Ken Bruen - The Dramatist

I was thinking about a man named Michael Ventris, who deciphered Linear B. Lived his whole life trying to crack the hieroglyphs dating back 4,000 years inscribed on stones unearthed in Crete and for decades posing the greatest puzzle in archaeology and linguistics. Ventris finally solved it, but the achievement left him empty. He ended his life by driving into the back of a lorry. His lifelong obsession had gone; the most extraordinary mind of his decade had lost focus. I was sorely tempted to grab the driver, go,

“Shut the fuck up, here’s a story.”

Then ask,

“What happens when you get to the top and it’s barren, a wilderness?”

We’d arrived in O’Connell Street and he was going,

“Don’t even get me started on Leeds.”

I paid him and found the urge to drink had abated. Crossed the street to the Kylemore and ordered steak and chips. Ate it without tasting a bite. The waitress said,

“You enjoyed that.”

“Yes.”

“Dessert? We’ve some lovely apple tart and custard.”

I passed.

How to kill the night in Dublin? Thing was, I felt edgy, off balance. If I’d been drinking, I’d have headed for Mooney’s, end of story. Instead I went into the hotel, asked for my room key. The girl gave me a smile, asked,

“Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Immensely.”

In the room, I contemplated a bath but couldn’t summon the energy. Lay on the bed and figured a nap would revive me. Slept twelve hours. Dreamt of my father. He was holding a book by Synge, said,

“The answers are here.”

“But I don’t even know the questions.”

I think I was shouting. Then I was in a cemetery, trying to read the names on the headstones, but they all said Linear B. I don’t recall the rest, but obviously it was distressing, as I woke with tears on my cheeks. I said aloud,

“What the hell was that about?”

Showered and packed up. My plan to do the round of bookshops was no longer appealing, so I caught the train at 11 a.m. No trolley service; I think I missed the Ukrainian. Now I was able to read and had been anticipating High Life by Matthew Stokoe. Started it as we hit the outskirts of Dublin and never looked up till we reached Athenry.

It was Chandler on heroin, Hammet on crack, James M. Cain with a blowtorch, and it matched my mood with a wild ferocity. The writing was a knuckleduster to the brain, a chainsaw to the gut. It not so much rocked as walloped the blood with a rush of pure amphetamine. The prose sang and screamed along every page, a cesspit of broken lives illuminated with a taste of dark euphoria. I felt downright feverish. How often is a novel like a literary blow to the system? I felt Jim Thompson would have killed for this. If James Ellroy had indeed abandoned the crime genre, then here was his dark heir.

I closed the book, feeling I’d run a marathon. Not once had I thought of Stewart or his sister. The train was crossing the bridge over Lough Atalia, and as I stared out at the bay, dark clouds hanging on the horizon, I didn’t know if I had a sense of homecoming. I think you require a modicum of peace for that. I went into Roches, passed the booze counter real fast and bought some groceries. Decided to leave the Greek yoghurts and Lemsips alone. I was healthy enough. As I paid at the till, I looked up and there was the blond young guy again. He eyed me for a moment and then was gone. Put it down to coincidence.

Mrs Bailey was at reception, said,

“Welcome back.”

I reached in my bag, pulled out a packet, handed it over. Her eyes lit, she exclaimed,

“I love presents.”

She tore off the paper, went,

“Bewley’s fudge, oh my, they give me teethaches.”

“Oops.”

“Oh no, I’ll be delighted to have the ache. Lets you know you’re alive.”

I left her chewing energetically, surprised she had real teeth. I went to my room, checked my bookcase and, as I anticipated, not a single volume of Synge.

Looked at the Sacred Heart calendar and the day’s entry read:

“Don’t be enslaved by wealth.”

I’d do my best.

Next morning, I was reading an interview with Marc Evans, the director of My Little Eye , the classy Brit horror movie. A line he said triggered all types of memories:

“Our cameras aren’t showing you where the action is, they’re following it.”

I sat and thought about that, why it had such an impact. Was it some skewed metaphor for my life or simply a smart perspective? I made some coffee — had moved up to real coffee — yeah, beans, filters, the whole nine yards. What I liked best was the aroma: just let it cook, simmer and allow that smell bounce off the wall. I never ever tired of the sensation. Early mornings, if you get down to Griffin’s Bakery, they make a loaf called a grinder. Aw fuck, this is bread to trade your soul for, but the true bliss is that as you approach, the tang of fresh baking permeates the upper part of the street. It’s beyond comfort, beyond analysis.

Real coffee comes from the same neighbourhood. Took me a while to readjust. When you’ve drunk instant all your life, you are seriously fucked. The real thing is too much; you can’t get your taste around it. Plus it packs one hell of a punch: two cups and you’re off your feet. All my years of caffeine, it was purely to punctuate the hangovers.

Drank it and chased it with cig number one. This five cigs a day gig was not working, but I’d worry about that later. I dressed in a white shirt, black cords, checked myself in the mirror. Looked like I was selling something and not anything you’d ever need. My eyes were bright, clear. Six months clean and sober and here was the payoff. If only I could pass the message along to my soul.

Took out my notebook, read the few details I had on Sarah Bradley: age twenty, student, final year. She lived — had lived — in Newcastle Park, No. 13. The address had surely been ill-starred. I figured this investigation would take all of ten minutes. The sun was shining and I stood at Eyre Square for a moment. The grass was packed with sunbathers. By evening, they’d be red and blistered, the whole sum of an Irish summer.

As I passed the GBC café, I don’t know what prompted me to glance in the window. My heart did a jig. At a table was Ann Henderson, the love of my life. I’d been investigating her daughter’s suicide and fell in love. My drinking had driven her away. Was I over her? Was I fuck?

All my instincts roared “Keep moving”. I was about to, but the set of her shoulders, the way she was seated, something was wrong. A voice in my head asking,

“And this is your problem how?”

Yeah, right.

After she’d left me, she hooked up with a guard, name of Coffey. He was, in the memorable words of Superintendent Clancy,

“A big thick yoke.”

On the grapevine, I heard they’d recently got married. My hope had been they’d move... preferably to Albania. I had managed to avoid all word of them since.

I pushed open the door, approached, went,

“Ann.”

She jumped. If not out of her skin, close to. Her head came up, and the first thing I noticed was the bruise on her left cheekbone; had seen enough to know there was only one explanation. A fist. Her eyes, way and beyond her best feature, were shadowed, haunted. Took her a minute to focus then,