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:
“Nina...! What have you got to do with her?”
“I can’t go into it on the phone.”
“Jeez-louise, you don’t know a Nurse O’Brien, do you?”
“What...? When can you come over?”
“Tonight, Martin’s in some kind of trouble.”
“Plu-eeze, Stephen, don’t mention that boy to me, he’s a heart scald. I sent him a ‘Get Well’ card and he never replied, the little pup.”
“‘Get Well’ card! Mother, it’s not the friggin measles, he’s in a mental hospital. Look, I’ll see you tonight...” and he banged the phone down. Give her a sore ear for a bit.
Then he remembered the Walkman for Martin. “Ker-ist,” he thought, “I’d better stop off at the market.” He rang a mini-cab and told them he’d be outside the Oval tube station.
The station thronged with winos and panhandlers.
A guy was roaring at the height of his lungs,
“Buy the Big Issue... Buy...”
It seemed to Stephen it must be like a bad night in Beirut. The cab came. A Pakistani driver whose geography was as bad as his English, got hopelessly confused by the roundabout at the Elephant and Castle, and twice ended up heading for the Oval.
Stephen said,
“Yo, buddy... let’s pack this in. I’ll walk. I’d like to get to the market before next Sunday. How much?”
“Fifteen pounds, friend.”
Stephen gave him four pound coins, and said,
“Leave it out, Buddy, O.K.... I’m a Londoner and not a fuckin’ tourist, O.K.... just don’t start. You might consider a new career with British Rail.”
His mood deteriorated as he saw the crowds on E. Street. Time was burning in his head. Rodney, the market perennial, came out of the caff.
“Steve, what’s the story?”
“Rodney, am I glad to see you or wot. I have to get hold of a Walkman... for Martin, he’s... well, you know he’s away.”
“No worries, son, give me five minutes.”
Back he came, with the latest Japanese model.
“Yo, Stevey, this is state of the art. It does everything, in fact... treat it right and it will even walk the dog for yah.”
“Smashin... what’s the damage?”
“Tell you what, I might be able to put a bit of work your way, and there might be a drink innit for the both of us. Take it as a sub. Alrite.”
“Yea, wonderful.”
“So give us a bell towards the end of the week.”
A wino bumped into Stephen and he nearly dropped the Walkman.
“Sorry Sur... so sorry.”
Stephen noticed the man had a full head of hair. Tangles, dirty, but definitely luxuriant... He realised he’d never seen a bald wino. Had he discovered a cure, albeit a rough one. “Lose everything, but save your hair.”
He spotted a No. 12 bus and managed to leap on to the platform. Anxiety or speculation as to Martin’s condition hadn’t had time to torment him. Rushing into the hospital, he asked at reception for Nurse O’Brien. A teenager, a girl with spiked blond hair, was waiting in admission. She had her head in her hands and was moaning quietly. A small bag with “ADIDAS” logo was beside her Doc Martens, the scuffed laced up boots were tapping rapidly.
Nurse O’Brien appeared.
“Dr. O’Connor will see you now, Mr. Beck.”
“Mister... what happened to Stephen?”
“Really, Mr. Beck, I thought it would be more important to know what’s happened to Martin.”
Thus reprimanded, Stephen was led into an office. The doctor was behind a desk, reading a file. One chair, hard-backed, in front. This was the doctor who ordered Stephen from a chair on the last visit. He didn’t look up. Stephen said,
“Will I just park it anywhere?”
Dr. O’Connor looked up... he had half-framed glasses which he straightened and peered through.
“Ah, the brother.”
Stephen thought, “Uh... uh.”
“Your brother...” Here he picked up the file, checked something with his finger, snapped the file shut, and continued, “Your brother, Martin, got hold of two forks from the refectory, and somehow used them... to...”
He hesitated. Stephen knew he was supposed to say something here, but all he could think of was the Les Dawson line, “POOR, you want to talk poverty? Till I was 16, I thought cutlery was jewelry.”
He didn’t say this and waited. The doctor said,
“He used these to puncture his eardrums... Rather seriously I’m afraid.”
“Jesus Christ... what!”
“He’s under sedation now, of course, but it would appear that the severity of the... action... will mean, he’s going to be permanently deaf.”
The room spun. Stephen could see the doctor, his mouth forming words, but for an instant, he too, was deaf. In that moment, something died in him. He felt a huge kick of pain and then it finished. Dazed, he felt reality return.
“Mr. Beck... Mr. Beck, are you all right?” The doctor was standing over him, shaking his shoulders.
“Get your hand off me.”
“Mr. Beck, I realise it’s a bit of a shock, but practicalities must be discussed.”
“So... let’s discuss them.”
“Well, we can’t really keep Martin here, the risk of further incidents.”
“Private... get him in a private place.”
“There are excellent facilities, but a bit costly.”
“Do it then, I’m good for it.”
Stephen stood up. The doctor extended his hand,
“I’ll be in touch.”
Outside, at reception, Stephen saw the teenager still waiting. He said,
“Here, have a Walkman.”
She took the machine and looked at it closely.
“Where’s the batteries?”
“In it.”
“Got any tapes?”
Stephen didn’t answer, and headed for the exit. Nurse O’Brien came running, catching him at the door.
“Mr. Beck, where are you rushing to?”
“Fuck off.”
Outside, he thought, “Martin’s got himself a permanent Walkman.” The sounds of the world were now forever blocked out. A nightmarish thought then hit, “What if the sounds in his head, in his new silence, were worse than the world’s... what then?” Stephen clenched his fists and swore quietly, he swore he’d function on a harder level for pure maintenance... his and Martin’s.
There were no through trains to Morden, he got off at Kennington. The lift out of order. The spiral staircase is the steepest climb in London. Rumours are that Chris Bonnington trained for Everest there. Totally knackered, Stephen emerged to a deserted station, save for one lone Santa who blocked his path. Gasping, Stephen asked,
“Bit early for it... isn’t it?”
“Penny for the guy?”
The smell of drink was ferocious.
“Afraid you’ve got your festivals mixed fellah.”
Santa swung at him. Stephen side-stepped, then moved in and kicked him in the balls. Santa dropped to his knees and Stephen leaned in close.
“They told us... Martin & me... As kids like, that Santa had no cobblers. Another myth gone... eh? But there’s something for the guy,” and head-butted him.
A couple looked in... decided not to take the tube. The man muttered,
“Muggin’ Santa now.”
He went home, lay on his bed and waited for the time to visit his mother. Waited and grieved.
He couldn’t... and indeed, never had, grieved more for a lover lost than he did for Martin. If he couldn’t ever now speak to him, then he was as if he were dead to him. When Fr. Jim’s Mother had died, he’d quoted a poem of James Joyce. Stephen couldn’t remember all of it but he could hear the solemn, measured tones of Jim as he said the lines. Now Stephen repeated what he could remember, and repeated them softly, over and over...