Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

THE LAST CALL

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.’

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.’

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.’

I sure as hell didn’t want her story so bowed my head and she changed direction.

‘Mind you, it’s hard to picture you married.’

‘Excuse me?’

As she struggled for words, I thought – yeah, I’m a liar, say it.

‘You have the look of a single man, used to pleasing yerself. Married men have a more confined expression, as if they’ve suppressed a sigh for too long. It’s not a criticism, only an observation.’

I wanted to say – psychology bloody one eh, but drank my tea, muttered, ‘Laura was the world to me.’

It had the desired effect, her face took a wounded look.

‘There I go again, me ’n my big mouth. My George used to say…’

‘Is that the time, I’ll have to run… thank you for the tea.’

I left her mid-sentence with whatever nugget of wisdom bloody George had bequeathed. I didn’t think I’d short-changed myself. At Portobello Road a guy was shouting, ‘Keep England for the English.’ I remembered Nick Hornby saying in his football book, ‘By the early seventies I had become an Englishman, that is to say I hated England just as much as half of my compatriots seemed to do.’

Well.

I’d finally got up with the Letterman Show and what I couldn’t understand was – just wot was the fucker laughing at all the time. Rang the number, he answered immediately, the voice so like Cassie, ‘Yo, talk to me.’

‘It’s Cooper.’

‘No shit… the one-man crime wave. What’s your beef buddy, I mean first you take out a cashier and then your partner. Are you nuts or what.’

‘That’s not exactly what happened.’

‘Whatever you say buddy. You sure pulled in a shit-pile of greenbacks.’

‘Can we meet?’

‘But will I come away in one piece?’

‘Of course.’

‘Sure, I’ll meet you buddy.’

‘Thanks… thanks a lot. I’ll be in the Magdela Tavern at nine tonight. That’s in South Hill Park, NW3.’

‘Whoa, hold the phones, lemme just get this down… okey-dokey. Why there, I’m gonna need my A-Z.’

‘It’s where Ruth Ellis caught up with Colin Blakeley.’

‘You’ve lost me buddy.’

‘The film Dance with a Stranger.’

‘Miranda Richardson, right?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Well I’ll see you there. Don’t shoot anyone else… OK.’

And he rang off.

I hadn’t told him Ruth Ellis waited outside the pub which is exactly what I planned. At least the waiting part, the rest would just have to be played out.

That evening I arranged the money in a suitcase, row by row of neat piles. I tried not to visualise the cashier. Snapped it shut and shoved it under the bed. If I didn’t get back, the landlady would eventually find it. Would she give it up or leap for bloody joy… go find a new George.

Wore the donkey jacket again and put the Glock in the right-hand pocket, easy access. Dark jeans, shirt, and trainers, said, ‘Cassie.’

I was parked outside the pub at eight forty-five. Letterman drove up at nine on the button in an Audi, parked recklessly and went into the bar. I estimated thirty minutes tops before he’d decide I wasn’t coming. It took forty-five. He came stormin’ out, got in the car and roared away.

He was easy to follow, an angry driver sees only his road. Aston Towers had the smell of money and he drove into a basement garage. I waited fifteen minutes then went to check the name bells. Rang the top one, a woman answered. I said, ‘Pizza for the Trentons.’

They buzzed me in. I found the stairs, went to the first floor, knocked at a door, a voice said, ‘Who is it?’

I took a breath then tried a loud Yank accent, ‘David ’ol buddy, you ready or what.’

‘You want 4B for Godsake.’

Not a sound in the place. Money buys quiet. Listened outside 4B, could hear nothing, rang, kept my face in profile. Letterman asked, ‘What ya want?’

‘Electrician.’

He threw the door open and I said, ‘Our next guest is…’

Put the gun in his face and added, ‘Let’s take it inside.’

He backed slowly away from me into a living room. Cassie was lotus style in front of a huge TV, or is that yoga. Anyway with her legs folded, hands resting on her knees. Dressed in shorts and a halter top, for all the world like Sarah Miles at rest.

‘Guess what… she turned up.’

‘I can see that.’

‘No, I mean like… today. Go figure huh…’

Cassie said, ‘Put on some music, maybe the artist formerly known as Prince for the guy who used to have hair… how would that be.’

I said, ‘Everybody stay put – and you fuckface, wot’s yer real name.’

‘Believe it or not, it’s David. Is that serendipity or what?’

‘You knew I couldn’t understand how Cassie could follow me so successfully… but, if she’d a partner… What I can’t get is why.’

Cassie shrugged, ‘Bucks – as mundane as that.’

Letterman smiled, said, ‘You’ve gotta admit, you’re a natural patsy, the original fall guy.’

I used the gun to indicate the room, asked, ‘But this place, the Audi…’

‘All hired.’

‘And are ye… related?’

Letterman gave a snigger, ‘Only in the sack buddy.’

Cassie began a series of stretches, said, ‘What are you gonna do now hot-shot. I mean, you have a plan… right.’

Letterman added, ‘No shit buddy but first, I did give the straight gen on one thing… I was in the Marine Corps and they showed us…’

He did some split-second manoeuvre, his leg shot out nd my gun went flying across the room

‘… this…’

With a second kick to my chest I was thrown back across a sofa to curl on the floor in agony.

‘… and that… impressive huh!’

Cassie retrieved the gun and examined it closely. Letterman hunkered down in front of me, said, ‘See this hand, not a fist… watch the birdy.’

Shot it into my chest. The pain was nothing I’d ever experienced, it burned screaming into my brain. I couldn’t help it and roared, he roared right along with me. When I stopped he said, ‘I guess you won’t tell where the loot is but I’ve got a few methods to change your mind. Lemme give you a pointer, it involves a needle.’

Believed him, said, ‘I’ll tell you.’

And did.

My body was paralysed. I couldn’t move to even relocate the pain. Letterman said to Cassie, ‘You wanna do him sugar?’

‘Why bother, just leave him.’

‘Hey babe, he’d come after us… motherfucker doesn’t know how to quit.’

‘We could drop a dime on him, let the cops have his ass.’

‘Naw, he’d give us up.’

He bounced upright and left the room. My eyes locked on Cassie’s, hers had an expression of… such softness, it was eerie. I asked her, ‘Did you burn my house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘To get your attention.’

Back he came with a kitchen knife, saying, ‘This fucker’s not even sharp but, what the hell.’

Cassie said, ‘Let’s not do this.’

‘Get real babe, he’s a liability.’

And bent down whisperin’, ‘Thing about a blade is… it’s so personal, goddamn intimate. Am I gettin’ hot already… Cassie… I’m gonna need my ashes hauled.’

The shot was loud in the room and a coin-sized hole appeared above his left eye. Then he fell beside me. Cassie said, ‘We’re pulling the plug on your show, the ratings just aren’t there.’

Again I tried to move but the effort was awesome, she said, ‘If you he very still for a time, gradually the agony will slip away.’

‘How the fuck would you know.’

‘He’s done it to me.’

She began to collect her things and then rummaged in my clothes, found a key to my room. So close I could have kissed her. Then she laid her hand on my bald skull, said, ‘I prefer you with hair.’

And she stood up, ready to leave. I shouted, ‘You want me to thank you for saving me… is that it?’

‘No David, I guess I don’t.’

‘At least tell me what the fuck all of this was for… Did you kill Laura… Why’d you shoot Doc! Who the bloody hell are you?’

She smiled and answered, ‘I’m no big deal.’

‘Wait… I mean… c’mon… was anything true… your bone disease, the daughter?’

‘In Morocco they say the only truth is the love of a child. But hey, maybe that’s a crock.’

Then she was gone. As she’d said, the pain began to fade but it was still two hours before I could move sufficiently to get out of there. I stood for a moment over Letterman and said, ‘Not so hot now eh!’

By the time I got to The Gate, Cassie had three hours on me. How long would it take to walk away with a million quid.

The house was quiet and I had to force the door. I hoped she hadn’t shot the landlady.

The suitcase was on the bed, a white envelope resting on it. I opened the case, the money was gone. Then I grabbed the envelope, one short sheet, it read:

‘Guess Who

The lady is gone

who stood in the way so long

the hypnosis is over

and no one calls encore

to the song.’

I sat on the bed and tried to see how I’d lost it all,

Doc

Cassie

The money

ME.

Yeah, when those blasts took the cashier, they took me too. I hadn’t been caught but, oh shit, I hadn’t got away. What is it – the bank robbers’ prayer: ‘Lemme get away CLEAN.’

I was dirty to my soul and I felt it began to leak, to seep and fester.

Some line of MacNeice… to wait for the gun-butt… rap upon the door.

I began my sentence, this was hard time all the way.

On the floor I saw a pack of Camel Lights and, way-to-go, a battered Zippo.

Thinking ‘Why the hell not?’ I shook one free, got it in my mouth and cranked the Zippo, one, two, three.

Zip

Nada

Zilch

Outa gas.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 1998 by Ken Bruen

cover design by Jason Gabbert

This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com /Open Road Integrated Media

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