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

Stephen would.

Rodney had arranged the function after. A blond lady in her early 20s hooked on Rodney’s arm. She had a pale, beautiful face and her short black mini was like a magnet. Stephen reckoned it was Rodney’s daughter as Rod was the outlaw side of fifty.

“This is Vikki, the Missus.”

“What?”

“Yea, Steve, every bugger says that. What did she see in an old lag like me... eh.”

Vikki gave a tiny smile. As the function ended, she said something to Stephen. Not hearing what she’d said, he said,

“Thank you. I’ll miss her dearly.”

She dug her nails in his arm, and near hissed,

“I’m going to ’ave you, and soon.”

Stephen muttered.

“In the midst of death, there is life, and if me stirrings are anything to go by... a lotta life. Thank you Lord. I owe you a big one, big guy.”

The following morning, Stephen called on the solicitor. Coffee was served and Simon Alton began,

“Do you have any idea of your Mother’s worth, Mr. Beck?”

Stephen had known her worth a long time, but perhaps it was inappropriate to share this early.

“Please call me Stephen. No, I don’t.”

“Right... am... Stephen, she owned the flat in Clapham and it’s of substantial value. Your Father made many shrewd investments in her name, and she added to them over the years... She has included Stanley Rice in her will, he receives five hundred pounds.”

“What... I thought you said she was loaded... I mean comfortable.”

“Ah... well, Stephen, she didn’t trust men, her view of them was somewhat... shall we say, tarnished?”

“Good word... I like that... shall we cut to the chase.”

“She felt Martin had made his own fortune, and...”

“Yea.”

“The bulk of the estate goes to you.”

“Jay-sus... you’re kidding.”

“I’ll have the exact figures for you in a few days, but, suffice to say... you are an extremely wealthy young man.” Stephen wanted to yell, “Yipee!” but kept a deadpan face and said,

“I see.”

“Might I be so bold as to propose a number of schemes to ensure the continued prosperity?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry... perhaps you misunderstood me, my guidance...”

“I said, N — O”

“Might I know why?”

“I don’t know you and I don’t want to, I’ll handle my own affairs.”

“This is most irregular.”

“That too.”

Outside he said,

“Rich... I’m fuckin wealthy... oh, yes.”

He rang Stan and arranged to meet him at the Rose and Crown in Clapham. Nearing lunch time the pub was beginning to fill. Stephen ordered two large vodkas and tonics — V.A.T.s — and found a quiet corner.

Stan arrived, he was dressed in a duffel coat and though not clutching a cloth cap, Stephen felt it couldn’t be too far away.

“Afternoon, Stan.”

“Good afternoon, Stephen.”

He smelled the vodka and didn’t touch it, said,

“A little early for the hard stuff... my usual tipple is half a mild. Moderation in...”

“Ah, don’t be such a prick.”

Stan’s face remained impassive. He said,

“You are aware... well, yes, you know your dear Mother and I had an arrangment of many years duration... I feel she would have liked me to reside in the Clapham flat. We shared many memories there.”

“Naw... never happen old son.”

“I’m sorry... I...”

“Don’t be sorry, Stan, just give me the keys you have and then, basically, on yer bike.”

Stan swallowed the vodka.

Stephen said,

“Your shout Stan... get ’em in... they’re large ones... there’s a good chap.”

Stan did.

They settled again and Stan said,

“I appreciate you’re under a lot of stress, and perhaps later...”

“Cut the shit, Stan... eh, let me ask you... did you go to see Martin?”

“Well no... I didn’t think it appropriate.”

Stephen drained the vodka, stood, and said,

“Righty ho... have yer gear out by the end of the week...”

Stan grabbed his arm.

“I know, lad, we mightn’t have been close, but I felt I was there in the background for you boys. Your Mother would be very... distressed... I mean...”

“Hey, take yer hand off... my Mother is all through with feelings... and you... Stanley... You go fuck yerself... O.K.... Is that plain enough, is that ‘no frills’ message clear?”

He shook his arm free and outside he looked at the Common, and said,

“Nice day for it...”

As he waited for the tube, he thought about Martin, how he loved Scott Fitzgerald. The lines he repeated like a prayer,

“the horror has now come like a storm

what if this night prefigures the night after death

What if all thereafter was an eternal quivering on the

edge of an abyss

with everything base and vicious in oneself

urging one forward

and the baseness and viciousness

of the world just ahead no choice no road

no hope

Only the endless repetition of the sordid

And the semi-tragic”

“Jay-sus,” he thought... “if that was going round in yer head, you’d mebbe have to deafen yerself or take to the big drink.”

He ran the lines again in his head and thought,

“Yea. Words to live by, right enough.”

En route to the tube, he had to pass the Catholic Church. He thought he might placate the Gods; he’d been battling heavy against them, and it didn’t do to piss them off.

In he went.

The set of vodkas were singing in his head and he inhaled the smell of incense deeply. He stopped at the various shrines and poured money into each one. The Saints in statue weren’t recognisable to him, looked a little like the Osmonds he reckoned. A sort of Brady Bunch in piety.

He’d been hoping for a good grisly martyr, but they all seemed in the peak of porcelain health. As if they’d had massive doses of Valium. Each time he lit a bunch of candles, Fr. Jim had said,

“A candle is a prayer in action.”

Stephen had been schooled in Catholicism by his Mother, but had long since lapsed. The weary rituals of course were branded in his head, and he derived a melancholy comfort from them. Mrs. Beck, of course, knew all about religion and almost nothing about humanity.

To wind up Jim, he’d quote Graham Greene.

“The Church knows all the rules, but it doesn’t know what goes on in a single human heart.”

He’d read that only a Catholic Irishman, loaded with learning and cunning and soaked in the liturgy of the Church, could have produced the incredible mixture as Joyce did in Ulysses .

The he saw the statue of The Virgin Mary, all blues and whites. He moved right up close; someone had wrapped bright green Rosary beads around the clasped hands. Like handcuffs. The green crystals caught the light from the candles, and, with the vodka, gave him a dizzy feeling.

He looked up into her face. The alabaster eyes were closed. A replay of his Mother going over the balcony danced in his mind.

The Virgin’s eyes opened.

Blue... the deepest blue... bored into his brain... and then they closed.

He started to back down the aisle. A whimpering sound reached him and he was afraid to look round. Then he realised it was himself... and galloped to the door. Heart pounding, he swore,

“Never... never, as long as I live and breathe, will I tell another soul about that... and I’ll rebuild Tara... As God is my witness.”

“So,” Father Jim said, “Her eyes opened, then what did you do?’

“What did I do... I got the fuck outa there... that’s what I did. Wouldn’t you?”

“What do you think now, Stephen?”

“I dunno what to think, that’s why I’m telling you. It’s the business you’re in.”