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

“Yeah...”

“Are you Dillon?”... an accent to match the jacket, money ill-disguised.

“Yeah...”

“I’m Raoul... Marisa’s brother...”

Sure. He had the cut of her. What I thought was... he’s gay... what does he want. I ran my reactions slow.

“Piss off” or “So...!” or “What do you want...?” or “Hoppit...”

I was kinda fond of the last one. It would get the job done and it had a ring to it. I said, “Come in.”

He handed me the bottle. Inside, I looked at the label. Glenfiddich... m... m... mph. Pull out the oul mugs... they were on active duty these days. I tried to run the number, “Well, I’m not drinking alone,” but it didn’t float. I poured freely, gave him the mug.

“If this is sippin’ whiskey... just don’t tell me... alrite.”

“Oh right... you’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

“I was wondrin’... about a friend of mine... Padraig.”

“Well, Marisa asked me to come... am... I wanted to meet you as I’ve heard some fairly diverse opinions on you. Marisa says you love a lot of literary things...”

“I dunno if I would put it like that. It happens that things which make sense to me happen to fall into the literary can... well, sometimes—”

“My father says you’re never sober.”

We took this as a cue and had us some Glenfiddich. Not bad at all. I figured he was figuring me. So we let that dance about a bit. My stomach had howled initially... now it was working towards a purr. I was chugging up that road to some recovery.

“—I ran into Robbie last night, and he says you cheated him outa £20—”

“And a meal...” I said.

“Yeah... and Ted... you know him?”

“I’ve met him... his earring anyway.”

Raoul smiled. It looked real enough.

“Ted says you’re a psychopath...”

“M... m... m... I dunno how much of that I would want to be denied. Psychos get fast service in pubs.”

Smiled again, and he reached for the bottle. Poured some more of that good stuff.

“Marisa seems keenish...!”

“Did she tell you about the funerals?” I asked.

Now he looked uncomfortable. But there was a limited range of places to look. He looked at me. I had his attention... and of course... the bottle.

“She did... she said it’s what you do most. So, you see, I’ve heard a lotta... diverse reports.”

“Lemme ask you something... why on earth would you call to visit a drunken psychopath who steals money and likes funerals... are you mad is what I want to know—”

A guffaw... threw his head back and roared laughin’. Sure, how could I not like this guy. I sloshed in more drink. I was way past recovery. Indeed, I was into the area of having answers. A very drunken place. That takes big drinks.

“Well, Raoul... Raoul... cripes... what do I know about you. You’re Marisa’s brother and you seem to know a right bunch of maggots”... phew, the slow developing had nearly popped “faggots.”

He began then — “I’m supposed to be a teacher. But of the itinerant kind. If you wanted to see the world, you became a sailor. I wanted to see the world and teaching English was a new way to do it. For nearly ten years I’ve done that, all over the world—”

“You don’t much have the cut of a teacher.”

“They say English language teachers are failed actors and big drinkers.”

“And do you fulfill those requirements?”

He laughed again. There was nothing at all wrong with this guy’s sense of humour.

I reached for the bottle. Nowt... zilcho, zip-oh, and out. Raoul looked as if he hadn’t had a drop for a week. I was flying. The scotch on the sink was roarin’, “Hey, guys, lookit me”... and we looked. Raoul jiggled the mug... dead zone! So I said... “I think we should be sensible... I mean, I think we should wink... drink, I mean, something but... wot... what do you think, Rouly?”

“Definitely... 100 percent... all the way.” Agreeable guy. Right? And how much can you dislike that type of affability.

We made hot whiskeys... there could have been cloves, but we dispensed with the mickey-mousing around. Sugar, boiling water, and scotch. Plain and deadly.

“Here’s to Wilde’s view of Ireland... a nation of brilliant failures — he said.”

T’was like a slap of cold water to me. He caught the change... I said then, “Yeah... well, Rouly, he also said that in failure there is a great strength to be earned.”

This rang all sorts of lights in Raoul’s eyes...

“Are you familiar with Wilde?” he asked.

“I’ve read him... does it say he’s not accessible to security guards. But intimate.”

No... I wouldn’t be that... at all... no!.. The lights moved up to shove. The anger was kindling. Stay on it, Raoul, I thought... he did.

“You know, Dillon, I’m gonna have to ask you to explain that. If you’ve got a snide lash in there... let’s have it.”

The anger now was full. He stood up. I was attempting to try something along familiar lines. The punch took me under the jaw and half-way across the room. Books and records went flying. He walked over and took a wide-angled kick to my ribs. Got me.

“Stay down, son,” he said.

Son! I acted stunned to get some breath and leverage. Wait for my father’s voice.

There are no rules in fighting... you hurt or get hurt. Put the fellah down hard, and make sure he doesn’t want to continue. Doesn’t matter dicky-birds who begins it. Be sure you finish it.

“I’ll want an apology, too... for myself... for Robbie... for Marisa...”

Throw in the feckin government of the day, too. I stayed down... it wasn’t difficult. He took the scotch and poured a large dollop. For one. No class. Putting it on his head, he began a victory gurgle. Beneath my hand, I noticed a broken Dylan Thomas record. Coming straight up, I hit him with my shoulder in the belly. Then swing to bring the elbow in. Hard. The half turn and chop his knees. Two kicks to the face. It was over. I got him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him down to the street. It was freezin’. I walked to the phone kiosk and reported a loud and vexatious spirit and location of this.

Odd how the lines of that Desiderata will intrude. There was half the scotch still. I broke yer man’s mug and put it in the garbage. Alongside Marisa’s record and his Glenfiddich bottle. Mebbe it was sippin’ whiskey after all. Breaking the mug leant a bit to the melodramatic but I figured I could afford one. It crossed my mind that old Rouly must have forgotten his Wilde...

“In manners of grave importance

style

not sincerity

is

the vital thing.”

Violence requires a cold and deadly style.

The flat was a shambles... or was that my life. No matter. I took too aspirin and took to my bed.

I’m not much for premonitions. I don’t see anything as a portent of the future. The past has a full hold on haunting and absolute hallalluas without completion.

In the present, I drink... and have a fragile being. When I dreamt of Julie’s mongrel being mangled by a truck, I put it down to drink. No food either. My father was in there, too, but he was a featured player. The dog, Carlo, was a guest appearance. Drenched in sweat, I fell from the bed. The nightly horrors had helped sweat a lot of the booze out. So I told myself — a raging thirst, I nigh-on died of shock when I saw the ransacked flat. Burglars... what? Oh God... think... big blond dope... yeah, yeah and... threw him out. “ I threw him out. Fair bloody play to ya, Dillon.” I was in no shape to work. Few in the town were. En route to Traders I met “Bad Weather.” He said his words... “and isn’t it me that bloody knows it,” I thought. Rain lashed down and it was the all-encompassing freezing kind. My hangover was shrieking for help. No. I crawled into my uniform. I didn’t have to worry about the supervisor... he’d be answering his hangover for at least another week. The replacement for the clothes department manager had arrived. A thin length of efficient misery, he was sporting a pioneer badge. Pinned. The shop wasn’t open but a full staff was due to prepare for the January sales. A quarter had showed. The pleas of flu were rampant in the personnel office. There are no hangovers in Ireland. You get the “bad dose of flu.”