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

He’d wear absolute rags to a clothes shop. Into the dressing room and emerge resplendent. When shops mentioned their “write-off of acceptable losses,” I think they had the Gurteen factor to the fore. The last shop assistant to challenge him found the three thugs perched outside her house for a week. She’d withdrawn the charges and Gurteen withdrew the three.

“I was in The Weir with ole Robbie last night... and he told me these days were the worse days of the worst of his life. What do you think of that?”

Could I say I’d head worse. No. Best not to ever encourage him.

“I’m teaching him all I know,” he said.

Is there a reply to this? The mind didn’t boggle, it threw somersaults. He popped a pill of some description. Into his black-toothed mouth.

“Do ya want something, Dillon? I’ve got... lemme see...

   ... uppers

   ... downers

   ... chasers

   ... levellers

   ... alter-ers

   ... shapers

   ... bombers

   ... maggots

   ... coders

   ... flyers

   ... out-of-it-ers

   ... destructers

   ... high-fliers...”

I switched off. This would take a while. I sometimes felt he got off more on the names that the contents. The litany was a great comfort to him. Eventually, it wound down.

“No thanks.”

“Clean, Dillon, eh... you’re the last decade alrite. Did you hear about O’Malley?”

I hadn’t.

“No I didn’t...”

“He stole a car last night and ran it into a wall. Footless he was... absolutely paralytic, and he tried to drive. He’s in the hospital now, and not badly hurt they say... the guards will have him as soon as he can walk.”

Kilburn High Road would have to wait. Whatever Gurteen had popped seemed to mellow him. A hint of near warmth touched his eyes. A flicker... then was gone. A signal that Julie was next.

“Have ya seen much of yer wan... you know... Julie...”

“No... no I haven’t.”

“Well, do me a favour... would yah... I hear she’s out of it... ya know. A bit off her game... and acting like... a zombie... would you go round to her place and see she’s alrite.”

“Yeah... yeah, I’ll go round after work... thanks for telling me.”

“Oh, hey, I don’t care man, jeez, it’s no skin off my nose... she never talks to me anyway... I think she’s a jumped up snot... but well, she’s yer friend... and what also have yah got... huh... wat-also.”

“It’s all there is, Gurteen—”

“You’re all right, Dillon, you’re a bit straight... but fecket, one of our own... aren’t yah... I have to do... business...”

The visual I got of him was him slinking off behind the Chinese waiter. Going Chinese perchance. It wasn’t nice to dwell on Gurteen’s activities... I didn’t know but I was already then the recipient of a legacy... or victim rather! On the way home, I stopped for something to eat. I ordered me a double toasted ham and an elephant coffee. Get that caffeine down. I needed stimulation? I was feeling good. Nigh five days without a drink. Phew-oh, I had that licked. Five full days. Mighty. That impressed the hell outa me. Food, lookit, I had my appetite wham’d back. Smoking only a little. See, a shot of discipline and you can kick-shape your life to where you choose. The Gods were chuckling deep. Vicious bastards.

I opened The Daily Mirror and was a man content. My horoscope confirmed it all.

“Nothing can stop you now. You are scaling new heights of achievement. Money is foremost and the future is bright.”

I bit deep into the sandwich. M... m... m... Delicious; was that good or what. Lay another one of these suckers on me, please. A hint of tomato, and we’d be cruising. Sip the coffee... creamy... m... m... hm with a hint of bitterness... perfect.

A man sat opposite. Sit... sit, my friend. I was full of fellowship... more importantly... cash. I’d gotten paid and had converted it at lunchtime. Two hundred smack-aronies massaging my ass.

“Thank you... am... for your assistance the other day...”

I looked at him. The shoplifter who’d crashed into me. An educated one by the tone. You can’t beat an education, seems to stand to you no matter what your calling. I could rise to moral indignation and demand to know what he was suggesting. My humour was too fine for such nonsense. I gave him a toasted-hammed smile. Encouraged, he said,

“Would you be a betting man?”

“Not very often... no.”

“I’d like to suggest the name of a horse to you, he will win.”

“Fine... fine...”

He looked at his watch.

“If you go now, you’ll get the bet down. It’s the last race in Limerick, the horse is called Carlo’s Choice...”

I am as open as the next ejit to the call of coincidence. Stretch a point and you could build a case for the stray dog Carlo choosing Julie. Why not. The shoplifter looked like a photo-fit. Ordinary features of no note. Plainly assembled. The eyes mebbe you would recall. They had a type of weeping sadness. Something had crushed him early and he’d never emerged from beneath the hammer. He was about forty-five and I’d say each year was hard earnt.

“Okay... I’ll do it... thanks.”

“You are very welcome; go as much as you possibly can on it. It will win.”

Betting shops are as numerous as churches and nigh on as prosperous. They just don’t advertise so blatantly. The Bookie’s was drab. Depressing and silent save for the radio doling out results. Dire results. To look at the customers, you’d know pencils are a flourishing industry. The stubs of them anyway. Emotion was forbidden. How much to bet. Be sensible. A slight flutter. Lose only what you won’t miss. The voice of practicality dirged out the principles of restraint. I put a hundred pound to win. Half the pay packet. I didn’t feel the vivacious thrill. I thought of the kicker the pre-tax amount was. I didn’t look at odds or rider... or form. My father knew all there was conceivable to know about racing. He never collected a shilling. “You have to study form... know the stats.” He’d be martyred with yankee’s doubles, trebles, cross trebles, and I wondered why he couldn’t select one horse... one plain winner. I knew better than to share that thought with him.

I stopped outside to let the race occur. Pat, the bus conductor, followed me. I hadn’t seen him since Christmas Day. He was chasing a cure then. Didn’t look much like he’d found it.

“How are you doing, Pat?”

“Ary, Dillon, I’m smoking like a mad thing again... did you back anything.”

“Yeah, I did Carlo’s Choice...”

“That thing isn’t worth a shite... I hope you didn’t put much on him...”

“No... no.”

I smoked half a cigarette... and he galloped through three. You couldn’t accuse him of enjoying them. The grimaces were testimony of that. An aroma of stale booze enshrouded him. The word reek fits best. To add ridicule to the blatancy, he had chewed mints... a lotta mints.

“How are the buses these days?” I asked.

“Aw, Dillon, I’m off sick, the oul chest has bin acting up something fierce. How would you be fixed for a few quid. I can let you have it next Friday.”

I gave him a five spot and we said no more about it. He lit another cigarette and smoked off.

Ho-kay... go get that result. Carlo’s Choice won. At seventeen to one. The Bookie asked me to drop in the next morning and he’d have it “presentable.”... I didn’t know how to react to a big win. My whole life had been lived under the “fall syndrome.” Crap will fall... and regular... and on me. So you kept your head down and stored in slices of goodness quietly. If ya didn’t go a bundle on a bit of pleasantry, the Gods didn’t feel the need to chastise you later.