Кен Бруен - A Fifth of Bruen - Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

“You’d have to leave Carlo if you go to Greece.”

“I’m afraid... I think... afraid to go back... but am I more afraid not to. How does that sound to you, Dillon?”

It sounded confused. She wouldn’t want to hear that.

“It sounds confused.”

She asked if I wanted to take her to bed. I didn’t. The Jack Daniels did. I guess we hit a compromise. I took her to bed but I don’t remember it. I may have asked at one interval what she was thinking about.

“I’m thinking dearly... of you.”

It probably wasn’t like that but lacking a clear recollection, it’s sufficient. I woke to bells. Christmas bells... loud. I was not a well man. Julie had left a note on the Jack Daniels bottle...

“Dillon ,

I knew the first thing you’d want was Jack here... yeah. There’s a drop in it... if you want feedin’, call round this evening. I suppose I should wish you a happy Christmas... so some of that but primarily... a gentle-d hangover and a cure that takes. This explains everything, sheds light on... nothing .

Men with big hammers were whacking the be-damns outa my head. “I don’t need that last bit of sour mash.” As my mind played rationalisations, I drank — a shower cleaned me... a cure would take heavier consideration. I wore Julie’s sweater and sneaked a mirror glance. The clothes looked new. The face wasn’t lived in, no! Something very sick had died there, crawled in there and just died.

Not a soul on the street... save “Bad Weather.” A fellah as old as the town, he was a drunkard who no longer needed drink. His brain was stewed in poison, and he was perpetually drunk. Without drinking. A final solution. To all greetings he said, “bad weather.” He said this to me as I palmed him a few quid. I didn’t want to examine too closely the fact he was wearing an Aran sweater and dirty jeans. Heading for the hospital, I kept repeating “Your jeans are clean... are cleanish... are...”

It had crossed my mind that ten months of the year, Bad Weather was correct in his forecast. I had Nurse Allison Brown paged. She displayed no surprise. “You look fierce”... an Irish adjective. Applied equally as in “fierce good”... or “fierce bad.” I’d guess she’d opted for the latter. I passed on the happy Christmas bit. “What happens to Padraig now?”

She explained that if no one claimed him, he’d be buried by the State. The hospital would act for them. He’d get a funeral and be buried. If I were to go for it and claim him, I’d be buying myself a heap of bureaucracy. I’d have to claim a medical card for him, to prove he existed. That he no longer did was irrelevant. The relevant forms and claims were massive. It crossed my hung-over state that I could have a spree on his medical card. I felt Padraig would have cheered me on that. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to drink.

“I dunno what to do, Allison.”

“Let the State bury him.”

“I feel that I’m copping out.”

“You are but I think you should.”

I thought I shouldn’t, so I said, “Okay.”

“If you go down to our chapel now, the priest will be saying mass, you could ask him to mention Padraig.”

“Thanks, Allison... I’ll be seeing you.”

She smiled and left. Wasn’t I too ill to notice how brown these eyes were. Course I was. I tried to shelve how devastatingly attractive the uniform was. So... so mebbe I could take the uniform itself for a night out. I’ll... she’s got a lovely face.

I waylaid the priest before the mass. I asked him to mention the soul of Padraig. I thought that was the way to frame it.

“Padraig who,” he asked. A small barrel of a man, he looked hungover too. I thought it diplomatic to omit that God would know who.

“I dunno his surname.” I tried to look social worker-ish. Why I thought that would score points was even then a mystery. He muttered something and bristled away. No points. Padraig would be buried the next day. Funerals were kept to a minimum for the day it was.

Emerging from the hospital, I walked straight into Rooney, the trolley dictator. Was it on myself or was there delight in the ferret eyes.

“Did you hear about O’Malley?”

“No.”

“He went mad down in The Weir last night... mad from drink... it took three guards to get him to the station — that will soften his cough.”

I didn’t even give him the look. I knew I should mebbe phone Marisa. I’m ill, I said, and headed for “The Post.” An early morning house. My father was a known, if a less-than-valued client there. On the outside, it appeared closed. Shut down even. I knocked. The Irish speakeasy.

“Go away, we’re shut.”

“It’s Dillon... young Dillon—”

“Oh... wait a minute.”

Bolts sounded. Fat Willy came out. Over six foot he was and as thin as a spit. Not a pick on him. His father was over twenty stone in his time, and the son inherited the pub and the name. I’d need some big drinks if I was to visit O’Malley in the barracks. I knew enough to elevate rank. An ordinary guard you call sergeant... a nun is a superior mother and up you ascent. The vague flaw to this was my own experience in a security guard uniform. (People inevitably called “dumb-head” and ascended.)

The pub was packed and silent. The sanctity of serious drinking. Not a place for dabblers. You came here to get alcohol into the system, fast and with the minimum of pain. Talk didn’t intrude. Later, when the cures were rampant, the crowd would loosen. Now it was hangover haven.

The holy atmosphere of the hair of the dog. Most attempted to ingest the whole flogging dog... if faces are mirrors, the crowd had been savaged by large animals. I took my place amid the silence. Whisper my order. Reverence is all... to all. A bus conductor I knew had the next stool. With both hands, he got his whiskey to his mouth. Tilt... the load, down. I felt the tremor. He bolted for the toilet. Returning, his face was green, a light coating of perspiration... and relief. “The next one... The next one will stay down,” he said. The voice of experience. I dwelt on “Funeral II.”

The bus conductor managed the next whiskey. Gregariousness was close behind.

“A happy Christmas to you, Dillon.”

“And yerself, Pat.”

“Would you join me in a drop.”

“I would.”

I put a cigarette on the counter for him to light in his own time. The shakes still hovered... his and mine. He swiped the second drink.

“Ah... stay... stay, ya bad bistard, ah... am I feeling better...!”

You find few finer examples of positive thinking. The cigarette was lit. A spasm of coughing nigh threw him across the counter. The fragile recovery near came up. Massive control; he won.

“There’s comfort in the oul cigarettes.”

“There is.”

“I was off them there for the run up to the Christmas. Even the drink tasted flat. I had to give up beer, ya know. Only the spirits seemed to give me any bit of taste.”

“I know what you mean.”

I bought the next round. The temptation to spend the day was fierce. I was at the stage of recovery that a few more drinks might tip into paralysis. With the warmest of wishes, I left Pat to it. I felt reckless enough for the police barracks. This is a large granite building in the town centre. Grey and grim.

A young garda was tending the desk. The station was quiet.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant...” which he wasn’t.

“Is it young Dillon... did you lose something?”

My nerve, mainly.

“I came to see how O’Malley was.”

“—That blackguard. He’s seeing the doctor... he fell down in his cell and might have broken his nose.” We left that shift between us. The garda’s eyes were a shade above blankness. Life was present there but not of any compassionate type.