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

The market stall resumed and he made a steady income. Electrical goods of all descriptions and watches. If pressed for a quality rating on these, he’d have said, “Shiny.” Shone they did but briefly. Surprisingly few people complained and he was doing all right. For some, it is written, comes a horseman, for Stephen it came November. To paraphrase Scott Fitzgerald, “it was always that month in the darkness of his soul.”

November 5th

He lost his daughter.

Martin’s breakdown.

His Mother’s birthday.

And

The stall was crowded.

A line of Korean lighters called Tippos were moving fast. The sun was actually shining and Stephen felt, if not contentment, at least a respite from nothingness.

A man stood directly before him. “I shall require your attention.”

“Not like that old son.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The sunglasses, Squire. I’m not talking to a set of black frames. I know my Paul Newman cinema. Next, two Tippos, a wise investment — need a bag?”

The man didn’t budge, said something Stephen only vaguely caught, something about bats.

“No bats here old son, least not till the sun goes down.

“Could you move out of the way, I have a business to run...”

“Your business is exactly why I’m here. V-A-T... I should have to see your returns.”

“What, now?”

What he thought was, “Oh shit,” and debated legging it.

The man read him exactly.

“Let’s do this quietly, shall we... No playing silly beggars, eh, there’s a good chap.”

Stephen stared at him.

“Silly beggars! I can’t believe you actually said that... this isn’t Coronation Street , nobody talks like that!”

“Wotcha say me ole cock we nip down the old Bush & Bull... drink a few old toddys...”

“... Do us a bleeding favour.”

Which was probably the wrong way to deal with officialdom. His stall was impounded and he’d be notified of a court appearance. The sun continued to shine on the other traders. Rodney, the oldest trader, came to commiserate.

“Bad break son, want me to come to court with you?”

“Thanks Rod, yeah, that would be good.”

“How’s Martin, is he still something in the city?”

“Well... not in the city.”

“And yer old Mum, how’s she then?”

“Still smoking.”

“Ah Stevie, you only get the one... Ought to watch out for yer old Mum, know what I mean?”

“Believe you me, I know exactly what you mean.”

As they hauled his livelihood away, he managed to palm one of a new line of watches. The irony of stealing from himself was not entirely lost on him. He did what you’d do after such an event.

Drink.

The pub near Waterloo was packed. Train robbers and florists.

Much the same thing these days. Service was fast and furious. No food available. Not a place for dabblers. You went there to get micky-arsed. Darts, pool, etc. were never mentioned. Look for a soft drink and you’ll be whistlin’ Dixie for it. No decoration or photos. A sole mammoth poster behind the bar proclaimed,

“Elvis has left the building.”

Stephen hurriedly got on the other side of several large scotches. The glow began in the pit of his stomach and climbed delicately up behind his eyeballs. Such times he almost had a sense of fellowship so that even his mother couldn’t have upset him.

He checked his new watch. It was either midnight or noon... and remained thus.

“Uh... uh,” he thought.

Russian made, not bad to look at. Just as well as it didn’t appear it had a whole lot else to recommend it.

“Pay V.A.T.?”

On these... oh yeah sure. The man next to him was humming quietly. It had the vaguest relation to Colonel Bogey, he had the cut of a docker.

The drink was cruising in Stephen’s system, and he thought,

“Such men are the salt of the earth, made England what she was.”

He asked,

“Do you have the time please?”

The man slow turned and asked,

“What’s that on yer wrist?”

Stephen thought-switched, “A bad bastard... and a big one.”

“What’s it look like, it’s stopped.”

“What make is it?”

Stephen felt fury obliterate his bonhomie.

“Jeez, what is this, a quiz... I ask you the time, you hit back with fifty questions. It’s Swiss.”

Huge guffaw from the man.

“Swiss... Christ son, where have you been, the Swiss lost interest... they’re totally into chocolate... Look.”

And here he shoved a meaty wrist under Beck’s nose, resplendent with an instrument fit to launch rockets, he continued,

“Tells the time all over the world.”

“Wonderful... Congratulations. Does it by any chance give an idea of the time in S.E. London? Remember where I came into this conversation?”

“Hey, don’t get sniffy with me my lad, I’ve a son your age.”

The scotch bellowed thru Stephen. “You can take him,” it urged. He listened to it and said,

“Do you think if you gave him a call, he might know the fuckin’ time?”

“Time! Time is it, laddy... maybe time you learnt some manners.”

But whatever he was drinking veered off him in another direction. Mellowness suddenly lit his face.

“What would you think I do, laddie... Go on, take yer best shot.”

Stephen debated a right hook to the jaw... but said, “The docks... you’re a loader, are you?”

High indignation lit the man’s face. He shot two ploughs of hands into the air. Stephen near ducked.

“Docker... these are artist’s hands, laddie. I knew Salvador Dali. I’ve suffered like he did. Gala made a pass at me once... Yo, barman, bring us a bunch of drinks.” The barman did.

Stephen wondered who Gala was. “Who was Gala then?”

The man slurped some major alcohol.

“Gala was his Belle Dame... and not an ounce of mercy in the bitch, not a friggin’ drop. When I met her, she was having live-cell injections. Course she wrote the book on plastic surgery. Alas, all of it became unglued, (so to speak) — and,”

he gave a manic laugh,

“— She was like a walking exploded boil.”

“Jaysus,” said Stephen, who could see her.

“Dali abandoned her. I took my work away from him then. He spent seven years, begging for death, lying alone in a black room... and drip fed...”

Stephen slipped quietly from his stool and stole out. The man was booming.

“Augustus John, now there was a Titan... And women, he’d ride yer mother.”

“Don’t think so,” muttered Stephen.

The fresh air walloped him and he gasped.

“Cripes, I’m well pissed.”

A wino waylaid him.

“Penny for the guy.”

“Here, give him a watch, it’s Russian so he can do his bit for Glasnost.”

As Stephen crossed Waterloo Bridge, he glanced back. The wino hadn’t moved. He was shaking the watch then holding it to his ear. Seconds later, he was chasing a pedestrian in an attempt to flog it.

“A nation of shopkeepers,” belched Stephen.

Back on the Oval, Stephen looked long into the bathroom mirror.

“Is it on meself or do I look less bald?”

This was a regular occurrence, he’d drink way, way past target and believe his hair was returning. Alcohol as a hair restorative was a secret hope. Some saw elephants, he saw follicles. Come sleep, come baldness anew.

Two days later, he took his dictionary to the table.

This, too, was a Penguin edition.

“MARTYR.”

1) One who is put to death for a cause, esp. a religion.

2) Victim of constant (self-inflicted) suffering.

Time to visit Martin.

A nurse said to him, “After you visit Martin, might I have a word.”

Her badge read, “Emma O’Brien.”

A little over five foot two, she had soft auburn hair to her shoulders. Stark blue eyes were huge in her head. A button nose highlit a mouth that was built to turn down. Her face and personality had other plans. A slight Irish lilt gave a gentleness to whatever she said.