Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

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…’