by Ken Bruen
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, every
one’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 I
rish 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.’