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

Jim had come round to Stephen’s flat after a frantic nigh hysterical call. They were drinking coffee. A plate of almond slices on a saucer. Jim reached over, selected the biggest one, and took a heartening chunk.

“Well, I don’t wish to minimise the validity of your experience, but you admit you’d been drinking... and, after all the grief, the stress of your Mother’s death.”

“Jaysus, Jim... the validity of my experience... what’s this, sociology one? Talk English for fucksake... I’m telling you. Her eyes opened. I thought this sort of thing was common. I mean in Ireland, they practically appear on talk shows.”

Jim smiled and took another almond slice.

“What, Jim... did you skip breakfast or what?”

“Steve, miracles or supernatural events tend to happen to people who need convincing, they need demonstrable evidence.”

“Or a good fuckin fright!”

“Steve, could you stop swearing. It’s a bit overdone... O.K.”

“Let me ask you something, Jim. If I confide in you... are you bound to secrecy?”

“If it’s in the nature of confession... naturally... but if it’s a tip for a horse, I’d feel honour bound to divulge it to Ladbrokes.”

“Right... this is a confession... back there a bit... you mentioned my grief and stress over Mother.”

“But of course, what son wouldn’t be... When my own Mum...”

Stephen interrupted him, he couldn’t stomach the sound of Jim laying into a third almond slice, which he showed all the signs of doing.

“Ah, Jaysus, Jim... Can we skip the homily about your Mother... eh... I’ve had a long day.”

Stephen felt an overpowering need to rattle Jim, to shock him out of his smugness... and to stop him filling his face. He stood and snatched the plate with the remaining slices.

“I’d say we’ve had enough of them, Jim... eh, practice a bit of self denial or something.”

“H-m-m, they were delicious, a touch more coffee wouldn’t go astray.”

“I killed her!”

“What?... C’mon, Stevie, it was just a statue.”

“Not her... my Mother... I murdered her... so now...”

Jim shook his head, picking crumbs from his trousers.

“We all think that, Stephen, if only we’d been better sons... if only...”

“Yo... hold the fuckin phones here, buddy. I threw her over the balcony, and what’s more, I’m only sorry I didn’t do it years ago.”

Jim stood up.

“Steve, my friend... you’ve been under tremendous pressure, with Martin, your poor Mother, God bless her... I think you should talk to someone.”

“What... Are you deaf, you thick bastard, I’m talking to you.”

“Of course you are... And that’s good. A very positive sign, but it might be advisable to talk to a man of professional standing.”

“I don’t believe this, you dumb shite... Jaysus wept... maybe Martin and I could get a cut rate for a family thing.”

Jim moved and put a hand on Stephen’s shoulder.

“I’m serious, lad, you need help.”

“Ah, bollocks... go... just go.”

Jim went to the door... and said, “I’ll pray for you.”

“Gimme a break, Padre!”

A rage engulfed him. He picked up the phone and rang Rodney.

“This is Vikki... Rodney’s not home right now... Would you like to come over... and... and wait?”

He would.

Rodney’s house was in Balham. Where the muggers made housecalls. A nondescript one up building on the outside. Vikki answered the ring instantly. She was wearing a thin halter top, micro mini and the old fuck-me-fast heels.

The house inside was laden with antiques, electronic gear of every make, and deep, thick carpets.

Vikki said,

“Would you like a drink? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Jim... call me Jim,” said Stephen.

He grabbed her shoulder and slammed her against the wall. His hand pushed under her skirt and he tore the knickers aside. He reached for his zip, and as he plunged into her, said,

“Try remembering this.”

He came immediately and withdrew... his heart pounding. Vikki adjusted her few clothes.

“’Ad a good time did you... eh?”

“Well, honey... I tell you, it hit the spot.”

“Not mine it didn’t.”

She moved to a huge wooden world globe. It came apart to reveal a bar. He considered quoting Andy Warhol, “Sex is the biggest nothing of all time.”

“Vodka?”

“Lovely... no ice but a wee smidge of tonic.” He decided to pass on Warhol.

Stephen stretched on a recliner.

“I tell you, Vikki, a man could get used to this.”

“Don’t get too comfortable Jimmy... Rodney will be back soon and he’s not going to be pleased. Oh no, he’s not going to be pleased one little bit.”

Stephen sat up... “I don’t follow you honey, what’s going to upset him?”

Warning bells went off in his head.

Vikki clinked ice in her glass. It matched the ice in her voice.

“You’re his mate, ain’t cha... when he hears you forced yerself on me... Well, Rodney’s an ’ARD man... been inside, you know. Know wot I mean?”

Stephen knew exactly what she meant. He took a long swallow of the vodka, stood... smiled warmly at her and asked,

“Got a balcony... do ya?”

“There is no trap

So deadly as the trap

You set for yourself.”

The heat of Khartoum had walloped him like a fist.

A hard vicious assault. Three days in, he felt the temperature was still climbing... and the walls, he was close to climbing those.

Prior to departure, he’d gone to Jermyn Street, to “A gentleman’s outfitter for the Tropics.” Four lightweight suits later, he bored a sizeable hole in one of the major investments. April in London, he’d frozen in the cab to Heathrow.

His visa was of ten days duration. He’d reckoned that was ample time to find Nina. His guide book recommended The Acropolis Hotel as being cheap and laden with character. Cheap it wasn’t.

Full of shady characters... yes.

He hadn’t got the swing of the money yet. Whatever transactions he did seemed to cost a bucket of the Sudanese pounds. Smelt; there was a definite odour from the notes and they were filthy. Like newspaper print, they left black marks on his fingers. He’d been advised of the thriving Black Market, but hadn’t found it.

Arak, yea he’d found that. The local booze, and he’d drunk gallons. It kicked back like a psychopathic mule and gave him the kind of diarrhoea he was truly alarmed by...

Huge patches of perspiration dotted his suits; they already looked like something Oxfam would see and say, “Ah no... the third world’s not that desperate.”

The way he felt now, he wished he’d simply sent the suits on the trip.

Rivers of sweat ran across his bald head and down into his eyes.

“Jay-sus,” he said, “no one has this much water in them.” If it continued he didn’t think he’d have it much longer.

He’d reckoned spring was a shrewd time to head to Sudan. Khartoum, even the name had a majesty. No one had told him that April is the start of the habood system. Huge storms of dust howling in from the desert and covering everything. It had a sound like terror, a thin wailing that surrounded him.

Ten days, he’d no idea how he’d last and he still hadn’t found Nina. The telephone system didn’t work and no one had heard of her at the hotel. The care workers he’d met did know her and provided him with two phone numbers. Everyone he spoke to, he gave them his name and phone number. Finally, he’d given various Sudanese the equivalent of the budget for a minor country and they’d promised to find her.

Trying to spot her anywhere was a joke. The women all wore the black chador. These black silk cloaks were from head to ankle. Like huge flocks of grounded jackdaws or malicious nuns. He found them vaguely sinister and had no intention of approaching them.