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:
“Well,” he said, “mainly I do the very best I can.”
Over the next few weeks he did his best with Amanda. She was living with Neville till a flat could be found. Ford took her out almost every night to cinemas, theatres, restaurants. With her he drank little, and touched her even less. Each night he went home alone and drank with serious intent. All the music to hang yourself to was played. Linda Ronstadt’s “Heart Like a Wheel,” Willy and “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” The Furey Brothers with “Leaving Nancy.”
No matter how much booze he put away, he couldn’t play Waylon. He cried and drank. Mainly, though, he nurtured his plan for Dalton. The intensity of his hate stunned him. The bile his mind produced was to rock him to his very core. He knew it was eroding a vein of goodness he’d always had. Knew and was satisfied.
One wet Friday evening, he returned her earlier than usual to Neville’s. He was anxious to get off to his booze and plans. Necessarily in that order.
“Come up for coffee,” she said.
“Not tonight, thanks.”
“Or any night,” she paused. “Ford, this is not really a request. See it more as an imperial prerogative.”
“Phew-ow!” he said.
Amanda fussed with coffee filters, and a light Mozart played. Ford fumed. The coffee aroma was wonderful though not quite as magical as escape. Ford sat in a hard-back chair. The sofa he ignored.
“Rather safe there,” she said.
“Better safe than sorry”, he answered and, oh, how he wished he hadn’t.
“You’re not gay, are you?”
“Well, I’ve been happier.”
“Then it must be me. Am I so repellent?”
Oh God, he thought, tears next. And he was right. He reviewed his options. Drink the coffee, go to her, or weep himself. The third appealed most. He went to her. A flurry of wet kisses and awkward clinches led to them making love on the floor. The act was noteworthy for its haste rather than its passion.
“That was wonderful,” she said.
“Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked.
Ford had the horrible clarity that she was the type who’d lounge round in one of his shirts. All leg and innuendo. A stale box of cigarettes were found.
“Wow!” said Ford, “that tastes good.” It did too.
“I didn’t know you smoked. But then I didn’t know you’d be such a magnificent lover either.”
Ford had to look at her. Was she winding him up? He’d avoided looking into her eyes all during the love-making. No, she seemed serious. Worse, somewhat dewy-eyed. The only eyes Ford looked into were on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Grace. A chill touched his heart as he wondered if Amanda would now love him. Love could ruin the total plan.
“I think I love you,” she said.
“Better get an ashtray,” he said.
He knew he might well have a coronary if she called him anything affectionate.
“You have a shower, darling, and I’ll brew some fresh coffee.”
Like a man condemned, he slouched to the bathroom. He was scalding beneath the spray when he heard her come in. Oh, God in Heaven, why hadn’t he locked the door as easily as he’d bolted his heart?
“There’s a dressing gown for you here, darling.”
What! Were they already fifty years together? In jig-time she’d be finishing his sentences... and his plans.
Muttering, he toweled himself dry. Through the steam, he looked in the mirror. Even less hair when wet. Such adjectives as tousled, wind swept wouldn’t be a feature anymore. The horror of receding, thinning, and let’s face it, bald! Sign of virility eh... plu... ee... ze, as Gracie would say. The old, bald stallion perchance. That’s it, he swore, no more mirrors.
The dressing gown was of red silk. Cold, oh wow-ee. On the right hand breast was written, “Neville”. To remind himself was it? Did Neville lounge about in it and periodically glance down saying, “I know who I am, what about you, Mister?” Emerging from the bathroom, Ford felt ninety and all of them hard years.
Amanda was strewn on the couch, his Van Heusen shirt unbuttoned to reveal cleavage.
“Hey, big boy,” she said.
Ford liked her. He’d have been content to have her on the fringes of his life. Like Chinese food, you’d be glad of it periodically, but it wasn’t essential. The haunting question from one of William Trevor’s books: “Yes, but was she amazing?” No. How he wished she were. She’d all sorts of good qualities but, alas, no edge. If Ford knew anything, he knew that bad drop was a staple to his life. Now Grace, dare he say, was amazing. Amazing and in America.
An early conversation with Amanda had set the tone. A literary bomb if not in fact a literal one.
“Who’s your favorite writer?”
The only answer to this was Stephen King. That and throwing up.
“I dunno,” he said.
“I must return to the Russians,” she said.
Ford should have hit the hills then. Were the Russians like a return ticket that never expired? They hung about with a smug expression saying, “We know you’ll be back.” Amanda meandered on about romantic poets and the new realism. Ford just meandered.
A marriage date was set. Ford convinced himself that it was vital to his plan.
Neville said, “Tying the old knot wot? Sis is overjoyed.”
“My own cup runneth over,” said Ford.
The ceremony was muted. It took place at Kensington High Street Registry Office. Ford didn’t inform his family. To marry an Englishwoman... Phew! Parnell wasn’t that long dead. But a Registry Office? The fires of hell would burn long and gleeful. Dalton had been delighted.
“She’s loaded, that one,” he said. “Lotsa cash and connections. You landed on your feet, lad.”
“I like her.”
“Jaysus, who wouldn’t? She’s not bad looking, either. Big tits.”
Saturday prior to the wedding was the stag night. Ford’s plan came off the back the burner. He’d arranged to meet “the boys” in Pinches in Notting Hill. He rang Belle and invited her for a drink. She arrived in white. This set her dark skin shining.
“You look lovely,” said Ford.
“It’s a long time since I felt it,” she replied.
Her eyes had a sadness that Ford didn’t want to think about. Heads spun when he brought her into the bar. Ford left her talking to Neville and went to order. Dalton was on him.
“Ford, this is stag night. No women.”
“She’s not staying. Only a quick drink.”
“Are you screwin’ her?”
“God, Dalton, you’re some animal.”
“She’s some animal is what you mean. Jeez, look at the body on her. I could do with some black meat.”
Ford gulped down a neat whiskey. His resolve faltered. Choice time! But a bottle of sour mash on display sealed his fate.
He said slowly, “Well, the reason I brought her was she wants to meet you.”
“You’re coddin’!”
“No, but don’t let on, O.K.?”
“Jaysus, I’ll be up that like a rat in a drain.”
“How poetic,” said Ford.
A chain of whiskies later and Ford saw Dalton and Belle slip away. Something in his very heart withered. Neville was slapping him on the back, and Ford felt it was only to be expected. The evening finished with cabaret in Soho. Despite all his efforts, Ford didn’t pass out. All his life he’d remember the stripper planting a scarlet wet kiss on his mouth. It tasted more like nicotine and despair. It doesn’t come more bitter than that.
Back home they used the word “bronach” which fitted the hangover perfectly. It’s a mood of sadness and melancholy, liberally mixed. The Irish had the lock on sadness. Sure weren’t the very best of times underwritten by melancholia? They’d have taught Byron a thing or two. But he went to Greece and a fatal rendezvous with a mosquito. No mosquitoes in Ireland and very few flies on them either. So “bronach” it was. Sick too, but after a quart of scotch, who wasn’t? The CIA ruled. Catholic, Irish, Alcoholic.