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:
... and it was.
“You won’t be at... at J... U... L... at this funeral... will you?”
“No sir.”
... and I wasn’t.
A big turn-out by all accounts...
Later that night... I had a mug of ouzo... foul stuff... like a wino’s pernod. But mebbe it grew on you; I’d be finding out... soon. Julie’s envelope contained only these lines, nowt else...
dear eddie
... this legacy will explain everything and shed light on nothing.
“leave you
the leavings of
an inarticulated thanks
— will you
the echoes of the lives
as yet un-writ
term you
the keeper of my conciliatory heart
that heart
as mortgage held”
Was it on meself or did this ouzo grow on you... more of it...
Characters Concluding
O’Malley’s case was heard. He was fined five hundred pounds. The muttering beneath his breath of the traditional form “ya bollix” may have contributed to the six months hard labour he also received... to be served in Mountjoy Prison. Which is a far enough shout from Kilburn High Road.
Carlo, the dog, never turned up. I like to think he found himself another Julie. But that’s unlikely. She was kinda rare...
“Bad Weather” continues to hold his fixed opinion on climatic conditions.
Ted dropped his earring and has become vocal and tiresome in local politics. A bright future seems certain.
Robbie has begun to follow the funerals.
Raoul got run-over.
The three thugs are thugging.
Rooney, the tea-trolley maestro, got a stroke. He is now the recipient of dead tea and deader biscuits.
Marisa got engaged to Ted. She’s involved in the arts and reads poetry at Race Meetings, or is it the other way round?
Nurse Allison Brown is dating a fading security guard... she seems happy.
The Funerals are still running... on the usual daily basis... or so I hear.
The winos... there’s a new batch on the Square... but leaderless, insofar as I can tell.
Pat, the bus conductor, is being dried-out in the local hospital. He continues to smoke.
Gurteen is attempting to convert “Eileen” Nestor’s Pub into-late nite disco. He still manages to put in some part-time psychopathing.
Mr. Darcy (Marisa’s father) started drinking and is a regular fixture (if not attraction) of the early morning houses.
Mrs. Darcy got religion.
And Julie’s father... well... he’s staying sober.
“Funeral III”
“of
the
wino”
Blame it on...
an intuition
I hadn’t heard
and
certainly
would night on certainly
believe
a life
upon the streets
At least for long
I’d not survive
the sabotage in hope
for far too long
I’d lived
one drink
above despair
the turning to
the Kings Arms Public
House
A hearse
Before
I watched a wino
place
his hand above his
heart
I’d know
a cap
if he had owned
would slow... and
very slow remove
shake-so
the shakes... dis-
regarding
... “A silence in Respect”...
the cortege pass... press-on... to
press
his hand... the day across
this moment new
passed nigh beyond
the oldest explanation
a hand towards
expectations
not renewed
the coffin doesn’t pass
the rich hotels
that cater to
the very rich... exclusively
their hands
towards the exhortations
aren’t shaped.
The
End...
Martyrs
“He-cups... that’s what I call them.”
“Excuse me?
“That’s my little pet name for them. You think that’s chauvinistic I suppose.”
Beck didn’t suppose anything... save the man was an ejit. The rumble of the tube train could be heard. People milled forward. The man moved right up to Beck, continued,
“Hey... hey, sonny, I’m talking to you... too much to expect a reply... is it? Too snooty to answer a person?”
A faint but persistent hiccup was indeed evident. Beck turned, said,
“Faint ones are a symptom of AIDS.”
“What... Are you serious?”
“I don’t know. I mean... personally I don’t know. But according to The Lancet...”
Beck let him digest that... the train was fast approaching. He reckoned he’d the man nigh full primed. Another little push...
“The Lancet is...”
“I know what the flaming thing is. Christ on a bicycle... they’d know... I mean... they’re the experts...”
“Gotcha,” thought Beck and, “now.” He let his expression darken and just before he hopped the train, said, “It’s the masculine ones... the he-chaps... they’re the ones to do you in.”
As realisation hit the man’s face, Beck was losing himself in the crowd... he muttered, “Suck on that.”
Stephen Beck was 38 years old. To quote James Ellroy,
“38 and going on dead.”
If he had to quote a writer, make it a crime one... and a particularly manic type. Keep them guessing. When people retorted,
“Ah, you read crime novelists.”
He said,
“No.”
He was 5’10” in height, losing what brown hair he’d had and stockily built. Brown eyes redeemed a mouth that longed to remain turned down. His nose looked broken and badly repaired. A sinus problem didn’t add to its appeal. His teeth were white, even and gleaming. Usually in a glass.
Once watching Tony Bennett, he felt a surge of identification.
“Nothing about either of us is real.”
Beck was a college graduate. In sociology. This equipped him, he believed, to juggle balls on street corners. What he did was run a market stall.