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:
The pub was jammed with market traders. Maybe he’d turn his life completely round and party in the mornings. These people looked robust and... Good-lord! Alive! Back home, early pubs had the silence and sanctity of church, till later when the cures kicked home.
A large vodka with tonic. Oh God, was he seriously going to drink this? Weren’t there people in the greater London area who leaped to the day and said, “I’m going to have a fry-up for breakfast. Runny eggs, fat sausages...” A jolt of nausea straightened him. O.K., here goes. With both hands trembling he got the glass to his mouth. Tilt the head preferably and slide the sucker down. He did and it did. A-a-rg... God on a bicycle! Ah, it’s down... No, here it’s back... No, oh please. And miraculously it settled. He saw lights and heard tongues. Buckets of sweat blinded him and ran down his arms. This was fun? He hadn’t had such pleasure since those root canal sessions. The world changed, the Promised Land arrived. His heart ceased its mad fandango, the sweat evaporated and, was it possible, he felt pretty good. Might even have him another one of them vodkas, skip the tonic, bit gassy for his palate.
Thus a merry Ford heard a woman say to some guy — they were sitting to his left and he daren’t risk a sudden turn. This new found health was too precious to squander on curiosity. She was saying, “Oh yea, I know all about you little guys. Come for just a little drink. Then, honestly, just a little sex,” she paused and Ford could hear the sheer exasperation.
“Then there’s a little baby and guess what? You’re a little hard to find.”
Ford wanted to howl. Howling was not a good idea despite the vodka whispering, “No, no, go on. It’s O.K. Howling’s good. Go on, howl a bit.” He knew what happened to guys who howled in pubs. Next stop, the House of Confusion and white T-shirts... with straps. Wasn’t he a social worker! God, work! To quote Grace, he better haul ass. See, see how mellow he was, he could think, “Grace”. O.K. Odd, though, he didn’t much want to howl now. He in fact hauled ass, albeit carefully.
Before quitting time at work, Neville said, “A word before you depart.”
“Whoops,” thought Ford, “on your bike time.”
His final client of the day was a young, black girl. Ford found himself staring for just that too long moment.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No... No, well, you’ve a gorgeous face.”
She looked startled, then nearly pleased and settled on sad.
A diagnosis had found her to be an H.I.V. carrier. Unaffected herself, she carried the killer now. Ford was completely lost. He gave her the name of an Aids counsellor and some meaningless patter.
“Can I come to see you too?” she asked.
“Why,” he thought, and said, “of course.”
She was called Isobel and, this being South East London, she was know as Belle. Ford knew for whom the bell was tolling and hated himself for the flippancy. He didn’t know what else to think. He said, “I’ll see you soon.” Ah, the wisdom of the ages.
Neville put a folder aside and said, “I need your help and — er — guidance.”
“Sure,” said a stunned Ford.
“The local authority insist we recruit a field worker, someone with street credibility.”
“In other words, they don’t need academic qualifications.”
“Exactly. You’ve delved to the core of the situation. Social work has a very poor public image just now, so we need to get to the people.”
“Before the people get to us,” Ford mused.
“Any ideas?”
Ford hadn’t. “I haven’t,” he said.
“Well, okey-dokey, let me put this scenario before you. How about your chum Mr. Dalton?”
Ford nearly fell off the chair. Chum!
“Dalton?” he croaked.
“I feel he may perhaps be that rough diamond we need.”
“Well,” said Ford, “they don’t come much rougher.”
“Excellent. Might I prevail upon you to broach the subject with him and for him to drop in for an informal chat?”
“Watch your wallet,” thought Ford.
After he left Neville, he felt again as if he’d just been immersed in The Guardian. He didn’t think he’d file these conversations amongst the gems, rough diamonds notwithstanding.
The “interview” took place in a congenial setting. The pub. Dalton was on a roll. He’d won on the horses and had a lady lined up for later.
“A goer,” he said.
“Do I know her?”
“Not in the biblical sense, I hope.”
“Where’s Sheila these days?”
“Ah, that wan. She’s gone into herself. I think she’s gone vegetarian and is growing things, like a beard.”
What could you possibly say to that? Defend her and Dalton would be on you like a rate.
Ford had already paid for two rounds and looked like he’d be going for a third. He said, “I thought you were flush. Where’s the winnings?”
“I don’t collect till tomorrow, but I’m glad you mentioned money. Could you slip me a fast fifteen?”
“Dalton, have you any notion of all you owe me?”
“Oh, I do indeed. A tally is being kept. The book has you noted.”
“Mentioned in dispatches, am I”
“I tell you, Ford, you’ve changed and not for the better. You’re always worrying about little things. Since Vikki ran off on yah, you’ve become a slight pain in the ass.”
You had to hand it to Dalton, he didn’t come “cap in hand,” First he asked you for the cash, then he called you an asshole. Not your average people pleaser. In fact, something of a rough diamond. Ford thought he better get to it.
“How do you feel about social work?”
“Sick.”
“No, seriously, Neville wants you to join the team.”
“Join the team? What friggin’ team? That’s not a team, it’s a show of gob-shites. God preserve me from teams, especially the caring ones.”
He managed to make caring sound more offensive than his usual obscenities.
“You don’t want to be a social worker?”
“Read my lips: I’d rather wank a snake.”
“Delicately put. Jeez, you’ve been reading The Guardian again. Time you got a real job Ford, you’re starting to sound English.”
This was the cardinal sin. The Irish would forgive their own most things, apart from success and “aping” the English. You could even get a Yank accent and they’d say you had “no sense”, only soft in the head. Become anglicised and you got otracised. Absolutely. Dead man walking.
“But I’ll drop in on old Neville. That’s too good to miss.”
“You’re not going to touch him!”
“God almighty, I have to work there.”
“See what I mean, Ford? You need to lighten up.”
“Any sign of that fifteen?”
Ford gave him ten and Dalton got up to leave.
“I’ve to go. Your wan will be drooling by now. Do you ever hear from Gracie?”
This pleased Ford hugely. The very mention of Grace’s name left him with the afterglow. That Dalton thought to ask filled him with contentment. Dalton drained his glass and borrowed a cigarette from the barman. Inhaling deeply he looked at Ford before he left and said, “I’ll tell you one thing. That Grace... She was probably the best fuck I’ve had in a long time.”
The Chinese say if you’re plotting revenge, you better dig two graves. Sure, said Ford, as long as one of them is deep and dirty. Quite what he meant by this wasn’t altogether certain but it did two things. It sounded mean and it sounded angry. He was hitting all the points on those.