Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

Back home I got right on the phone, called a mate, asked, ‘You still fitting locks?’

‘Sure.’

‘OK, can you do a rush job, like now?’

‘Naw, we’re booked solid, no can do old son.’

‘If I throw in a few ponies for yourself’

‘What time would suit you?’

‘And shoot the works OK, deadbolts, state-of-the-art shit, top of the line.’

‘It will cost.’

‘Tell me about it. What’s the best system?’

‘The three five seven.’

‘What?’

‘Magnum.’

‘Get here soonest, leave the humour at the office.’

Poured a Scotch, took a fast slug, muttered ‘crazy bloody bitch’ and rang Doc.

‘That you Coop, how’s she cutting?’

‘I found her.’

‘Good man, where?’

‘Brixton.’

‘Figures. Did you deal with her?’

‘We had lunch.’

‘What? Are you stone raving mad. Tell me at least you got the shooter back, tell me that.’

‘I managed to get away from her.’

‘I’m confused Cooper, or you’re winding me up. We’ve been hunting her, half the firm on overtime, me calling in favours from every breed of wanker and you’re saying you escaped.’

‘I’m going to change the locks.’

‘Fuck-me-pink, you need to change your bloody attitude.’

He hung up.

A large package arrived next morning. The postman had to ring as it took me ages to undo the new locks. Grunting, I pulled open the door. As he handed me the package he winked. I asked, ‘Something wrong with yer eye mate?’

‘Nothing wrong with ME.’

‘Keep that up, it will change.’

And slammed the door. Scrawled all over the paper was ‘S.W.A.L.K., a heart, I love you stallion, and LIPS’. I said, jeez, who could this be? Tore it open, praying to hell-and-gone it wasn’t incendiary. I already knew it was explosive, a book fell out. Autumn Journal by Louis MacNeice. Swore, this fuck again. I was very tired of the guy. Still, the book had a nice feel to it. Old leather cover, gold-leaf pages and one of them index fingies you see in bibles. She’d written a note, what a surprise.

‘My David, David Mia

Without you

What warehouse of the soul

awaits me now.’

Deep, I said, very friggin’ deep.

I used the index and read:

‘And I remember Spain

at Easter, ripe as an egg

for revolt and ruin

though for a tripper

the rain was worse

than the surly

or the worried or the haunted faces.’

I wasn’t getting this. Maybe he was one of those guys you had to hear aloud. So I cleared my throat, looked around a bit self-consciously and took my shot.

‘The churches full of saints

tortured on racks of marble

and the Escorial

cold for ever

within the heart of Philip

as if veneer could hold

the rotten guts

and crumpled bones together.’

Yeah, well, some people had a flair for it. The Doc, now he’d read the telephone directory and you felt moved. I reckon the Irish always sound as if they mean it, as if it’s personal. Us lot, we’ve always one ear open for the hint of ridicule.

My old man, he fancied his voice. Sunday evenings he’d read to my mother and I from the Good Book. All the Old Testament stuff. Jeez, he was hot for that fire and brimstone, unmerciful punishments and ferocious suffering. The torment of the damned got him hot. Silly fucker would drone on about begots and begats. My mother punctuating the silences with compliments and praise, she can’t have been right in the head, or could she possibly have been taking the piss? How I wish it were so. Truth is, she was the worst kind of criminal. She supported him in his tyranny of bullying and beatings, encouraged him in the nurture of those fuckin’ pigeons. The face of gentility and aspiring middle class, she was the public face of the beast. After he took his dive, she became a professional widow, leapt into black weeds and wore them like a trophy. ‘Hey – see me – not only had I a husband but I buried him and of course, there’ll be no other man.’ As if anyone would have the cow. I got the fuck away from her as soon as I was able and it wasn’t soon enough.

Long before the psychologists, the heart-juicers came trippin’ along with fancy names like dysfunctional, our family unit was full fledged fucked.

The old man’s Christian name was Alistair. Not that he’d a drop of Christianity. He had a framed tapestry in our pokey hall which said:

MAN PROPOSES

GOD DISPOSES

Yeah.

Alistair the righteous, the unholy more like. ‘Don’t think he’d planned on bein’ ‘smote’ from a three-storey building in Battersea, not a howl down from the dogs’ home. One might say he was indeed begot, or is it begat. Whatever, well creamed any road. The doorbell went. I didn’t recognise him at first, then he spoke.

‘Dave, how are you lad, have you forgotten me?’

Then it clicked. Noble, the noble savage.

‘Chief Inspector.’

‘One and the same, I must put my hand up, cop a plea. That’s police manual humour to put Joe Public at ease.’

‘It works, or is it to put him off his guard?’

‘Might I step in?’

‘Have you a warrant?’

Took him aback. I added, ‘Just kiddin’, come on then.’

He had a cheap raincoat and even cheaper aftershave. No, the cheapest. It comes free with the litre bottles of bleach.

‘Have a seat.’

As he did he took a full look round.

‘The decorators did you proud, very nice job, local lads are they?’