Easy-peasy they said, a simple job,
money for old rope. Here’s a drink.
Go to the Blind Beggar in Whitechapel
between this hour and this hour.
Sink a slow thoughtful pint or two,
a tough young bucko in his suit and tie,
out for the evening on a mission,
the bystander with the job of seeing nothing.
A quiet night, the light fading, traffic
on the High Street, music on the jukebox.
Then at 8.30 Ronnie walks in with a Mauser
Hadn’t bargained for that.
Not that sort of drink.
Our man sees everything and nothing.
That’s it he’s out of there.
Jumped the District Line, at Paddington
the first train anywhere took him west
into an ordinary life: job, mortgage,
wife, kids, the years becoming more years.
Except the long days and longer nights
of all the rest of him are spattered
by the bits of brain on the wall
and blood over his white shirtfront.
This is his tale of how he got lost.
Dogget he says into the strange silence
he inhabits, the question mark as ever
slung around his shoulder. Dog ate my dinner.