by Ken Bruen
‘Excuse me?’
‘I can always tell, you have that air of front and black-guardism.’
I liked that word, said, ‘To tell you the truth Sharon, I asked my old Mum if I’d been adopted. She said she’d tried but no one would have me.’
She took the money, counted it and I thought… when the Doc told me that yarn everyone cracked up but perhaps my timing was off. As I left she was lifting the vodka.
As I turned towards Waterloo Bridge, Jimmy came out of a doorway. He was grinning, not a pretty sight. I said, ‘This better be coincidence.’
‘Don’t be like that, I only wanted to make sure everything went smoothly. Iron out any problems, that’s all – cross my heart, straight up.’
‘It’s good, I’m glad I met you here.’
‘You are.’
‘See… see that spot over there, that’s where I near killed the mugger, you heard about it right… wot I went to the nick for.’
He backed off, not noticeably but a gradual edging away, I went with him, continued, ‘I never told anyone this Jimmy, not a soul, but I want to tell you… fuckit, I need to tell someone…’
He was glancing round, avenues for escape. I slapped my open right hand on his shoulder, said, ‘Jim, I enjoyed it… but wait… hang a mo’… I want to do it again so badly… Know wot I mean?’
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 piazz
as 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?’
<
br /> ‘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.’