Parked near the green and strolled down. I was wearing jeans and a donkey jacket, Oxfam’s finest – ‘Auf Wiedersein Pet’.
Yeah.
At his door, I pulled the hat on, the less he’d remember the better. Knocked twice. The door opened almost immediately – he was wearing black ski pants, black sweatshirt with ‘CATS’ on the front, bare feet, I said, ‘It’s Cooper, Doc’s friend.’
I heard all sorts of shit in prison. One thing Doc told me from his studies: ‘If you experience deep shock, self-preservation moves into the go area and sometimes never climbs down again. It remains fixed on red alert.’ His smile did that to me now as he said, ‘Come in…’
I thought… uh-uh.
We went to the luxury pad on the top floor and he asked, ‘Drink?’
‘Yeah, some of that Yeltsin stuff again.’
He moved to a sideboard behind me. I sat on the sofa, could hear the clink of glasses then spun round. He was just over me, a syringe in his right hand. I grabbed his wrist and used my other hand to clutch his hair, pulling him up and over. Shot my leg up as a pivot on his chest and used the leverage to fling him from me. Then I righted myself and moved to smack him twice in the mouth… all fight leaving him.
I said, ‘Now look wot you’ve done, gone and got blood on CATS. You want to tell me wot the fuck you’re at… I already had my shots.’
Pulled him into an upright position, grabbed his head and crashed his face with my knee. Heard the nose go – pushed him away. Blood was coursing down his face and I rummaged in his desk for tissues, found a handgun. The Glock, loaded, put it in my jacket. Gave him the tissues and poured two strong drinks. He’d gone into a crouch position and I said, ‘Drink this.’
‘My nose, it feels like a football.’
Let him get some booze and my heartbeat to settle, then asked, ‘What kind of wanker are you? Enough guns here to arm the Met and you come at me with a needle! Like Sean Connery said in The Untouchables - “Trust a wop to bring a knife to a gunfight.” You’re not Italian are you?’
‘It’s for grasses, wot you give squealers, turncoats…’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Smack… heroin.’
‘And.’
‘It’s been cut with bleach.’
‘Nice.’
‘It’s open season on you Cooper. Doc’s friends put together a bounty on you. Even the Old Bill kicked in a contribution.’
I finished the drink, went over to him, took the Glock from my pocket, hefted it, testing the feel. No weight at all, like a plastic toy, asked, ‘If you were me, things being how they are – what would you do? Would you use the syringe or this gun maybe.’
He had no suggestions so I added, ‘Well, you think about it OK’
I got outa there quick. As I headed for my car, I whipped the cap off… jeez, it sure itched. Was back in The Gate in under thirty minutes and that’s impressive. Who could I tell? A shitload of fatigue hit me and I decided to call it a night. My landlady was nowhere in sight and I felt deeply grateful. Sometimes, even the tiniest social interactions are too much. Climbing into bed I put the Glock under my pillow. If they came for me, I was halfway ready. ‘They’ now seemed to comprise most of the population of London.
And dream? Did I ever – a mix of priests with sweat-shirts saying ‘CATS’, Doc with a syringe and my father on a sunbed, a pigeon clutched to his chest. Tobe Hopper stuff. Woke with a saying of my mother’s in my head:
‘Men talk about sex
Women talk about surgery.’
Shook myself to get free, muttering, ‘No wonder he took to pigeons.’ Put on the Oxfam jeans, found a coin in the pocket which meant A: I was getting lucky or B: Oxfam hadn’t bothered their concerned ass to clean ’em. Next a sweatshirt with a hole in the sleeve, then a pair of weejuns, the real thing too. Put them on yer feet, you’re in sole heaven. I felt weary though, thinking – getting older’s getting harder.
Yeah.
Decided I’d nip up to a coffee shop at The Gate, kick start on a chain of espressos.
The landlady was waiting, said, ‘I’ve brewed fresh tea, nice crisp toast.’
‘Shit’, I thought and said, ‘Lovely job.’
Into the kitchen. A gingham tablecloth to match the curtains. The false reassurance of toast popping… to suggest endless possibilities. There wasn’t a rose in a vase but the atmosphere whispered – ‘close call’.
I sat and she fussed round doing kitcheny stuff, said, ‘I nearly did a fry-up but remembered your vegetarianism in time – does it preclude eggs?’
‘No, no, eggs are fine but not today, in fact any day with a yolk in ’em.’
She gave me a blank look and I added, ‘Good of you to bother.’
‘No trouble to tell you the truth.’
When you hear that statement, reach for your wallet or a weapon.
‘It’s nice to have someone to prepare for. Course you know wot it’s like to lose someone.’
I sure as hell didn’t want her story so bowed my head and she changed direction.
‘Mind you, it’s hard to picture you married.’
‘Excuse me?’
As she struggled for words, I thought – yeah, I’m a liar, say it.
‘You have the look of a single man, used to pleasing yerself. Married men have a more confined expression, as if they’ve suppressed a sigh for too long. It’s not a criticism, only an observation.’
I wanted to say – psychology bloody one eh, but drank my tea, muttered, ‘Laura was the world to me.’
It had the desired effect, her face took a wounded look.
‘There I go again, me ’n my big mouth. My George used to say…’
‘Is that the time, I’ll have to run… thank you for the tea.’
I left her mid-sentence with whatever nugget of wisdom bloody George had bequeathed. I didn’t think I’d short-changed myself. At Portobello Road a guy was shouting, ‘Keep England for the English.’ I remembered Nick Hornby saying in his football book, ‘By the early seventies I had become an Englishman, that is to say I hated England just as much as half of my compatriots seemed to do.’
Well.
I’d finally got up with the Letterman Show and what I couldn’t understand was – just wot was the fucker laughing at all the time. Rang the number, he answered immediately, the voice so like Cassie, ‘Yo, talk to me.’
‘It’s Cooper.’
‘No shit… the one-man crime wave. What’s your beef buddy, I mean first you take out a cashier and then your partner. Are you nuts or what.’
‘That’s not exactly what happened.’
‘Whatever you say buddy. You sure pulled in a shit-pile of greenbacks.’
‘Can we meet?’
‘But will I come away in one piece?’
‘Of course.’
‘Sure, I’ll meet you buddy.’
‘Thanks… thanks a lot. I’ll be in the Magdela Tavern at nine tonight. That’s in South Hill Park, NW3.’
‘Whoa, hold the phones, lemme just get this down… okey-dokey. Why there, I’m gonna need my A-Z.’
‘It’s where Ruth Ellis caught up with Colin Blakeley.’
‘You’ve lost me buddy.’
‘The film Dance with a Stranger.’
‘Miranda Richardson, right?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well I’ll see you there. Don’t shoot anyone else… OK.’
And he rang off.
I hadn’t told him Ruth Ellis waited outside the pub which is exactly what I planned. At least the waiting part, the rest would just have to be played out.
That evening I arranged the money in a suitcase, row by row of neat piles. I tried not to visualise the cashier. Snapped it shut and shoved it under the bed. If I didn’t get back, the landlady would eventually find it. Would she give it up or leap for bloody joy… go find a new George.
Wore the donkey jacket again and put the Glock in the right-hand pocket, easy access. Dark jeans, shirt, and trainers, said, ‘Cassie.’
I was parked outside the pub at eight forty-five. Letterman drove up at nine on the button in an Audi, parked recklessly and went into the bar. I estimated thirty minutes tops before he’d decide I wasn’t coming. It took forty-five. He came stormin’ out, got in the car and roared away.