Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice (10 page)

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.