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:
“Shy!”
“She’s most upset about the whole business.”
“You’re joking me, right?”
“Thus, I must implore you to be patient.”
“Well, damn the banging of that I ever heard, why didn’t you give me the nod before the wedding?” shouted Ford.
“A chap doesn’t like to presume.”
“For God’s sake! Jeez!”
“There’s one other item...”
“What? What other heirloom have ye?”
“I’m gay.”
“Oh, the Lord save us!”
A stunned silence settled over them. Many drinks were bought and lashed. Neither knew how or where to pick up the treads of the conversation. Finally, Neville made a show of looking at his watch.
“Dear, oh dear, is that the hour? I must fly. An appointment I’ve overlooked.”
The lie danced between them. Ford said nothing. Neville stood, considered something, and thought better not. When he reached the door, Ford shouted, “Hey, amigo?”
“Yes?”
“Can you whistle?”
Despite the yuppies, the pub was near enough to Portobello to draw the remnants of the hippies. What marked these apart was that they were old. Very old. And sad. They’d given peace a chance for just too long a decade. Social Security had rotted the concept of love and their teeth. Scraggles of them still moved through Notting Hill with lice in their hair if not flowers.
One such half baked specimen sat beside Ford. He’d got the regulation Afghan waist-jacket. A vicious launderette had inflicted awful torture on it. A million tainted silver bangles moved on his wrists. A pint of cider was half drained. He was fifty if a day. What blond hair remained was long and unkempt. A nod to Ford. Beside him Ford felt nigh full head of hair. The man’s leather sandals tapped.
“Got any smokes, man?”
“Ford gave him a Marlboro. He snapped the filter off and extracted a kitchen size box of matches from his jacket. A huge whoosh accompanied the strike. He near strangled the cigarette with his first pull.
A massive cough followed, “Argh... ugh...”
Ford said nothing.
“Wanna buy a T-shirt, man?”
“Not just now, thanks.”
He produced a long-from-white T-shirt with the logo “John Lives”. A particularly cruel looking Beatle peered forth.
“The Walrus, man,” he said.
“Indeed,” said Ford.
“Where were you when John died, man?”
Ford didn’t like to point out the discrepancy between the logo and this question.
“I’m in a bad frame of mind,” he said.
“I can dig it man, yea, that’s cool. Know where I was?”
“Offhand, I’d have to say no.”
“With Yoko, man.”
“You jest.”
“Just kidding, man. See where your karma’s at...”
“I get good vibes from you, man.”
“Which,” thought Ford, “is better than getting cash from me.”
“Wanna know where I really was? I was with Yoko, in spirit, of course.”
Ford had absolutely no interest in where this guy had been then, or since, so he said, “I’m fascinated.”
“In a South American jail. Yea. You probably saw Midnight Express? That’s Hollywood, man. The real thing was unreal.”
Unreal was what Ford felt best fitted.
“I got framed, man. For a drugs thing. Every morning, man, at nine, they came in and trashed us.”
“How awful,” said Ford.
“Yea, man. Awful! And awesome. See, they sometimes didn’t show at nine. And you’d be waiting, expectant like. If you can’t depend on a thrashin’, it messes with your head, know what I’m saying?”
Ford would have thrashed for a drink. But he didn’t want to buy the guy a drink. Mean, sure, but this guy had mean eyes.
He stood up and the guy jumped.
“What? You’re going?”
“Dear, oh dear, is that the hour, I must fly. An appointment I’d overlooked.”
He made the Neville show of looking at his watch.
“Got any loose bread, man? A ten spot’s good.”
“You don’t need bread, man,” said Ford.
“I’m not getting you?”
“Yea. Nor money either. John said, ‘All you need is love.’”
Back home, Ford, the very worst for Southern Comfort, made a fumbled embrace for Amanda. He had landed one hand on her breast and was planting a wet smooch on her neck. This made a loud “sluch” impossible to ignore. If embarrassment had a voice, it might be spoken thus. She said, “I don’t think this is on, fellah, wot?”
“Right. Er — Got a tad carried away, us being married and all.”
“Perhaps some time when you’re sober, darling.”
“That would be lovely,” said Ford. And, he thought, “yea, that and shepherd pie.”
Ford went to the fridge. Drink had created the massive artificial appetite that sex might have slaked. A dubious half chicken looked back at him. “Come home to roost,” thought Ford. He covered it lavishly with mayo and ladled shovels of coleslaw after. A mug of sweet tea to round up this gourmet fantasy. He was tearing thru this when Amanda looked in. Ford and the chicken waited.
“That’s really quite disgusting,” she said.
“Yea, but ’tis tasty. Come back here. I’m no family heirloom.”
But she’d gone. Ford looked at the demolished sad chicken and caressed it with one finger. “Ah, you’re my only friend and look how I treat you.” He sadly continued to chew and thought it faintly tasted of carbolic. A fierce thirst rose and he lashed down the sweet tea. “Oh jaysus,” he said.
Sleep snuck up on him and he laid his head down beside the dinner. One arm cradled the chicken and small sounds of desolation leaked from his mouth. To an observer it might have even looked as if the chicken was singing to him, and, in his dreams, perhaps it was.
At work the next day Neville adopted a civil tone. Courtesy on ice. This suited Ford who was as ill as he’d ever been. The police arrived about midday. In plain clothes, they had that politeness that slaps your face.
“You are Thomas A. Ford, of 11 Cockram Street?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Were you acquainted with one Isobelle Banks?”
“Were?”
“Please answer the question, sir.”
“Yes... I am... I was. God, is she alright? She was one of our clients.”
“I’m sorry to inform you, sir, that the lady appears to have taken her own life.”
“Appears? Is there a chance maybe...”
“No sire, it’s her. Any light you can shed on her state of mind?”
“State of Grace,” thought Ford. A spasm rushed through his system and he threw up in the waste basket. This had a label attached which read:
He’d never noticed it before and wondered if the coppers would mention it. Sweat then tried to blind him. Madness in its purity somersaulted through his mind.
“Are you alright, sir?”
“Chicken... Arch. The bloody chicken is back.”
The two policemen exchanged a look and withdrew. Ford fumbled for a pencil. On the blotter, he began to sketch a large menagerie of fowl. He worked quickly and rumbling pounded his stomach.
When he’d finished, he wrote across the top, “Foul Play.”
Neville gathered the staff for a homily. A drained Ford cadged a cigarette from the receptionist.
Neville began, “People, I’ve collected you en masse to speak of our current sadness. Our profession receives a bad press. We are the unsung soldiers in this urban land war. Isobella turned to us when all doors were barred. Let us not dwell on the tragedy but believe we gave her solace in the months before. For all the Isobellas out there, I say, “We are here for you. We dare to care. Our great Wordsworth might have known our plight when he wrote: