A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

“A good mon... You be a good mon. Bella say you be white kindness... A true heart you be, Bella say.”

She released him and began to rummage in her huge, black handbag. A white crystal rosary beads was pulled out. “They be Bella’s, boy... I give them to you.”

She wrapped the beads round Ford’s hands and without another word, she turned and walked away. A shaking Ford looked at the beads on his hands. “Handcuffs,” he said. He knew with absolute conviction that the sentence she had passed on him was without any prospect of parole... Ever. He knew and was damned.

Ford went to the off-license. He ordered two bottles of Kentucky Sour Mash. The proprietor was a burly Sikh. He looked at Ford’s credit card as if it were rabid. A call was made to check the credit rating.

“This card’s no good,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Run out, it’s no good.”

He produced a large brass scissors. Ford thought he meant to stab him. A loud clip and the two pieces of plastic fell on the counter.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to do that,” whined Ford.

“It’s no good. Run out.”

“Cripes, you already said that. Do you have to tell the world”

Alison had enough cash to pay for a bottle of Scotch. The Sour Mash was put back on the shelf, like longing itself.

“C’mon, Ford,” said Alison.

He looked at the two bottles out of reach and very out of pocket.

“What’s with those bottles anyway?” she asked.

“Shades of Grace,” he said.

Alison had a single bed sitter in Earl’s Court. A single bed, a single window, and more loneliness than Leonard Cohen ever san about. It was spotless, and the vision of her cleaning this neat cell just about finished him.

“Let’s have hot toddies,” she said.

“And music,” he whispered.

An old Stones album was selected. As “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” began, Ford built some lethal drinks. Two spoons of sugar, big slurps of scotch, boiling water. Stir. “You can’t always git what you wan,” nasaled Jagger. Ford and Alison provided backup vocals.

“Wish we had cloves,” she said.

“Cloven feet.”

She didn’t have a big music section so they played the Stones again. And again. Ford slid his hand under her skirt and she smiled. He gently rolled down her tights and knickers and she lay back. A massive hammering began in his chest as he mounted her. Light perspiration dotted his forehead as he began to move in her.

“Just come,” she said. And he did.

Crammed together in the single bed, Alison cradled his head on her breasts. Soft cooing noises began in her throat as she started to sing, “Momma’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.” Her fingers gently caressed his face, and tears formed in his eyes. Her hand froze as his tears trickled and then washed over her fingers. Grief howled in him as her fingers wiped at his eyes. She continued to sing to him in her soft Scottish burr, and he slipped away to sleep.