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

I learnt the first rule of gambling. Look like a loser. Get that serious expression. Yeah, this is serious business. My heart didn’t buy a word of this and bellowed and palpitated to its own celebration. Greece, I could go to Julie’s Greece. If she was going to live there, I could take my holiday to coincide. I didn’t know how delighted she could be. But I felt it would go well... right!

Not exactly.

I went to my flat to collect Julie’s spare key. We had a reciprocal arrangement on this. I bought a bottle of that ouzo she was always raving about. Let’s get this Greek show on the natived road.

I rang first... no reply. I’d leave the ouzo in her kitchen and that would knock a stir from her. It wouldn’t. Nor would anything else... ever again. She was in bed and she sure looked like she was only sleeping. The empty Seconal bottle was minding the empty vodka. Lethal buddies. Both helped prop up the white envelope... “Young Dillon” was written there.

The power of T.V. I felt for a pulse. No. Carlo was nowhere to be found. Nor did I ever clap an eye on him again. I called an ambulance and got the taxi rank to contact her father. I took the envelope and without any hesitation... the ouzo.

The following evening I had a coffee with Mr. Brady. He looked like I felt... spaced.

“Was there a note or anything?” he asked.

“No,” I said. I was thinking of how I’d lent her that Mailer book two years before. Was that where she’d picked up on the Seconal. Guilt by any other name. The power of dubious literature.

That morning I’d collected my winning. Well over £1500.

“Mr. Brady, I want you to take this, it’s towards the cost of the funeral. Please let me do this...”

He gave me a slow look. Then he took the envelope.

“I think I know why it is you went to all them funerals.”

“Do you?”

“Nobody went to your father’s... not even yerself... it’s as if you decided funerals in future would have at least one mourner. Would that be right?”

“Tis close enough.”

... and it was.

“You won’t be at... at J... U... L... at this funeral... will you?”

“No sir.”

... and I wasn’t.

A big turn-out by all accounts...

Later that night... I had a mug of ouzo... foul stuff... like a wino’s pernod. But mebbe it grew on you; I’d be finding out... soon. Julie’s envelope contained only these lines, nowt else...

    dear eddie

       ... this legacy will explain everything and shed light on nothing .

    “leave you

    the leavings of

    an inarticulated thanks

    — will you

    the echoes of the lives

    as yet un-writ

    term you

    the keeper of my conciliatory heart

    that heart

    as mortgage held”

Was it on meself or did this ouzo grow on you... more of it...

Characters Concluding

O’Malley’s case was heard. He was fined five hundred pounds. The muttering beneath his breath of the traditional form “ya bollix” may have contributed to the six months hard labour he also received... to be served in Mountjoy Prison. Which is a far enough shout from Kilburn High Road.

Carlo , the dog, never turned up. I like to think he found himself another Julie. But that’s unlikely. She was kinda rare...

“Bad Weather” continues to hold his fixed opinion on climatic conditions.

Ted dropped his earring and has become vocal and tiresome in local politics. A bright future seems certain.

Robbie has begun to follow the funerals.

Raoul got run-over.

The three thugs are thugging.

Rooney , the tea-trolley maestro, got a stroke. He is now the recipient of dead tea and deader biscuits.

Marisa got engaged to Ted. She’s involved in the arts and reads poetry at Race Meetings, or is it the other way round?

Nurse Allison Brown is dating a fading security guard... she seems happy.

The Funerals are still running... on the usual daily basis... or so I hear.

The winos... there’s a new batch on the Square... but leaderless, insofar as I can tell.

Pat , the bus conductor, is being dried-out in the local hospital. He continues to smoke.

Gurteen is attempting to convert “Eileen” Nestor’s Pub into-late nite disco. He still manages to put in some part-time psychopathing.

Mr. Darcy (Marisa’s father) started drinking and is a regular fixture (if not attraction) of the early morning houses.

Mrs. Darcy got religion.

And Julie’s father... well... he’s staying sober.

   “Funeral III”

   “of

      the

         wino”

   Blame it on...

   an intuition

   I hadn’t heard

   and

   certainly

   would night on certainly

   believe

   a life

   upon the streets

   At least for long

   I’d not survive

   the sabotage in hope

   for far too long

   I’d lived

   one drink

   above despair

   the turning to

   the Kings Arms Public

   House

   A hearse

   Before

   I watched a wino

   place

   his hand above his

   heart

   I’d know

   a cap

   if he had owned

   would slow... and

   very slow remove

   shake-so

   the shakes... dis-

   regarding

   ... “A silence in Respect”...

   the cortege pass... press-on... to

   press

   his hand... the day across

   this moment new

   passed nigh beyond

   the oldest explanation

   a hand towards

   expectations

   not renewed

   the coffin doesn’t pass

   the rich hotels

   that cater to

   the very rich... exclusively

   their hands

   towards the exhortations

   aren’t shaped.

      The

         End...

“He-cups... that’s what I call them.”

“Excuse me?

“That’s my little pet name for them. You think that’s chauvinistic I suppose.”

Beck didn’t suppose anything... save the man was an ejit. The rumble of the tube train could be heard. People milled forward. The man moved right up to Beck, continued,

“Hey... hey, sonny, I’m talking to you... too much to expect a reply... is it? Too snooty to answer a person?”

A faint but persistent hiccup was indeed evident. Beck turned, said,

“Faint ones are a symptom of AIDS.”

“What... Are you serious?”

“I don’t know. I mean... personally I don’t know. But according to The Lancet ...”

Beck let him digest that... the train was fast approaching. He reckoned he’d the man nigh full primed. Another little push...

“The Lancet is...”

“I know what the flaming thing is. Christ on a bicycle... they’d know... I mean... they’re the experts...”

“Gotcha,” thought Beck and, “now.” He let his expression darken and just before he hopped the train, said, “It’s the masculine ones... the he-chaps... they’re the ones to do you in.”