Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page B

her – or a finger – but what the hell else is there to say.’
    Doc looked downright elegant. Black suit, tie, and the manic-shined black Martens. His daughter, Emma, was out from the boarding school. A flash little piece of jail-bait, she asked me, ‘Did you know my Mum?’
    ‘She was a good ’un.’
    ‘I don’t think she liked you.’
    Great.

    The reception was Irish, booze and food. Doc was in the middle of the crowd, stories chasin’ the whisky, or is that vice-versa. Anyway, like that. He was saying, ‘So this wanker takes a look at me, sees I’m a big ’un, says I used to be scared of a couple of blokes … I says yeah … and I’m the both of ’em.’
    Maybe it was the wedding he’d never had. I strolled over to read the condolences. A mountain of them, you’d swear Laura had a lock on Mother Theresa. The tributes to a woman who never was. I felt if no one had showed, Laura would have respected that. One card I had to pick up, it read:
    With gravest respects,
Louis MacNeice
    ‘What!’
    Doc touched my arm, said, ‘Can I get you a bit o’ grub, a drink?’
    ‘No … no thanks, you don’t have to play host … OK’
    ‘Jaysus, don’t bite the face off me, I’m just trying to be hospitable.’
    ‘What? Oh right – look Doc, I’m sorry, it’s just there’s something weird going on.’
    Doc pushed a drink into my hand, asked, ‘Are we still on?’
    ‘You mean next week. Jeez, I dunno – under the circumstances, shouldn’t we, you know.’
    ‘You think I’m not bloody up to it. Don’t worry about me fella, I’ll keep my end up.’
    ‘No, I mean, the cops are all over us.’
    ‘And, if we don’t go it’s as plain as a confession.’
    ‘But better than actually getting caught.’
    Doc swallowed a huge drink. Didn’t knock a feather outa him, gave me the no shit stare, said, ‘Dave, I have to have this money, OK …’
    ‘We’re not hurting.’
    He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand, said, ‘Will yah listen to him! I’m up to me arse with school fees, the memorial to Laura …’
    ‘The what?’
    ‘In marble. I promised Father Cleary the new Church wing would be Laura’s wish.’
    I couldn’t believe it, said, ‘I can’t believe it. Well be in the wing – on friggin’ Parkhurst.’
    ‘Are you with me or not Dave.’
    What could I do. He was the only person ever to fight my corner.
    ‘OK … but.’
    ‘Good man, now drink up – you’d think it was your funeral.’
    I went back later to get the condolence card but it was gone. A bad feeling like talking death was all over me, whisperin’ – ‘soon’.
    Father Cleary was early sixties – I’m not referring to his age. He had that aura of optimism and stupidity. You just knew he hummed the Beatles. Couple that with the air of the professional beggar and you’d a near-lethal cocktail. He approached me with gusto and I thought, ‘Watch yer wallet.’
    His greeting, ‘Ah, Mr Collins I do declare.’
    ‘It’s Cooper.’
    ‘Really?’
    He sounded as if he’d never quite reconciled himself to liars, then, ‘Are you sure. Ho ho, listen to me, course you’re sure. I wanted to thank you for the generosity of your donation from the firm.’
    ‘It’s nothing.’
    ‘Too modest Mr C. You’re not of our persuasion, I take it, which makes it even more magnificent.’
    ‘That’s one word for it.’
    ‘You’re not an atheist I trust.’
    ‘Presbyterian.’
    ‘Same thing.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘Just joking, some ecclesiastical humour.’
    ‘Is that what it is. My father was a God-fearing man.’
    ‘And passed over has he – the poor creature.’
    ‘Took off actually.’
    He gave a look round, time up for me but I figured I’d hold him a bit as he gave his exit line.
    ‘Laura had a grand send off.’
    ‘I thought you guys, the R.C.’s, frowned on suicide.’
    He prepared his smile, more of the e-humour: ‘Naturally we don’t encourage it but an air of leniency exists nowadays. For