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:
Walter sighed and spoke as you would to a particularly dense child,
“Morgan, Morgan, Morgan... this is God’s House and it’s time you learned that. Is it not true that you are the one masquerading as a priest?”
“I don’t believe this... are you stone mad?”
Walter hopped up and before an astonished Morgan, poured two large brandies.
“Join me in the fruit of the nectar.”
He knocked back the brandy, clenched his teeth and went,
“Ar... ar... gh.”
Then he examined the remnants of the meal.
“Was it the Gaelic dish?... any left or did you villains scoff the lot? I saw jelly in the fridge. My, oh my... I do love a sliver of jelly.”
Morgan said,
“Looks like you put it in your hair... I’m going to ring the police for you, me lad.”
Walter put up his hand.
“HALT... let me share my wisdom with you. Never mind you didn’t share the stew. I bear you no malice. Are you conversant with Ralph Waldo Emerson?” Morgan was lost, he didn’t know how to rid himself of the man. He drank and said,
“Not recently.”
“A facetious answer but I’ll plough on,” the man said. “There are three wants which can never be satisfied. That of the rich, who want something more. That of the sick, who want something different, and that of the traveler, who says, Anywhere but here.’ What say you to that, Father?”
“I identify with the traveler.”
“I wish to put myself forward as caretaker to this Church. I am both plumber and scholar.”
Morgan felt he’d never be rid of him... if he was employed here, at least Morgan could keep some control. He said,
“I’ll consider it, but you better behave yourself.”
“You don’t believe I’m a scholar, do you? I’m particularly a fait with Greek mythology. Have you heard of Ares, the God of Warfare?”
“Enough for one night, Walter. You can begin by locking up. I’m for the leaba.”
“La... bah?”
“Leaba, it’s Irish for bed. Goodnight to you.”
“Morgan... reverse it, use your mind.”
A weary Morgan climbed between the sheets...
“Reverse what,” he thought.
Just before sleep overcame him, he thought and dismissed it,
SERA
ARES
Malachy made a guest appearance in his dreams. He carried a slim volume of Longfellow’s poems. Next to money, he’d liked few things with such intensity as this poetry. Malachy opened the book and read,
“Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care
And come
Like the BENEDICTION
That follows
After prayer.”
As in all dreams, events were jangled and confused. Malachy was dressed in Walter’s dungarees and spoke like the Bishop. Sera appeared and screamed at Malachy,
“What warehouse of the soul awaits you now?”
Morgan felt his shoulder grabbed and came awake to find Conor at his bedside. He said,
“Good God, Morgan, you were wailing like the Banshee... you woke the whole parish.”
“Jaysus... where am I?... I’d a nightmare that Tobe Hooper would be afraid to film.”
“Who?”
“Tobe Hooper... The Texas Chainsaw Massacre... do you know anything?... yah ignoramus. I suppose the bloody Bishop will hear of this.”
A highly offended Conor shot back as he departed,
“At the volume you were roaring, I’d say he’s already heard.”
Morgan spent the day on conscious low profile. His face said, “Not available and that means you.” A purposeful stride suggested industry and kept him moving. Late in the afternoon he took a stroll in the gardens.
Walter, in bright green overalls, was berating a middle-aged parishioner. The man, a shopkeeper, was a heavy contributor to church funds. Walter was saying,
“Listen, mate, the last time you got it up, the bow and arrow was a secret weapon.”
On Morgan’s arrival, the man beat a hasty retreat.
“Walter, what on earth were you saying to that poor devil... Good grief, what are you wearing?”
The overalls had stenciled in big black letters,
OFFICIAL CARETAKER, T. P.
Removals done at Competitive Rates.
“My uniform. You have to let people know what’s what... Joe Public respects the uniform.”
“What does the T.P. stand for?”
“I should have thought that obvious to a man of your hearing, Reverend. It’s ‘Trainee Priest’.”
“You’re testing me to the limit, bobo. Keep it up, and you’ll rue the day you were born. What do you think this is, an employment incentive scheme? This is a bloody Church.”
Walter tut-tutted.
“Tut-tut... less of the obscenities, your Worship... I have a query of ecclesiastical significance.”
“Out with it.”
“Who’s Harold?”
“Harold?”
“Yea... I’ve been wrestling with the prayers your crowd use. One goes, ‘Our father Harold is yer name...’”
Morgan took a deep breath.
“Get outa my sight, you lud-ri-mawn.”
“I’m history...”
This was said in wise-ass American and would have guaranteed a shoe in the arse if he’d been moving any slower.
The late post brought a Thank You card from Kate. She quoted Margaret MacDonald,
“To dream what one dreams is neither wise
Nor foolish, successful nor unsuccessful
No precautions can be taken
Against it, except perhaps
That of remaining
Permanently awake.”