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

“Wilde hadn’t yet met my mother... not that she wouldn’t claim she knew all belonging to him. When does a nurse get time to read him?”

“I ain’t always a nurse.”

Stephen didn’t know what he felt for her; he did feel he didn’t want her to go.

He said,

“Don’t go.”

“And watch you drink, is it. Thanks, I’ve seen men drink, and I’ve seen mean men drink... I think you know which class you fit... I’ll say goodbye then... Oh, and thanks for the soup, no doubt I’ll find it sustaining.”

And she was gone.

He drained the second whiskey and noticed she’d touched nothing. The buttered roll sat like an insult. On his way out, the barmaid shouted,

“Hurry back!”

Stephen stood for half an hour at the bus stop. The fast whiskies had rained off and down lashed further rain. A man offered to share his umbrella. Stephen was nearly too cranky, but he said, “O.K., thanks.” The man was tall and too well dressed for bus travel. A wool suit that whispered, “a little cash.” Hand-crafted shoes that were made to taunt English weather. Pale silk shirt and a tie knotted in what used to be termed, “Windsor.” Before ties and the Royals went neck and neck down the toilet. A subtle hint of scent suggested, “ye olde Barber Shoppe.”

“Car’s in the shop,” he said.

“The wife’s got mine,” answered Stephen. And didn’t add, “plus my child.”

He smiled in the way polite liars do. A flaw was then revealed in the man’s impeccable appearance.

Rotten teeth, notorious to the point of horror.

“You’ve no work today?” he asked.

Still no hint of a bus. Stephen guessed he’d have to answer.

“No, compassionate leave.”

“Ah, good man. Might one inquire as to the nature of your calling?”

“The army.”

“Bingo... By golly, I knew it, despite your lack of hair, I recognised the bearing. I was with the Enniskillens myself. And you...?

“Fusiliers,” said Stephen, not caring a toss as to how blatant his yarns appeared.

“Capital... splendid outfit. I’m not in current employment myself.”

Stephen figured some interest as to why this was should be expressed.

“Why?”

“I’m glad you asked me that. The day they took Terry Waite hostage, I downed tools. Just walked right out.”

“From where?”

“Well, the B.B.C. naturally. Didn’t I say I’m a technician... and a rather good one?”

“Jeez, I hate to break this to you, but you can take up your tools again... the hostages have been released.”

The man gave a loud, cynical laugh. “Oh, those hostages have.”

“What... do you mean there are more?”

Now Stephen received a pitying look.

“There are always hostages... but the kernel of my protest, the very essence, the raison d’être of my gesture is, ‘I shall never return as long as there’s even the hint... even a smidgen of a suggestion that hostages can be taken.’”

... And still no bus. Stephen reckoned he was in that deep, he might as well find the bottom line. There always was. He asked,

“The D.H.S.S... how did they respond to your, am... ‘crusade’?”

“Nazis... not a schetzkel.”

A bus came. The man stood back and gallantly waved Stephen aboard.

“I don’t take public transport. I can’t be seen to be weakening.”

Stephen was still shaking his head as he offered a pound coin to the driver.

“No change mate.”

“What... well, just give me a ticket. Keep the change, all right?”

“No can do mate, against regulations.”

Stephen appealed to the crowded bus.

“Anybody got spare change?”

“Get a job,” roared someone.

The driver re-opened the door.

“You’re not allowed to beg on public transport, mate, against regulations.”

Whatever Gods there are lightened up or got bored. Stephen found a vein of change in the lining of his jacket. After he got the ticket, he said to the driver,

“You’re wasted in this job pal, they’re crying out for the likes of you in the D.H.S.S.”

Stephen rose on December 1st with a resolution to seriously alter his life. He’d return to literature and read one quality book a week. He spoke aloud, “Well, O.K.... a month, let’s not go totally ape-shit... and I’ll only drink on weekends. I’ll join a computer dating agency and not worry about my hair.”

He made scrambled eggs, a large tea and began to read a book by Lotus de Berrnieres. This was selected because of its dedication,

“To all those who are persecuted

for daring to think for

themselves.”

Between bites of egg, he said,

“Sounds a winner!”

Stephen was relishing a character in the book who had elevated masochism to such a level, “that he learned to smoke in his sleep.”

The phone rang. Stephen was still in throes of amusement as he said breezily,

“Hello?”

“Stephen Beck?”

“None other.”

“This is Nurse O’Brien. I’m afraid there’s been an incident here at the hospital.”

“A what...? Good Lord, is it Martin, is he all right...? hello...”

She could be heard taking a deep breath.

“I don’t really think I should go into it over the phone. Could you come to the hospital?”

“For Gods sake, is he dead, did he hang himself? Do I bring sweets or condolences? Tell me.”

“No, he’s not dead. Please come. I must go,”

... and she rang off.

The thought of his little girl zoomed into his head and he called her name like a lamentation.

“Suzy... little Suzy.”

He could feel the warmth of her tiny hand and looked down. Looked down, half in dread that he might see her tiny fingers. What he saw was the fork with a dilapidated shot of scrambled eggs still clinging. Flung it across the room and said,

“I always hated fuckin’ eggs.”

The phone rang.

Snapping it, he shouted,

“Hello.”

“Stephen, no need to shout, it’s B.B.”

“For Jaysus-sake, Mother... What?”

“Got out of the wrong side of bed, did we?”

“Was there something you wanted, Mother?”

“I’ve had some news about Nina.”

“Nina...! What have you got to do with her?”

“I can’t go into it on the phone.”

“Jeez-louise, you don’t know a Nurse O’Brien, do you?”

“What...? When can you come over?”

“Tonight, Martin’s in some kind of trouble.”

“Plu-eeze, Stephen, don’t mention that boy to me, he’s a heart scald. I sent him a ‘Get Well’ card and he never replied, the little pup.”

“‘Get Well’ card! Mother, it’s not the friggin measles, he’s in a mental hospital. Look, I’ll see you tonight...” and he banged the phone down. Give her a sore ear for a bit.

Then he remembered the Walkman for Martin. “Ker-ist,” he thought, “I’d better stop off at the market.” He rang a mini-cab and told them he’d be outside the Oval tube station.

The station thronged with winos and panhandlers.

A guy was roaring at the height of his lungs,

“Buy the Big Issue... Buy...”

It seemed to Stephen it must be like a bad night in Beirut. The cab came. A Pakistani driver whose geography was as bad as his English, got hopelessly confused by the roundabout at the Elephant and Castle, and twice ended up heading for the Oval.

Stephen said,

“Yo, buddy... let’s pack this in. I’ll walk. I’d like to get to the market before next Sunday. How much?”

“Fifteen pounds, friend.”

Stephen gave him four pound coins, and said,

“Leave it out, Buddy, O.K.... I’m a Londoner and not a fuckin’ tourist, O.K.... just don’t start. You might consider a new career with British Rail.”