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 began to whimper,
“Oh Mom, Mom... oh, God...”
“When did you last have contact with her, Sir?”
“Yesterday. I phoned her with some rather disturbing news.”
“About your brother, was it Sir? We know about that. She took it badly, did she?”
“He was her whole life... oh, God.”
He didn’t want to overdo the whimpering and it was beginning to grate on his nerves. He decided to go for the distracted look and say nothing.
The other man brought the tea. Stephen didn’t touch it.
“It seems, Sir, she may have been drinking and leant too far over the balcony. I’m terribly sorry, Sir. Is there anything we can do?”
He wanted to say, “Forget the T.V. licence” but opted for the stiff upper lip scenario.
The man produced a slip of paper.
“This is the address of the hospital... I’ve taken the liberty of putting an undertaker’s number there, and they’ll arrange everything.”
“Thank you... thank you, you’ve been so kind.”
After they left, he washed their mugs and said,
“As easy as that, well I never!”
A thought rooted him to the spot. What if they performed an autopsy? All that would reveal was a few sips of Crème de Menthe. How then explain the empty gin and liquor?
“Don’t,” he thought... don’t try. Be as baffled as them. He’d seen too many Columbo re-runs where the suspect provided all sorts of motives and rationales.
If his crime reading had provided anything, it was that an innocent man usually didn’t have an alibi.
Still, it worried him. The big cop... he was the one.
The next few days were a blur to Stephen. A stream of sympathetic calls and he fought hard to avoid the booze. Fr. Jim came and arranged everything. Stephen adopted the role of shell-shocked son and let him. The funeral was big.
Mrs. Beck had a wide circle. Rodney and the street traders came, and Jim did the service.
Stan, suitably morose, asked if he might call on Stephen that evening — “A matter of some urgency.”
Stephen had one long-stemmed red rose which he lay on the coffin. He heard a murmur from the crowd and knew he’d played a blinder. Mrs. Beck was allergic to flowers... people too, but she hid that.
The mourners did the mourning things. Stephen felt, “Good riddance.” A small grey man in a small grey suit touched his arm,
“So sorry to intrude, I’m Simon Alton, your dear Mother’s Solicitor. Might you call on me tomorrow?”
Stephen would.
Rodney had arranged the function after. A blond lady in her early 20s hooked on Rodney’s arm. She had a pale, beautiful face and her short black mini was like a magnet. Stephen reckoned it was Rodney’s daughter as Rod was the outlaw side of fifty.
“This is Vikki, the Missus.”
“What?”
“Yea, Steve, every bugger says that. What did she see in an old lag like me... eh.”
Vikki gave a tiny smile. As the function ended, she said something to Stephen. Not hearing what she’d said, he said,
“Thank you. I’ll miss her dearly.”
She dug her nails in his arm, and near hissed,
“I’m going to ’ave you, and soon.”
Stephen muttered.
“In the midst of death, there is life, and if me stirrings are anything to go by... a lotta life. Thank you Lord. I owe you a big one, big guy.”
The following morning, Stephen called on the solicitor. Coffee was served and Simon Alton began,
“Do you have any idea of your Mother’s worth, Mr. Beck?”
Stephen had known her worth a long time, but perhaps it was inappropriate to share this early.
“Please call me Stephen. No, I don’t.”
“Right... am... Stephen, she owned the flat in Clapham and it’s of substantial value. Your Father made many shrewd investments in her name, and she added to them over the years... She has included Stanley Rice in her will, he receives five hundred pounds.”
“What... I thought you said she was loaded... I mean comfortable.”
“Ah... well, Stephen, she didn’t trust men, her view of them was somewhat... shall we say, tarnished?”
“Good word... I like that... shall we cut to the chase.”
“She felt Martin had made his own fortune, and...”
“Yea.”
“The bulk of the estate goes to you.”
“Jay-sus... you’re kidding.”
“I’ll have the exact figures for you in a few days, but, suffice to say... you are an extremely wealthy young man.” Stephen wanted to yell, “Yipee!” but kept a deadpan face and said,
“I see.”
“Might I be so bold as to propose a number of schemes to ensure the continued prosperity?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry... perhaps you misunderstood me, my guidance...”
“I said, N — O”
“Might I know why?”
“I don’t know you and I don’t want to, I’ll handle my own affairs.”
“This is most irregular.”
“That too.”
Outside he said,
“Rich... I’m fuckin wealthy... oh, yes.”
He rang Stan and arranged to meet him at the Rose and Crown in Clapham. Nearing lunch time the pub was beginning to fill. Stephen ordered two large vodkas and tonics — V.A.T.s — and found a quiet corner.
Stan arrived, he was dressed in a duffel coat and though not clutching a cloth cap, Stephen felt it couldn’t be too far away.
“Afternoon, Stan.”
“Good afternoon, Stephen.”
He smelled the vodka and didn’t touch it, said,
“A little early for the hard stuff... my usual tipple is half a mild. Moderation in...”
“Ah, don’t be such a prick.”
Stan’s face remained impassive. He said,
“You are aware... well, yes, you know your dear Mother and I had an arrangment of many years duration... I feel she would have liked me to reside in the Clapham flat. We shared many memories there.”
“Naw... never happen old son.”
“I’m sorry... I...”
“Don’t be sorry, Stan, just give me the keys you have and then, basically, on yer bike.”
Stan swallowed the vodka.
Stephen said,
“Your shout Stan... get ’em in... they’re large ones... there’s a good chap.”
Stan did.
They settled again and Stan said,
“I appreciate you’re under a lot of stress, and perhaps later...”
“Cut the shit, Stan... eh, let me ask you... did you go to see Martin?”
“Well no... I didn’t think it appropriate.”
Stephen drained the vodka, stood, and said,
“Righty ho... have yer gear out by the end of the week...”
Stan grabbed his arm.
“I know, lad, we mightn’t have been close, but I felt I was there in the background for you boys. Your Mother would be very... distressed... I mean...”
“Hey, take yer hand off... my Mother is all through with feelings... and you... Stanley... You go fuck yerself... O.K.... Is that plain enough, is that ‘no frills’ message clear?”
He shook his arm free and outside he looked at the Common, and said,
“Nice day for it...”
As he waited for the tube, he thought about Martin, how he loved Scott Fitzgerald. The lines he repeated like a prayer,
“the horror has now come like a storm
what if this night prefigures the night after death
What if all thereafter was an eternal quivering on the
edge of an abyss
with everything base and vicious in oneself
urging one forward