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:
Danny leant over and said,
“Here’s a contribution, learn some manners.”
The guy turned his face and said,
“Who asked you, fuck face?”
Danny was out of the car, grabbed the guy’s right arm and snapped it cleanly across his knee.
Richie gunned the engine and Danny piled into the back.
As they burned rubber, Richie asked,
“What the hell is wrong with you, Dan-yell, are you crazy? Jesus... what a thing to do, You broke that cat’s arm.”
“I wanted to break his legs, too.”
“Chill out, Danny... Good grief, you’re losing it, get a bloody grip.”
Danny asked,
“What do you think of Philip Larking?”
“Yo... I dunno them National Hunt jockeys, I only follow the flat.”
“You ignoramus, he’s regarded as among Britain’s finest poets.”
“Hey, Danny, I’m a black man, remember. What I want to know about a white man’s poems?”
A sulky silence settled as the car moved slow towards Marble Arch. Richie spoke.
“O.K. man... what we have to say, this Barking...”
“Larkin! He said that poetry was like trying to remember a tune you’ve forgotten.”
“So, Daniel... are you writing poems, is this some confession, man?”
“Jeez, Ritchie, I dunno why I bother trying to talk to you. I’m showing you a piece of my soul here. My life feels like that... as if I’m trying to remember a tune that had all the right words, if I could just get the melody, I’d be all right.”
“So, meanwhile, you break my arms, yea’? I dunno what that is man, but I don’t think it’s poetry.”
And, indeed, theirs was an unlikely friendship. Five years before, Danny was managing a site in Croydon. One of the labourers called him,
“Dan... Danny, there’s a darkie looking for a job, he’s down in the office.”
“Tell him we’re not hiring.”
“Jaysus... Danny, he’s a big fooker, you tell him, you’re the governor.”
Big he certainly was. Over six foot and weighing in at about 15 stone. Not so much black as tinted.
Danny said,
“You’re a big ’un.”
“I’m not afraid of work, man, and I’m strong.”
“Where were you before?”
The man looked around, then down at his feet and finally taking a deep breath said,
“I was in prison man, alright, and mos’ like I go back there. But I met a woman, a real fox, and she on that straight and narrow. If I to keeps her, I gotta work. This kinda work, yea’ man, I gotta be outa them doors... so man, I ain’t askin’... I’m begging, and I ain’t never, no sir, no time, ever begged in my life. But I got’s to tell you, I only gonna beg once and this here is it.”
Sweat had cruised down his face and he swiped at it.
Danny said,
“When can you start?”
And they took it from there.
Danny snapped out of his reverie. An American sports shop was next to Kensington Market. No sooner had he entered than an assistant was upon him. A lanky man in his twenties, he wore a Laker’s T-shirt, baseball cap and aviator glasses. His American accent lapsed into Hackney at intervals.
“Yo, partner, and what can we do you for?”
“Excuse me?”
“Was there a particular item sir wanted to purchase?” Danny felt his teeth grit but resolved not to lose it; however, he had to know one thing.
“Firstly, I’m not your partner, O.K.... or your buddy, so let’s drop the breezy tone. Secondly, are you American?” The man looked anxiously around. No help in sight. “I’ve spent a lotta time there, quality time.”
“But you’re not actually an American, so let’s drop the phoney bit, eh. Now, I’d like to see a baseball bat... not metal or some new unbreakable plasticine. Just wood, can you do that?”
He could.
In no time, he brought back a long box and produced the required item. He then stood well away. Danny rested it in both hands and then took an easy, flowing swing. A quiet shoosh followed in the wake. The man said,
“State of the art, sir, and as a special promotion, we provide a Yankees cap in a colour of your choice.” Danny stopped his swing.
“Do me a friggin favour, eh.”
“You don’t want the cap?”
“Just wrap the bat, alright.”
As Dany left the shop, the radio in the shop kicked into life and Peter Sarstead came on,
“Where do you go to my lovely.”
By the time Danny got to the tube, he hummed most of it and a gentle sadness lined his face. He gripped the bat tightly, like a prayer.
Back at his flat, he rang the largest of the tabloids and asked for the features editor. Finally a gruff voice came on,
“Baker here, what’s the story?”
“Are you familiar with the L.V. attacks?”
“L.A., the riots, that’s old news, fellah.”
“L.V.”
“What... what’s that, luncheon vouchers or somefin’, eh?”
“London Vigilante, do you want this story or not?”
“Oh, right... am, just let me get me a pen here. Now, your name is?”
“This is to tell you there’ll be three more ‘events’ this month. The acid will be replaced by a new instrument.”
“What... is this on the up and up? Are you the one... hey, I can make you famous fella, rich too...”
“Baker, is it... give it a rest, O.K....”
“Look, fellah, you can trust me... really, I’ll put this paper right behind you.”
Danny laughed.
“Good grief, wot a horrible idea... all you need to know is that a small piece of London is being claimed back for ordinary people.”
And he put the phone down.
His shirt was wet through from perspiration, he said aloud,
“Is that what I’m doing... is it, am I making a difference... am I?”
This event was to be the one in which he got stabbed. ‘Event’ was his father’s word, and Danny wondered how he’d like the use to which it was put.
His recurring image of his father was scalded on his heart. The man leaping to his feet, struggling to pull his belt loose, roarin’,
“I’m going to skin you alive.”
Danny told people his father was a drinker.
He wasn’t.
His nigh psychotic temper was simply — bad temper.
He liked to beat people, he loved to beat Danny. Time reaches out for all bullies. At 17, Danny’s father pulled his belt loose and prepared to launch another event. Danny had moved straight to him, seized the belt and whispered,
“How would you like that wrapped round yer fuckin neck, you bastard.”
“Ah son, it’s been to make a man of ye... see, see now you’re learning.”
Danny had snapped the belt from his hand and flung it across the room.
If time brings forgiveness, then Danny reckoned the clock had a bit to go yet.
“Ya bastard,” he muttered as he fitted the bat into a sports hold-all. He took the train to The Angel. A small park near the station was his target. As he waited for the train, he watched a small, aged oriental woman. She had the tiniest feet he’d ever seen, and they were shod in sparkling new white sneakers. Obviously fascinated by them, she made little jumps back and forth. He thought she’d probably been subjected to the binding of her feet as a child. Now she was relishing the freedom or...
“Or,” he whispered, “maybe she just likes the fucking shoes.”
The train came. A line of Flaubert burned in his head.
“I’m crammed with coffins, like an old cemetery.”
March was nearing an end, and he could see a stretch in the evenings. Once, he’d have cared. Checking his watch, two minutes to seven, near mugging-hour. He sat in the small park and composed his victim’s face. This was a mix of eagerness and a slightly lost look. It instantly had an effect as a middle-aged woman hurrying paused,