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:
Tell folks you were in marketing and they launched into stocks and options banter.
“Which area of marketing, Stephen?”
“Where the Walworth Road meets East Lane. A statistic up from the Elephant and Castle.”
They thought he was droll... if somewhat tedious. His mother on first hearing the news shrieked,
“For this you went to college...?”
“Mother, I spent twenty years in Education. I reckon another twenty to undo the damage.”
Beck had made some major fuck-ups. No argument.
An ex-wife, an ex-child and no excuses. His daughter, four years old, was the light of his existence. But it seemed he saw her less and less. Perversely he reckoned this increased his love... and it wasn’t a redeeming love. It tortured him. He’d removed her photo from his wallet and scorched her further from his heart.
Lately, he’d placed a Dictionary of The Saints next to Elmore Leonard. He’d search through it, for the Martyrs, wanted to know how they screwed up initially and then recovered all in or by the final burning act. A death scenario he wasn’t planning, but the general plan lay in there somewhere.
Take Kerry. A virgin she’d said... O.K. Then she’d blown, rode, teased, tied and used him through every variation. Midway she’d said,
“Don’t come yet!”
“Excuse me?”
He wasn’t claiming to be some expert but had he missed something along the way. But come on... was it the sort of quote virgins uttered — Surely... the coming was generally held to be of some surprising significance. Enough women had faked it with him for him to know the result.
Later, he’d had to ask...
“Am... I thought you said you were... am...”
“A virgin?”
“Am... yes.”
“Technically I am.”
“Technically!”
“Oh sure, I’ve had dozens of men — dozens.”
A neon sign lit above his head. It screamed AIDS.
“No man has ever penetrated my heart.”
... And goodnight Kerry.
The success of the family was Martin. He was almost beyond cliché... tall, handsome, smart, capable. You met Martin. You reached for superlatives. Worse, he was a nice guy. In the old sense of that label. He’d lend you money without a lecture and in his company you felt of worth.
He was three years younger than Stephen and they’d always been close. In the early ’80s, he made mountains of money in property. A darling of the Gods. But, as usual, they turned vicious, sent “Black Monday” and Martin came crashing down. First financially, then all the others too. He hit the booze and then the booze lashed back. With ferocity. Dark clouds had never entered Martin’s view. Now it seemed as if a permanent winter had bought his soul.
With no option to sell.
The spiral fizzled out at the Maudsly Hospital. Martin was now already ten months a patient there. Only Stephen was welcome.
He’d said,
“So, Stevie, did you know I tried A.A.?”
“No... any good?”
“Well now Stevie, I’m here, in the lock-up ward... What do you think, eh... am I a success story?”
“Are you going to tell me about it or not?”
Truth was, Stephen wasn’t even vaguely interested. Martin sensed this and thus continued,
“They said it was easy. All you had to do was go to meetings and...”
“And?”
“Change your whole freaking life.”
“Sounds a piece of cake.”
“They’re all C.I.A.”
Uh... uh, thought Stephen... paranoid delusion, spooks everywhere. Wistful smiles from Martin.
“Don’t frown like that, Stevie... it highlights yer baldness.
“C.I.A... it’s a little A.A. humour.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Yeah...
Catholic
Irish
Alcoholic
... gettit?”
Yea, Stephen got it all right. What he didn’t get was where it was particularly humorous. Perhaps you had to be there. But would you want to be?
Martin was warming to his theme. Stephen’s sourness helped. A sidebar of Martin’s illness was “No more Mr. Nice Guy.”
“They’re a weird outfit these same A.A’s. A young girl told the most horrendous story.”
“Her name wasn’t Kerry was it?”
“What...”
“Nothing, you were saying?”
“Yea right. So this girl who is NOT CALLED KERRY does her horror number and you know what they did?”
“I have no idea.”
“They laughed... shower of BASTARDS. Anyway, this guy cornered me after the meeting. A holy roller. Piety was leaking outa him. He was Welsh, with that singsong voice. I misheard him and thought he was trying to flog me something. Yo... boys, I said, I got family in the market... in the actual market place.
“... O.K., so I was being literal but he got real shirty and pushed off. Only later I realised he was saying ‘Higher Power.’”
Beck was lost.
“I’m lost, Martin, I don’t catch the gist.”
“For fucksakes, Steve-o, wake up and smell the coffee. I thought he said ‘Hire Purchase’”
Martin’s voice had risen.
“You used to be so sharp... you’re not paying attention, is that it. The mental case is boring the arse off you... is that it?”
Stephen tried to interrupt. Martin was a decibel from roaring and ranted further.
“The old mad house humour not up to yer high standards...? Oh God, I’m shouting... Whoa, hey, can’t have that. Keep the lunatic tranquil.”
“Martin... Ple-ASE, don’t say that.”
“Well it’s true, I mean look around you... this ain’t the Golf Club. It’s the Bobby Hatch
A Home for the Chronically
Wired
for the dipstick dysfunctional.”
A nurse came running.
“Time to leave Mr. Beck...”
“Yeah,” said Martin, quieter now, “Run from the loony,” and then in a whisper,
“... Sorry Steve-o
... sorry
I’m sorry.”
Steve fumbled his way to the bus stop. A bus came almost immediately. Dropping into a seat, a woman opposite him said,
“You’re in luck love, this is the first bus for ages.”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Not in luck, what I’m in is bits.”
The woman settled herself and her whole posture suggested “Chat.” With a sinking feeling, he knew intuitively she’d share her surgical experience.
“Ah for fucksakes,” he groaned, and leapt from the platform at Camberwell. He heard her exclaim,
“Well, I never!”
There’s a mean pub on the Green, it has a reputation for violence.
“Good,” thought Stephen and slammed in.
“Yo”... from the barman. “Here comes the Cisco Kid!”
Stephen did the smart thing, ignored it. The barman was short, bald and despite a beer gut, enclosed in an ultra tight waistcoat.
Stephen said,
“Gordons... yeah, Gordons if you’ve got it.”
He wanted to add,
“And if you can spell it.”
But, priorities, drink first, insults later.
Miffed, the barman said,
“Would sir require lemon?”
“Yea, float one of those suckers in there.”
Large gulp and the glass was empty. Stephen felt it hit his stomach like bad news. Exactly what he’d planned.
The barman tapped his own bald head.
“When did your thatch leg it?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not a difficult question, when did you go bald?”
Each time was like a fresh shock — somehow. Stephen hoped it was like the flu... unpleasant but of limited duration. He never believed truly HE was bald. Receding maybe, strong forehead... OK even, Godhelpus, stripped temples... these could be borne. But bald, so blunt and final.