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:
They were drinking Amstel beer, a cold Dutch drink with a sizeable kick.
“No effendi... is for friend... no... maybe you can help Abdul, too.”
“Sure, if I can.”
“For what you work?
“For whom...? is it...”
“I work for the Government.”
“For English Government?”
“Yes.”
“Ah Stefan, effendi... Habibi, can you make for me papers to go to England?”
“Am...”
“You have sad trouble here, my friend, Abdul know... not so happy. Meeting with infidel woman...”
Stephen told him about Nina... about his lost child.
“Ah is no good, bad womans — yes.”
“Yea, you got that right buddy. I don’t know what to do.”
They drank and considered how far they might proceed. Echoes in the Sudan darkness. Abdul decided.
“Stefan... if womans go poof...,” (and he snapped his fingers), “is trouble finished?”
“What... yea... Am... but that’s not possible... is it?”
“Ha... is Sudan my friend, life is nothing. Thousands die every week in famine. For money... ALL is possible... one can go,” and he slapped his hands together — “BANG!”
Stephen took a long swig of beer. “How much... am...”
“Five hundred U.S. dollar... and friend help yes... for life’s in England... is good yes. I go England.”
They decided Stephen should give 250 U.S. “dollar” now and he’d make arrangements for Abdul’s entry to England. “In a pig’s eye,” is what he thought.
The rest of the money on completion of the transaction. Stephen didn’t think there was much chance of old Abdul doing a thing, but just maybe... and was willing to risk 250 dollars on the “maybe.”
“I send you English Language paper with accident report... yes.”
“Yea... you do that, me oul china.”
“Is no problem, my friend.”
“Insha Allah,” said Stephen.
Abdul went to Khartoum airport with him. As they said goodbye, Abdul hung his head.
“Yo... Abdul, lighten up Buddy. Soon you’ll be in London, sampling the delights of the D.H.S.S.”
“My friend... always have I the visions... I see things... I see when the bad things to come.”
“Like a racing tipster... yeah.”
“For you, my friend... when the darkness is visible on your hands,” (he held out his hands, palms upturned), “then, my friend... I am afraid the darkness will destroy your soul.”
Sounds like William Styron, the darkness visible... Don’t worry about me ole mate, I’ll keep me hands to me arse.
It was April 20th on his return to London. At Heathrow, he went straight to the cafeteria and had double egg, double chips, five sausages, black pudding, a hint of fried tomato, toast, and the booster pot of tea. It nearly killed him... As he belched, he said
“Luverly.”
It cost the equivalent of a middle class mortgage.
He headed on auto pilot for the Oval, then remembered, “hold the phone, stop the lights... I don’t live there anymore!”
The new flat was in Holland Park. With a monthly rent that would have fixed an epidemic of accidents in Khartoum. His major requirement had been a balcony.
“For the view?” asked the estate agent.
“Yea, something like that.”
He’d salvaged his photo of little Suzy, and had it enlarged to cover one entire wall. Another was transposed to a keyring. The trauma in his life had begun, he believed, when she’d been taken from him. Get her back and all would be well. Money could buy anything. If needs be, he’d go to Paris and see this “André” chappie who was minding her. The French could be had for cash and a Clint Eastwood video.
He swore.
“I will have her back... nowt else matters.”
The prospect of casually mentioning “my daughter” at every opportunity made him night dizzy with delight.
Entering the flat, he said to her likeness,
“Soon Suzy... you’ll be with yer Dad... people will say... Ah yes, the Holland Park Stephen Becks.”
Picked up his new phone, called the off licence.
Yes... they’d be pleased to deliver some crates of Amstel beer... within the hour... certainly... “Thank you, Mr. Beck.” The suits he placed in a black bin liner for Oxfam. A letter from his new solicitor and accountants assured him the V.A.T. had been fully paid.
How were his finances... very healthy... oh, thank God.
Rang Martin’s private nursing home and he was doing well. Might they expect a visit from Stephen?
... They might not.
The next few weeks, he lounged around Hyde Park. Sometimes he ate chips from newspapers and muttered Suzy’s name like an incantation. He had decorators prepare her room.
The nights were for clubbing. A stretch of women became available. Flick a peep of American Express Gold Card, and it was better than a load of hair... almost.
He liked to have them on the balcony. It gave a rush that the bedroom couldn’t match. He’d run them out fast in the morning with the explanation,
“I’m expecting my daughter any minute!”
On the 19th of June, a letter from Khartoum. The envelope was as dirty as their money. Despite gingerly handling it, it left black tracks on his hands.
By now, he’d installed a wicker lounger on the balcony. Filling a glass tankard with Amstel, he stretched out and opened the letter.
A small press cutting.
“Khartoum today, a 32 year old English care worker, Nina Horton, was fatally injured in a three car collision on General Gordon Boulevard. Tragically, Miss Horton’s young daughter, Susan, was also fatally injured. It is believed the little girl was on a week’s vacation. Other fatalities included a tax inspector and a porter from nearby Acropolis Hotel.”
“Miss...” roared Stephen, “What this Miss Horton shit, she’s Mrs. Beck... of the Holland Park Becks...”
The tankard slipped from his fingers as the rest of the piece sank in.
“Oh you stupid fuckin bastard... You cretinous murderous fooker... AR... GL... AR... GUH...”
The howl he emitted could be heard clear down to Notting Hill. He grabbed the rim of the balcony and began to hammer his head against it, shrieking,
“MARTYRS...”
Shades of Grace
“So!” he said to her, “You’ve decided to grow the moustache.”
Dalton didn’t whisper this. Ford, at the far end of the bar, heard him clearly. Dalton continued, “Not everyone can carry off a ’tash, but you’ve got the bones for it.”
Sheila, his audience, looked as anyone would expect: mortified. Ford had known her for a while and the slight suggestion of hair on her upper lip was her daily crucifixion.
“There isn’t an hour I don’t think about it,” she said. “If people aren’t staring, I think they’re being polite. If they are staring, well... you can work out how that feels.”
Ford didn’t know if he’d noticed in the beginning. The first time he met her she said, “So you’re thinking, ‘Who’s the hairy chick?’”
He wasn’t, was he? The shame-all was she had a pretty face. Not gorgeous or heart-pounding but in there. She’d been Dalton’s girlfriend for three years. Put him on the other side of six drinks and out came the moustache. The crunch was he was gorgeous according to every woman Ford had ever asked. He’d stopped asking. Dalton was of medium build with a pot belly. “A lotta good cash to round that out,” he said. His hair was in galloping recession and he had nail-you-to-the-wall eyes. The nose. Here lay the mystery. One of those snub noses that are appealing on tousle-haired kids. Cute, as the Americans say. On a grown man it should look ridiculous. Women loved it, back in the times when Ford had asked.