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

“Mother’s ruin.”

The green liquor stood sentry as Stephen loaded down a chain of gins. He ‘n’ Jeff were getting as matey as magpies and as drunk as farts. Stephen was thinking of Oscar Wilde.

“We always kill the thing we love.”

And reckoned he’d never felt a day’s love for her... ever...

When Jeff roared,

“Stevie... hey, Steve, yer old Mum’s at the door!”

Heart pounding, Stephen turned. A slap on the back from a jubilant Jeff,

“Just kidding, buddy!.. Gotcha, yea.”

Stephen was too weak to reply. A chill began to slide down his spine. What if it had been... he visibly shook himself. Such a route was a one way ticket to Martinsville. A very drunk Jeff was leaning over the counter,

“So, Stevie, wots the story, bud, where’s the old bird, haven’t done away with her... have you... eh...”

Stephen put his hand on Jeff’s arm and looked right in his eyes.

“How would it be, Jeff, if I broke your arm... eh, Buddy how would that be?... so get the fuck outa my face...”

Jeff fell back.

“No offence... just a bit of fun...”

The fright had jolted Stephen into a wild sobriety. A powerful sexual urge swept him. He went into a phone box and sure enough, the wall was littered with personal ads.

“Buxom 20 year old gives massage.

All tastes catered for. Open till late.”

He rang and was given an address on Kennington Park Road.

The walk down increased his desire. A block of flats. He walked to the 2nd floor and rang 2B. A middle-aged woman with dark blond hair opened the door.

“I’m here to see Tania.”

“That’s me, darlin’... come in.”

The flat was spotless, as if no one lived there. Stephen said,

“You’ve aged since our call.”

“Wotcha want darlin, it’s late... I’m not into yer kinky scene,

   — no violence

   — no golden showers

   — no bondage”

“You wouldn’t have a bit of tea or toast?”

“Ain’t a caff, darlin, wotcha want?”

“Am... just the straight thing... the am... basic act.”

“Set yer back twenty-five and five for the towel and French letter.”

“You’re going to write to me?”

“A condom, darlin... So you want to play or wot?”

Stephen gave her 3 tenners. She went into another room and then called him. His desire wasn’t abating, it was downright fleeing. When he entered the room, she was dressed in suspenders and nothing else. Her “buxom” breasts were long past interest. A pot belly near finished him. She pointed to a sink.

“Give yer willy a wash and put this on.”

She handed him a small packet. He filled the sink and removed his pants.

“Hurry it up, darlin, I’m hot for you.”

He had to get her help in opening the packet, the condom highlit his lack of passion.

She appeared unfazed and lay back.

“Give it to me, big boy, you stallion.”

“Am... I wonder if we could mebbe dispense with the conversation.”

“Wotever you like, darlin, your time and money.”

He lay on top of her and she turned her head to the side.

“No kissing.”

Stephen jumped up...

“Ah fuckkit... This is ridiculous.” He thought Martin would enjoy this story and that triggered a wave of despair.

He sat and hung his head between his legs. He heard her dressing.

“Never mind, darlin, happens to the best of ’em.”

She patted his bald head affectionately and left the room. A few minutes later, she reappeared with steaming mugs of tea and toast. They ate and drank in silence. Stephen dressed and made to leave.

“You come back when you’re more in the mood, darlin, there’s a lamb.”

Back home, he thought about thirty quid for a slice of toast. He lay on his bed and was sound asleep in minutes. The phone ringing failed to rouse him.

Stephen woke at nine. The events of the night flooded in. He didn’t feel guilt, remorse, anxiety or even regret. A sour taste in his mouth was routed by toothpaste and he wondered if his lack of feeling was delayed shock. He strongly suspected it wasn’t. At college, he noted his namesake, Julian Beck, who’d said,

“We are a feelingless people. If we could really feel, the pain would be so great that we would stop all the suffering.”

He showered and exclaimed, “Dammit, I feel like whistling.” So he did. A mangled version of Colonel Bogy as he supped tea... with loud noises. He ran through his list of martyrs.

If Martin was a martyr to silence and Stan to mediocrity

then he’d have to assign his

Mother the mantle of unconsciousness.

“But not any more,” he said.

A loud banging on the door. Two men in dark overcoats. He hoped it wasn’t the V.A.T. crowd.

“Are you Stephen Francis Beck?”

“I am.”

The man produced warrant cards and asked if they might come in.

Stephen said,

“It’s a fair cop. I haven’t a T.V. licence.”

The men looked at each other.

“I’m sorry to have to inform you, Sir, that your Mother has met with an accident.”

“What... is she hurt... or is she in hospital?”

“Perhaps you’d like to sit down Sir... Baker, go and brew some tea, there’s a good chap. I’m afraid your Mother is dead, Sir. It appears she fell from her balcony.”

Stephen began to whimper,

“Oh Mom, Mom... oh, God...”

“When did you last have contact with her, Sir?”

“Yesterday. I phoned her with some rather disturbing news.”

“About your brother, was it Sir? We know about that. She took it badly, did she?”

“He was her whole life... oh, God.”

He didn’t want to overdo the whimpering and it was beginning to grate on his nerves. He decided to go for the distracted look and say nothing.

The other man brought the tea. Stephen didn’t touch it.

“It seems, Sir, she may have been drinking and leant too far over the balcony. I’m terribly sorry, Sir. Is there anything we can do?”

He wanted to say, “Forget the T.V. licence” but opted for the stiff upper lip scenario.

The man produced a slip of paper.

“This is the address of the hospital... I’ve taken the liberty of putting an undertaker’s number there, and they’ll arrange everything.”

“Thank you... thank you, you’ve been so kind.”

After they left, he washed their mugs and said,

“As easy as that, well I never!”

A thought rooted him to the spot. What if they performed an autopsy? All that would reveal was a few sips of Crème de Menthe. How then explain the empty gin and liquor?

“Don’t,” he thought... don’t try. Be as baffled as them. He’d seen too many Columbo re-runs where the suspect provided all sorts of motives and rationales.

If his crime reading had provided anything, it was that an innocent man usually didn’t have an alibi.

Still, it worried him. The big cop... he was the one.

The next few days were a blur to Stephen. A stream of sympathetic calls and he fought hard to avoid the booze. Fr. Jim came and arranged everything. Stephen adopted the role of shell-shocked son and let him. The funeral was big.

Mrs. Beck had a wide circle. Rodney and the street traders came, and Jim did the service.

Stan, suitably morose, asked if he might call on Stephen that evening — “A matter of some urgency.”

Stephen had one long-stemmed red rose which he lay on the coffin. He heard a murmur from the crowd and knew he’d played a blinder. Mrs. Beck was allergic to flowers... people too, but she hid that.

The mourners did the mourning things. Stephen felt, “Good riddance.” A small grey man in a small grey suit touched his arm,

“So sorry to intrude, I’m Simon Alton, your dear Mother’s Solicitor. Might you call on me tomorrow?”