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

He was staring.

She said, “So, see something you like, fella?”

“Wot... oh right... am... I’m a sucker for anyone in uniform.”

“I’d say you got the sucker bit right...”

Martin was dressed in black, a jet-black track suit. White trainers had smudged as black as he could make them. A book lay open in his lap. Stephen started to speak but was shushed as Martin began to read,

“As he paces in

cramped circles, over and

over the movement

of his powerful soft strides

is like a ritual

dance around a

centre

in which

a mighty will

stands paralysed.”

“Know that?”

“I don’t.”

“It’s Rilke. ‘The Panther’. I found it in their library here. Pretty depressive dude all round, but he’s in the right place. You’re thinking I’m in black for the poem. Right.”

“Actually I was thinking I’d murder for a cup of tea.”

“Oh, we’ll get you that... I’m in mourning for the person people hoped I’d be.”

“I didn’t hope you’d be anybody else.”

“What else can you say. Who cares though, who the fuck cares what you think.”

This fair obliterated conversation for a time. Martin said,

“I got a ‘Get Well’ card from Mother. Do you want to see it?”

“Am, not just now, maybe later.”

“She addressed it to Martin Bic... does she think I’m a biro now?”

“It’s so the postman won’t know you... or her.”

“What, do we know him? Anyway, she signed it B.B. What do you know about that?”

“It’s a long story and a pathetic one.”

Martin leapt to his feet.

“Nurse O’Brien, oh Nurse, two teas please.”

Stephen began to protest but was cut off.

“You want the fucking tea or don’t you?”

Nurse O’Brien brought two mugs. One had a logo for Rambo, the other read, “I’m your honey.” Stephen took that. She asked,

“So lads, any biscuits or jam fancies for ye?”

They declined. Stephen drank, it was strong and kicked. Martin flicked his wrist and turned his mug over on his legs. The hot tea caused a rapid small cloud to rise. He smiled.

“They expect this sort of behaviour. Now you know why I wore black.”

Stephen felt like rage personified, he bit on the edge of the mug for control. An urge to flake Martin to an inch of his petulant hide was overwhelming.

“Do you ever think of Dad?” asked Martin.

Mr. Beck had left when they were toddlers. Nothing had been heard of him since. Mrs. Beck had been linked to a man named Stan for fifteen years, but that’s a later story.

“No... no, I don’t.”

“I miss him, Steve. I never knew him and I miss him. Daresay I say, isn’t that madness.”

“I don’t... miss him... that is... he’s a non-runner, an early withdrawal. He barely made it to the starting post, as it was. But I guess he’s the English streak in me... You know I drop litter on the street, then I sneak back and put it in a bin.”

Martin laughed, a real sound.

“Well, Steve, we’ll keep a bed for you here.”

“Thanks!”

“I don’t think you’ll find a more English Englishman than T. E. Lawrence.”

“Lawrence of Arabia?”

“Yea... same guy. I like to think Dad is in the desert, looking at vast expanses of nothing and those amazing skies.”

“Sure, full of scud missiles and other air-to-ground beauties.”

“Last week I tired to read ‘The Seven Pillars of Wisdom,’ drives you mental, but one piece, I learnt it for you. Want to hear it?”

Stephen didn’t, God knew he didn’t.

“A little later, yea, I’m still digesting Rilke.”

Martin stood, cleared his throat, and began,

“‘All men dream but not equally,

Those who dream by night

in the dusty recesses of their minds

wake up in the day

to find that it was vanity.’”

Stephen was unsure whether the recitation was concluded. It wasn’t.

“‘But the dreamers of the day

are dangerous men

for they may act

their dreams with open eyes,

to make it possible.’”

“So, Stevie baby, how do you like them apples?”

“Is there a point to this?”

“There will be, oh you can count on that.”

Martin stood up.

“Will you go now, I’m tired of you.”

“What... oh, O.K.... is there anything I can get you?”

“Yea, actually there is... a Walkman, I’d like to blot out the shrieks in here. You sell them, don’t you?”

Stephen didn’t think it opportune to mention his V.A.T. trouble. He said,

“I’d be glad to... any tapes you’d like?”

Martin gave a look of pure cunning.

“Oh, Steve, I’ve my own tapes. I’ve been listening to them for a long, long time.”

“Well, if you’re sure. I’ll say goodbye then.”

“Say anything the fuck you like, just the fuck go.”

Nurse O’Brien put five fingers in the air. He guessed she’d see him in five minutes or at five... in four hours time. He spotted a hardback chair and sat. A man came right up to him. He wore a puke green track suit and had glasses on a gold chain around his neck. These he lifted and used to look crossly at Stephen... who was thinking he’d like a share in the manufacturers of track suits.

“You’re sitting in my chair.”

“What... oh sorry, there wasn’t a name on it.”

“Well, get off it.”

“Jeez O.K.... they need to increase your medication pal.”

The man pulled a spotless white hankie from his pants and brushed the chair vigorously. Stephen wanted to put a shoe in his ass, but reckoned the poor bastard couldn’t help it.

Nurse O’Brien appeared, with a navy mac over her uniform.

“Time to join me for my coffee break, Mr. Beck?”

“Sure... yes, I do. That guy in the grey track suit?”

“Dr. O’Connor.”

“You’re kidding... Jeez, well, I tell you, book him a bed... He’s already got a chair.”

“He’s a marvel.”

“He’s friggin whacko is what he is.”

“Now, now, Mr. Beck.”

“Call me Stephen, will you.”

“I could do that, yes... There’s a small café just on Denmark Hill, they do a nice pot of tea.”

Stephen groaned, and she looked at him. Understanding kicked in and she smiled.

“However, the pub does a healthy soup.”

He thought, “she has definite potential.”

This pub was aimed at the leisure classes, which accounted for its emptiness. A barmaid took their order, soup, roll and a large scotch. When the order came, the barmaid asked enough to ransom a small sultan. Stephen walloped the scotch. Emma looked on the verge of uttering,

“You needed that.”

He said,

“I needed that... so Nurse... or Sister, was there a specific topic?”

“Please call me Emma... I wanted to know if your Martin has a mother... I mean... do ye... I think that’s what I mean.”

“What, you think we found him under a bush. Yes... we have a mother. Do you?”

“Oh dear... yes, I worded that badly. On Martin’s form, under parents, he put dead .”

The barmaid reappeared.

“Anything else?”

Stephen glared.

“What, you rushed off your feet or something? Yea, another large scotch... Emma, anything?”

“No, thank you.”

“Our parents are alive, well sort of. Good ole Dad is M.I.A., and dear ole Mom... well, she’s something else.”

“A dysfunctional unit?”

“Is that the same as fucked? Yea, that’s us all right.”

Emma made to rise and said,

“Oscar Wilde would have loved you Stephen. He said,

‘One begins by loving one’s parents,

After a while, one judges them,

Rarely, if ever, does one forgive them.’”