A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

“Did you know the deceased?” he asked.

“Not well.”

“Ah, who did... who knows anyone.

“Ego... life is the constant search to define it.”

I nodded. I couldn’t rise to the verbal lunacy this morning. I wondered if he might be related to the head wino, Padraig. They attended the same speech coach mebbe! A three-day beard emphasized the crazed light in his eyes.

“You’ll walk behind the hearse.”

“Yeah.”

“Ponder this, my silent friend, as we take the high road... ego is the sum of false ideas we have about ourselves.”

“Piss off,” I said.

I don’t enter the cemetery. At the gates a wedding party roared past... horns blaring. I was too hung-over for irony. I mouthed the Beckett line and felt little solace. “They give birth astride of a grave.” Hoot on. Who gives a diddly-fliggit.

I didn’t see Julie for the weeks up to Christmas. I slept with Marisa at weekends and cut down on cigarettes. I didn’t stop drinking because in Ireland you rarely do. I banged in a massive chart of overtime and kept to my funeral quota. The weather was bitterly cold, and I noticed Padraig no longer led the winos. Freezing-temperatured exposure keeps the numbers down... an expedient culling.

I thought of him a lot and, for a pound, a wino told me he was in the hospital.

I bought some roll-up tobacco, papers, and three pairs of thermal socks. The porter was obstructive as required by his status. Eventually I got the idea across to him.

“The oul wino, he’s up in St. Joseph’s ward; he’s had his final blast of mello.”

I didn’t recognize Padraig, not only because they washed him but he’d shrunk.

“How-yah,” I said.

“They won’t let me smoke.”

“Will I roll you wan?”

“I would be forever in your debt... they are not overly fond of me in this establishment. Do my colleagues on The Square prosper?”

They’d already forgotten him. He knew too.

“They were all asking after you.”

He nearly smiled. I lit the rollie and put it in his mouth. Coughs and chest rumbles danced him in the bed.

“I needed that... did I ever acquire your name?”

“Am... no... it’s Dillon.”

“Suits you... I think. Lying here nicotineless and gasping for a drink, I pondered God... I think I heard once that he knew my name before I was born... what do you think of that...?”

I had a furtive look round the ward.

People were point-d-ly ignoring us. The word was out on the wino... no sign of a nurse, so I lit a cigarette. Phey-oy, it tasted grand. Cutting down does magic for the oul want. I didn’t know what I thought of God knowing a wino’s name. So I said, “I dunno... isn’t your name Padraig...”

“I think it is... on the other hand, it may be the remnant of a blackout. God knows... wot!”

He shivered again in the bed. The ward was roasting. I felt a slight perspiration break out on my forehead. I don’t think... in truth... the heat was completely to blame for that. The tea trolley came... pushed by a middle-aged knacker. I knew him. Named Rooney. A small spit of a man who put the edge back into venom. My father, I believe, had once given him a hiding — he distributed tea and a dead biscuit to all the beds except Padraig.

“Hey... hey Rooney,” I shouted.

He pretended not to hear me and the trolley accelerated as he reached the corridor. Cold. The cold flash of a killing rage. Blind. I caught him near the coronary unit. The rheumy eyes threw the challenge to me. The catering badge gave him status. The look said, “You can’t touch me—”

I’m over six foot and weigh in at nigh 180 pounds. I felt like two of meself.

“Do you get to casualty...”

“No, I don’t... I go to...” and he launched into a litany of saints representing the various wards.

“You’re going to be in casualty in about five minutes because I’m going to break your left arm...”

“What... what’s eating you, Dillon. I never did nothing to you. I was a great pal of your oul fellah’s...”

“Go back up that corridor, wheel your bag of tricks into the ward, and offer that man a cup of tea... and one of them mouldy biscuits.”

“Ary... the wino... what do you care... what’s he to you. Tis not ‘tay’ the likes of him wants...”

As he finished, he looked into my eyes. Full. Then he turned the trolley round and he brought Padraig his afternoon tea... and two biscuits. I had a drop of tea myself as it was offered. I declined seconds.

“I won’t make the Square for the New Year,” said Padraig.

“You might...”

“No... I’d have liked to wear them new socks too. Do you think... do you think you could fit them on me now? I’m perished...” He surely was.

The socks were a grey thermal from our clothing department. I rolled back the blanket and his feet grieved me. A serious novelist would describe them as gnarled.

Twisted, lacerated, and... old, very old. The socks were a size medium and enormous on his shrunken feet. He watched me watching them.

“How’s that,” I asked.

“Mighty... I’m the better of them already. I had a pair of argyles once or mebbe I just hope I did... you have a rare gift, my young friend.”