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

His mood deteriorated as he saw the crowds on E. Street. Time was burning in his head. Rodney, the market perennial, came out of the caff.

“Steve, what’s the story?”

“Rodney, am I glad to see you or wot. I have to get hold of a Walkman... for Martin, he’s... well, you know he’s away.”

“No worries, son, give me five minutes.”

Back he came, with the latest Japanese model.

“Yo, Stevey, this is state of the art. It does everything, in fact... treat it right and it will even walk the dog for yah.”

“Smashin... what’s the damage?”

“Tell you what, I might be able to put a bit of work your way, and there might be a drink innit for the both of us. Take it as a sub. Alrite.”

“Yea, wonderful.”

“So give us a bell towards the end of the week.”

A wino bumped into Stephen and he nearly dropped the Walkman.

“Sorry Sur... so sorry.”

Stephen noticed the man had a full head of hair. Tangles, dirty, but definitely luxuriant... He realised he’d never seen a bald wino. Had he discovered a cure, albeit a rough one. “Lose everything, but save your hair.”

He spotted a No. 12 bus and managed to leap on to the platform. Anxiety or speculation as to Martin’s condition hadn’t had time to torment him. Rushing into the hospital, he asked at reception for Nurse O’Brien. A teenager, a girl with spiked blond hair, was waiting in admission. She had her head in her hands and was moaning quietly. A small bag with “ADIDAS” logo was beside her Doc Martens, the scuffed laced up boots were tapping rapidly.

Nurse O’Brien appeared.

“Dr. O’Connor will see you now, Mr. Beck.”

“Mister... what happened to Stephen?”

“Really, Mr. Beck, I thought it would be more important to know what’s happened to Martin.”

Thus reprimanded, Stephen was led into an office. The doctor was behind a desk, reading a file. One chair, hard-backed, in front. This was the doctor who ordered Stephen from a chair on the last visit. He didn’t look up. Stephen said,

“Will I just park it anywhere?”

Dr. O’Connor looked up... he had half-framed glasses which he straightened and peered through.

“Ah, the brother.”

Stephen thought, “Uh... uh.”

“Your brother...” Here he picked up the file, checked something with his finger, snapped the file shut, and continued, “Your brother, Martin, got hold of two forks from the refectory, and somehow used them... to...”

He hesitated. Stephen knew he was supposed to say something here, but all he could think of was the Les Dawson line, “POOR, you want to talk poverty? Till I was 16, I thought cutlery was jewelry.”

He didn’t say this and waited. The doctor said,

“He used these to puncture his eardrums... Rather seriously I’m afraid.”

“Jesus Christ... what!”

“He’s under sedation now, of course, but it would appear that the severity of the... action... will mean, he’s going to be permanently deaf.”

The room spun. Stephen could see the doctor, his mouth forming words, but for an instant, he too, was deaf. In that moment, something died in him. He felt a huge kick of pain and then it finished. Dazed, he felt reality return.

“Mr. Beck... Mr. Beck, are you all right?” The doctor was standing over him, shaking his shoulders.

“Get your hand off me.”

“Mr. Beck, I realise it’s a bit of a shock, but practicalities must be discussed.”

“So... let’s discuss them.”

“Well, we can’t really keep Martin here, the risk of further incidents.”

“Private... get him in a private place.”

“There are excellent facilities, but a bit costly.”

“Do it then, I’m good for it.”

Stephen stood up. The doctor extended his hand,

“I’ll be in touch.”

Outside, at reception, Stephen saw the teenager still waiting. He said,

“Here, have a Walkman.”

She took the machine and looked at it closely.

“Where’s the batteries?”

“In it.”

“Got any tapes?”

Stephen didn’t answer, and headed for the exit. Nurse O’Brien came running, catching him at the door.

“Mr. Beck, where are you rushing to?”

“Fuck off.”

Outside, he thought, “Martin’s got himself a permanent Walkman.” The sounds of the world were now forever blocked out. A nightmarish thought then hit, “What if the sounds in his head, in his new silence, were worse than the world’s... what then?” Stephen clenched his fists and swore quietly, he swore he’d function on a harder level for pure maintenance... his and Martin’s.

There were no through trains to Morden, he got off at Kennington. The lift out of order. The spiral staircase is the steepest climb in London. Rumours are that Chris Bonnington trained for Everest there. Totally knackered, Stephen emerged to a deserted station, save for one lone Santa who blocked his path. Gasping, Stephen asked,

“Bit early for it... isn’t it?”

“Penny for the guy?”

The smell of drink was ferocious.

“Afraid you’ve got your festivals mixed fellah.”

Santa swung at him. Stephen side-stepped, then moved in and kicked him in the balls. Santa dropped to his knees and Stephen leaned in close.

“They told us... Martin & me... As kids like, that Santa had no cobblers. Another myth gone... eh? But there’s something for the guy,” and head-butted him.

A couple looked in... decided not to take the tube. The man muttered,

“Muggin’ Santa now.”

He went home, lay on his bed and waited for the time to visit his mother. Waited and grieved.

He couldn’t... and indeed, never had, grieved more for a lover lost than he did for Martin. If he couldn’t ever now speak to him, then he was as if he were dead to him. When Fr. Jim’s Mother had died, he’d quoted a poem of James Joyce. Stephen couldn’t remember all of it but he could hear the solemn, measured tones of Jim as he said the lines. Now Stephen repeated what he could remember, and repeated them softly, over and over...

“She Weeps Over Rahoon”

“Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling

where my dead lover lies

sad is his voice that calls me sadly calling

at grey moonrise”

He knew he’d spend the rest of his life calling to Martin. He knew, too, that his voice would never reach him.

Then the anger began to seep to his heart, and he felt if he could hug that cold rage, he could function and continue. Thus he began to mutter,

“Someone’s to blame, it’s got to be some fucker’s fault, and by Christ, some bastard will pay. The tab will be paid.”

It was evening when he stirred. Amazement hit him as he realised he hadn’t gone on the piss. A change indeed had fastened to him, part hate, part madness, he knew, and said,

“Whatever gets you through.”

He thought of his Mother and his upbringing. She had never neglected them as regards food, clothing and the essentials. But she had wielded a subtle campaign of belittlement and undermining. It wasn’t a coldness in her, but an insidious spite. Fr. Jim had said,

“It’s not

‘Forgive them

for they know not what they do,’

Because, alas,

They do know.”

He’d gone on to say that

“You can search for all the motivation in the world

and make every allowance but every now and then,

a person appears who’s just a nasty piece of work.”

“Amen to that,” said Stephen.

Stan, her “companion,” was a constant visitor to the house. Like a shadow, you knew he was there but you didn’t notice. A gruff man from Yorkshire, he had elevated the concept of unobtrusiveness to a fine art. Stan’s face looked like someone had flung a pan of grease into it. Not only had it stuck, it had set. Stephen reckoned there was a factory up there that produced “Stans.” They were solid and silent and said things like,