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

Love died a-howling. This episode and Amanda’s sunburn kept them silent for the remainder. On the flight back she said, “I’m prepared to give you another chance.”

Ford said nowt.

They decided to live at Ford’s flat until bigger accommodation presented itself. Ford returned to work feeling he’d gained less a wife than a lodger and not a particularly welcome one. Bernard Shaw had written that marriage provides the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity. Ford was now more than ever convinced that Shaw was an old fart. Lovemaking was not resumed. A polite iciness ruled.

“How was your day, dear?”

“Busy. And yours?”

“Ditto. Shepherds pie be all right?”

“Lovely.”

Dalton disappeared. He’d not been seen since the night of the stag party. Neville, anxious to recruit him, made enquiries daily. Neville, in truth, appeared anxious anyway. He kept shooting furtive looks at Ford.

“Is something the matter?” Ford asked.

“Well... no — er — Any word of our prospective colleague?”

“He’s been sighted at Archway, in Kentish Town and... even in Kerry.”

“Any substance perchance to these sightings?”

“Well, those who lent him money sure hope so.”

“I wonder if I might lure you for a drink this evening?”

“I’m lurable,” said Ford.

They went to the Sun ’n’ Splendour at the top of Portobello. Yuppies lined the bar, contempt lined their faces. What Ford wished to know was who lined their wallets?

“What’s your poison, amigo?” asked Neville.

“Southern Comfort, neat.”

“Ah, an American institution!”

“Take yer comfort when you can.”

“You had an American girl, yes?”

“Just a passing fancy.”

“Well, it leads nicely to what I wish to discuss.”

Neville was drinking gin and lemon. Slim-line lemon. He also got two bags of plain crisps and a large roasted peanuts. He poured the nuts into the crisps bag and began to horse them. Loud gnashing noises assaulted Ford. The Southern Comfort was little comfort against that. Ford walloped his and ordered the same again, without the snacks. Neville took the lemon from his glass and sucked it with fervent concentration.

“Jaysus,” said Ford.

“It cleans the teeth.”

“And clears the pub,” thought Ford.

“I’d like to discuss sex,” said Neville. Ford night choked.

“If you feel you must,” he said.

“This is a little delicate, I’m not sure how to proceed.”

With extreme caution, thought Ford, so he said, “Tell it to me plain.”

“Our family... the — er — Billings...”

“I know who you are.”

“The deuced thing is, we’re not big on sex, it’s a sort of family heirloom. We don’t rate it as among our priorities.”

“Some bloody heirloom! The family jewels not too valuable, eh?”

“Please Ford, this is most difficult.”

“For you and me both, mate.”

“You may be aware that Amanda is a tad shy in this — er — area.”

“Shy!”

“She’s most upset about the whole business.”

“You’re joking me, right?”

“Thus, I must implore you to be patient.”

“Well, damn the banging of that I ever heard, why didn’t you give me the nod before the wedding?” shouted Ford.

“A chap doesn’t like to presume.”

“For God’s sake! Jeez!”

“There’s one other item...”

“What? What other heirloom have ye?”

“I’m gay.”

“Oh, the Lord save us!”

A stunned silence settled over them. Many drinks were bought and lashed. Neither knew how or where to pick up the treads of the conversation. Finally, Neville made a show of looking at his watch.

“Dear, oh dear, is that the hour? I must fly. An appointment I’ve overlooked.”

The lie danced between them. Ford said nothing. Neville stood, considered something, and thought better not. When he reached the door, Ford shouted, “Hey, amigo?”

“Yes?”

“Can you whistle?”

Despite the yuppies, the pub was near enough to Portobello to draw the remnants of the hippies. What marked these apart was that they were old. Very old. And sad. They’d given peace a chance for just too long a decade. Social Security had rotted the concept of love and their teeth. Scraggles of them still moved through Notting Hill with lice in their hair if not flowers.

One such half baked specimen sat beside Ford. He’d got the regulation Afghan waist-jacket. A vicious launderette had inflicted awful torture on it. A million tainted silver bangles moved on his wrists. A pint of cider was half drained. He was fifty if a day. What blond hair remained was long and unkempt. A nod to Ford. Beside him Ford felt nigh full head of hair. The man’s leather sandals tapped.

“Got any smokes, man?”

“Ford gave him a Marlboro. He snapped the filter off and extracted a kitchen size box of matches from his jacket. A huge whoosh accompanied the strike. He near strangled the cigarette with his first pull.

A massive cough followed, “Argh... ugh...”

Ford said nothing.

“Wanna buy a T-shirt, man?”

“Not just now, thanks.”

He produced a long-from-white T-shirt with the logo “John Lives”. A particularly cruel looking Beatle peered forth.

“The Walrus, man,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Ford.

“Where were you when John died, man?”

Ford didn’t like to point out the discrepancy between the logo and this question.

“I’m in a bad frame of mind,” he said.

“I can dig it man, yea, that’s cool. Know where I was?”

“Offhand, I’d have to say no.”

“With Yoko, man.”

“You jest.”

“Just kidding, man. See where your karma’s at...”

“I get good vibes from you, man.”

“Which,” thought Ford, “is better than getting cash from me.”

“Wanna know where I really was? I was with Yoko, in spirit, of course.”

Ford had absolutely no interest in where this guy had been then, or since, so he said, “I’m fascinated.”

“In a South American jail. Yea. You probably saw Midnight Express? That’s Hollywood, man. The real thing was unreal.”

Unreal was what Ford felt best fitted.

“I got framed, man. For a drugs thing. Every morning, man, at nine, they came in and trashed us.”

“How awful,” said Ford.

“Yea, man. Awful! And awesome. See, they sometimes didn’t show at nine. And you’d be waiting, expectant like. If you can’t depend on a thrashin’, it messes with your head, know what I’m saying?”

Ford would have thrashed for a drink. But he didn’t want to buy the guy a drink. Mean, sure, but this guy had mean eyes.

He stood up and the guy jumped.

“What? You’re going?”

“Dear, oh dear, is that the hour, I must fly. An appointment I’d overlooked.”

He made the Neville show of looking at his watch.

“Got any loose bread, man? A ten spot’s good.”

“You don’t need bread, man,” said Ford.

“I’m not getting you?”

“Yea. Nor money either. John said, ‘All you need is love.’”

Back home, Ford, the very worst for Southern Comfort, made a fumbled embrace for Amanda. He had landed one hand on her breast and was planting a wet smooch on her neck. This made a loud “sluch” impossible to ignore. If embarrassment had a voice, it might be spoken thus. She said, “I don’t think this is on, fellah, wot?”

“Right. Er — Got a tad carried away, us being married and all.”

“Perhaps some time when you’re sober, darling.”

“That would be lovely,” said Ford. And, he thought, “yea, that and shepherd pie.”

Ford went to the fridge. Drink had created the massive artificial appetite that sex might have slaked. A dubious half chicken looked back at him. “Come home to roost,” thought Ford. He covered it lavishly with mayo and ladled shovels of coleslaw after. A mug of sweet tea to round up this gourmet fantasy. He was tearing thru this when Amanda looked in. Ford and the chicken waited.