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

So he drank the arak, fled to the toilet and counted the minutes. He was told of the huge famine in the Sudan and was near starvation himself.

There were massive shortages of bread, flour and water. He’d brought a packet of Rich Tea biscuits from London... on a whim... and was sparing them now like a lifeline. According to his guide book, there were at least forty types of mosquito in Khartoum and he’d no reason to doubt the claim. He’d been bitten by at least 36 branches of the things.

Chloroquine was the assured and established remedy but he suspected it was attracting them. A large spacious room had been free, and he’d been delighted to see it had an overhead fan. Visions of the movie Casablanca had unfolded.

It didn’t work.

He’d paid a porter to install two floor fans which blew blissful streams of air.

Till the power cuts.

On inquiring when the power might be resumed, he’d heard,

“Insha Allah.”

Back to the guide book which told him this meant, “God willing.” God hadn’t willed it for the past 48 hours.

He was sitting in his Marks and Spencer’s Y-fronts, chugging Arak and dreaming of E Street Market. Oh, to be cold and miserable. A battalion of mosquitoes were stinging him.

A knock at the door.

“Jay-sus,” he said on opening it, “The friggin Grim Reaper in person.”

A black spectre shimmered there.

“Oh, do get a grip, Stephen.”

The hood was thrown back to reveal Nina.

He nearly hugged her.

“Come in,” he gasped, “Come in!”

She glanced inside the room.

“Actually, I’d rather not. Why have you got it like a furnace?”

“I’ve got some Rich Tea.”

He had, in fact, three.

“Get dressed, we’ll go to my place.”

He donned one of the suits and wiped away a yard of sweat with the sleeve.

“Where did you get that suit?”

“Oxfam.”

“Yes, well... they saw you coming.”

Her place was a cool, airy bungalow on the outskirts of the city. They’d driven there in her small Datsun... air conditioned. Divans were scattered haphazardly. Clay pots and posters on the wall. He sank into a divan, said, “I might never leave here.”

“Khartoum?”

“No, this room.”

She made sweet tea which he found enormously refreshing. Then removed her chador. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt with the logo, “SOLEDAD.”

“Why are you here, Stephen?”

“To see you... to find out about Suzy.”

“A letter would have been cheaper. How did you find me?”

He smiled and looked around. A bungalow was the last thing he’d anticipated, the only place he could push her out was the door.

“Well, Nina... it wasn’t easy. Since my family were martyred, you and Suzy are all I’ve got.”

“Your Mother... and Martin... what... are they, are they all right?”

“Dead, a car accident... together.”

It silenced her.

“So Nina, you’re caring for the masses here... who’s caring for Suzy?”

“How dare you... she’s been cared for. I see her every two months.”

“Oh wow, that will do it.”

Nina stood up.

“Stephen, I don’t know what mad scheme you’re planning or what you hoped to accomplish. I want no part of it. I’ll drive you back to your hotel, and if you want my advice... you’ll go back to London. This is no place for you.”

Stephen drained the tea.

The drive back was silent. A choking dust storm had risen, and as he got out of the car... whatever she said was snatched away. In the lobby of the hotel, a thin, dark Arab wearing the tight western clothes approached him.

“Al Labibi... a word in private.”

“Why not?”

“I am Abdul, you are not comfortable here, my friend, I arrange for you to stay at the Sahara. Much clean, much cool.”

“But it’s booked out.”

“Meet here, nine o’clock. I arrange all... Salaam a leccum.”

And this, according to his guidebook, was “Peace be with you.”

Abdul was the business. Not only did he effect a smooth hotel change, but showed the way to food, the black market services. Even Stephen’s suits perked up and were whisked away for cleaning. The second night at the Sahara, a relaxed Stephen was in a generous mood.

“So, Abdul, you’ve got to let me pay for all your help.”

They were drinking Amstel beer, a cold Dutch drink with a sizeable kick.

“No effendi... is for friend... no... maybe you can help Abdul, too.”

“Sure, if I can.”

“For what you work?

“For whom...? is it...”

“I work for the Government.”

“For English Government?”

“Yes.”

“Ah Stefan, effendi... Habibi, can you make for me papers to go to England?”

“Am...”

“You have sad trouble here, my friend, Abdul know... not so happy. Meeting with infidel woman...”

Stephen told him about Nina... about his lost child.

“Ah is no good, bad womans — yes.”

“Yea, you got that right buddy. I don’t know what to do.”

They drank and considered how far they might proceed. Echoes in the Sudan darkness. Abdul decided.

“Stefan... if womans go poof...,” (and he snapped his fingers), “is trouble finished?”

“What... yea... Am... but that’s not possible... is it?”

“Ha... is Sudan my friend, life is nothing. Thousands die every week in famine. For money... ALL is possible... one can go,” and he slapped his hands together — “BANG!”

Stephen took a long swig of beer. “How much... am...”

“Five hundred U.S. dollar... and friend help yes... for life’s in England... is good yes. I go England.”

They decided Stephen should give 250 U.S. “dollar” now and he’d make arrangements for Abdul’s entry to England. “In a pig’s eye,” is what he thought.

The rest of the money on completion of the transaction. Stephen didn’t think there was much chance of old Abdul doing a thing, but just maybe... and was willing to risk 250 dollars on the “maybe.”

“I send you English Language paper with accident report... yes.”

“Yea... you do that, me oul china.”

“Is no problem, my friend.”

“Insha Allah,” said Stephen.

Abdul went to Khartoum airport with him. As they said goodbye, Abdul hung his head.

“Yo... Abdul, lighten up Buddy. Soon you’ll be in London, sampling the delights of the D.H.S.S.”

“My friend... always have I the visions... I see things... I see when the bad things to come.”

“Like a racing tipster... yeah.”

“For you, my friend... when the darkness is visible on your hands,” (he held out his hands, palms upturned), “then, my friend... I am afraid the darkness will destroy your soul.”

Sounds like William Styron, the darkness visible... Don’t worry about me ole mate, I’ll keep me hands to me arse.

It was April 20th on his return to London. At Heathrow, he went straight to the cafeteria and had double egg, double chips, five sausages, black pudding, a hint of fried tomato, toast, and the booster pot of tea. It nearly killed him... As he belched, he said

“Luverly.”

It cost the equivalent of a middle class mortgage.

He headed on auto pilot for the Oval, then remembered, “hold the phone, stop the lights... I don’t live there anymore!”

The new flat was in Holland Park. With a monthly rent that would have fixed an epidemic of accidents in Khartoum. His major requirement had been a balcony.

“For the view?” asked the estate agent.

“Yea, something like that.”

He’d salvaged his photo of little Suzy, and had it enlarged to cover one entire wall. Another was transposed to a keyring. The trauma in his life had begun, he believed, when she’d been taken from him. Get her back and all would be well. Money could buy anything. If needs be, he’d go to Paris and see this “André” chappie who was minding her. The French could be had for cash and a Clint Eastwood video.