong coffee and had a shower. Took a hard look at myself in the full-length mirror and didn’t relish what I saw. Sandy hair already thinning out, hooded brown eyes and a poor nose. My mouth was like a thin compressed line and even in laughter, it didn’t improve a whole amount. Deep ridges down the side of my nose as if they’d been cut. But I had good teeth and worked at keeping them. I was five feet ten inches tall and had exercised for a lotta years. The muscle still held but it was loosening. A pot belly was beginning to shape and fuck, nothing could impede its progress… lest I stop eating… yeah. The booze didn’t help but I wasn’t about to get that concerned. Did Jack Nicholson care?

I dressed in old Levi cords, so faded they could have got a pension and wow, were they comfortable or what. One more wash, you know, they were history… sayonara and good night.

I pulled on a hooded black sweatshirt, to accessorize my hooded eyes, it read ‘I’M A GAS’. Yeah, just couldn’t stem the humour, I was a real fuckin’ comedian.

Completed the outfit with a pair of battered moccasins that whispered, ‘I love your feet… I love you.’

Sure felt like it. Put some gel in my hair to get that wet look. When you’re forty-two years old, you’ll try any gimmick. It made my hair look wet which I guess is the point. I hoped for that crumpled Don Johnson effect but I got close-call wino. Tried that American voice again, roared ENOUGH ALREADY! And went to read the MacNeice piece.

‘Without heroics, without belief

I send you, as I am not rich

Nothing but odds and ends a thief

bundled up in the last ditch

for few are able to keep moving

they drag and flag in the traffic

while you are alive beyond question

like the dazzle on the sea my darling.’

Hey! Are you getting this? Here’s some more purely as introduction.

‘The bullfight, the fanderillas like

Christmas candles

And the scrawled hammer and sickle

It was all copy – impenetrable surface

I did not look for the sneer beneath the surface

Why should I trouble, an addict to oblivion

Running away from the Gods of my own hearth

With no intention

Of finding Gods elsewhere.’

You don’t get it Cooper do you… I know you don’t but, by Christ, you will. Here endeth the lesson, memorise the underlined pieces. Auden gave some lines to MacNeice, I think they had you in mind. I’ll sign off with them.

‘Shall I drink your health before

The gun-butt raps upon the door.’

I put down the sheets, drained the coffee and said, ‘Memorise! Kiss my ass.’

The Doc was saying, ‘I keep breaking out in spots… spots like Croydon, Norwood, and bloody Brixton.’

The pub was packed and he was in full flight. What they call a two-fisted drinker and he drank in a similar fashion. A big man, six feet two inches, near 240 pounds and a lot of it was muscle. He kept his head shaved to the skull and it all added to his bull appearance. But startlingly blue eyes, a broken nose and full mouth. He was dressed in a white tracksuit and of course, the Doc Martens, polished to a frenzied spit. I met him in prison, he’d been in and out of Pentonville more times than the postman. I’d been convicted of GBH… which was OK… if they wanted to call it grievous bodily harm, I wasn’t arguing the toss. A mugger had hopped on my back down in Waterloo and I’d tried to kill the fucker. In fact, I was sure I had done as I gave it my best shot. I hadn’t done good in the nick, I couldn’t get the rhythm… and would you want to. In fights all the time, I could learn the words but I couldn’t catch the melody. That’s when I met the Doc and he showed me the score. Why a huge Irishman became my solution is one of those odd events that defy analysis. Our friendship continued in the straight world and we went into business together.

He’d taken advantage of the Open University to attain his ‘O’ Levels and went all the way through to take a B.A. in Literature. It demonstrated, he said, not so much how smart he was as the length of time he’d been inside. I reckoned if anyone knew the MacNeice dude, it was him. Our business brought in a lotta cash but fuck, he needed it. The man loved to spend.

This evening, he’d thrown an impromptu party in our local as his team had bought a new player. Fuck knows, they needed to. What he’d done was put a grand behind the bar and ya-hoo, it was open season… party time. He’d once said to me, ‘They don’t trust an educated Irishman, it’s like an uppity nigger.’

I said, ‘As maybe! But they get downright paranoid with a flash one even more. Do you have to be so blatant with the cash? I mean I’ve heard of conspicuous consumption but this is friggin’ rubbin’ their noses in it.’

‘Ah Cooper, me oul segotia, you worry too much. You can’t take it with you.’

‘Yeah, but you’re hell bent on letting every other bastard take it with him.’

‘You’re a miserable sod, why are the English so cautious?’

‘’Cos we have to deal with you flamin’ paddies is why. We’ll have to pull another job sooner than planned.’

I caught his eye, signalled the corner booth, our office of sorts. Wading through the crowd, he was pumping hands, yelling hello, home is the fuckin’ hero. His face was awash in sweat and his eyes alight. Threw an arm round me, asked, ‘How’s it cutting, yah worry guts?’

‘Sit down Doc, I need to talk.’

‘Uh-uh, you got a girl in trouble?’

‘Just listen OK, can you fuckin’ do that, take five minutes off from the hearty hail-fuck-well-met, can you.’

It lashed him, his eyes lost their light a moment, as if a candle had been blown out, I said, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that but I need your undivided.’

He sat down, took out a hankie, with his team colours, mopped his face, said, ‘Oh you meant it alright. But sometimes I’m afraid if I stop, I’ll never get motoring again, I keep bein’ afraid I’ll miss something. Anyway, fire away.’

I gave him a rundown on the day, covered near all. He looked into my face, asked, ‘Did you give her one?’

‘What?’

‘Did you ride her?’

‘Good Lord, why don’t you just come right out and ask me… why beat about the bush?’

‘Sounds like you beat around the old bush. So… did you do the business, give her a rub of the relic.’

‘Em… in a manner of speaking.’

He gave a huge laugh, threw back his head and went with it. Ever see or hear Dyan Cannon laugh? Yeah… the whole shebang, light on a dark street, like that.

‘Aw Jaysus Coop, you’ll kill me. The English are a race apart, what d’ya do, talk dirty to her.’

‘OK… OK… so… we had intercourse.’

‘Intercourse, what…? By the Lord Harry did ye study first… what goes where… after you dear… no, no… I insist… put it where you desire. No wonder ye like Carry On pictures.’

‘You’re a big help Doc.’

‘And lifted the pistol did she, the heathen bitch… bit careless were you?’

‘Hey, she slipped me a Mickey Finn.’

‘And you slipped her… OK… sorry.’

‘Have you heard of MacNeice then?’

Doc had done the English piss-take in a haughty law-di-daw. Now he switched to what I’d heard him call his West-Brit accent.

‘I come from an island, Ireland, a nation built upon violence and morose vendettas. My diehard countrymen like drayhorses, drag their ruin behind them, shooting straight in the cause of crooked thinking. Their greed is sugared with pretence of public spirit, from all of which I am an exile.’

I didn’t know was this Doc or MacNeice till he said, ‘He was like me, said,

“In short we must keep moving

to keep pace

or else drop into limbo

the dead place.”’

I threw up my hands.

‘What the fuck is this, everyone’s doing recitations, did I miss something. Who is this fuck.’

‘Take it easy Coop, I also do Yeats… how about a nice bit of Browning?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘’Course you crowd adore Rupert Brooke, all that romantic dying and heroism with a hint of buggery:

“And some corner of a foreign field

shall be forever England”

Yeah, well he got his wish, they bloody buried him in it. Let’s get a drink, I’m parched.’

Back to the bar and ordered double Scotches. Got on the other side of them, I said, ‘What should I do?’

‘Get shot of her.’

‘That’s it… for this I sat through poetry at eleven.’

‘Look Coop, we’re due to take that bank… wot… two weeks… we can’t afford complications, that woman isn’t a loose cannon, she’s a walking time bomb.’

‘Maybe we should postpone.’

He put down his drink, laid a big hand on my shoulder, said, ‘No can do old son, I need the cash.’

‘What else is new.’

‘Straight up… and you need to get that pistol back. Jaysus, all we need is for her to put a bullet in Bert.’

‘Bertr?’

‘Yeah, the fast food guy, if she’s as nutty as she sounds, she’ll go back. It’s what psychos do.’

Lisa, a barmaid, was collecting glasses. A friendly slip of a girl, I was always glad to see her. As she leant over, her breasts brushed my arm and she let the touch linger, her eyes locked on mine. Her perfume had a familiar scent… I asked, ‘What’s the fragrance?’

‘Poison.’

‘I don’t doubt it but what’s it called?’

‘That’s the name.’

It was what Cassie wore. Doc said, ‘She fancies you, that Lisa does.’

‘Leave it out.’

‘C’mon, get the cork outa yer ass. Bring her home, have a nice uncomplicated lass for once.’

‘Jeez, I haven’t the energy.’

‘Here, take this… it’s amyl nitrate, crunch that baby under yer nose, you’ll go like the clappers.’

‘The fuck’s going on. All day people feeding me poetry and dope or is that the other way round, dopes feeding me…’

‘Poetry, dope and rock ’n’ roll, like an Ian Dury song. Go on… go for it. Aren’t I yer doctor.’

‘You know I hate drugs.’

The sun through the bedroom window nudged me awake. I yawned, stretched, feeling good. Lisa woke and gave me a lazy smile. The door crashed open and Cassie was framed there, wearing one of my best shirts, screamed, ‘Oh you bastard, how could you… in our marriage bed.’

Lisa’s eyes were wide, she whispered, ‘You’re married!’

Cassie lunged forward, tore the sheet off, leaving us bare-assed.

‘He didn’t tell you… ’cos you’re just another cheap whore… and young… the same age as our daughter.’

‘Daughter!’

I moved and Cassie levelled the pistol. ‘Do… and I’ll shoot your balls off.’

The barrel of the gun swung towards Lisa, she began to whimper.

Cassie said, ‘You stay away from my man, you hear me. You wanna suck on something, try this.’

And squeezed the trigger.

The bullet slammed into the headboard between us. Splinters of wood flying outwards. Lisa curled up in a ball, screaming. Now Cassie turned to me, asked, ‘Did you memorise the lines?’

‘What?’

‘Tut-tut… it’s the dunce’s cap for you, hot shot. Alas, I must bid adieu. What’s that shit you guys say here… tootle-pip… cheery-bye, whatever… later dude.’

She backed out and closed the door. I tried to put my arm round Lisa but she slapped it away, her crying got louder and full-blown hysteria got set. I pulled her round, slapped her face, measuring out the words.

‘Shut the fuck up.’

She did.

I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, headed cautiously to the front room. On the coffee table, in a glass, was one fresh red rose. I sighed… ‘cute’. Made some scalding hot tea, laced it with sugar. The best remedy for shock, my hands were doing an Oirish jig… no, downright hornpipes. So, I got the brandy, poured some dollops in. As I held the bottle I thought… fuck… and took a swig. Hell to Henry, it burned like a sucker punch to the gut.

Took the tea to Lisa who was sobbing quietly. Forced the mug into her two hands.

She said, ‘Don’t want it.’

‘Drink the fuckin’ thing.’

‘You bastard, never said you were married.’

‘I’m not. She must have found the spare keys when she was here yesterday.’

And argh… could have bitten my tongue for adding yesterday. The fuck was wrong with me, I was a mine of information, mister extra detail.

‘Yesterday… you had her here YESTERDAY and then brought ME here last night?’

Before she could get into full shout, I snapped her off.

‘Leave it alone… OK… just drink the bloody tea.’

She took a sip, said, ‘It’s too sweet, don’t you have Sweetex.’

‘Hey… hey Lisa, cut me a bit o’ slack… alright?’

‘Are you going to call the Old Bill?’

‘No, I’m going to call the doctor.’

‘Don’t need the doctor.’

‘I sure as hell do.’

He came round in twenty minutes. Today he was wearing a bright green tracksuit that had the logo ‘Charlton’s Arms’, and white Doc Martens. I’d never seen them in white, asked, ‘I thought you only ever wore black ones.’

‘So… I can’t change. Is this what you called me for, to talk footwear?’

Lisa was in the shower, I was in tatters and told him the events. He gave a slow whistle.

‘A raven.’

‘What?’

‘Lunatic… she’s completely ape-shit.’

‘That’s your diagnosis, lucky I called you, else I wouldn’t have known.’

‘Yo Cooper, none of your lip, I didn’t shoot at you but you’re not too big for a flaming good puck in the mouth.’

Doc picked up a piece of paper, scanned it, said, ‘Think this is for you, fella.’

I guess it was meant to accompany the rose, it read:

‘Gotta keep it together

while I’m falling apart’

(Martina McBride)

I didn’t know who the fuck this was, asked, ‘Who the fuck’s this?’

Doc laughed, said, ‘A country and western singer and if I may say so me fein, a real cutie pie.’

I balled it, flicked it across the room, said, ‘Jeez, the whole thing’s like a bad country and western song.’

‘I did some reading on your account last night.’

‘On my account.’

‘Yeah, checked out MacNeice, best if you know who you’re dealing with.’

‘And?’

‘That’s right Coop, be grateful, it’s probably what you do best.’

‘You’re going to tell me or wot, you want what… flattery…?’

‘Yeah, you’re so good at it. OK, here goes. He was born in 1907 in Belfast. His oul lad was a Church of Ireland clergyman and you know what happens to their offspring.’

‘What?’

‘’Ary Jaysus, don’t you read the News of The World? What class of ignoramus are you. Anyway, he’s regarded as the poor fourth.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘In relation to the big three… C.S. Lewis, Auden, and Stephen Spender. No doubt you’re familiar with those boyos.’

‘Sure.’

‘I thought so. He had a brother with Down’s Syndrome.’

‘So?’

‘So Orson Welles had a brother who was mentally handicapped and his father had him locked away for ten years after which he became a social worker. A natural progression you might say. David Bowie has a brother who was also hidden away.’

I threw up my arms, said, ‘Enough, you’ve gone a tad too Irish for me.’

Doc gave a hard stare at his footwear, said, ‘Any chance of a sup of tea, here I am trying to wise you up, you won’t as much as wet a man’s whistle.’

Lisa came out of the bedroom wearing one of my shirts. At this rate I’d be shirtless. I already was clueless. I didn’t mention it, just old-fashioned gallantry I guess. But Doc leapt in.

‘I recognise the shirt but the coleen, now surely ’tis not the bould Lisa, you filthy article, what would your mother say?’

Lisa didn’t blush but her body language tried to convey she knew the feeling, answered, ‘My mum would say, I hope you took precautions.’

I was with her mother, she sure got my vote. Doc said, ‘Do you like me shoes.’

‘They’re white!’

‘Aye, as pure as the driven, any chance you’d give a man a drop of tea?’

She did. I had another jolt of coffee. I wasn’t in the mood for pissing about with tea, I wanted my caffeine naked and lethal. Doc asked her, ‘You wouldn’t know what a spike is me girl?’

‘Like on a railing?’

‘No, like a shelter for homeless men. Years ago when the drink had a grip, I went down the shitter and ended up in Gordon Road. Not just once either. Well, if you’d been living rough, they de-loused you.’

He paused to sip the tea and Lisa said, ‘How awful.’

‘’Twas that and all. Then they gave you a white boiler suit. God in heaven, the mortification! You stood shivering in them white suits and everyone knew you’d been sprayed.’

‘Was it dangerous?’

‘Compared to what? You tied yer shoes round yer neck while you slept, if such a thing could be had among a multitude of farting roaring men. But the smell… ah… now there’s a memory.’

‘Of urine… and… things?’

‘That… sure, but I meant the other. The very smell of desperation, of lost men in a lost place.’

I’d heard this yarn before so figured I’d shower. It’s not a story you like better through repetition. As I shaved, I could hear his soft brogue.

‘There was a fella there… Grogan. He gave viciousness a bad name, he’d steal the eye outa yer head and blame you. Men hold on to any shred of individuality… anything to mark you from the horde. His trademark was his boots, the old Doc Martens. One night in February, a cold bastard of a Friday, I heard him thrashing. Nothing unusual in that but I looked up anyway and saw two fellas moving away from his bunk.’

Lisa gave an excited cry.

‘They were stealing his shoes?’

‘They’d tried but the bastard had sea-manned the laces, merchant navy knots, and they’d strangled him.’

‘Oh my God!’

‘Yeah… but I got them loose.’

‘You saved his life.’

‘No, I saved his boots.’

Lisa left shortly after and the Doc said, ‘You could do worse, in fact you’ve frequently done worse.’

‘Thanks. So what do you reckon on this Cassie lunatic?’

‘I’ll put the word out, how hard can she be to find. Plus, I think she’ll stay close, she seems fond of you.’

‘You don’t think I need get another shooter.’

‘Naw, I’ll do it, a fella offered me a grand yoke last week, I was going to buy it anyway.’

‘What is it?’

‘A Smith and Wesson 38. The Bodyguard Airweight one. It holds a little heavy in yer hand but I like that.’

‘Where’d he get it?’

‘You know those holiday apartments over in Kensington, the Arabs rent them? Turning one of those over, he found it in the fridge.’

‘On ice so to speak.’

‘Yeah. Best of all, it has a shrouded hammer.’

‘Which does what exactly?’

‘Stops it tangling if you’re carrying it in yer pocket.’

‘Ammunition?’

‘Does the Pope have beads.’

The first bank we took was in Chingford. Yeah, like that, how many folks have you met who’ve been there… let alone heard of it. These small areas, who’d rob them… who’d bother. Yet they usually hold a shitpile of money. Can’t be bothered moving it on and security is a joke. We didn’t see it as a career move, we were hurting for readies and didn’t want to play in our own manor. Doc said to me, ‘I’d like to rob a bank in Chingford.’

‘They have a bank?’

‘Let’s find out.’

First we had to find the whorin’ place. But even then, the pattern was being set. We ‘borrowed’ a car in Ealing and hit off. Went in hard. Wearing balaclavas and boiler suits, shouting like fuck. I thought all the roaring was to intimidate the customers and staff. But it’s to keep you rolling, keep you hyper. It was so easy, they near threw the money at us. In and out in six minutes and the buzz was so manic, we took down the post office as well. Fuck knows, we’d have gone in the building society but they’d closed. I was cooking, a white energy moving through me, like sex, I wanted to rob every premises on the High Street. Doc grabbed my arm, shouted, ‘Enough, let’s go… get a fucking grip on yourself.’

Burned rubber outa there and tore off the masks. Those fuckin’ things are hot and itchy. As I hit fourth gear, revving like a lunatic, I glanced at Doc. He felt it too. Rivers of sweat pouring down his face and his eyes like major bullets, near popping out of his skull. The back seat was jammed with money. We knew we’d been incredibly lucky and blatantly stupid. But the foundation was good and I could see a blueprint for serious profit.

It was intended as a one-off, for walking round money. That evening, at Doc’s flat, he said, ‘You really got off on that, yeah.’

‘Fuckit, I never expected to take so much. If we’re not careful, we might be bordering on actual fuckin’ wealth here.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘You’re not happy with the cash, take less, what’s the matter with you.’

‘You liked it… the job I mean… no… you adored it. I’ve never seen you so… gimme a word…’

‘Delighted?’

‘Animated… electrified… you were all lit up.’

‘Still am.’

‘You’ve found the thing that everybody wants.’

‘Wot’s that then, mega bucks?’

‘Don’t be an eejit Cooper. Something that brings them out of the herd, lets them kiss the heavens and fly, to soar on high.’

‘Doc… hey… lighten up… OK. We’re loaded, we robbed a bank… we’re not banged up… it’s not bloody religion.’

‘But that’s exactly it, you found religion, you’ll be doing this again… and again.’

We’d bought half a dozen bottles of Johnny Walker, three dozen cans of special and a shit heap of Chinese. I took the whisky straight from the bottle, let it coast and burn, popped some chow mein and washed it down with beer. Let the whole shebang blend, pour the friggin’ works, let them go figure what sent where, I asked, ‘Saying you’re right, let’s just suppose you are, where does that leave you?’

He didn’t answer for a bit, then, ‘With you… wot else, you mad bastard. How does Huntingdon sound, like the ring?’

I did… Staines, Milton Keynes, Crawley, Kidderminster, Haysham, East Trilling,… away days… and the mountain of cash began to shape. But, you’ve got to have a front. The old Bill are going to come sniffin’ sure as shooting. You need chameleon image. What you can show but can’t be pinned down. They look you over, yer business could be gold, could be shite.

Repo men. Yeah… that’s what we put out. Ain’t it the way of the world though, how it turns. First you got to get it, then you’ve got to bloody hide it. ‘GOD REPOSSESSES AND SO DO WE’.

It wasn’t going to hurt me to be up to me ass in cars. Money follows money. We rented a lock-up in Victoria, got the phone in and put small ads in the trades, in the locals. Here’s what it read:

‘Cat got yer tongue

they’ve got yer car

if you want to re-possess

give us a bell

THE R.R. (RIGHTEOUS REPO).’

And fuck me, ain’t it rich, the business took off. According to the Met, there’s a car nicked every two seconds in inner London alone. Jeez we were swamped. Had to take on staff and rent more space. Exciting too, see how long it took to track and move a vehicle. Then the movie came out, Repo Man with Emilio Estevez. Business boomed. I half fancied I was a touch like Emilio meself, that broody dark shit… yeah. You figure we packed in the banks? Never happen, no way. The Doc had my number. It was my very adrenaline, the juice in my veins. Sure, I liked the repo, the cars it brought me in contact with, the money, but it was like comparing a hand job to wild sex, a spoon of shandy up against a bottle of Walker.

We figured on a few rules early. No partners, strictly a two-man operation. If it needed more, then pack it in. Trust no one. The Doc had a prayer for us:

‘God keep us smart, fast

and mobile

the rest we’ll handle

ourselves.’

Seems God was listening. Then.

We must have got Him on a good day. Thing is, I reckon He enjoys a bit of villainy too. Else how to account for the Tory party. And mostly what we got was careful. Kevin Costner as Elliot Ness in The Untouchables is urged by his wife to be careful. He says, ‘like mice at a crossroads’.

Learnt the shit as we went along too. Out with the wool balaclavas, got us some light cotton jobs. No cumbersome gloves either. Those surgical skin-fit ones that make people instinctively edgy.

Experimented with the art of deception. The Doc would wear a larger size shoe and we’re talking big here, and bring along flour or baking soda. Sprinkle some of that on our way in and leave a nice clear print. Jeez, the filth adore a cosy fat clue. I had some fun with tattoos, those washable chaps. Put ‘I Love Me Old Mum’ in bold letters on my arm and let the sleeve ride up as I scooped the cash. Some whiz-kid bank trainee was hot to trot. A major breakthru for the investigation. After that one, half the old lags who lived with their Mums were rounded up. Even the Krays got a shout. Accents too, throw in some rasta and half of Brixton got turned over. We didn’t fuck with the Irish though. Doc said, ‘The last… the very last thing we want… is for the boyos to get pissed with us.’

I took his word on that.

Neither of us smoked so we ensured we dropped butts on our exit and all over the abandoned motor. One raid, Doc procured insulin and left the half-empty phial under the seat. That made it to CrimeStoppers. Kept our mouths tight shut. No braggin’, no hints, nada.

Things got hairy too. An old dear had a heart attack on our Hatton Cross job. Doc wanted to send flowers and cash. I lost it.

‘The fuck you saying…? You want to be Robin Hood, is that it… have the public love us. Jeez, mebbe we could cut a record. We’re in this for cash, not friggin’ sentiment.’

He sent the cash anyway. I could have sent the flowers.

Arnold L. White. Is that a name or wot. Our accountant. I wasn’t going to prison for VAT or any of that sneaky crap. He had an office in Camberwell. I had to ask, ‘What’s the L for?’

‘Leopold.’

‘You’re winding me up.’

‘Do I look like a kidder, as if humour is my forte?’

He didn’t.

Looked like a sour priest and hey, that’s how it should be. Money is a sacred business. He had a cheeky secretary named Iris, a pushy blonde, all mouth and nastiness.

I gave her one. Call it duty, to keep tabs on Leopold. She was the worst kind of leg-over… loud, came roaring and shouting as if I’d murdered her. The French call orgasm the little death. Guess they hadn’t heard of Iris. No doubts with that lady, she knew what she wanted and rode the daylights outa me. After, she’d say, ‘I’d kill for a bacon butty.’

She’d had a husband, Patrick, from County Kerry who’d gone MIA. The worst criminal ever to come outa Camberwell. Not dangerous, just useless. He’d attempted to rob a Pakistani shopkeeper, using a replica. The man near split his skull in two with a brick… a real one. Patrick got ten years. Prior to that, he’d been in a pub one night. A fella named Mick had given him a ferocious hiding. All Patrick remembered was the name. So, he packed a meat cleaver in an Adidas holdall and returned to the pub.

No sooner had he ordered, when the barman roared to a customer heading for the loo, ‘How’s about ye Mick.’

Patrick followed, missed with the cleaver, it was embedded in the wall. Mick and five of his mates then attempted to fit the cleaver to Patrick’s arse-hole. After she’d told me this, she added drily, ‘I said to ’im, you pathetic wanker, you like sex and travel so fuck off outa here.’

What Arnold also provided was information. Of the banking variety. Doc had a chat with him, suggested it would be mutual if the skinny on obscure banks were available. Their days for ‘holding’.

Arnold was yer classic accountant. He asked no questions but one, a highly indignant tone, ‘You think I can be bought?’

Doc named a figure.

He was bought.

Networking. Wot a lovely word:

Hip

Contemporary

Sassy.

Arnold networked a series of clerks in the major banks. Not too many, but sufficient to provide the dates without arousing suspicion.

It had risk… sure. The old fall-out factor, but it worked. Plus too, a clerk blew the whistle he was on the bank ‘suss list’. Banks don’t rate loyalty, only profit.

I’d put a portion of map on the wall, let the Doc have a look.

Asked, ‘See anything you like?’

‘Never heard of that Bicester, means we’d pass thru Morse country.’

‘Put the wind up Sergeant Lewis, eh.’

Thursdays were best as the payrolls would be in but we didn’t want to establish a pattern. Sooner or later though, you had to figure on getting a tug. I’d only recently moved to Meadow Road, was burning money with the decorators. Jeez, what is it with those fucks, all that shouting. I’d said, ‘Hey… this isn’t the Grand Canyon, you don’t have to check for echo. Let’s keep the damn shouting to a minimum. How would this be… if a roar has to be made, and I don’t dispute the necessity, I’ll do it… OK I’m paying, so I’ll be roaring.’

Which I think put it across rather well. An informed and civilised outlay of the rules. They listened almost attentively and then continued roaring.

‘Hey Joe, where’s my hammer?… Cyril, wot’s gonna win the 3.30?… That Dettori ain’t worth shit… Three sugars and a sausage sarnie…’

Yeah, like that. I was contemplating a short stay in a hotel but I liked to keep an eye on the fucks. The doorbell rang. Would one of the decorators answer? Course not…

‘Not in my portfolio mate.’

I flung the door open, the hammerin’ behind me a decibel louder. Two men in raincoats, the hard-eyed look. You knew when they weren’t flogging double glazing or Mormons. Coats were too cheap.

‘Mr Cooper.’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr David Cooper.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry to trouble you Sir, I’m Chief Inspector Noble and this is Detective Sergeant Quinn, might we have a word?’

‘Not a quiet one I’m afraid.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

I gestured behind me. Noble gave a tight smile, humour not even distantly touching it. In his fifties, he’d the recent health of an ex-drinker and the tension it bestowed. I looked at my watch, said, ‘Down the road, there’s The Roebuck… very quiet at this hour, would that do… are ye allowed… fraternise in… public houses.’

A look passed between them said… ‘got a friggin’ live one.’

Quinn was thin, in his thirties. He’d the face of a grey-hound gone rogue, a rabid light in his eyes. This guy liked to sink his teeth and never let up. The worst kind of cop, it was always personal with him. Noble said, ‘In the line of duty, we could force ourselves I think.’

‘Okey-dokey then, you lads scuttle on down there, I’ll get my coat and be with you… in say… five, how would that be.’

‘That would be fine, five minutes.’

I went and got my leather jacket, a Georgio Armani and it knows it. Leather so soft it croons, goes out by itself. I swear it wept when Brazil stole the World Cup. I’d met women who wanted an evening with the jacket. Makes me feel good and I needed that. Had figured they’d come but now, I didn’t know was I ready. My body said. ‘No you’re not’ and sweat made lakes on my torso. Ever have one of those situations, like the following. You’re moving along the footpath, see a person coming towards you. In this instance, a woman in her late twenties, bit of a looker. Not earth shattering but cookin’. There’s only the two of you, not another punter on the path. Bags of time to move easily by. Yet… and here’s the fuck of it. Ye begin the manoeuvres early so as not to collide. Despite all the rules of gravity, you end up nose on nose, flappin’ uselessly as ye attempt to get by. I smiled, one of those knowing world-weary jobs to say, ‘Oh… silly us.’ She gave a loud sigh of aggressive annoyance, said, ‘Oh get out of my way for heaven’s sake.’

I grabbed her arm, hissed, ‘Hey, don’t pissin’ sigh at me lady, I’ll break yer bloody face… hear me.’

Didn’t affect her, as she moved on she shouted, ‘Damn Yuppie.’

I guess it was the jacket.

I arrived in The Roebuck, up for it. The two were sitting at a corner table, untouched glasses of orange like prayers before them. I opened: ‘On the old Britvics eh.’

‘But let us not curtail… your inclinations.’

This from Noble, again the dead smile. I sat opposite them. The barman shouted, ‘What’ll it be guv?’

‘Same as these chappies.’

He brought it over and it sat with the other immobile glasses. I said, ‘Ah, the juice.’

Noble gave me the long look, said, ‘Nice bit o’ leather, expensive was it.’

‘Are you in the market for one, that it?’

‘Alas, a policeman’s salary wouldn’t run to such an item.’

The juice looked forlorn, I extended a finger, said, ‘Eeny, Meeny, Miny… Mo.’

And Quinn spoke, South-East London hard, but inroads of Irish, ‘Catch a blagger by the toe.’

Noble added, ‘Quinn here is a plastic Paddy… second generation, he hates blaggers.’

‘And who would blame him?’

‘Precisely David. It is David isn’t it… You don’t mind if I call you that, or are you more comfortable with Davy or Dave even?’

‘Cooper is fine.’

‘Touch hard is it not, are you a hard man Dave?’

‘Not according to my old mum, bless her heart.’

Quinn leaned over, ‘You’ve got form Davy boy.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And keeping clean, are yah?’

‘With the decorating, it’s not easy.’

His dog face was working up to it.

‘Not hurting for the readies… business good, was it?’

I knew I could go either way. Kiss ass and have him enjoy it or, ‘Ever keep greyhounds Quinn?’

‘That’s sergeant to you. Wotcha mean?’

‘Oh nothing, you remind me of White City, I thought perhaps yer Dad was into them, know wot I mean?’

Noble cut in, but first a glance at Quinn that said ‘Jeez, he does look like one!’

‘Davy, we have a problem, there’s been a string of bank jobs, all over the bloody shop. Two-man outfit, very pro, very classy. Would you know anything about these?’

‘Can’t help you there, repo is what I do.’

Noble sighed.

‘I feel it in my water Dave that you could help us, wouldn’t do for the nick to repossess you.’

The barman came over, asked, ‘Is the orange off or wot?’

Quinn didn’t look up, said, ‘Fuck off.’

He did.

Noble stood and gestured to Quinn, who kept his eyes locked on me, said, ‘We’ll be in touch Dave, I just know you’re going to be a big help.’

When they were gone, I carried the glasses over to the bar, said, ‘Sorry about those wankers, mebbe you could recycle these.’

He slung ’em down the sink, said, ‘Naw, they’re friggin’ contaminated, am I right.’

‘Absolutely.’

Three days passed, no sign or light of Cassie. Doc had the heavy word out but no show. I began to relax, figured she’d headed for higher ground. Kept thinking of her though, the leather sex, the bloody chemistry of the crazy bitch. But I knew I was better off without her. The hell of it is, trouble is so exciting and I’d been sliding along, not bored but heart not beating rapid either. The repo business was doing good and I’d gone to Brixton to suss out a major job. Done that and drifted into the big pub on the corner. Ordered mash and a banger, half a bitter. Found a table at the window and dug in. Never heard her till she sat opposite, she glanced at the food, said, ‘No shit Cooper, but is that phallic or wot.’

I cut the sausage, hefted a wedge and she licked her bottom lip, whispered, ‘Give it to me big boy.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘You want me to haul ass.’

‘Yeah… and give me back the bloody gun.’

‘Aw-righty,’ she said, and opened her bag.

‘Jeez, not here, what… are you outa yer tree.’

‘Well outa federal jurisdiction. I wanna make up.’

‘Make up, like stories is it?’

‘I’m hot for you Cooper. I could service you now, under the table. You just go on eating your vitals, all your appetites satisfied together.’

‘Go away’

She touched her hair, asked, ‘Do I look like Jennifer Aniston?’

‘Who?’

‘Oh Gawd. Don’t you watch TV… like, you never heard of Friends?’

‘I’ve got the Doc.’

‘JES-US… like get real. It’s a comedy series, like mega. A million women copied Jennifer’s style. There’s even a cult called “The Holy Tabernacle of Aniston The Divine”.’

‘Don’t mean shit to me but yer hair… is… I dunno… circa Cathy McGowan… the 60s… like that.’

She rolled her eyes and that closed the hair rap. Said, ‘I bought you a present.’

‘Keep it.’

‘Please Cooper just let me explain. I was jealous, it makes me crazy, I never met a man like you. Mind if I smoke.’

‘And you’ll refrain if I do.’

She took out the Camels, soft pack and crushed, shook one free, asked, ‘Can you light me?’

A couple in their twenties, laden with food, approached and asked, ‘Might we share your table?’

Cassie’s head turned, spat, ‘What, you goddamn blind, we look like we’re receiving company? Can’t you see we’re having sex here.’

I jumped up, said, ‘Sure, we’re all finished.’

And strode out. She was right on my heels as I hit the path, shouted, ‘Don’t leave me, what about the children.’

You can do just about any weird shit in Brixton and no one gives a toss. Ain’t nothing new. But she got attention, maybe it was the bloody Yank accent. A group of the brothers were hanging outside the blues music shop, one of them said, ‘No way to treat a lady, man.’

I said, without breaking my stride, ‘That’s no lady, it’s the shoplifter from hell.’

As I moved fast into Coldharbour Lane, her voice carried: ‘I love you David and Louis MacNeice.’

I dunno if it meant Louis loved me too but I doubt it. Got the car keys out and my hands were shaking. Half expected her to start shooting. The engine revved and I burned rubber, sweat dancing on my upper lip.

Back home I got right on the phone, called a mate, asked, ‘You still fitting locks?’

‘Sure.’

‘OK, can you do a rush job, like now?’

‘Naw, we’re booked solid, no can do old son.’

‘If I throw in a few ponies for yourself’

‘What time would suit you?’

‘And shoot the works OK, deadbolts, state-of-the-art shit, top of the line.’

‘It will cost.’

‘Tell me about it. What’s the best system?’

‘The three five seven.’

‘What?’

‘Magnum.’

‘Get here soonest, leave the humour at the office.’

Poured a Scotch, took a fast slug, muttered ‘crazy bloody bitch’ and rang Doc.

‘That you Coop, how’s she cutting?’

‘I found her.’

‘Good man, where?’

‘Brixton.’

‘Figures. Did you deal with her?’

‘We had lunch.’

‘What? Are you stone raving mad. Tell me at least you got the shooter back, tell me that.’

‘I managed to get away from her.’

‘I’m confused Cooper, or you’re winding me up. We’ve been hunting her, half the firm on overtime, me calling in favours from every breed of wanker and you’re saying you escaped.’

‘I’m going to change the locks.’

‘Fuck-me-pink, you need to change your bloody attitude.’

He hung up.

A large package arrived next morning. The postman had to ring as it took me ages to undo the new locks. Grunting, I pulled open the door. As he handed me the package he winked. I asked, ‘Something wrong with yer eye mate?’

‘Nothing wrong with ME.’

‘Keep that up, it will change.’

And slammed the door. Scrawled all over the paper was ‘S.W.A.L.K., a heart, I love you stallion, and LIPS’. I said, jeez, who could this be? Tore it open, praying to hell-and-gone it wasn’t incendiary. I already knew it was explosive, a book fell out. Autumn Journal by Louis MacNeice. Swore, this fuck again. I was very tired of the guy. Still, the book had a nice feel to it. Old leather cover, gold-leaf pages and one of them index fingies you see in bibles. She’d written a note, what a surprise.

‘My David, David Mia

Without you

What warehouse of the soul

awaits me now.’

Deep, I said, very friggin’ deep.

I used the index and read:

‘And I remember Spain

at Easter, ripe as an egg

for revolt and ruin

though for a tripper

the rain was worse

than the surly

or the worried or the haunted faces.’

I wasn’t getting this. Maybe he was one of those guys you had to hear aloud. So I cleared my throat, looked around a bit self-consciously and took my shot.

‘The churches full of saints

tortured on racks of marble

and the Escorial

cold for ever

within the heart of Philip

as if veneer could hold

the rotten guts

and crumpled bones together.’

Yeah, well, some people had a flair for it. The Doc, now he’d read the telephone directory and you felt moved. I reckon the Irish always sound as if they mean it, as if it’s personal. Us lot, we’ve always one ear open for the hint of ridicule.

My old man, he fancied his voice. Sunday evenings he’d read to my mother and I from the Good Book. All the Old Testament stuff. Jeez, he was hot for that fire and brimstone, unmerciful punishments and ferocious suffering. The torment of the damned got him hot. Silly fucker would drone on about begots and begats. My mother punctuating the silences with compliments and praise, she can’t have been right in the head, or could she possibly have been taking the piss? How I wish it were so. Truth is, she was the worst kind of criminal. She supported him in his tyranny of bullying and beatings, encouraged him in the nurture of those fuckin’ pigeons. The face of gentility and aspiring middle class, she was the public face of the beast. After he took his dive, she became a professional widow, leapt into black weeds and wore them like a trophy. ‘Hey – see me – not only had I a husband but I buried him and of course, there’ll be no other man.’ As if anyone would have the cow. I got the fuck away from her as soon as I was able and it wasn’t soon enough.

Long before the psychologists, the heart-juicers came trippin’ along with fancy names like dysfunctional, our family unit was full fledged fucked.

The old man’s Christian name was Alistair. Not that he’d a drop of Christianity. He had a framed tapestry in our pokey hall which said:

MAN PROPOSES

GOD DISPOSES

Yeah.

Alistair the righteous, the unholy more like. ‘Don’t think he’d planned on bein’ ‘smote’ from a three-storey building in Battersea, not a howl down from the dogs’ home. One might say he was indeed begot, or is it begat. Whatever, well creamed any road. The doorbell went. I didn’t recognise him at first, then he spoke.

‘Dave, how are you lad, have you forgotten me?’

Then it clicked. Noble, the noble savage.

‘Chief Inspector.’

‘One and the same, I must put my hand up, cop a plea. That’s police manual humour to put Joe Public at ease.’

‘It works, or is it to put him off his guard?’

‘Might I step in?’

‘Have you a warrant?’

Took him aback. I added, ‘Just kiddin’, come on then.’

He had a cheap raincoat and even cheaper aftershave. No, the cheapest. It comes free with the litre bottles of bleach.

‘Have a seat.’

As he did he took a full look round.

‘The decorators did you proud, very nice job, local lads are they?’

‘By means of Dublin.’

‘Expensive?’

‘Depends on your perspective Inspector. Tea, coffee, vodka. No, hold the phones, I’ve a nice bit o’ Britvic.’

He smiled, said, ‘Perhaps the tea.’

I got that done, put cups, milk, sugar on a tray and some strawberry jam delights. Put the spread before him, he said, ‘Now, isn’t this cosy.’

And took a biscuit, bit cautiously, said, ‘Mm… m… that is good, Marks and Spencers?’

‘Sainsbury’s.’

‘First class. I might go another.’

And he did. Then said, ‘Bit o’ news you’ll find fascinating.’

‘Oh yeah, and what would that be?’

‘The Met are to be issued with longer acrylic batons. The Home Secretary wanted to know if the longer length made a difference in physical impact injuries and has finally approved them.’

‘That is fascinating. Acrylic eh, and machine washable.’

‘I doubt you’d pop them in yer local laundrette. Meanwhile, the villains load up on Uzis and M-11’s.’

‘I do appreciate your hoppin’ round to tell me, Inspector but you could have phoned.’

‘And miss these treats, I do believe I’ll have another. That your Astra outside?’

‘It’s a repo, I’ll drop it off later.’

‘Don’t doubt it for a minute. Who’s going to play silly buggers eh? The reason I wished to see you is, I wondered if you’d any new ideas on those robberies.’

‘Not a one.’

‘Mm… m… you’re not having tea.’

‘Bit early for me.’

‘We know it’s the same two men. They nick a car and hit at random, almost like they stuck a pin in a map. What do you think?’

‘No idea.’

‘Well, that’s my job eh, but I’ll pop round from time to time let you know how the investigation’s going.’

He stood up, noisily drained his cup, headed for the door. I said, ‘It isn’t really necessary you know.’

‘Of course I know it isn’t fuckin’ necessary Cooper. When it gets to that, I’ll send Quinn.’

Doc was close to shouting.

‘What did you do to antagonise the prick.’

‘Do me a bloody favour Doc, I gave him tea for crying out loud.’

‘And he definitely said WHEN not IF.’

‘You think I misheard him, that it?’

‘Fuck fuck fuck.’

‘That’s a big help.’

I was round at Doc’s place. He lived off the Clapham Road in an old draughty house that never got warm. Laura, his common-law wife, was doing household shit and noisily. A small intense brunette, she’d a vicious temper. I don’t think she liked me but it wasn’t personal. She didn’t like anybody, even Doc seemed to bug her and they’d been together eighteen years. He shouted, ‘Laura, for fuck’s sake, will you stop bangin’ things.’

‘When you stop bangin’ young wans.’

He gave a huge smile, said, ‘The mouth on that woman, strip paint off a gate. Hey Laura, wet a sup o’ tea.’

‘Wet it yerself.’

They had a sixteen-year-old daughter, currently at a posh boarding school. Doc said, ‘Everyone in this house-hold does time.’

Laura sighed, ‘But I’m the only one doing life.’

Round at Lisa’s, I’d called with flowers. The logo shouts ‘Say It With Flowers’. A bunch of pink roses, they didn’t have a whole lot of chat. Lisa said, ‘They’re lovely.’

What else could she add. She’d answered the door in nowt but a slip.

‘How does the postman react?’ I asked.

‘To what.’

Well fuckit, cancel the witty repartee. She gave me a large scotch and as I got behind that, I noticed she’d a gold chain round her ankle.

‘Why do you wear a chain on yer foot?’

‘It’s called a slave bracelet.’

‘That must set women’s rights back a few years.’

Not appreciated. Anger made her face ugly, blended with the knowledge she’d suspected the very same thing.

‘Are you calling me a bimbo?’

‘Whoa, slow down babe, you can hang it from your ass, see if I could give a fuck.’

She bent down to get a book, giving me a flash that hit like hope.

‘I read things you know. Look, I’ve got Carrie Fisher’s book.’

‘One of the greats.’

‘Do you read her?’

‘Bloody hell, I can almost quote her.’

‘Do you know this bit?’

“Here’s how men think:

Sex

Work

Food

Sports

Relationships.”’

She looked so eager as she read this. I felt a complete bastard but I’d signed on, so I said, ‘Not much escapes the bold Carrie. And, how do women score.’

‘Oh she’s so right, she says women think:

“Relationships

Relationships

Relationships

Work

Sex

Shopping

Weight

Food.”’

I said, ‘Wanna sit over here babe?’

‘OK.’

I got my hand under that slip and got hot. As we got to the deposit till, she pushed me off, said, ‘Don’t be so rough.’

Alas, I’d gone a tad too far down the jackpot road, was in the area of sexual bravado, whispered, ‘You’re a slave, do what the master commands.’

And she threw a drink in my face. I roared, ‘The fuck you think you’re doing?’

‘I want to be wooed.’

‘What!’

‘Romance – and the cinema. You don’t respect me.’

I stood up, headed out, added quiet, ‘Bolix.’ I wanted only Cassie, blind to all else.

The flowers were by the door but they’d nowt to add, not even goodbye.

Outside, I experienced the sense of being stalked. I had to figure it could be cops but it was too eerie. Physically shook myself to get back on track. Muttered ‘get real’, or failing that, ‘get real bloody vicious’.

I’d been handling Cassie all wrong. Coming on hardass was where she lived. If there was a next time, I’d be Mr Diplo-fuckin’-matic till I cornered. Then, we’d rock ’n’ roll.

A wino was witnessing ‘I was never a social drinker, only a social security drinker.’ I’d asked Doc if his boozin’ had been as serious as he told it. He’d answered, ‘Lemme put it this way. I was living in Bradford for six months before I realized it was Darlington.’

Quite.

I still had the Astra, I dunno why. It’s a woman’s car in truth. If you need a second car, then it’s as good as any. But for the main event, the numero uno, the big friggin’ cheese, it’s window dressing. Got home and planned a slow evening of strong drink. The phone went.

‘Dave?’

‘Yeah… hey… Doc, is that you?’

He never called me by my Christian name, I actively discouraged it. Only when heavy shit went down did he resort to it. Right now, I’d swear he was sobbing, his voice sounded broken.

‘Dave, it’s Laura – she’s dead.’

‘What!’

‘It’s true Dave – she went under a train… oh God.’

Now he was sobbing, I said, ‘I’m on my way buddy, just hang tight… OK.’

‘OK.’

The flaming Astra wouldn’t start. Then I realized I was flooding the engine and forced myself to calm down… OK… OK… try again. Burned rubber outa there.

As I drove I could hear Doc in my head, the thousand things he’d said. Once, ‘You never hear of Tom Leonard?’

‘No.’

‘Ah, you ignoramus, he proposed that long-term prisoners be given the freedom to purchase their own cells.’

The police cars were parked outside his house. I went in and came face to face with Quinn. What appeared dangerously close to a smirk was plastered on his grey-hound snout. He nodded.

Doc was sitting in an armchair, a bottle of Scotch between his legs. I crouched down, said, ‘I’m so sorry buddy.’

He looked blank, asked, ‘I dunno, should I drink whisky, Laura says it makes me cranky.’

‘How about some tea?’

‘I’d like some tea, two sugars please.’

A uniformed cop was in the kitchen, his shoulder micro-phone emitting squawky messages. I asked, ‘Do you know what happened?’

‘It seems she’d been shopping and was changing trains at the Oval for the Northern Line to Morden. She went under at approximately five forty-five. Rush hour, it didn’t half bugger up the timetable. We got her name from her handbag.’

I made the tea, the cop’s mike was eating at my nerves, I snapped, ‘Can’t you shut that bloody thing off.’

‘No can do Sir, any chance of a cuppa?’

I gave him the look, said, ‘No can do pal, know wot I mean?’

Doc took the tea but was unsure what to do. I said, ‘Drink it.’

‘OK.’

He took his reading glasses from the table before him. I thought ‘Wot, he’s going to read now,’ and he said, ‘Can I have a glass of water?’

Before I could act, he began to feverishly polish the lens, saying ‘This was not a boating accident.’

For that moment, he was Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws and then he switched channels. This is a case for the 87 Precinct, Steve Carella and Bert Kling. Meyer Meyer was as bald as an egg – ‘let’s hear it for the deaf man’ – Steve’s wife, Teddy, was a mute. Carver City and the boys of the eighty-seven. Shit, I nearly forgot Lieutenant Byrnes. I looked up and Quinn was there, said, ‘Yer mate’s losing it, the Doc’s gone doolally.’

I said, ‘Let’s take this outside.’

Before I could get into it, he said, ‘I hate to laugh and run but, it seems you’ll need a new partner, it being a two-man job.’

‘You want to explain that Quinn?’

‘Yer repos – I mean wot else are you two into?’

I’d clenched my fists, never had I wanted to take down a guy so bad, I could taste blood in my mouth, said, ‘You like to put it in people’s faces Quinn, get right in there and fuck. Keep it up.’

He gave a huge grin, ‘Oh, I intend to. Next time you have an away day, that you take a wee excursion, I’ll be there. You’re all mine Cooper.’

‘Good, I’ll be looking forward to it… you mangy piece of shit.’

Returning to Doc, I took it as a positive sign that he was drinking the tea. He said, ‘According to Freud, a man doesn’t become a man till his father dies, so I wonder what he reverts to when his partner goes.’

‘From the evidence, a babbling idiot.’

He turned to look right into my face, added, ‘She really didn’t like you.’

Jeez, thanks a bunch Doc, I needed to hear this now. I didn’t say anything. Gave one of them wise head-nodding gestures, reeking of understanding. But, he thought I wasn’t getting it, grabbed my arm tightly, ‘No, I’m serious Davey. She didn’t care for most people, but she fuckin’ loathed you.’

I tried to interpret this as grief but, if he kept it up, he’d really be in bloody shock. ‘She said you were a cold fish, that beneath your frosty exterior was more ice.’

I thought she’d had a rough deal. Doc’s years in prison, his uncertain future, her horrendous death… and then I thought… fuck her.

The funeral was huge, villains like the full show. Cops came too though not in a mourning capacity. What a display of cars! I once read Maurice Gibb describe success. Remember him, the Bee Gees. He said he was standing at his front door looking at a street packed with motors and knew, ‘They’re all mine.’ I looked at the line of vehicles and knew, they’re all repos.

Noble came, same lousy raincoat, said, ‘She was a good ’un.’

‘You knew her?’

‘Never laid an eye on her – or a finger – but what the hell else is there to say.’

Doc looked downright elegant. Black suit, tie, and the manic-shined black Martens. His daughter, Emma, was out from the boarding school. A flash little piece of jail-bait, she asked me, ‘Did you know my Mum?’

‘She was a good ’un.’

‘I don’t think she liked you.’

Great.

The reception was Irish, booze and food. Doc was in the middle of the crowd, stories chasin’ the whisky, or is that vice-versa. Anyway, like that. He was saying, ‘So this wanker takes a look at me, sees I’m a big ’un, says I used to be scared of a couple of blokes… I says yeah… and I’m the both of ’em.’

Maybe it was the wedding he’d never had. I strolled over to read the condolences. A mountain of them, you’d swear Laura had a lock on Mother Theresa. The tributes to a woman who never was. I felt if no one had showed, Laura would have respected that. One card I had to pick up, it read:

With gravest respects,

Louis MacNeice

‘What!’

Doc touched my arm, said, ‘Can I get you a bit o’ grub, a drink?’

‘No… no thanks, you don’t have to play host… OK’

‘Jaysus, don’t bite the face off me, I’m just trying to be hospitable.’

‘What? Oh right – look Doc, I’m sorry, it’s just there’s something weird going on.’

Doc pushed a drink into my hand, asked, ‘Are we still on?’

‘You mean next week. Jeez, I dunno – under the circumstances, shouldn’t we, you know.’

‘You think I’m not bloody up to it. Don’t worry about me fella, I’ll keep my end up.’

‘No, I mean, the cops are all over us.’

‘And, if we don’t go it’s as plain as a confession.’

‘But better than actually getting caught.’

Doc swallowed a huge drink. Didn’t knock a feather outa him, gave me the no shit stare, said, ‘Dave, I have to have this money, OK…’

‘We’re not hurting.’

He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand, said, ‘Will yah listen to him! I’m up to me arse with school fees, the memorial to Laura…’

‘The what?’

‘In marble. I promised Father Cleary the new Church wing would be Laura’s wish.’

I couldn’t believe it, said, ‘I can’t believe it. Well be in the wing – on friggin’ Parkhurst.’

‘Are you with me or not Dave.’

What could I do. He was the only person ever to fight my corner.

‘OK… but.’

‘Good man, now drink up – you’d think it was your funeral.’

I went back later to get the condolence card but it was gone. A bad feeling like talking death was all over me, whisperin’ – ‘soon’.

Father Cleary was early sixties – I’m not referring to his age. He had that aura of optimism and stupidity. You just knew he hummed the Beatles. Couple that with the air of the professional beggar and you’d a near-lethal cocktail. He approached me with gusto and I thought, ‘Watch yer wallet.’

His greeting, ‘Ah, Mr Collins I do declare.’

‘It’s Cooper.’

‘Really?’

He sounded as if he’d never quite reconciled himself to liars, then, ‘Are you sure. Ho ho, listen to me, course you’re sure. I wanted to thank you for the generosity of your donation from the firm.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Too modest Mr C. You’re not of our persuasion, I take it, which makes it even more magnificent.’

‘That’s one word for it.’

‘You’re not an atheist I trust.’

‘Presbyterian.’

‘Same thing.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Just joking, some ecclesiastical humour.’

‘Is that what it is. My father was a God-fearing man.’

‘And passed over has he – the poor creature.’

‘Took off actually.’

He gave a look round, time up for me but I figured I’d hold him a bit as he gave his exit line.

‘Laura had a grand send off.’

‘I thought you guys, the R.C.’s, frowned on suicide.’

He prepared his smile, more of the e-humour: ‘Naturally we don’t encourage it but an air of leniency exists nowadays. For example, we don’t insist on ceremony or titles so much. You needn’t call me Father, you can call me Pat.’

‘Why on earth would I wanna do that?’

And he hadn’t a reply. His smile dissolved, so I gave him a playful push, a forceful one, added, ‘Hey, lighten up Padre, that’s a little repo humour. Isn’t God after all, the ultimate repo man.’

And left him to it.

No doubt he could work it into a sermon. Very little got by him save the invention of dry cleaning. He’d had the shiniest black pants I’d ever seen, from pure wear. Made of Terylene, remember that. The sheen accessorised the spit in his soul.