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:
“Nobody’s safe anywhere these days.”
The woman closed the paper and said,
“I never read that type of thing. Crime disturbs me.”
Edie felt a slight rebuff she wasn’t a woman easily discouraged. Anyway, the British were snotty, it was part of their history, like Burberries. Charming too.
“What’s that you’re drinking?”
“It’s a frappe, cold coffee.”
“Oh you mean like iced coffee.”
“No, like cold coffee.”
Edie felt the charm might be wearing thin and looked round. It was brave the gauntlet of predatory Greeks or brazen it out. “What the hell,” she thought and said,
“I thought all you English people only drank tea.”
“You were misinformed.”
“Are you travelling alone?”
“Well Kendra, my little girl, she’s at boarding school. I’m expecting my husband Gerry in a few days.”
“Why that’s wonderful.”
“He’s my second husband actually.”
Edie loved the ‘actually’, so authentic.
“I’m with you honey, second husband’s are better, they try harder.”
This usually met with laughter and Edie laughed to set the mirth in motion. She laughed alone.
“Well honey, family is important.”
“I only have Gerry and Kendra. I had a brother but he died, poor Thomas. My Kendra was nearly set upon by one of those perverts but we found out in time.”
“But my gawd, how awful. It’s a jungle out there.”
Edie was indeed horrified but more so at the can of worms she’d opened.
She though the woman might be unbalanced. Eccentricity was charming too but something about the woman’s intensity alarmed her. For no reason other than intuition, she knew the woman was lying, certainly about her husband and child. She’d have bet her American Express Gold Card this woman had no children. There was a look, and it was absent here. She noticed the woman’s hand reach to an odd cross around her neck. It was quite ugly and appeared to be fashioned from a nail of some sort. To distract her, she asked,
“What a most unusual piece of jewelry.”
For the first time the woman became animated and said,
“Actually, it’s known as ‘The Third Cross.’ Do you know the story?”
“No honey, I haven’t come across that, I’d be fascinated to hear it.”
All at once the woman’s face lost all interest and her eyes withdrew to some other place. She said in a cold voice.
“No... no it’s quite boring really. I found it in a market in Istanbul. It’s just a piece of junk.”
She snapped it from her neck and let it fall to the table, saying
“Nothing of consequence.”
The Time of Serena-May
For Philomena-Catherine Kennedy
Grace indeed
If you want to make God laugh, make plans. Frank and Cathy Marshall had one. They enjoyed the sound,
“The Marshall Plan.”
They had everything, almost.
Jobs
Home
A dog
each other
They didn’t have a child. Entry to that special club of parent was denied. No carrying of snapshots in the wallet.
Always that moment in conversation.
“Do you have children?”
“No.”
It hung there like sin, a failure, a definite lack of something. Worse, the other person then rushed in with the bland reassurance.
And Cathy died a little each time.
She was 5’4” with a thin, hardy body. Black hair cut short and blue eyes. A snub nose guarded a full mouth that verged on a downward slide. The effect was close to prettiness, but the eyes could lead the face to moments of beauty. In her own words,
“What I’ve got isn’t great, but I know how to use it... sometimes.”
Her voice was deep and her Irish-London background gave a lilt that averted hardness. A scattering of Irish expressions littered her face and speech.
“I’m as skinny as a tinker, but I move fast.”
Her job as a personnel manager suited her temperament.
“I don’t work hard. What I do is I work well.”
At 30, she’d one divorce behind her. No children. A party she’d reluctantly attended was winding down and so was she. An empty glass in her hand, a man had approached.
“Are you Cathy?”
“What?”
“It’s not a difficult question.”
She gave him the hard look. Sufficient usually to “ice ice.” He appeared unaffected.
Tall, six feet or so. The age between late 40s and shaky 50s. Brown eyes, the wide set model. A bad nose, either it had been broken or should have been. His mouth was a thin line... verging on meanness. A slight smile promised some redemption.
“Yes, I’m Cathy... so?”
“We have a friend in common. Deirdre. Deirdre Rankin.”
“Hardly a friend.”
He sighed and said,
“You know, I thought it was odd an attractive woman should be standing alone. Now I’m beginning to think it’s little wonder. I’ll leave you to it.”
She liked his voice, deep and smokey. Only years of cigarettes and harsh whiskey could do that.
“Or,” she thought, “was that harsh women.”
“Hang on, are you going to get me a drink?”
“Something bitter, no doubt.”
But he took her glass.
When he returned she asked,
“I saw you earlier with the boys, the ones who try to look as if their wives don’t belong to them. Did they warn you about me?”
“They said you were a ball-breaker.”
She laughed.
“Interesting description, it conveys a colourful mental picture.”
“And are you?”
“Stick around and find out.”
He looked thoughtful at this and asked,
“Would you be free for a little dinner some evening?”
“A little dinner, what... are you on limited expenses, is that it?”
“Cathy, you have a problem with direct questions, did you know that.”
“I don’t. I have lots of problems with the people who throw them... and no... no, I would not like a little dinner. Is that a clear answer.”
However he felt about it, his face kept it under wraps. He drained his drink.
“Right then, I’ll be off.”
“I’d be free on Tuesday to go to the pictures.”
“What’s showing?”
“What do you care, you’ll be too busy trying to keep your hands off me.”
The startled smile he gave did indeed redeem his face.
It began thus. Two years later they got married. Now Cathy was forty-one years old and nervous. Heinz, the dog, bounced at her feet. His expression said, “I know you’ve got things on yer mind lady, but I’ve got to pee... so are you letting me out or what?”
She let him out. He was small, black and neurotic, in short, a London dog. They named him for being “57 varieties” as his pedigree contained at least that.
She rang her mother.
“Hello Mam.”
“Hello Catherine. Please, I asked you to call me Dolores.”
“You’re my Mother, why can’t I call you motherish things?”
“It’s so aging Darling... and I do think you’ve outgrown ‘Mam’ at 40.”