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:
He made coffee and checked to see how the beard was developing. Now he looked like a rested wino. But it changed his look all right. It gave a hard slant to his features and in London, how far wrong could that lead you.
One cold December morning in prison, he’d felt close to suicide. The building stifled you in summer, froze you in winter. The small church was a prospect of heat. A service had just concluded and the men were shuffling out. Clouds of their breath hung condensed in the air. Like false hope. A smell of incense was balm from the urine habitual stench. That mixed with bad cabbage.
Near the altar, someone had placed a home made version of Calvary cleverly constructed from nails, the three crosses had been buffed to a high sheen. Makeshift match figures to symbolise Christ and the person on His right had been dyed white. The third cross was vacant. Either the maker had lost interest or reckoned this figure didn’t merit significance. Tom reached down and touched it. It was held down and he gave it a sharp tug. Palming it, he turned quickly.
Tom had thought about the thief to whom Christ said, “This day you shall be with me in paradise,” and he thought, “Did that guy get lucky or what?” What started out as a pretty rough Friday sure turned around. But what of the other chappie. Where did he go? Even some crude prison artist hadn’t reckoned his cross was worth filling.
“Time to go to work,” he said.
He dressed in worn plain splattered jeans, heavy sweater with holes in the elbows and rain blotched heavy work boots. Looking in the mirror, a labourer looked back. Walking up and down, he adopted the macho strut beloved of the building sites and let out a low wolf whistle. Tried out a few of the well tested lines.
“Cor, look at the body on ’er... wotcher say darlin’... get a load of this sweetheart.”
“Yea,” he added, “that will do it.”
On his release from prison, he’d hit a depression that was all enveloping. Access to Kendra was denied, money was short and he couldn’t adapt to London. One tortured morning he’d woke with tears in his face and knew that crying in his sleep was serious distress. A half remembered line had surfaced in his head.
“When you can’t stand it anymore, try kneeling.”
He’d thought, “And what have I got to lose.”
Bending his knees, he said,
“God, if you’re about, this is a good time.”
And nothing happened. For ten minutes he remained thus and heard only the beating of his heart. Various platitudes bleated in his mouth.
“The meek shall inherit the earth,” and immediately he thought of what Paul Getty said,
“Yea but they won’t have the mineral rights.”
And Job crying in torment.
“Why do you test me so hard?” and The Lord answered,
“Cos you really piss me off.”
Finally his knees began to ache and he looked upward, said,
“That’s about what I figured.”
Later that day he’d returned to thieving. He didn’t bother God any further.
Tom worked the “holiday” flats. These were short term luxurious lettings advertised in the quality papers. Usually Arabs, but lately drug dealers were the tenants. He’d draw up a list of the very best ones advertised then ring the agency to see what was vacant. Continue to ring until the letting was made. Then he hit immediately. Dressed as a labourer, he was near invisible. Ten minutes was the maximum time he’d spend and took only cash, coins or gold. It astonished him that people believed they’d found clever hiding places. Dirty laundry was the most common. He wore surgical gloves and recently, in a soiled pair of socks, was two grand in a tight roll. The shotgun had come from a block in Kensington Church Street.
Depending on the hauls, Tom estimated he’d need only six “Runs” a year. Too, there was the pipe dream of one major jackpot. What he’d do then, he wasn’t sure. The adrenalin rush, the sheer fix of the job would be hard to kick.
As he headed toward the tube, a small fat black woman galloped beside him. In a sing-song voice she gasped,
“Jesus wants you, only Jesus saves.”
He wondered why it was that short fat black ladies were particularly prone to lunacy. Almost every High Street had one and he contemplated if the councils provided them. Almost as prevalent as muggers, they appeared to work longer hours. He said to her,
“He saves, does He?... for what, a rainy day... is it?”
She gave him a worried look and began to back away. He moved after her.
“No, come on, don’t be modest, give me the credit plan.”
He learnt the only thing crazies feared was craziness. Put an even more psychotic face right into theirs and they legged it. Which is exactly what this lady did. Tom remembered a similar lunatic who’d been spraying his message on the walls of the tube.
“God might help you to travel
but you have to call the airport.”
Tom had thought then, there are two kinds of people.
One — those who can read the writing on the wall.
Two — those who put it there.
He thought much the same thing now.
His father had died during Tom’s first year in prison. He’d been escorted out for the funeral. The warder said,
“You get out to plant the ole boy.”
Handcuffed.
As they slapped the cuffs on him, he said,
“Bit fuckin’ strong, eh?? I mean... how dangerous am I, for heaven’s sake?”
The warder said,
“Shut yer mouth.”
He did.
It had been a freezing cold day. A drizzling rain soaked them. The mourners were few. Bridie was then in one of her periodic drying out clinics. After they’d planted his dad, a man had approached Tom and handed him a frayed, battered envelope. A previous name had been scratched out and his father scribbled hastily below,
“Your father’s effects”
“Bit scarce on the envelope, were ye. A shortage in the friggin’ stationery, is it?”
The effects were pitiful, one worn wedding ring. A strapless watch and a page of a jotter, neatly folded. It had “Thomas” written on it in his dad’s neat simple hand. On Tom’s release from prison, the first thing he’d done was hand these to a wino. The wino had roared,
“This watch’s stopped!”
The letter read:
My Dear Thomas,
I’ll be dead when you read this. You have been a fierce disappointment to me. Poor Bridie was always away with the fairies but I expected more of you. I know it was hard on you that your mother was taken from us early. But I did my best.
I can’t believe how you’ve repaid my efforts. The shame of you in prison. It would have killed your mother.
Tom had paused here, sighed deeply and read on,
The mortification of your life hasn’t helped my health. It’s no use pretending otherwise. I don’t know what will become of you. It’s not too late to change. Go to confession and mebbe have a private chat with the chaplain. Ask him how you can make amends. Tell the authorities your plan to toe the line. God mind you, God knows I tried. I’ll leave you my ring but you’ll probably sell it.
Your heart broken father,