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:
“For God’s sake, man, have something real in yer life... jaysus... de-caff... Plu-eeze.”
He made the strongest brew he could. Then ladled sugar on top. Conor grimaced on tasting it. Morgan began,
“The Bishop wants to see me... any clues you might provide?”
“I can’t help you there, alas.”
“I tell you, Conor, he’s a vicious bastard.”
“Morgan, one, that’s a sin.”
“Cop on to yerself. I think it was H. L. Mencken who said,
‘It’s a sin to believe evil
of others, it is seldom
a mistake.’”
“You’re fond of the quotations.”
“As long as the Bishop doesn’t know I’m fonder of the drink.”
“I’d better attend to the education of the altar boys.”
“Do that, Conor. Here’s another quotation for you... from the oul man himself.”
“You mean the devil?”
“No, George Bernard Shaw, but he’d have been flattered at the comparison. He said, ‘Education in the ways of the world was a series of humiliations.’ Good luck to yah.”
The Bishop’s residence was secluded from the street. Muggers weren’t likely to make house calls in this area. Inside, a battalion of nuns were polishing as if their lives depended on it. Fr. Coleman, the Bishop’s secretary, kept Morgan waiting for half an hour. He looked round, not an ashtray to be seen. Just a sea of black shining nuns. He decided to risk a cigarette. The first drag was as sweet as temptation. Fr. Coleman glided over.
“Please don’t smoke here.”
“Where will I put it?”
“I’m sure I’ve no idea... please don’t use the floor... it’s being polished.”
“Oh... I thought them nuns was searching for money.”
The summons came. Behind a massive, black mahogany desk sat the Bishop. In his fifties, he was bald and spotless. Hooded eyes overlooked a grim mouth. If anything had ever amused him, he’d managed to put it behind him. The desk was bare save for one lone file. Nothing was said for a few minutes. Finally, he said,
“You’re a smoker, Morgan.”
To Morgan, it sounded like “joker” and he replied,
“I like a bit of a laugh, sure enough.”
“You’ll find very little mirth here.”
As Morgan watched him, he began to fully appreciate the meaning of PRIG. The Bishop had long bony fingers. One of these tapped the file. No chair was offered. He said,
“These... ‘occurrences’... Any explanation to offer me?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“I think you’ve forgotten something, Father.”
“Like what?”
“RESPECT... there is a proper form of address to your Bishop. I’ll thank you to use it. Now, who’s this Kate person... and what is the nature of your relationship?”
“She’s a journalist... and she’s a friend.”
The Bishop opened the file, extracted the Sellotaped card. Perusing it, his nostrils twitched as if smelling something very unpleasant.
“The tone of this would suggest otherwise.”
Morgan felt a rage begin.
“That’s private... the bloody cheek of you... yer Grace.”
Uncertainty flicked across his Grace’s face.
“There have also been stories of your drinking. All in all, I regret to say that we’ll have to take steps to replace you.”
“Steps... steps by God” and Morgan stepped forward. He snatched the card from the Bishop’s hands, roaring,
“Gimme that.”
“Control yourself, Father. This isn’t helping your case.”
Morgan took a deep breath, reached for a cigarette. The Bishop jumped up.
“There’ll be no smoking in here.”
The cigarette was slowly lit and followed by a loud exhalation of breath. Morgan said,
“You think you can fire me... you’ve treated me like dirt. You jumped-up guttersnipe, I know a few strokes you pulled when you were over at Kennington. You fire me and I’ll give the newspaper such a story that you won’t be allowed to serve mass. I’ll say you arranged the incidents at the church to drum up attendance. Now, how so you like them potatoes, your Worshipful?”
The Bishop was dumbfounded... He sat back down and said,
“You wouldn’t dare... no one would believe it.”
“But they’d print it... you go after me, laddybuck, and I’ll bring you down into the sewer with me. You’re nothing but a thug in robes. Don’t ever threaten me again... here, hold this.”
Morgan put the half-smoked cigarette on the file and walked out. The secretary was hovering near the door.
“Get an earful, did you... yah, Judas, if I ever see you near my parish, I’ll break yer friggin’ neck... now get out of my way.”
The secretary jumped back and the nuns had stopped their shining. Pausing at the door, Morgan turned and said,
“Ladies, I bid ye adieu.”
Giggles of delight rose from them as the secretary rushed to the Bishop. His eminence was caught having a fitful pull of the cigarette.
“Shut the door, you imbecile!”
The nuns hadn’t felt such excitement since Sister Mary had the big win. This was almost as rewarding.
That evening Morgan had two stiff belts of Jameson. He had asked Sera to meet him when she’d finished her work. All he knew was he was getting rid of her. No evidence of wrongdoing existed, but he knew with certainty she was malevolence. A hammering in his heart he called nicotine. He could be afraid of her... could he?
A slip of a girl...
A light tap on the door.
“Come in,” he said.
Sera was again in black. A dress above the knee and black tights. The blonde hair shone like expectation. He tried to remember what it was the Buddhists said on that...
“Expectation
Is one of the great sources
Of suffering.”
She never made any noise, he realised. As if she glided. Passion tried to rise in him again, but he was determined to suppress it. A slight smile hovered as always on her lips.
“Sit down, please. Would you like a drink?”
The rustle of nylon as she crossed her legs.
“I’d like whatever you have, Father.”
He got another glass and poured her an Irish measure, i.e. generous. He started,
“I’ve no complaints about your work, and of course, I’ll give you great references, but... you don’t belong here... you’ll get severance pay, of course.”
Sera raised her glass, ran her tongue along the rim... and sipped.
“Strong,” she said.
He didn’t know if she meant the drink, what he’d said... or worse, him. He said lamely,
“I know it’s a shock, but really, a nice lady like yerself, you don’t want to waste yer life around a bunch of middle-aged clerics. There’s a good girl, finish up yer drink, and I’ll see you out.”
He took a hefty swig of his drink. All in all, he felt it had gone quite well.
Much better really than he’d reckoned. Firmness, he thought... that’s the key... but fair, too.
Sera’s smile didn’t change. A wave of patchouli oil slowly reached him. She said,
“I’m pregnant.”
“You’re what...!”
“With child.”
“Do I know the father?”
“But of course... you’re the father, Father.”
Her eyes burned, the smile now spread more as a grimace. Morgan’s head reeled, he said,
“Sure what nonsense is this, girl... I think you need some serious help.”
“Treachery, thy name is man... you took your pleasure, priest, now is the time to take your name.”
“Ah, for the love of God, come on... clear out of here... you’re stone mad.”
He reached out his hand to take her. Sera grabbed the hand and sunk her teeth into the fleshy part of the palm and chomped down. Visions of pit bulls danced before him and the pain shot to his brain.