He knew the sound:
a high explosive squash-head round,
fired from a recalibrated PKP
Pecheneg 11.5 (SRB),
passing through an inch
and a half of pure titanium plate
(the moon’s eclipse reprieves the farrier).
It was the sort
of sharp report
a peregrine falcon would make,
passing through the sound barrier
with a clean break as it fell
all of a summer’s day
towards its perfectly intended, unseen prey,
infinitely underground:
straight to hell.
He didn’t flinch.
No flicker of the eye betrayed his waking;
his ears stood to attention, almost shaking
in the shocked air. Two bluebottles patrolled
the ambit of the low-
hanging lamp above his head,
its yellowing glass mantle festooned
with remembrances of last days
spent in its consoling shed
(in the dark beyond its cone
of influence over the green baize,
Vesper Lynd, who has no human fears,
watches, waits and disappears)—
And then they were gone; the flies had flown.
His eyes snapped open; the flat sea shone.
He was marooned.
“Coo, you didn’t half jump, Mr. Bond!
It was just a car backfiring. Now you’re awake, l’ll
do your hair.” An unknown face, a badge that said ‘Jenny:
Your Carer’ (a word he loathed)—another change of staff;
this middle-aged trollop with her overfamiliar laugh
was the latest and least welcome of many.
His pale gaze sailed down beyond
the trees, landed softly on Westcliff Parade,
waited at the pedestrian crossing for a while,
then on through the Gardens to the Western Esplanade,
where on this perfect August day
The Westcliff-on-Sea Classic Car Competition was in full sway.
The blue Standard 8 which had just backfired
backfired again. “That bag’s about to burst.
It’s almost time for your lunch, but first
let’s empty this bag, Mr. Bond.” His tired
eyes ached behind his Persol 6217s
as he watched the old cars go by. “Heavens,
you don’t half pee a lot, Mr. Bond!”
And then he saw it, five cars back from the Standard:
a silver Aston Martin DB III—
a man in a steamer jacket at the wheel, a triple gold-banded
Morland at his lips: “Oh my God, that’s me!”
And at his side a smile, a mop of dirty blond:
he whispered, “Pussy, my love!”
She seemed to hear and squinted towards the terrace high above
the esplanade. He raised his hand and she was gone.
“Something light for your lunch—an omelette,
Mr. Bond... ?” The word was like a gimlet
in his ear, a trespass on his soul.
It was like offering to sing My Way to Sinatra
or to run a nice warm bath for Cleopatra—
perhaps she thought such vile transgression droll.
He fished his fully-loaded Beretta
from the pocket of his dressing-gown
(a man with a license to kill doesn’t let a
saucy bint like this go ungunned-down)
and shot her in the head.
“Your aim’s
as true as ever, James,”
she said,
falling stricken at his slippered feet.
“I wanted to get you something nice to eat.
I know exactly how to do your eggs—that’s why I risked
everything to come to Westcliff-on-Sea.”
Her life was ebbing fast, her blood flowed dark and free.
“So tell me about eggs—and nothing funny, Jenny.”
And she said, “Beaten, not whisked,”
and died. And he said, “Moneypenny!”
a high explosive squash-head round,
fired from a recalibrated PKP
Pecheneg 11.5 (SRB),
passing through an inch
and a half of pure titanium plate
(the moon’s eclipse reprieves the farrier).
It was the sort
of sharp report
a peregrine falcon would make,
passing through the sound barrier
with a clean break as it fell
all of a summer’s day
towards its perfectly intended, unseen prey,
infinitely underground:
straight to hell.
He didn’t flinch.
No flicker of the eye betrayed his waking;
his ears stood to attention, almost shaking
in the shocked air. Two bluebottles patrolled
the ambit of the low-
hanging lamp above his head,
its yellowing glass mantle festooned
with remembrances of last days
spent in its consoling shed
(in the dark beyond its cone
of influence over the green baize,
Vesper Lynd, who has no human fears,
watches, waits and disappears)—
And then they were gone; the flies had flown.
His eyes snapped open; the flat sea shone.
He was marooned.
“Coo, you didn’t half jump, Mr. Bond!
It was just a car backfiring. Now you’re awake, l’ll
do your hair.” An unknown face, a badge that said ‘Jenny:
Your Carer’ (a word he loathed)—another change of staff;
this middle-aged trollop with her overfamiliar laugh
was the latest and least welcome of many.
His pale gaze sailed down beyond
the trees, landed softly on Westcliff Parade,
waited at the pedestrian crossing for a while,
then on through the Gardens to the Western Esplanade,
where on this perfect August day
The Westcliff-on-Sea Classic Car Competition was in full sway.
The blue Standard 8 which had just backfired
backfired again. “That bag’s about to burst.
It’s almost time for your lunch, but first
let’s empty this bag, Mr. Bond.” His tired
eyes ached behind his Persol 6217s
as he watched the old cars go by. “Heavens,
you don’t half pee a lot, Mr. Bond!”
And then he saw it, five cars back from the Standard:
a silver Aston Martin DB III—
a man in a steamer jacket at the wheel, a triple gold-banded
Morland at his lips: “Oh my God, that’s me!”
And at his side a smile, a mop of dirty blond:
he whispered, “Pussy, my love!”
She seemed to hear and squinted towards the terrace high above
the esplanade. He raised his hand and she was gone.
“Something light for your lunch—an omelette,
Mr. Bond... ?” The word was like a gimlet
in his ear, a trespass on his soul.
It was like offering to sing My Way to Sinatra
or to run a nice warm bath for Cleopatra—
perhaps she thought such vile transgression droll.
He fished his fully-loaded Beretta
from the pocket of his dressing-gown
(a man with a license to kill doesn’t let a
saucy bint like this go ungunned-down)
and shot her in the head.
“Your aim’s
as true as ever, James,”
she said,
falling stricken at his slippered feet.
“I wanted to get you something nice to eat.
I know exactly how to do your eggs—that’s why I risked
everything to come to Westcliff-on-Sea.”
Her life was ebbing fast, her blood flowed dark and free.
“So tell me about eggs—and nothing funny, Jenny.”
And she said, “Beaten, not whisked,”
and died. And he said, “Moneypenny!”
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