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

An early conversation with Amanda had set the tone. A literary bomb if not in fact a literal one.

“Who’s your favorite writer?”

The only answer to this was Stephen King. That and throwing up.

“I dunno,” he said.

“I must return to the Russians,” she said.

Ford should have hit the hills then. Were the Russians like a return ticket that never expired? They hung about with a smug expression saying, “We know you’ll be back.” Amanda meandered on about romantic poets and the new realism. Ford just meandered.

A marriage date was set. Ford convinced himself that it was vital to his plan.

Neville said, “Tying the old knot wot? Sis is overjoyed.”

“My own cup runneth over,” said Ford.

The ceremony was muted. It took place at Kensington High Street Registry Office. Ford didn’t inform his family. To marry an Englishwoman... Phew! Parnell wasn’t that long dead. But a Registry Office? The fires of hell would burn long and gleeful. Dalton had been delighted.

“She’s loaded, that one,” he said. “Lotsa cash and connections. You landed on your feet, lad.”

“I like her.”

“Jaysus, who wouldn’t? She’s not bad looking, either. Big tits.”

Saturday prior to the wedding was the stag night. Ford’s plan came off the back the burner. He’d arranged to meet “the boys” in Pinches in Notting Hill. He rang Belle and invited her for a drink. She arrived in white. This set her dark skin shining.

“You look lovely,” said Ford.

“It’s a long time since I felt it,” she replied.

Her eyes had a sadness that Ford didn’t want to think about. Heads spun when he brought her into the bar. Ford left her talking to Neville and went to order. Dalton was on him.

“Ford, this is stag night. No women.”

“She’s not staying. Only a quick drink.”

“Are you screwin’ her?”

“God, Dalton, you’re some animal.”

“She’s some animal is what you mean. Jeez, look at the body on her. I could do with some black meat.”

Ford gulped down a neat whiskey. His resolve faltered. Choice time! But a bottle of sour mash on display sealed his fate.

He said slowly, “Well, the reason I brought her was she wants to meet you.”

“You’re coddin’!”

“No, but don’t let on, O.K.?”

“Jaysus, I’ll be up that like a rat in a drain.”

“How poetic,” said Ford.

A chain of whiskies later and Ford saw Dalton and Belle slip away. Something in his very heart withered. Neville was slapping him on the back, and Ford felt it was only to be expected. The evening finished with cabaret in Soho. Despite all his efforts, Ford didn’t pass out. All his life he’d remember the stripper planting a scarlet wet kiss on his mouth. It tasted more like nicotine and despair. It doesn’t come more bitter than that.

Back home they used the word “bronach” which fitted the hangover perfectly. It’s a mood of sadness and melancholy, liberally mixed. The Irish had the lock on sadness. Sure weren’t the very best of times underwritten by melancholia? They’d have taught Byron a thing or two. But he went to Greece and a fatal rendezvous with a mosquito. No mosquitoes in Ireland and very few flies on them either. So “bronach” it was. Sick too, but after a quart of scotch, who wasn’t? The CIA ruled. Catholic, Irish, Alcoholic.

Ford recalled Neville hugging him and muttering, “We’re a family!”

No wonder he was ill. T’was far from hugs Ford was reared. He grew up in a neighbourhood where the only touching going on was for money. You kept your hands to yourself. Put them on another human being, you’d lose them from the elbow. People there weren’t big on affection. No doubt there was love in his family. He knew that, bit you didn’t outwardly show it. The odd time the family were gathered for a meal it wasn’t likely you’d hear, “I love you, Mother, pass the sugar.” You didn’t ask how someone was feeling; it was more, “How are you fixed?” Cash was the emotional currency. If you cared, you’d put your money where your hug was. As for feelings, well, you felt one of two things. “Mighty” as when the drink flowed, or “death-warmed-over” like in pay-back-time. All the songs were sad, and sadness was the great comfort. Dignity and self-esteem sounded like the names of race horses.

Ford knew his marriage to an Englishwoman put him beyond the pale. “Notions”, they’d say; ideas above your station. Amanda had insisted he’d wear a wedding ring. “Yes,” he thought, “and fix it firmly through my nose.”

“To have and to hold...” Ford felt he’d been holding his own.

Now the plan was afoot, he’d be needing all the native cunning of his race. Amanda wore a plain white dress, her hair in ringlets. Ford wore the blazer, the shortening pants and his mind in bits. Balzac wrote, “Nothing prepares you for the heartless cruelty of people,” and Ford added, “But maybe a marriage could be the salvation yet.” Not that he believed it for a moment.

They went to Tenerife for a week’s honeymoon. Ford was mortified. He felt their bright, shiny rings were screaming for notice. “Hey, hey, look it her, we’re newlyweds.”

The plane was crammed with yahoos. Any hooligan could afford a plane ticket, and it seems most had. The Brits at play, if not in The Fields of The Lord, the certainly on a Boeing 747. No sooner did they take off than the duty free was indeed liberated. Drunken roars of “Una Paloma Blanca” rent the air. Ford knew all the airplane superstitions. If you heard the pilot whistling, don’t board the plane. Was it on himself or were the hostesses all whistling? As a child Ford was taught that homosexuals couldn’t whistle. Mind you, at that time in Ireland, they hadn’t much to whistle about. On any given day on Ford’s street, you’d hear all the young lads whistling for dear life. He remembered Lauren Bacall saying to Bogart, “You know how to whistle, just put your lips together and blow.” Which was probably all you’d need to know.

Amanda said, “Ti amo.”

“I think, sweetheart, that’s Italian.”

“Oh dear. Well in any language, I love you.”

Ford thought of ten rude answers. What he did though was put his lips together and... blow.

They stayed in the South of Tenerife. “Playa Los Americanos”, it was called.

The Americans, quite wisely, went to Greece.

Amanda brought her cassette player and throughout the week she played Julio Iglesias and Jose Feliciano. Jose Feliciano! Ford thought he’d gone down the toilet with Cat Stevens. He’d left all his whining music in London. Amanda got sun scorched the first day and had to stay indoors with the shades drawn. This also kept love making to a minimum. Ford sat in bars and had long drinks in long glasses. The sound of Tenerife for him was the clink of ice and Brit voices. Numerous Doris and Bills engaged him in conversation.

“Hot, isn’t it?” they began.

“Raining in England,” Ford said.

“Are you holidaying alone?”

“No, no, the little woman is resting.”

Ford varied the little woman’s activities to shopping, sailing, and sightseeing. The urge to say “irritating” was ferocious. He liked the Spanish mornings. He liked them a lot. Order that kick Spanish coffee with the dark brandy as an apprentice. Mix them, drink and feel your heart leap to rainbows. Put a few of those away and adrenaline was king. One such morning he’d lingered till noon.

“I think I love you Amanda,” said the brandy. “Race back to the hotel and tell her,” urged the caffeine. And race he did. Amanda was lying in the cool darkened room. A light, short T-shirt was all she wore. A besotted Ford was in full gallop.

Near to the moment of bliss Amanda said, “Are you nearly finished?”