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

“Gordons... yeah, Gordons if you’ve got it.”

He wanted to add,

“And if you can spell it.”

But, priorities, drink first, insults later.

Miffed, the barman said,

“Would sir require lemon?”

“Yea, float one of those suckers in there.”

Large gulp and the glass was empty. Stephen felt it hit his stomach like bad news. Exactly what he’d planned.

The barman tapped his own bald head.

“When did your thatch leg it?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not a difficult question, when did you go bald?”

Each time was like a fresh shock — somehow. Stephen hoped it was like the flu... unpleasant but of limited duration. He never believed truly HE was bald. Receding maybe, strong forehead... OK even, Godhelpus, stripped temples... these could be borne. But bald, so blunt and final.

Stephen had no answer to give so he didn’t even try.

That the pub had a rep for violence was no surprise. People probably stood in line to pump the crap out of the barman.

“Let me have another Gordons, better make it a double... and have one yourself.”

“Thank you kindly... don’t mind if I do... the old stomach’s playing up... perhaps a hint of brandy & port for settlement purposes.”

They smiled.

“Cheers.”

“Good health... and hair.”

“So... no work today?”

Stephen sighed, said,

“It’s raining!”

“This prevents you working? Good grief, I hate to be the one to break this to you, seeing how we just met, but you’re living in the wrong country. To coin a bon mot,” (he pursed his lips), “but England is not renowned for its dryness... thus in fact... The Burberry...”

Surely, Stephen thought, one brandy couldn’t alone be responsible for this verbal onslaught. The bastard must have been nipping all morning.

“The markets. I have a stall.”

“... and no cover, thus climatic conditions have stalled operations.”

“Touché,” said Stephen, and all of a sudden he was tired of the guy.

Draining the gin, he made to leave. The barman performed what can only be described as a pirouette.

“You’ll come back and see us real soon... you hear?”

Stephen muttered,

“Not in this lifetime, pal.”

Stephen had a council flat near the Oval cricket ground. “An area coming back,” according to a quality Sunday paper. “Where had it been?” he wondered.

In an old building, the flat was basic. One bedroom, living room, bathroom, kitchen. Each room appeared smaller than the next, damper than December. The living room had one armchair, one sofa. All of one wall was lined with books. A beaten record player, still functional, propped the books. Teems of records overspilt the carpet. One large bay window had a sizable hole. Depending on his mood, he attributed it to either the Pakistan fast bowler or a 12 gauge.

Times too, he half believed it. Why not, might it indeed have been thus. He took the Saint’s Dictionary in his lap, the Penguin edition. The soft fold of the book was comfort of itself. Bend it, and in time... it slipped back to itself. Unlike Martin.

Was there a Martin the Martyr? He found this entry:

A pope no less, in 655. He fell foul of the Byzantine Emperor, Constans II. A nasty piece of work. For 47 days, Martin refused water to wash and was racked by dysentery. What food he received was enough to make him vomit. He died in the Crimea and was then deemed a martyr.

Stephen pondered this. Things weren’t quite so rough at The Maudsly. He’d have to check out the food, but didn’t imagine dysentery was a major problem. Still, in S.E. London, you couldn’t be too careful.

On a flick through the start of the book, he was startled by an entry. Yea, under B... there it was, Bee.

“Nun, Refugee from Ireland.”

Beck’s mother was Irish and her full name was Elizabeth Mary Beck née Olionnor. She’d always been called Bee.

“As I was industrious... always working.”

Stephen had never known her to do a hand’s turn. From Galway, the hometown of James Joyce’s wife.

“Oh, I knew Nora Barnacle. A plain girl.”

Impossible as this must have been, she clung to it and felt it gave her an insight into the writer.

“If he’d found a pretty girl, he wouldn’t have bothered with all that smut.”

A tall woman with striking eyes, she gave the impression of intelligence. What she was... was sick. A cunning mixed with manipulation was cloaked in sweetness. You’d nearly thank her for making you feel bad. Stephen’s most recent encounter with her had not gone well.

He’d gone round to her home off Clapham Common. Her welcome was close to manic.

“Stephen, darling... how wonderful. What a beautiful surprise.”

“Bit over the top, Mother... eh?”

She was wearing a bright pink track suit, her hair was currently fiery red. The impression was of a thunderball, blazing... And coming right at you.

“Unchained Melody” was blaring in the background. She saw herself as a child of the sixties which was as true as the Nora Barnacle yarn.

“Sit down darling... you must have smelled the tea.”

“Coffee, Mother... I don’t drink tea... Remember... it’s Martin, he drinks tea.”

“How is Martin, poor Lamb?”

“Mad.”

“Oh dear, at what?”

“Clinically mad.”

“Yes, well, I’ll get the tea.”

Stephen fell into the armchair. Such times he wished he smoked. His mother chain-smoked Silk Cut Mild and he’d inject heroin before he’d follow.

“Now isn’t this cosy.”

A large tray was placed between them. China cups, scones and a mammoth teapot.

Stephen had a malicious thought, said,

“Let’s let you be mother and pour.”

Waste of time. She’d skipped past such remarks all her life... Stored them... sure, and paid back, but later.

“Milk?” she asked.

“That’s tea... is it?”

“Yes, you asked for tea... odd, I thought you were a coffee drinker.”

He gulped the tea.

“Jesus... Mother, what is that... dried seaweed?”

“Chamomile?”

“Couldn’t you just get Lipton’s or something?”

“You’ll develop a taste for it.”

“But why would I want to?”

“Health, Stephen, treat the body well and the mind will follow. It’s not too late to save your hair.”

... Paid back.

Wearily, he took a shot.

“This... this from a smoker... no... a chain smoker.”

“Tut, Stephen, sticks and stones! There’s something I wish to ask you.”

“So ask.”

“How would you like to call me B.B.?”

“What?”

I feel the time has come to deformalize our relationship. ‘Mother’ sounds so... so cold, distant even. I think this might bring us closer.”

“Like buddies you mean?”

“Oh yes, Stephen, you’ve got it exactly. You are that clever. You could have gone so far, like Martin.”

“I’ve just been to where Martin went. I didn’t like it much.”

“You like it then... B.B.?”

“Sounds like an airgun.”

“You kidster, Stevie... Think how if we were in a restaurant, how it would sound to the waiter.”

“You’d want the waiter to call you B.B. too?”

“NO, silly... he’d hear you address me as B.B. and...”

“And what exactly. He’d tell the boys in the kitchen, there’s a bald guy calling his oul wan B.B.”

“I hate to rush you, Stephen, but then I’m expecting an important call.”

They had an awkward moment at the door. A hug was out of the question.

“Then you’ll call me B.B.?”

He looked at his shoes... then slowly met her eyes.

“Not if I live to be a hundred.”

Stephen replayed the talk with his mother on his marriage plans. At first she said nothing. Then,