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

Stunned, he was silent. Nina had never spoken this much in all the time he’d known her. He wanted to say “my Mother was right about you.” Looking at her face, he felt she might stab him if he did. Instead he said,

“I’ll fight you... I won’t let you take the baby... I’ll use the money to get lawyers.”

“You won’t do shit, Stephen.”

The curse was like a slap.

“You’ve never fought for a thing in your life. I don’t doubt you think you want to, but you just don’t know how...”

“Believe you me, I do and I will.”

“You’ll do nothing.”

She was right. That evening she left for her mother’s. Stephen sat in the same chair, the school brochures before him. From time to time, he’d lift one, give a soft murmur, and lay it gently back on the table. As gently, as carefully as if it was a baby. When the hall door banged, he remembered the stage direction at the end of Ibsen’s The Doll’s House . Remembered and felt forlorn.

When he was sure they were gone, he threw back his head and let loose a howl of anguish... Then he whispered,

“My Mother... my Mother... was... my...”

Unknown to himself, he’d begun to shred the brochures.

By the time darkness fell, his chair was littered with scraps of glossy paper. From a distance, the street light hit the shiny paper and suggested a picture of almost cosiness.

Soft cries, such as a baby makes, punctuated the silence.

When he’d come to trail the Martyrs in later years, it wouldn’t occur to him to check “Nina.” Eventually he would, and find no trace; saint, martyr or even blessed. A grim satisfaction followed.

During his years at college, Stephen had one close friend. A priest who had to take sociology courses as part of the new Church expansionist outlook. Fr. Jim was a mature student. Ten years older than the other students, he cultivated the professed Irishness so beloved by the B.B.C. A native of Dublin, he was over 6 foot, built to endure with a wild head of greying curls. Stephen met him as they near collided to the door of a lecture. Jim was carrying a large heavy stick. Stephen stepped back to allow him to enter first.

“Manners, Good Lord... what a rarity.”

Jim was in civvies so his calling wasn’t apparent.

“That cudgel you’re carrying would improve anybody’s manners.”

“That’s not a cudgel, yah ignoramus. You’ve no Irish connections, me boyo, or you’d know that’s a hurley.”

“A wot?”

“It’s used in the game of hurling... and before you display further ignorance, hurling is a cross between hockey and murder. That wood is ash...”

“Ash and you shall be answered.”

“That’s very poor, are you sure you’re on the right course, with wit as putrid as that, you should be in political science. Come to think of it... you have the look of a socialist... or is that socialite...”

“You don’t half talk do you. I’m Stephen... Stephen Beck.”

“Pleased to meet you, Stephen Beck. I’m Jim Nealy... in fact, I’m Father Jim Nealy... what do you think of that?”

“To tell the truth, I’m more impressed with the hurley.”

“Wise man... let’s go in and get educated... O.K.? Mebbe later we’ll get a drink. You do drink, don’t you?”

“Does the Pope dictate?”

“... Less of that, boyo... you don’t know me yet.”

Two days after Nina’s departure, Stephen moved from the flat. He gathered up all the booze they had. Quite a selection.

   Scotch

   Crème de Menthe

   Rosé wines

   Port

   Pernod

   Guinness

   and even four of a lethal number called Arak.

He poured all into the blender, a wedding present, and let it rip. The he took the baby’s bottles and filled six of them with this cocktail from hell.

They were lined up next to the armchair. Next, he prepared the music. A mix of

   Emmylou Harris

   Sex Pistols

   The Messiah

   And Jose Carreras.

He set the control to repeated play. Finally, he put on a battered pair of 501’s and a Lakers sweatshirt. And in his bare feet, he gingerly in the chair.

“Let us now begin,” he muttered, and chuzzled a swallow of the first bottle. The Sex Pistols began to roar as it hit his stomach. As “Anarchy in the U.K.” stormed, he felt the bombshell hit.

“Oh, for the love of God,” he screamed, as the urge to vomit began. “Stay, ya bad bastard.”

It did. As the bottles emptied, he hollered out of key, out of tune, but mainly out of his head. The music kept pace.

At one point he believed the door opened and left it thus, sinking back into the chair. If an armchair had been sometimes described as the neurotic’s workshop, then his seat was a monument to flagellation.

He felt finally a hand slapping his face, and fought against the climb to consciousness. The slaps continued.

“Stop frigging that,” he roared and looked up into the face of Fr. Jim. His hand, trembling, reached up to touch his friend’s face.

“Are you real?”

“To the bane of Protestants everywhere, that I am.”

Stephen began to cry and the priest put his arm round and began to rock him. He said,

“Sure, why wouldn’t you bawl. Anyone who had to listen to that racket of music need never do another day’s penance.”

Later, he persuaded Stephen to shower and change clothes. As he began to tidy up, he smelled the baby’s bottle.

“Lord God, I can only pray you weren’t feeding this to the child.”

“No... it was me.”

“And did you never hear of glasses? Sit down there and I’ll make you some hot broth.”

He didn’t inquire as to Nina or what had happened. Such is friendship.

Stephen said,

“Are you wondering what happened?”

“No, if you need to tell me, you probably will.”

“Because I’m conditioned to tell a priest, is it?”

“Ah, don’t turn nasty, I’m your friend whether you tell me or not, and no matter what you tell me.”

“I never understood why you’re my friend.”

“Me neither.”

“She’s gone... and the baby, too.”

A wave of despair rocked him, and he bit his clenched fist to suppress a howl of anguish hammering at his heart. Jim moved to him and gave him a hug like he’d never experienced. They were locked thus when a voice from the doorway said,

“Well, I never... have ye people no shame, or is an open door an essential part of the kick?”

Mrs. Beck, resplendent in a bright green track suit, green trainers and a distinctly yellow tinge to her hair. Her hand held the inevitable cigarette.

Jim leapt back. Stephen said,

“Mother, this is Father Jim.”

“A priest... worse. I’ve heard stories of course, but one never expects to have it shoved in one’s face... and one’s own son.”

“Shut up Mother, just shut the fuck up... What’s all this ‘one’ business? You’re Irish for Godsakes... not some Tory outrider.”

Jim made to leave. Unfortunately, so did Mrs. Beck.

Stephen said,

“Maybe you’d better go, Jim. Mother’s about to pull her concerned parent number. It won’t stop her smoking, but it’s nearly always hysterical.”

Jim left quietly, promising to call later. Mrs. Beck began to rock and waul; this was the Irish wailing and lamenting. Even without a hangover, it’s rough.

Gradually, Stephen had returned to the world. The following four years were merely significant for their insignificance. His daughter’s photo disappeared from the pub, replaced for a time by Arthur Scargill. But he, too, had a sell-by date and Elvis now alone remained. Some icons are built for endurance. Stephen moved to the flat near the Oval and Martin went down the toilet.