A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

He dressed carefully for Tuesday. A Van Heusen shirt he’d found at Oxfam. The tiny red mark on the collar was ketchup, he hoped. The knot of his tie was the Windsor. “How awfully appropriate,” he said. Permanent crease slacks that somehow had shortened. Maybe a burglar broke into homes and shortened trousers. A vicious type indeed. The slacks were grey, so Ford decided to risk all and go for the blazer. This was his legacy from the teaching days. Chalk had attached itself to the sleeves and neither prayer nor hope would move it.

Finally, he put on a stout pair of brogues he’d forgotten about. These were a formidable sight. Age had endowed them with a stiffness beyond description. “Ah God, the pain,” he said as the brogues began to crush his toes. “For pity-sake, I’m crucified.” Perhaps the pain would lend clarity to his thinking.

As he dressed he’d steadily drunk vodka from a mug. The mug had Snoopy emblazoned on the outside. Snoopy had the shit-eating cheerfulness that only a true sadist could have devised. The vodka was Poland’s finest and slid down quickly. Like intimidation, it hit you later.

Ford bent to examine his appearance in the wardrobe’s half mirror. Was it on himself or were the trousers shortening further? The brogues looked great and felt O.K. if you didn’t move. Ideal they’d be if you could bring them separately. “Here’s me shoes, the rest is coming.”

A vodka giggle escaped him. Giggle! Ford couldn’t believe it. Worse, he enjoyed it. The label on the bottle was in Polish so he wondered why he was trying to read it. A small symbol might have been a hundred degrees. Either this was good to drink in the tropics or it was mega proof. If the latter was true, well then, “Way to go.”

Grace moved into his head. After making love, he’d looked deep into her eyes, her expression was hard to decipher. Ford had said, “I miss two people when I’m not with you.”

“Oh yea?”

“I miss you and I miss the person you make me feel I am.”

“Schmuck,” said Grace.

Perhaps Polish in origin, mused Ford.

Neville had a flat in Kensington Church Street. Ford changed to the Circle Line, and the tube carriage was full of loud teenagers. He noticed the boys’ earrings were fancier than the girls. “Fancy that,” he thought, and suppressed a giggle. As he got off at Notting Hill, one of the girls yelled, “Hey Mister, yer pants is at half mast.”

Reams of dog abuse followed him till the door slid closed. A light perspiration popped along his forehead. A slow anxious drizzle drifted down his back. The shoes crucified him. If he walked stoop-fashion, maybe the pants would meet the shoes. Neville threw open the door.

“Ford! Bienvenue! Mi casa es su casa.”

Was it too late to run? It was. Neville pulled him inside. About twenty people were there. Like Neville, they wore jeans, T-shirts, and trainers. Not a tie in sight, windsored knots or otherwise. And, oh, never did trainers look such a height of comfort. The central heating was at full pitch and Ford felt gallons form beneath his shirt. In French, Neville asked Ford what he’d like to drink.

“For pity-sake, Neville, what are you saying?”

Neville beamed, which was not a pretty sight.

“What’s your poison, amigo?”

“Something lethal, I think.”

“Ah, that Ford humour! Your wish is my command.”

Introductions were made. A flurry of Clives, Normans, a Keith, and a stash of Cecilys, Beverleys and Sarahs. Ford slumped in an armchair. Sweat rolled down his face. A measure of his desperation was his wish for Dalton’s presence. Not his company, just his attitude. A girl sat on the chair next to him. He looked at her without interest. Small, but finely finished. Auburn hair to her shoulders, brown eyes, small button nose and a strong mouth. Jeans and a T-shirt, naturally. He’d have mugged her for the trainers.

“You’re perspiring, she said.”

What, he thought. Is there a neon sign above me that reads, “here sits he who sweats, gather all ye who wish to witness true perspiration.”

“Fuck off,” he said.

This made them both jump. The violence of the obscenity hung like a threat.

“So you’re Ford! I’m Amanda, Neville’s sister.”

“That figures,” said Ford.

“Will I get you a drink?”

“Yea, something to prolong depression.”

He watched her move. Nice ass, he thought, and stifled the Americanism. Grace ruled, but far-from-O.K. Amanda returned and gave him a long glass.

“Chin Chin,” she said.

“Christ!” said Ford.

He took a reckless swallow. Gin. Good. And then... Good grief! He spoke, “I’m sorry about the — er — the f..., you know.”

She answered in a passable Irish brogue, “Ah, there’s many would welcome a decent f...”

He nearly choked and in a rapid gin-change turn, he became philosophical.

“You hear people say, I f... her or him... rather than I made love and that’s because that’s exactly what they do. It’s aggression, not love.”

He looked closely at his glass. What on earth was in these to make him talk like that? Amand gave him a radiant smile.

“And you, Ford? What exactly is it you do?”