by Ken Bruen
Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice
Ken Bruen
The harsh streets of South London are the setting for this story of Cooper, a bank robber, who meets his match in Cassie who likes guns, money and poetry.
Ken Bruen
Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice
© 1997
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.