Prose

The Case of Lola Loveheart: A Harry Spence Story

The rain pours down my office window. I puff my cigar. My name�s Harry Spence, Private detective. That�s what it says on the door.

A broad sauntered into my office this morning. You know the kind. She was one of those women who could grab your heart, yank it out, leaving you gasping for air, but you�d still want more of her. She placed herself on my lap and told me about some punk who�d been hassling her for money. She wants me to murder him. I told her I�d do it for the right price. She told me she was the right price. I ain�t complaining.

I work alone. The only friends I�ve got are a bottle of whisky and a magnum revolver. They both live in my trench coat pocket. I like to keep my enemies close, but my friends closer.

I leave my office, stroll down the street. Can�t help thinking about this dame. I flick my cigar butt into the gutter. This city�s full of scum sucking, gutter crawling vermin and I�m the exterminator.

The rain drips down my coat. I�m going to be drenched, so what�s new? I spot Blabber McGee, my informant. He knows what�s going down in this city. I pay him in food, a knuckle sandwich, if he doesn�t deliver the goods.

He�s running away; that�s not like Blabber. Something must be eating at him. I put on a chase and soon find him cornered in a dingy back alley.

�What�s the story, Blabber?� I ask.

�I ain�t telling you nothing, Spence. It ain�t worth my life.�

I suddenly hear a gunshot. The bullet skims past my shoulder and hits Blabber on the forehead. He ain�t going to be doing any more blabbing. I dive behind a couple of bins. A few more shots are fired in my direction. Then a car screeches away.

Two pm, the next day. Still got no further with this case. Got a description of the punk who�s been hassling Lola. He goes by the name of Mr Big. Apparently he�s some heavy hitting gangster. Well, here�s the news, pal. I hit harder. He�s got his own gang, so what�s new? I can take them. I�m not called Harry Spence for nothing.

There�s a knock at my door. Could be Lola. I get an itch in my loins.

�Come in,� I grunt.

Only this ain�t Lola, it�s a couple of suckers with baseball bats. When I wake up, my head�s ringing. Then I realise it�s the telephone. I look around, gathering my senses. I seem to be strapped to some kind of table. To my left are a couple of goons. To my right, speaking on the telephone is Mr Big. I can tell by the profile. A big guy, wearing a big jacket and big shoes. He looks mean and ugly but then I can get ugly if I need to. I decide to attract his attention.

�You dirty rat. What do you want?�

He turns towards me and sneers, �Ah, Mr Spence, you awake at last. I�m so glad. Now you can witness the demise of Lola Loveheart.�

My heart begins to pound as loudly as the pounding his boys gave me earlier.

�Why, what�s it all for, Mr Big?�

�Lola used to be my dame until she fell for you, Spence. If I can�t have her then no one can. See that clock? When that stops ticking, so does Lola.�

�Help, Harry, help!�

Glancing back as far as I can, I see Lola, tied to a chair with a stick of dynamite by her feet.

�Your plan�s sure not going to go with a bang, Mr Big,� I exclaim.

His boys must be �rentagoons� because the straps are pretty loose. I manage to struggle free and reach for my gun; my trigger finger�s itching.

�Get him, boys!� shouts Mr Big.

But his boys are too slow. I take all four of them out with two bullets. I�m about to reach Lola when a blow to my head sends me reeling. I land by the wall with a dull thud. My gun slides over towards Lola.

Mr Big sure ain�t small. We grapple. He punches me in the face. I kick him in the groin, where it hurts. I snatch my gun and smack him over the head with it. He goes out like a light.

I grab Lola, untie her and we rush out of the warehouse. As we near the end of the street, we stop for a breather. Just looking at her takes my breath away. Then, BOOM, the entire warehouse explodes.

�Look at those fireworks,� breathes Lola.

�Those .reworks ain�t nothing compared to the ones that�ll be going with a bang in your bedroom tonight, doll,� I reply.

Five pm, the next day. I sit alone in my office, smoking a cigar and swigging whisky. I�m alone and that�s the way I like it. I told her, it wouldn�t work. She�s a good kid; she�ll do all right. The name�s Harry Spence. I�m a private detective and I�m patiently waiting for my next case.

Andrew Rose

An Apology For Me

�Abandon your life for a moment. Wrench yourself out of that beastly cocoon you warm your glacial hearts in. Just give me that chance, if for nothing else, just to explain.�

         -If you were a soup, what flavour would you be?
         -Oh, tricky question. Probably tomato, but with croutons.
         -Is that crunchy croutons, or ones which have been soaked for a while in the soup?
         -Crunchy.
         -If you were a vegetable, what would you be?
         -A tomato.
Raucous, bright, well-preened, made-up, groomed, fun-loving, fan-loving, extroverted tarts spouting out meaningless thoughts. This weekend morning, ruined by this false, glossy enthusiasm. The .ashing lights of the studio and quasi-sexual close-ups exacerbate the rotting, decrepit feeling in my stomach. The more slap, the worse it feels. I turned off the t.v. with my foot, and laid back in my bed, staring at the ceiling. The couple upstairs fucked last night. They came at the same time.
         My bedsit. Coarse, brown, high durability carpet, second-hand wardrobe, pale pastel green walls, with a chintzy strip of wallpaper halfway up. A radiator that hisses death, beneath a window which only ever lets in grey, suburban sky. A pile of un-returned Blockbuster tapes, a plain blue mug. If you could just smell the damp, smell the misery, perhaps you can understand. �I won�t ask your forgiveness, I�m no emotional leech.�

         What�s wrong in being a romantic? What�s wrong with truth? A little veracity in our lives isn�t going to hurt. Lost in the lands of one-night stands and cheap pulls, drunken, lustful affairs, sits the channelled aggression of love. Metaphorically, I�m not climbing your balcony to rape you, I�m breaking down the walls that kept us apart. All this I thought about as I masturbated quietly and quickly.
         Feeling more miserable than before, I mused onwards in silence. Out of my time; centuries too late, perhaps decades too early, when it�s not just tits and arse, model good looks, tight abdomens and bulging pectorals, it�s about magnamity, empathy, kindness with no bounds. Seeing beyond my skinny short body, my uninteresting, ordinary face, my boring job. Tender acceptance of grave imperfections, giving the rewards of purity to those whose proclivity for the shadows masks their inner luminescence. No wonder divorces are rife. Ugly people should marry the beautiful ones so that, through the act of universal unity, the inner and outer combine and complete each other. Beauty now is a consumer durable. No longer pure. All the shopping and money and sex and drinks diminish what we have been told by the fairy stories of past ages.
         The ceiling was getting lower and lower and the walls were closing in. Lying in bed alone for the rest of my life. An anonymous cog in a machine nobody sees. All that lies ahead are family Christmases, loveless, until my parents die, and I�m on my own, having a frozen pizza and opening a gift I bought for myself.
         I wanted life to be like sunny showers, when the raindrops slant in, illuminated by the sun, like shavings of pure gold dropping from the ether, and when the rain stops, the sun strikes the water on the road, blinding you, reassuring you that all is right, coating the world with a hard lustre. But I�m lying to myself, expecting the sun from the clouds. It won�t come, and I�ll never reach that gleaming road. I�ve built walls I can�t break down, without knowing why I erected them in the first place. And the bricks are closer and closer to my nose. And the ceiling�s even lower now, closer than ever before and it�s growing harder, the bricks are strengthening, and I�m crumbling, eroding. And the weekend silence of my life is only punctuated by the couple upstairs starting to fuck again. And it�s like they are penetrating each other inches away from my eyes, and every snap of their springs is like a stab.
         I rolled out of bed, onto the unkempt floor, and crawled to the door. I threw it open and stood up on the hall linoleum. I snatched the fire extinguisher and marched upstairs, definite strong stamps, and wielding the red cylinder from its matt black metal handle like an axe, I crashed it down on the thin weak door. Access granted, I let the extinguisher thud down the stairs and I stormed into their living room. I can�t remember exactly what I destroyed - it was whatever came immediately to hand - and with the final cacophony of them climaxing, I launched their television set out into the gunmetal grey beyond.

�It was something I had to do. To wake up almost.� I stare resolutely into the couple�s eyes, and as they gaze alternately at me and at their defenestrated room, I squeeze past them and slowly walk downstairs, the sound of sirens wailing in the distance.

Robert Rulach

Back to Contents



Prose The Case of Lola Loveheart: A Harry Spence Story The rain pours down my office window. I puff my cigar. My name�s Harry Spence, Private detective. That�s what it says on the door. A broad sauntered into my office this morning. You know the kind. She was one of those women who could grab your heart, yank it out, leaving you gasping for air, but you�d still want more of her. She placed herself on my lap and told me about some punk who�d been hassling her for money. She wants me to murder him. I told her I�d do it for the right price. She told me she was the right price. I ain�t complaining. I work alone. The only friends I�ve got are a bottle of whisky and a magnum revolver. They both live in my trench coat pocket. I like to keep my enemies close, but my friends closer. I leave my office, stroll down the street. Can�t help thinking about this dame. I flick my cigar butt into the gutter. This city�s full of scum sucking, gutter crawling vermin and I�m the exterminator. The rain drips down my coat. I�m going to be drenched, so what�s new? I spot Blabber McGee, my informant. He knows what�s going down in this city. I pay him in food, a knuckle sandwich, if he doesn�t deliver the goods. He�s running away; that�s not like Blabber. Something must be eating at him. I put on a chase and soon find him cornered in a dingy back alley. �What�s the story, Blabber?� I ask. �I ain�t telling you nothing, Spence. It ain�t worth my life.� I suddenly hear a gunshot. The bullet skims past my shoulder and hits Blabber on the forehead. He ain�t going to be doing any more blabbing. I dive behind a couple of bins. A few more shots are fired in my direction. Then a car screeches away. Two pm, the next day. Still got no further with this case. Got a description of the punk who�s been hassling Lola. He goes by the name of Mr Big. Apparently he�s some heavy hitting gangster. Well, here�s the news, pal. I hit harder. He�s got his own gang, so what�s new? I can take them. I�m not called Harry Spence for nothing. There�s a knock at my door. Could be Lola. I get an itch in my loins. �Come in,� I grunt. Only this ain�t Lola, it�s a couple of suckers with baseball bats. When I wake up, my head�s ringing. Then I realise it�s the telephone. I look around, gathering my senses. I seem to be strapped to some kind of table. To my left are a couple of goons. To my right, speaking on the telephone is Mr Big. I can tell by the profile. A big guy, wearing a big jacket and big shoes. He looks mean and ugly but then I can get ugly if I need to. I decide to attract his attention. �You dirty rat. What do you want?� He turns towards me and sneers, �Ah, Mr Spence, you awake at last. I�m so glad. Now you can witness the demise of Lola Loveheart.� My heart begins to pound as loudly as the pounding his boys gave me earlier. �Why, what�s it all for, Mr Big?� �Lola used to be my dame until she fell for you, Spence. If I can�t have her then no one can. See that clock? When that stops ticking, so does Lola.� �Help, Harry, help!� Glancing back as far as I can, I see Lola, tied to a chair with a stick of dynamite by her feet. �Your plan�s sure not going to go with a bang, Mr Big,� I exclaim. His boys must be �rentagoons� because the straps are pretty loose. I manage to struggle free and reach for my gun; my trigger finger�s itching. �Get him, boys!� shouts Mr Big. But his boys are too slow. I take all four of them out with two bullets. I�m about to reach Lola when a blow to my head sends me reeling. I land by the wall with a dull thud. My gun slides over towards Lola. Mr Big sure ain�t small. We grapple. He punches me in the face. I kick him in the groin, where it hurts. I snatch my gun and smack him over the head with it. He goes out like a light. I grab Lola, untie her and we rush out of the warehouse. As we near the end of the street, we stop for a breather. Just looking at her takes my breath away. Then, BOOM, the entire warehouse explodes. �Look at those fireworks,� breathes Lola. �Those .reworks ain�t nothing compared to the ones that�ll be going with a bang in your bedroom tonight, doll,� I reply. Five pm, the next day. I sit alone in my office, smoking a cigar and swigging whisky. I�m alone and that�s the way I like it. I told her, it wouldn�t work. She�s a good kid; she�ll do all right. The name�s Harry Spence. I�m a private detective and I�m patiently waiting for my next case. Andrew Rose An Apology For Me �Abandon your life for a moment. Wrench yourself out of that beastly cocoon you warm your glacial hearts in. Just give me that chance, if for nothing else, just to explain.� -If you were a soup, what flavour would you be? -Oh, tricky question. Probably tomato, but with croutons. -Is that crunchy croutons, or ones which have been soaked for a while in the soup? -Crunchy. -If you were a vegetable, what would you be? -A tomato. Raucous, bright, well-preened, made-up, groomed, fun-loving, fan-loving, extroverted tarts spouting out meaningless thoughts. This weekend morning, ruined by this false, glossy enthusiasm. The .ashing lights of the studio and quasi-sexual close-ups exacerbate the rotting, decrepit feeling in my stomach. The more slap, the worse it feels. I turned off the t.v. with my foot, and laid back in my bed, staring at the ceiling. The couple upstairs fucked last night. They came at the same time. My bedsit. Coarse, brown, high durability carpet, second-hand wardrobe, pale pastel green walls, with a chintzy strip of wallpaper halfway up. A radiator that hisses death, beneath a window which only ever lets in grey, suburban sky. A pile of un-returned Blockbuster tapes, a plain blue mug. If you could just smell the damp, smell the misery, perhaps you can understand. �I won�t ask your forgiveness, I�m no emotional leech.� What�s wrong in being a romantic? What�s wrong with truth? A little veracity in our lives isn�t going to hurt. Lost in the lands of one-night stands and cheap pulls, drunken, lustful affairs, sits the channelled aggression of love. Metaphorically, I�m not climbing your balcony to rape you, I�m breaking down the walls that kept us apart. All this I thought about as I masturbated quietly and quickly. Feeling more miserable than before, I mused onwards in silence. Out of my time; centuries too late, perhaps decades too early, when it�s not just tits and arse, model good looks, tight abdomens and bulging pectorals, it�s about magnamity, empathy, kindness with no bounds. Seeing beyond my skinny short body, my uninteresting, ordinary face, my boring job. Tender acceptance of grave imperfections, giving the rewards of purity to those whose proclivity for the shadows masks their inner luminescence. No wonder divorces are rife. Ugly people should marry the beautiful ones so that, through the act of universal unity, the inner and outer combine and complete each other. Beauty now is a consumer durable. No longer pure. All the shopping and money and sex and drinks diminish what we have been told by the fairy stories of past ages. The ceiling was getting lower and lower and the walls were closing in. Lying in bed alone for the rest of my life. An anonymous cog in a machine nobody sees. All that lies ahead are family Christmases, loveless, until my parents die, and I�m on my own, having a frozen pizza and opening a gift I bought for myself. I wanted life to be like sunny showers, when the raindrops slant in, illuminated by the sun, like shavings of pure gold dropping from the ether, and when the rain stops, the sun strikes the water on the road, blinding you, reassuring you that all is right, coating the world with a hard lustre. But I�m lying to myself, expecting the sun from the clouds. It won�t come, and I�ll never reach that gleaming road. I�ve built walls I can�t break down, without knowing why I erected them in the first place. And the bricks are closer and closer to my nose. And the ceiling�s even lower now, closer than ever before and it�s growing harder, the bricks are strengthening, and I�m crumbling, eroding. And the weekend silence of my life is only punctuated by the couple upstairs starting to fuck again. And it�s like they are penetrating each other inches away from my eyes, and every snap of their springs is like a stab. I rolled out of bed, onto the unkempt floor, and crawled to the door. I threw it open and stood up on the hall linoleum. I snatched the fire extinguisher and marched upstairs, definite strong stamps, and wielding the red cylinder from its matt black metal handle like an axe, I crashed it down on the thin weak door. Access granted, I let the extinguisher thud down the stairs and I stormed into their living room. I can�t remember exactly what I destroyed - it was whatever came immediately to hand - and with the final cacophony of them climaxing, I launched their television set out into the gunmetal grey beyond. �It was something I had to do. To wake up almost.� I stare resolutely into the couple�s eyes, and as they gaze alternately at me and at their defenestrated room, I squeeze past them and slowly walk downstairs, the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. Robert Rulach Back to Contents