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:
I waylaid the priest before the mass. I asked him to mention the soul of Padraig. I thought that was the way to frame it.
“Padraig who,” he asked. A small barrel of a man, he looked hungover too. I thought it diplomatic to omit that God would know who.
“I dunno his surname.” I tried to look social worker-ish. Why I thought that would score points was even then a mystery. He muttered something and bristled away. No points. Padraig would be buried the next day. Funerals were kept to a minimum for the day it was.
Emerging from the hospital, I walked straight into Rooney, the trolley dictator. Was it on myself or was there delight in the ferret eyes.
“Did you hear about O’Malley?”
“No.”
“He went mad down in The Weir last night... mad from drink... it took three guards to get him to the station — that will soften his cough.”
I didn’t even give him the look. I knew I should mebbe phone Marisa. I’m ill, I said, and headed for “The Post.” An early morning house. My father was a known, if a less-than-valued client there. On the outside, it appeared closed. Shut down even. I knocked. The Irish speakeasy.
“Go away, we’re shut.”
“It’s Dillon... young Dillon—”
“Oh... wait a minute.”
Bolts sounded. Fat Willy came out. Over six foot he was and as thin as a spit. Not a pick on him. His father was over twenty stone in his time, and the son inherited the pub and the name. I’d need some big drinks if I was to visit O’Malley in the barracks. I knew enough to elevate rank. An ordinary guard you call sergeant... a nun is a superior mother and up you ascent. The vague flaw to this was my own experience in a security guard uniform. (People inevitably called “dumb-head” and ascended.)
The pub was packed and silent. The sanctity of serious drinking. Not a place for dabblers. You came here to get alcohol into the system, fast and with the minimum of pain. Talk didn’t intrude. Later, when the cures were rampant, the crowd would loosen. Now it was hangover haven.
The holy atmosphere of the hair of the dog. Most attempted to ingest the whole flogging dog... if faces are mirrors, the crowd had been savaged by large animals. I took my place amid the silence. Whisper my order. Reverence is all... to all. A bus conductor I knew had the next stool. With both hands, he got his whiskey to his mouth. Tilt... the load, down. I felt the tremor. He bolted for the toilet. Returning, his face was green, a light coating of perspiration... and relief. “The next one... The next one will stay down,” he said. The voice of experience. I dwelt on “Funeral II.”
The bus conductor managed the next whiskey. Gregariousness was close behind.
“A happy Christmas to you, Dillon.”
“And yerself, Pat.”
“Would you join me in a drop.”
“I would.”
I put a cigarette on the counter for him to light in his own time. The shakes still hovered... his and mine. He swiped the second drink.
“Ah... stay... stay, ya bad bistard, ah... am I feeling better...!”
You find few finer examples of positive thinking. The cigarette was lit. A spasm of coughing nigh threw him across the counter. The fragile recovery near came up. Massive control; he won.
“There’s comfort in the oul cigarettes.”
“There is.”
“I was off them there for the run up to the Christmas. Even the drink tasted flat. I had to give up beer, ya know. Only the spirits seemed to give me any bit of taste.”
“I know what you mean.”
I bought the next round. The temptation to spend the day was fierce. I was at the stage of recovery that a few more drinks might tip into paralysis. With the warmest of wishes, I left Pat to it. I felt reckless enough for the police barracks. This is a large granite building in the town centre. Grey and grim.
A young garda was tending the desk. The station was quiet.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant...” which he wasn’t.
“Is it young Dillon... did you lose something?”
My nerve, mainly.
“I came to see how O’Malley was.”
“—That blackguard. He’s seeing the doctor... he fell down in his cell and might have broken his nose.” We left that shift between us. The garda’s eyes were a shade above blankness. Life was present there but not of any compassionate type.
“I wouldn’t have thought that O’Malley was a friend of yours, Dillon.”
“Well, would you tell him I called in.”
He nodded. At the door, two huge guards were hauling a wino in. He was roaring like a bull and throwing his free hand to the free world... outside...
The guards said “happy Christmas...”
I hope I kept my peace if not theirs.
“Funeral II”
Ashen
was the way
I felt
when shunned again
by people
I had justified
didn’t all
that all... much
really
warrant grief
— “tearing words beneath” –
Beneath
the anger... deeper
anger
ever lurks
... and wish
I wish
it weren’t so
“so much now
Phew...
a sigh lifeless”
The saying less
that what I think
it is
the old triangle here
of...
think
I thought perhaps
of less
than I could
ever
start to say
A funeral
begins the move
up towards the hill
you know — beyond
the very plans
you’d power play... it
change you drastically
a choice... to change
was lined
behind the hearse
I didn’t go to Julie’s.
I didn’t call Marisa.
I didn’t eat.
What I did was I drank... a whole lot. I didn’t get to evening. I was cold on the floor of my flat. I had me some rough dreams... French named or otherwise.
The next morning was dues time. I had to die. Walk through the hangover. If I had an inch of drink, I’d lose the next week. I didn’t do it for Padraig... he’d have said, “Lose the week...” I didn’t want to lose his funeral. So I showered and died. Drank shaky coffee and retched. I didn’t shave.
At the morgue were the priest and the hearse and myself. Oh yeah, Padraig, too, but he wasn’t feeling anything. Same priest... new hangover. I skipped the greetings. He gave me a seat to the cemetery. Padraig might have appreciated how we got there first. At the Square, I told myself, at least one of the winos will see the hearse. He’d pause and put his hand over his heart. If he’d had a cap, he would have removed it. Hail to the chief. That’s the way I told myself it was. Indeed, I regretted not actually seeing it in full. But like I say, I was hungover and prey to anxious foolishness. I recognized one of the gravediggers. O’Hanlon... a former security guard. Over six foot, he was broad and had the look of being well fed. He rarely smiled. You got a look into those wet-blue eyes and all the smile you’d ever need was right there. From minding the living to burying the dead, an Irish success.
Padraig was laid in Billy’s Acre... well away from the paying clients. In the days of the poor house, they took them here. To the present, your status could be destroyed if anyone belong to you had been put there. It veered on the Protestant graves, and those were the pits. On Cemetery Sunday, the priest blessing the graves ignored the paupers and the Protestants. The area of Billy’s Acre was neglected and overgrown. The caretaker didn’t bother with their upkeep, as who was there to complain. The Protestants were well known for their non-tending of the dead. I learnt that at school. They believed, “You passed on.” Why visit the graveyard when no one was home. They didn’t just chuck Padraig into the ground. But there wasn’t a whole lot of ceremony either. The priest read that dirge in which “man has but a short time to live and is full of misery.” T’was more fitting to us around the grave than the fellah within it.