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

The “interview” took place in a congenial setting. The pub. Dalton was on a roll. He’d won on the horses and had a lady lined up for later.

“A goer,” he said.

“Do I know her?”

“Not in the biblical sense, I hope.”

“Where’s Sheila these days?”

“Ah, that wan. She’s gone into herself. I think she’s gone vegetarian and is growing things, like a beard.”

What could you possibly say to that? Defend her and Dalton would be on you like a rate.

Ford had already paid for two rounds and looked like he’d be going for a third. He said, “I thought you were flush. Where’s the winnings?”

“I don’t collect till tomorrow, but I’m glad you mentioned money. Could you slip me a fast fifteen?”

“Dalton, have you any notion of all you owe me?”

“Oh, I do indeed. A tally is being kept. The book has you noted.”

“Mentioned in dispatches, am I”

“I tell you, Ford, you’ve changed and not for the better. You’re always worrying about little things. Since Vikki ran off on yah, you’ve become a slight pain in the ass.”

You had to hand it to Dalton, he didn’t come “cap in hand,” First he asked you for the cash, then he called you an asshole. Not your average people pleaser. In fact, something of a rough diamond. Ford thought he better get to it.

“How do you feel about social work?”

“Sick.”

“No, seriously, Neville wants you to join the team.”

“Join the team? What friggin’ team? That’s not a team, it’s a show of gob-shites. God preserve me from teams, especially the caring ones.”

He managed to make caring sound more offensive than his usual obscenities.

“You don’t want to be a social worker?”

“Read my lips: I’d rather wank a snake.”

“Delicately put. Jeez, you’ve been reading The Guardian again. Time you got a real job Ford, you’re starting to sound English.”

This was the cardinal sin. The Irish would forgive their own most things, apart from success and “aping” the English. You could even get a Yank accent and they’d say you had “no sense”, only soft in the head. Become anglicised and you got otracised. Absolutely. Dead man walking.

“But I’ll drop in on old Neville. That’s too good to miss.”

“You’re not going to touch him!”

“God almighty, I have to work there.”

“See what I mean, Ford? You need to lighten up.”

“Any sign of that fifteen?”

Ford gave him ten and Dalton got up to leave.

“I’ve to go. Your wan will be drooling by now. Do you ever hear from Gracie?”

This pleased Ford hugely. The very mention of Grace’s name left him with the afterglow. That Dalton thought to ask filled him with contentment. Dalton drained his glass and borrowed a cigarette from the barman. Inhaling deeply he looked at Ford before he left and said, “I’ll tell you one thing. That Grace... She was probably the best fuck I’ve had in a long time.”

The Chinese say if you’re plotting revenge, you better dig two graves. Sure, said Ford, as long as one of them is deep and dirty. Quite what he meant by this wasn’t altogether certain but it did two things. It sounded mean and it sounded angry. He was hitting all the points on those.

Back at his flat he drank steadily. He nursed the hurt carefully and delicately. A pure hatred burned. The more he drank, the colder he felt. A gesture, he thought, I need a melodramatic action to seal the feeling. Yes, yes, of course. He stood and staggered a little. Rummaging in the table drawer he found the scissors. The sketch came easily from the wall and left a wide, blank mark, like mourning. The frame proved difficult and he couldn’t align the release catch. Furious, he put it down on the floor and brought his right shoe crashing down on the glass and hurt the heel of his foot. The crack was like a pistol shot and set his heart hammering. He dragged the sketch from the frame and still it resisted. The glass nicked his fingers and blood jumped across the table. “Damn you!” he roared and felt hot, bitter tears of frustration. The sketch was free. Without looking directly upon it, he began to hack and cut haphazardly. Pieces jerked and fell like wedding rice. Wedding rice! “Oh God,” he shouted. “Isn’t that just bloody priceless?”

Exhausted by rage, he sat back on the much noticed sofa. Wiping the sweat from his face had left streaks of blood there. The cuts on his hand began to throb faintly and he whimpered at intervals. “I’m the sitting wounded,” he said. Looking like some demented red Indian, he threw back his head and howled in clear and continuous anguish. All around him lay little vignettes of the Mississippi.

The steps toward Ford’s revenge began with his marriage. Just how this would damage Grace and Dalton, he wasn’t completely clear about. Like Indiana Jones, he felt he’d make it up as he went along.

At work Neville had said, “A mo please?”

Ford loathed many things, and shortening “moment” might top the list.

Neville continued, “I’m having a little drinks soiree on Thursday evening. My sis, Amanda, is up from the homestead. I’d like you to meet her.”

Soiree, sis, homestead! The words bounced on Ford’s head. A compulsion to fracture Neville’s jaw was nigh overpowering. No frills, just wallop him and roar, “Talk bloody English, will ya?”

What he said was, “I’ll be there.”

Graham Greene had died. Ford felt pathetic fallacy was pulling a fast one. He thought of all the joy those books had given him. A bitter joy in truth, like the sketch. The quote of Greene’s on religion surfaced:

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

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ford sighed.

He dressed carefully for Tuesday. A Van Heusen shirt he’d found at Oxfam. The tiny red mark on the collar was ketchup, he hoped. The knot of his tie was the Windsor. “How awfully appropriate,” he said. Permanent crease slacks that somehow had shortened. Maybe a burglar broke into homes and shortened trousers. A vicious type indeed. The slacks were grey, so Ford decided to risk all and go for the blazer. This was his legacy from the teaching days. Chalk had attached itself to the sleeves and neither prayer nor hope would move it.

Finally, he put on a stout pair of brogues he’d forgotten about. These were a formidable sight. Age had endowed them with a stiffness beyond description. “Ah God, the pain,” he said as the brogues began to crush his toes. “For pity-sake, I’m crucified.” Perhaps the pain would lend clarity to his thinking.

As he dressed he’d steadily drunk vodka from a mug. The mug had Snoopy emblazoned on the outside. Snoopy had the shit-eating cheerfulness that only a true sadist could have devised. The vodka was Poland’s finest and slid down quickly. Like intimidation, it hit you later.

Ford bent to examine his appearance in the wardrobe’s half mirror. Was it on himself or were the trousers shortening further? The brogues looked great and felt O.K. if you didn’t move. Ideal they’d be if you could bring them separately. “Here’s me shoes, the rest is coming.”

A vodka giggle escaped him. Giggle! Ford couldn’t believe it. Worse, he enjoyed it. The label on the bottle was in Polish so he wondered why he was trying to read it. A small symbol might have been a hundred degrees. Either this was good to drink in the tropics or it was mega proof. If the latter was true, well then, “Way to go.”

Grace moved into his head. After making love, he’d looked deep into her eyes, her expression was hard to decipher. Ford had said, “I miss two people when I’m not with you.”