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:
Stephen drained the gin and walked out to the balcony. He didn’t know.
“I dunno.”
Mrs. Beck marched up behind him and said,
“When she was in the hospital, I took one look at the baby and knew you weren’t the father. She had the nerve to call me a... a walking disease... me!”
Stephen felt as if a knife was slow twisting in his stomach. An urge to throw up was near over-powering.
“Do you hear me, Stephen... do you hear what I said... she foisted some man’s bastard on you.”
Stephen turned, his left hand grabbed the top of her suit, the right gripped her hip. He moved one step, two, like the old waltz, then hoist...
hold...
... said, “fuck you B.B.”
and flung her over the balcony.
She never cried out. A sound like a sack of spuds hitting the ground reached him. He stepped back into the room. Took his glass, rinsed, dried and put it on the tray. The gin, Crème de Menthe he uncapped and poured down the toilet. As he did, he saw a packet on the bath. It read,
“Midnight Black Hair Colour.”
The Crème de Menthe bottle he left on the floor, the gin he stood on the balcony edge, looked at his watch.
8:10
Stan would come at 9 on the dot and use his key. Stephen let himself out and didn’t meet anybody. By 8:40, he was getting off the train at the Oval... he headed for The Cricketers.
The barman had a name tag. “Jeff.” Long, thin and bald. He spotted Stephen instantly as the unacknowledged fellowship of baldness dictates. Tighter than Masons. Stephen took a vacant stool and said,
“Yo Jeff, a large gin and Crème de Menthe.”
“Not in the same glass, I trust.”
“Good old London town, everyone’s a comedian, a touch of ‘dancing on the Titanic,’ eh. No... the Crème de Menthe is for my old Mum, a pre-dinner aperitif.”
“Her birthday, is it?”
“Yea... she’s going over the top tonight. Give us a shout when she comes in... can’t miss her, she’s got jet black hair with a silver streak!”
“Bit of a girl, is she then?”
“Oh, she’s a one, all right, have something yourself.” Jeff set the glasses on the bar. Stephen took a hefty belt... and muttered,
“Mother’s ruin.”
The green liquor stood sentry as Stephen loaded down a chain of gins. He ‘n’ Jeff were getting as matey as magpies and as drunk as farts. Stephen was thinking of Oscar Wilde.
“We always kill the thing we love.”
And reckoned he’d never felt a day’s love for her... ever...
When Jeff roared,
“Stevie... hey, Steve, yer old Mum’s at the door!”
Heart pounding, Stephen turned. A slap on the back from a jubilant Jeff,
“Just kidding, buddy!.. Gotcha, yea.”
Stephen was too weak to reply. A chill began to slide down his spine. What if it had been... he visibly shook himself. Such a route was a one way ticket to Martinsville. A very drunk Jeff was leaning over the counter,
“So, Stevie, wots the story, bud, where’s the old bird, haven’t done away with her... have you... eh...”
Stephen put his hand on Jeff’s arm and looked right in his eyes.
“How would it be, Jeff, if I broke your arm... eh, Buddy how would that be?... so get the fuck outa my face...”
Jeff fell back.
“No offence... just a bit of fun...”
The fright had jolted Stephen into a wild sobriety. A powerful sexual urge swept him. He went into a phone box and sure enough, the wall was littered with personal ads.
“Buxom 20 year old gives massage.
All tastes catered for. Open till late.”
He rang and was given an address on Kennington Park Road.
The walk down increased his desire. A block of flats. He walked to the 2nd floor and rang 2B. A middle-aged woman with dark blond hair opened the door.
“I’m here to see Tania.”
“That’s me, darlin’... come in.”
The flat was spotless, as if no one lived there. Stephen said,
“You’ve aged since our call.”
“Wotcha want darlin, it’s late... I’m not into yer kinky scene,
— no violence
— no golden showers
— no bondage”
“You wouldn’t have a bit of tea or toast?”
“Ain’t a caff, darlin, wotcha want?”
“Am... just the straight thing... the am... basic act.”
“Set yer back twenty-five and five for the towel and French letter.”
“You’re going to write to me?”
“A condom, darlin... So you want to play or wot?”
Stephen gave her 3 tenners. She went into another room and then called him. His desire wasn’t abating, it was downright fleeing. When he entered the room, she was dressed in suspenders and nothing else. Her “buxom” breasts were long past interest. A pot belly near finished him. She pointed to a sink.
“Give yer willy a wash and put this on.”
She handed him a small packet. He filled the sink and removed his pants.
“Hurry it up, darlin, I’m hot for you.”
He had to get her help in opening the packet, the condom highlit his lack of passion.
She appeared unfazed and lay back.
“Give it to me, big boy, you stallion.”
“Am... I wonder if we could mebbe dispense with the conversation.”
“Wotever you like, darlin, your time and money.”
He lay on top of her and she turned her head to the side.
“No kissing.”
Stephen jumped up...
“Ah fuckkit... This is ridiculous.” He thought Martin would enjoy this story and that triggered a wave of despair.
He sat and hung his head between his legs. He heard her dressing.
“Never mind, darlin, happens to the best of ’em.”
She patted his bald head affectionately and left the room. A few minutes later, she reappeared with steaming mugs of tea and toast. They ate and drank in silence. Stephen dressed and made to leave.
“You come back when you’re more in the mood, darlin, there’s a lamb.”
Back home, he thought about thirty quid for a slice of toast. He lay on his bed and was sound asleep in minutes. The phone ringing failed to rouse him.
Stephen woke at nine. The events of the night flooded in. He didn’t feel guilt, remorse, anxiety or even regret. A sour taste in his mouth was routed by toothpaste and he wondered if his lack of feeling was delayed shock. He strongly suspected it wasn’t. At college, he noted his namesake, Julian Beck, who’d said,
“We are a feelingless people. If we could really feel, the pain would be so great that we would stop all the suffering.”
He showered and exclaimed, “Dammit, I feel like whistling.” So he did. A mangled version of Colonel Bogy as he supped tea... with loud noises. He ran through his list of martyrs.
If Martin was a martyr to silence and Stan to mediocrity
then he’d have to assign his
Mother the mantle of unconsciousness.
“But not any more,” he said.
A loud banging on the door. Two men in dark overcoats. He hoped it wasn’t the V.A.T. crowd.
“Are you Stephen Francis Beck?”
“I am.”
The man produced warrant cards and asked if they might come in.
Stephen said,
“It’s a fair cop. I haven’t a T.V. licence.”
The men looked at each other.
“I’m sorry to have to inform you, Sir, that your Mother has met with an accident.”
“What... is she hurt... or is she in hospital?”
“Perhaps you’d like to sit down Sir... Baker, go and brew some tea, there’s a good chap. I’m afraid your Mother is dead, Sir. It appears she fell from her balcony.”