A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen
- Автор: Бруен Кен
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Busted Flush Press
- ISBN: 978-0-9767157-2-6
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen». Краткое содержание книги:
“What’s that?”
“You never probe or pry into a person’s affairs.”
“Thank you.”
The nurse came and said I’d have to leave. A young dark-haired girl, she had huge brown eyes and what they call a homely face. Her name badge said “Nurse A. Brown”.
“What’s the ‘A’ for?”
“Allison.”
“Would you get in touch with me if he wants anything or if he gets a turn... I’ll give you my address.”
She didn’t bat an eye or give me the current thought on winos. She said, “I’ve seen you up at Traders. Yes, I’ll let you know. What’s your name.”
“Dillon... Eddie Dillon... thanks a lot.”
Padraig tried to put some strength into his smile.
“What do you know about money, my young friend?”
“Not a whole lot.”
“It’s how they keep score,” he said.
I rang Julie a few times. She was busy. Marisa mentioned to me that Raoul had attended Castleknock... as had Robbie. One of Ireland’s expensive boarding schools. I thought of Saki’s dictum:
“To make a boy
truly vicious
you have to send him
to a good school.”
Christmas Eve materialised. My shopping list was brief:
— Julie
— Marisa
— Padraig
I was working a split shift and had the morning free. The town was hopping with cash and camaraderie. I bought Julie a boxed collection of Kazantzaki. By an incredible stroke of luck, I managed to get a recording of Richard Burton’s reading of Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood. To keep the balance I threw in a copy of Adrian Mole. To lighten Julie’s load, I added Stephens, The Crock of Gold. This selection of gifts proved I had a few bob if nowt else. I was buying some thermal long-johns for Padraig when I met Marisa’s father. He was flush in a new sheepskin coat and deerstalker.
“Happy Christmas, Mr. Darcy.”
“Well — well... well, young Dillon.”
If there’s a sensible reply to this, I don’t know it. I gave him a smile — not too far removed from a grimace.
“I suppose you wouldn’t object to a touch of something... the season that’s in it...”
“Sure, I’ll keep you company... they have a coffee bar upstairs.”
Ordering coffee was complicated. He wanted decaffeinated and the waitress reckoned he wanted seeing to. I was with the waitress. Sitting, I didn’t offer the cigarettes. I lit one.
“Have you plans for the festive season,” he asked.
“No.”
“Mrs. D. and I have a lot of entertaining of course... But we try to get the few days in the Canaries. We hope to have Raoul home this evening. Are you... working?”
“Yeah, thieves don’t have the festive spirit.”
“How are the promotion prospects there.”
“Almost nil I think.”
“Well, I hate to run but I must look in at the office... the company have their ‘claim’ too.”
T’was hard to say who was the more mortified with this insurance joke. It killed the conversation stone dead. How did you get the man’s attention. Ask him how he was fixed for the few quid... what? I took a lone shot.
“Did you ever drink Mr... Darcy.”
He sat back...
“I’m proud to say I joined The Pioneers take a pledge of total abstinence in order.
I had to cut in quick... he was off on a friggin seminar again.
“Yeah... yeah, I know what they are — I know that. But why did you take it.”
He was well perplexed. I think he truly didn’t get it. At least I’d shook some crap from the trees.
“The Pioneer Movement was founded...”
I hit the turn-off switch. You couldn’t even call him a bolix. The lights were on. But who was home... I don’t think he knew any better than I did. I tuned in again as he was looking into my face.
“Were you perhaps considering joining our crusade and getting yourself pinned...”
... or nailed.
“No... I’d be more attracted to the militant wing of your organisation.”
“To what, I don’t understand that...”
“A.A.”
Enough. I stood up and wished him a merry Christmas. At the door I glanced back and he was fingering his deerstalker. What was running through his head. Decaffeinated probably. Avoid the kick...
I got nicely scuttered at work. Customers passing through slipped me those minatures of spirits, packets of cigarettes... and even a turkey leg from one woman. I reckoned the Traders perimeter needed checking and patrolled. I chugged whiskey... brandy and gin. Whoa-hayed, I was getting the spirit. Our most persistent shoplifter extended the seasons greetings to me as I returned to the store’s entrance. I spotted Robbie. Parcel laden, he scurried past. I hoped he spent my twenty wisely. I’d be seeing him soon. Come New Year. Gurteen roared past on a lethal looking motor-bike... and threw me a Hitler salute. Deference to the uniform. My supervisor showed. The worse for drink himself, he praised my diligence, my height, my attitude. I asked him if he’d my pay. Producing a rake of envelopes, he had to ask my name.
It included overtime and a Christmas bonus. Yip... feckin... ee! I nipped behind the store and toasted Christmas with something called, “olde England malte.” Hoping it wasn’t aftershave, I supped. M... m... m. I topped it. Glow full.
With an approximation of a step, I resumed duty. I was humming “little drummer boy” when a young woman marched up. Homely face but warm wonderful eyes and well shaped. A little excited though.
“Aren’t you Eddie Dillon?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t you remember me...?”
“No, ma’am?”
“Allison... Allison Brown... I’m the nurse from the hospital.”
“Uh yes, sorry, I didn’t recognize you... in clothes... with clothes on... oh Gawd, I mean, out of uniform... am... you know...!”
“I hate to bother you at work but you said to let you know. Padraig... your friend... he died last night... and I only just got off work... I’m so sorry.”
“Oh Lord...”
At that moment, a “Biddy friendly” grabbed me. Her purse was stolen and she wanted “ACTION.”
“Where is he?” I asked Allison.
“The morgue... at the hospital...”
“Thanks... thanks, I have to go... I’ll go down later.”
The woman pulled me into the teeming crowd. I could see her red face, yapping and shouting. I didn’t hear it... any of it. I could put that down to “olde English malte.” Immunised. I went through the motions with the woman and had her fill out the forms. Her own agitation blurred any reaction from me. I had a uniform. Right. So I knew the score. Right. Behave accordingly. Intimidate the daylights outa her. Eventually she left, in a medium cloud of shock. I kept humming that woeful drummer boy... beat on.
I called Marisa after work... and lied wholesale.
Emergency due to staff shortage... see her in a few days. An effective lie as I didn’t care if she believed it. She wanted to grab it, and we buried our own sides of the fabrication. Yeah-oh, we threw some happy Christmases in there. The morgue was closed. I emerged from the off-licence with a crate of booze. Food...? Food for thought... darkest of all...
At the flat, I dredged up the track suit. A bottle by the neck. Jack Daniels. Did I buy that... and a mug. I sat on the floor and began to shape oblivion. Sip... ah... think... no... no thanks, not today buddy, I’m way through with analysis. Giving ole Jack D. a run for the money. Sour mash it said on the label. Better yet, the sourer the finer. The bell went... why not... ghost of Christmas something. Julie. Bearing gifts... beware of Greekophiles bearing!.. what.
“I didn’t expect to find you in—”