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
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
Similar Books
