A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

Thirst drove him out to the landing. Someone was at the top of the stairs.

“Hello,” he ventured.

His mother turned and smiled.

The impact floored him and he fell to his knees. Whimpering, he forced himself to look. The landing was empty. Trembling he eased down the stairs, expecting a hand on his shoulder. The sheer screaming of his thirst got him to continue. He turned the lights on in the kitchen. A gallon of ice cold water he promised. Opening the fridge, the cat’s head was grinning at him. A shriek made him worse and then he realized it was he who was making the woeful sound. Thirst forgotten, he fled back upstairs and bolted the door of his room.

Morning came, slow and heavy. A pack of cigarettes had brought his thirst to manic proportions. A scalding shower helped, and he drank from the bathroom tap. The shake in his hands made shaving a near massacre. Dressed in civvies he made his way tentatively to the kitchen. All was bustle and activity. Mrs. Fleming said,

“Tis yourself.”

“Sort of,” he thought.

A couple of altar boys were throwing toast, Sister Ben was shining the taps, and Mrs. Fleming moved back and forth from the fridge with ease.

“Nothing for me,” he said, “just coffee... and black... no milk.”

“But it’s all ready, Father.”

“What did I say... does everyone have a contrary opinion?”

“Oh well, please yourself. I’ll leave it for the cats.”

His stomach lurched.

“Hurry up with the coffee.”

The Church bell rang and then the visitors. Mrs. Fleming went, muttering darkly about the starving millions in India. Morgan made a full mug of coffee. Toast sailed past his ear.

“Get out, for the love of God,” he roared. The altar boys fled.

“Sister Ben... did you use the fridge this morning?”

“Is there something missing, Father?”

“Jaysus... sorry... sorry, could you just answer yes or no?”

“What’s missing?”

He made a manic run for the fridge. Sister Ben shouted in alarm. Flinging open the door, he steeled himself. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just fridge things. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Mrs. Fleming returned.

“A visitor for you, Father.”

“Who is it?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s my place to ask.”

Gulping down half the coffee, he considered putting her head in the fridge. A wino was waiting at reception.

Tall, over 6’2”, he had a huge mop of white hair, black ragged beard, and sunglasses with red frames. A heavy grey overcoat came to his knees. The wino’s tan covered large hands and his face.

“I’m Walter,” he said, and offered his hand.

Morgan shook it.

“Bit early to be looking for money, isn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon, vicar, I’m no beggar... ask for nothing from no man. None asked, none given, harsh but equitable.”

“I’m a priest, this is a Catholic church, the other crowd are across the common.”

“Are you sure? A policeman gave me directions. I’ve no idea how he jumped to a papist conclusion.”

“Well, good day to you then, sir.”

“A moment, priest... I’ve been toying with conversion. Anyway, I’m new to this borough and I like to present my credentials with the relevant authorities. Am I too late for breakfast penance?”

Morgan laughed. Something he thought he’d never do again. He took Walter through to the kitchen and instructed a sulking Mrs. Fleming to feed him. As he left, Walter said,

“I can see you’re fond of a drop yerself. I’m definitely converting.”

Morgan said a shaky mass and noticed a large crowd. Word of yesterday’s events was circuited widely. As he took the wine from the altar boys he saw them exchange a knowing look. “God,” he thought, “I’ll be known as the dipso priest.”

Sera was waiting in the small office. She wore a short black skirt, black blouse and black stockings. It made her hair shine like brilliantine.

“I’m all yours,” she said.

Passion again engulfed him. He outlined the work and added,

“I’ve some personal letters later.”

She crossed her legs and the sound the nylon was like a bomb.

“Your personals will receive my full attention.”

Unable to reply, he excused himself. Fresh air, he reckoned... and a drink, but that would have to wait. A killer, but vital. As he turned the corner outside, he nigh collided with Kate Delaney.

“You macho brute,” she said, and laughed.

“Sorry... sorry, I didn’t expect to find you creeping round here. What do you want?”

“A small favour.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a drinks pity party this evening to launch a new charity and the sight of a priest will boost the funds.”

“To go with you... is it?”

“Would that be so horrible?”