Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“Go powder your nose, hon. This is guy stuff.”

He watched her walk away, then asked,

“So Jack…want to ride that?”

London offers nigh on most things a person could crave. E.B. White wrote of New York,

“Above all else, it offers you the chance to be lucky.”

London doesn’t quite make the same pitch, but it’s in the neighbourhood. It never ceases to surprise. I wanted education.

My reading, expansive if not exhaustive, was haphazard. I wanted it formalised. Enrolled in night classes at London College. Taking literature and philosophy. At least I had a beard. Got a scarf in Oxfam and I was in the student mode. I wasn’t the oldest, but I certainly appeared the most battered. London in November is a rough deal. Walking up Ladbroke Grove with that wind howling in your face, you are deep frozen. My bedsit was the last word in forlorn. A bed, a chair, electric heater and a shower. Oh yes, a hot plate. It had flock wallpaper, I kid you not. To compound the misery, I’d been reading Patrick Hamilton, Hangover Square . Grim fare. He wrote, “To those whom God has deserted is given a gas fire in Earls Court.” I could have hacked Earls Court.

There is a magical Irish word, sneachta . Pronounce it “shneackta”, heavy on the guttural. It means snow. My first night of college, there were shitfuls of that. Harsh and unyielding. I was wearing black 501s, thermals, work boots, plaid shirt, denim jacket. Over that, I’d the leather coat and a watchcap. Still I was cold. Remember Hill Street Blues, the undercover guy who yelled “dogbreath” at perps? That’s how I looked. Hardly enticing, yet I scored. Leastways, I thought I did. Nothing was further from my mind. Ann Henderson, in Galway, had crushed my heart. I didn’t believe I had the mileage for another woman.

The lecturer was a prick. Bearded, too. He treated us like shite. I could care. He was mouthing about Trollope and I tuned out. At least it was warm. I’d clocked a dark-haired woman to my left. Aged in early forties with a strong face, sallow skin. Beneath a heavy parka, I surmised a rich body. She’d caught my eye, lingered, moved on. Class over, the guy was handing out assignments. The woman turned to me, said,

“Guten Tag, Gedichte und Briefe zweisprächig.”

“What?”

“Emily Dickson, her poems.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She put out her hand, said,

“Kiki.”

You immediately betray your age if you think “Kiki Dee”. I said,

“Jack Taylor.”

“So, Jack Taylor, would you join me for a drink?”

“I’ll try.”

She had an accent like a European who’s learnt English in America. Not unpleasant.

There’s a certain grandeur about English pubs. It’s entirely different from the Irish animal. I hate to be the one to voice it, but they seem cosy. They did after all give us the term snug . Battened against the cold, we didn’t speak the short distance to the pub. Once inside, we thawed in every sense of the word. She stood before an open fire, began to unwrap. I began to unravel. I hadn’t had a line in four days. Not abstinence but my dealer got busted. The sniffles had nothing to do with temperature. I was cold, within and without, asked,

“What’ll it be?”

“Oh, hot toddies, am I correct?”

“Are you ever?”

The barman/governor was elephants. The giveaway: blasted face, tired suit and too tight sovereign rings. He bellowed,

“And a good evening to you, sir.”

“Um, right, couple of hot ones, better make them large…Oh, and whatever you’re having yourself.”

The beauty of the English system, drinking on duty. Had cost me my career. He had a large brandy, saying,

“I don’t mind if I do.”

Kiki was sitting almost in the fire. I said,

“You’re hot.”

“You wish.”

I’m too old for powerhouse sex. But right there, right then, I felt the ghost of it. Handed her the drink, said,

“Sláinte.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Irish.”

“It’s lovely.”

Usually I don’t fuck with whiskey. No ice, no water, straight as an angel. Those hot ones though, they were good. We got another round, could feel the warmth to my toes. I asked,

“Where are you from?”

“ Hamburg.”

I’m sure there is a wise, not to mention pithy, reply, but I couldn’t summon it. My mind locked on Fawlty Towers with “don’t mention the war”. I said,

“Ah.”

She studied me closely, then,

“Fifty-three.”

“What?”

“You are fifty-three.”

Now I could hear the German, almost, you will be fifty-three . I said,

“Forty-nine.”

She didn’t believe me. The oddest thing was happening. In my head, I could hear the Furey Brothers with “When You Were Sweet Sixteen”. Not just a snatch, the whole song. For a moment, it drowned out everything. I could see Kiki’s lips moving but hear nothing. Shook my head and it ebbed. She was saying,

“Would you sleep with me?”

Another tinker was killed. I’d slept late, woke in disorientation. Where the hell was I? A comfortable bed, clean room, chintz curtains. Hidden Valley. Shit, I was a home owner. I liked the feeling. Took a slow shower, and with a tolerable hangover, I wasn’t hurting. Dressed in trainers, Brixton Academy sweatshirt. Went barefoot to get the benefit of those wood floors. Did some eggs over easy and, bonus, real coffee. The kitchen smelled good. I’d splashed on some Harley and blended in.

Got the radio tuned in and it was an old rock hour. Heard Chicago and Supertramp. Did me.

The doorbell went. Opened it to Sweeper. Rage writ large, he shouted,

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Another one of our people has been killed.”

“Oh, God.”

He stormed in. I closed the door, resolved to proceed with caution. He was staring at my eggs. I asked,

“Get you something?”

“Tea, please.”

He took a seat and produced a cigarette. Not a packet, just one crumpled fag. I passed him the Zippo and he said,

“Took me six months to quit.”

Then he lit up. I got him his tea, fired up a red. My eggs had congealed. He said,

“I spoiled your breakfast.”

“No worries, I hate eggs.”

I didn’t push for details, let him come to it. He said,

“Sean Nos was my nephew. I bought him his first van. Last night, he was found naked in the Fair Green; his hand was chopped off.”

“Jesus.”

“Left him to bleed to death.”

He reached down and touched an Adidas holdall. I hadn’t noticed it. He slid the bag along the floor, said,

“Open it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Open it, Mr Taylor.”

I hunkered down, took a deep breath, then pulled back the zip. Saw the bloodied hand. The awful curse of observation. Even as my stomach churned, my mind ticked off details. The nails were clean, a thick wedding band on his wedding finger, black hair near the savage incision. I stood up, the kitchen spun. Turned round, got the cold tap going, put my head under it. How long I don’t know. Then Sweeper was handing me a towel, asking,

“Need a drink?”

I nodded. Saw the bag was closed and back by the chair. Sweeper pushed a mug into my hands. Took a slug. Brandy. The last time I had that, I woke up in the mental hospital at Ballinasloe. If I could get upstairs for a moment, I’d follow it with a line of coke. Fuck, lots of lines. My stomach warmed and I felt the artificial calm spread. Sweeper shook one of my cigarettes free, lit it and put it in my mouth. I said,

“OK, thanks, I’m all right.”