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 piazzas 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.’