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:
“Had to get a bleedin’ tetanus shot, didn’t I, be bleedin’ lucky I don’t get rabies.”
“He bit you, the convict bit you?”
“Steady Mr C, the dog it was.”
“Dog... wot bloody dog.”
“See Mr C... oh that rhymes... see, thing is, you didn’t tell us he’d a dog, a flaming Alsatian, too. Game bugger, I’ll give you that.”
“What about the convict?”
“Well like we’re trying to explain Mr C, the client wasn’t home but his dog was..., and he had a piece of old Bill here... gave him a right nasty nip. But no worries, we done for ’im.”
Bill gave a nasty chuckle.
“Yea, we done for ’im all right, slit ’im from head to tail and put ’im in bed then. All cosy like, sheets pulled up to his snout... lovely it were... bled a bit though... just a tad unpleasant, didn’t half pong.”
Robbie drained the Pernod, it made his eyeballs bulge.
“Am I supposed to be pleased with this fiasco or what? You really screwed it up.”
“Mr C, I’m a little peeved at your attitude especially as Bill went to the bother of bringing you a small gift.”
“Gift, wot bloody gift?”
Terry nodded to Bill who reached inside his jacket and took out a gaily wrapped parcel. He said,
“Heads you win.”
Terry said,
“and...”
Robbie tore the wrapping off and looked at the contents in horror, he whispered,
“Tails...”
Bridie was to most people, a person on the dark side of the moon. Not that she marched to the beat of a different drummer, she was the very melody. But all agreed, she had a gift with flowers. She stood now in her small garden and admired the ocean of flowers she’d cultivated.
Lilies
Clematis
Poppies
Bluebells
Gladiola
Roses
“You are all my children,” she said. And went inside. The house, a two storey semi-detached in Streatham was compulsively tidy but overflowing. She’d kept everything she’d ever got. Upstairs in a small white closet were a myriad of baby clothes. On very bad days, she’d rummage there and talk to the child she’d never have.
When she’d been told she’d never conceive she’d begun buying the clothes. Madness demands its attendant rituals. On these days she’d convince herself that Gerry was alive. That he’d simply gone out and would “be home for his tea”.
She’d then prepare his favourite, moussaka with pita bread and taramasalata, piled with olives and feta cheese. As evening fell and she knew she couldn’t make it happen, she’d sweep all from the table and grind all the food underfoot. The pattern was set, she’d drop a few pills and wash them down with booze... if she didn’t blackout and collapse, she’d hit the town and the town always hit back.
And hard.
Bridie enjoyed “shock” value as opposed to shock treatment. She’d had the latter but wasn’t too fond of it. It left her too disorientated and her grip was tenuous at best. No, she liked the expression on people’s faces when you did the completely unexpected.
Shop-lifting got a rise out of most. After two husbands Bridie was more than financially secure and had a second house in Kennington. It was rented to a civil servant. The gun Sevy had given her was in the fridge. Next to the Kerrygold. It gave her a frisson of excitement each time she opened the door. Seemed appropriate too that such an icy object should be kept in cold storage. The only time she’d held it, a shudder ran down her spine. What was the fascination they held for men she pondered. Not only were they ugly, but they made her feel similar. Tom came stomping into her mind.
As always she acted right on impulse. She called a mini-cab and went directly to him. His front door was ajar. She felt her heart palpitating. This kind of shock she didn’t like as it was outside her control.
Pushing the door she asked, “Tom...”
He was sitting in the middle of the room with a lost expression. Even in prison he hadn’t looked like that. She approached him slowly and he turned.
“Kendra?”
“No Tom... it’s Bridie.”
“Oh, hello Bridie.”
“What’s happened Tom... where’s your dog?”
“He’s in the garden, under the third cross.”
Then he told her everything... from Liz’s visit to prison to the present events. He looked up at her and said,
“But don’t worry. I’m not going to cry. I’ve done that. I was a bit lost there. I kind of forgot what to do next but I’ll be fine now, I just needed to spill my guts.”
And the lost look had gone. He fingered his face.
“Do you like the yard?”
“You look like Terry Waites.”
“Before or after his release.”
Bridie made him some eggs and then persuaded him to lie down. After he was asleep, she began to clean the rooms. For the first time in her life, she felt a growing sense of purpose. A thought was shaping in her mind and she sensed the beginning of a major change. Most of all she felt needed. She knew that maybe once in a lifetime, a man like Tom crashed out and even then, only every so briefly. A privilege it was she believed to have been the one who picked him out and up. Further, she prayed she’d be able to wipe the slate clean of the blight that overtook him.
Not altogether sure that it was the song to symbolise what she’d expressed, she sang it mainly as it gave her a sense of loyalty.
As “The Wind Beneath My Wings” grew in volume, her plan began to crystallise.
Tom’s dream was a kaleidoscope of images:
Rusty in a prison cell.
Kendra asking why the dog had no tail.
His father demanding his ring back
Shotguns out of reach
and
him, voiceless screaming silently.
Thus he woke, drenched in sweat. Rivulets had coursed down his back. A New York Yankees T-shirt was saturated. An aroma of fresh bread and frying reached him. Sometimes, such a combination can be the guise of hope. It calmed him, getting slowly out of bed, he felt battered and bedraggled. As if the living daylights had been pounded from him. The roof of his mouth tasted like bile with intent. He shook himself.
Dressed and showered, he felt part ways restored. Out to the living room and it was transformed. Vases of fresh cut flowers, new bright curtains and the scent of ventilation. Bridie was waiting with a nervous expression.
“What do you think Torn, are you angry, did I overdo it?”
He smiled.
“It’s bloody marvellous, maybe I won’t move after all. Smashing job, you’re a little treasure.”
“And Tom. I didn’t shop-lift anything. I paid cash money.”
“Good girl, so are we going to eat or wot?”
They did.
For after, Bridie had brought brandy and they sipped this.
“What will you do Tom?”
“Terrible things I think, but it’s a bit unclear. I’ll keep it simple and horrendous.”
“Oh I nearly forgot. A man rang you and I wrote down these addresses... here.”
He looked at them. Terry lived in The Borough, and Bill at The Oval. Quite an accent away from Bow Bells he thought.
Bridie bit her lower lip. Tom said,
“Don’t bite your lower lip. In little girls it’s cute, in women it’s downright ridiculous.”
“And your little girl, Tom... I can’t stomach that animal... well...”
“Do you still have that gun, Bridie?”
“Oh... no. Sevy took it back. I’m sorry.”