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

He swore.

“I will have her back... nowt else matters.”

The prospect of casually mentioning “my daughter” at every opportunity made him night dizzy with delight.

Entering the flat, he said to her likeness,

“Soon Suzy... you’ll be with yer Dad... people will say... Ah yes, the Holland Park Stephen Becks.”

Picked up his new phone, called the off licence.

Yes... they’d be pleased to deliver some crates of Amstel beer... within the hour... certainly... “Thank you, Mr. Beck.” The suits he placed in a black bin liner for Oxfam. A letter from his new solicitor and accountants assured him the V.A.T. had been fully paid.

How were his finances... very healthy... oh, thank God.

Rang Martin’s private nursing home and he was doing well. Might they expect a visit from Stephen?

... They might not.

The next few weeks, he lounged around Hyde Park. Sometimes he ate chips from newspapers and muttered Suzy’s name like an incantation. He had decorators prepare her room.

The nights were for clubbing. A stretch of women became available. Flick a peep of American Express Gold Card, and it was better than a load of hair... almost.

He liked to have them on the balcony. It gave a rush that the bedroom couldn’t match. He’d run them out fast in the morning with the explanation,

“I’m expecting my daughter any minute!”

On the 19th of June, a letter from Khartoum. The envelope was as dirty as their money. Despite gingerly handling it, it left black tracks on his hands.

By now, he’d installed a wicker lounger on the balcony. Filling a glass tankard with Amstel, he stretched out and opened the letter.

A small press cutting.

“Khartoum today, a 32 year old English care worker, Nina Horton, was fatally injured in a three car collision on General Gordon Boulevard. Tragically, Miss Horton’s young daughter, Susan, was also fatally injured. It is believed the little girl was on a week’s vacation. Other fatalities included a tax inspector and a porter from nearby Acropolis Hotel.”

“Miss...” roared Stephen, “What this Miss Horton shit, she’s Mrs. Beck... of the Holland Park Becks...”

The tankard slipped from his fingers as the rest of the piece sank in.

“Oh you stupid fuckin bastard... You cretinous murderous fooker... AR... GL... AR... GUH...”

The howl he emitted could be heard clear down to Notting Hill. He grabbed the rim of the balcony and began to hammer his head against it, shrieking,

“MARTYRS...”

“So!” he said to her, “You’ve decided to grow the moustache.”

Dalton didn’t whisper this. Ford, at the far end of the bar, heard him clearly. Dalton continued, “Not everyone can carry off a ’tash, but you’ve got the bones for it.”

Sheila, his audience, looked as anyone would expect: mortified. Ford had known her for a while and the slight suggestion of hair on her upper lip was her daily crucifixion.

“There isn’t an hour I don’t think about it,” she said. “If people aren’t staring, I think they’re being polite. If they are staring, well... you can work out how that feels.”

Ford didn’t know if he’d noticed in the beginning. The first time he met her she said, “So you’re thinking, ‘Who’s the hairy chick?’”

He wasn’t, was he? The shame-all was she had a pretty face. Not gorgeous or heart-pounding but in there. She’d been Dalton’s girlfriend for three years. Put him on the other side of six drinks and out came the moustache. The crunch was he was gorgeous according to every woman Ford had ever asked. He’d stopped asking. Dalton was of medium build with a pot belly. “A lotta good cash to round that out,” he said. His hair was in galloping recession and he had nail-you-to-the-wall eyes. The nose. Here lay the mystery. One of those snub noses that are appealing on tousle-haired kids. Cute, as the Americans say. On a grown man it should look ridiculous. Women loved it, back in the times when Ford had asked.

He’d been Ford’s friend for ten years. “For sins of a past life,” muttered Ford. Very heavy sins. Ford was currently a social worker. At thirty-six years of age he’d been in many occupations. Most of those he would no longer admit to. At one low point, an English language teacher. Worse, English as a foreign language and he certainly found it to be that. The final revenge of a lone Irishman on the English according to Dalton. Ford knew he was in deep trouble when he began to speak like students. “How you say”, he remembered with deep shame. Twelve years he’d been in London and social working for the previous two. Prior to that he’d been open to suggestions and still was.

On Clapham Common today a wino had waylaid him. Ford had seen him coming and began the discreet weaving. This usually put him beyond the wino by the vital beginning of the plea. He misjudged it or perhaps the wino weaved better. Face to face.

“Please, sur ,” in that tone between servility and surliness.

“I’ve no change,” snapped Ford, hating himself.

“I’m not begging,” and this in a grievously offended voice.

The wino pushed a greeting card under his nose. It was a book token for almost fifteen pounds.

“Are you a reading man?” he asked.

“Bring it to the book shop for a refund,” said Ford.

“They’ll only give books,” he said. “You can’t drink bloody books.”

Ford certainly agreed with this. He gave the wino his loose change and fled. He hated that the winos were Irish, another point for the English to cave. How many years of English language teaching would cancel that?

He stopped at The Rose and Crown. The barmaid was blowsy and many sheets to the wind. He got a large gin and her full lit smile. He should have had what she was having. Pity enwrapped him. As an antidote he played “Run Around Sue” in his head — he’d found it on a juke box in Camden Town a few weeks back. A punk rocker glared and immediately after selected “The Men Behind the Wire.” In passing Ford he hissed, “Get real, granddad.” True to tell, Ford’s hair was thinning rapidly. How did you fatten hair? Now he kept his music internal and his hair on despair. A man nearing seventy sat carefully down near Ford. He had a full rich head of hair. Fat in fact, seethed Ford. The man peered intently at a five pound note which he ironed flat, then caressed and even smelled it. A sigh then.

“Excuse me, son?” he asked.

Ford moved nearer and the old man held up the fiver.

“It’s not a ten, is it?”

“No — no, it’s a five.”

“Ar — agh.”

Ford felt like a murderer. Should he have lied? And then what? All horrible complications would surely follow. Pity leaked further. Ford rose for a refill.

“Can I get you a drink,” he offered.

“Ger off, I’m too old for pooftahs,” he roared.

Ford went straight out the door and came here. Just in time to hear Dalton’s statement and end a pitied day.

At work Ford had begun in a wild flush of enthusiasm. Full of fellowship and ideals, he reckoned on putting the “h” back in “humanity” in London’s South East. Above his desk he hung Balzac’s “Nothing prepares you for the heartless cruelty of people.” A young black seeing it had asked, “The man from Brixton?”

His first client was a young Scottish girl, Angela, whose boyfriend beat her regularly.

“He’s a good ’un though,” she said. “He works and he doesn’t drink.”

“Rare qualities indeed,” said Ford, “he just works on you.”

Early in February she had appeared with both eyes blackened. Ford had suggested very strategic things to her. As she left she smiled at Ford as if he understood nothing and said, “He does it to show his love.”