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

“That’s really quite disgusting,” she said.

“Yea, but ’tis tasty. Come back here. I’m no family heirloom.”

But she’d gone. Ford looked at the demolished sad chicken and caressed it with one finger. “Ah, you’re my only friend and look how I treat you.” He sadly continued to chew and thought it faintly tasted of carbolic. A fierce thirst rose and he lashed down the sweet tea. “Oh jaysus,” he said.

Sleep snuck up on him and he laid his head down beside the dinner. One arm cradled the chicken and small sounds of desolation leaked from his mouth. To an observer it might have even looked as if the chicken was singing to him, and, in his dreams, perhaps it was.

At work the next day Neville adopted a civil tone. Courtesy on ice. This suited Ford who was as ill as he’d ever been. The police arrived about midday. In plain clothes, they had that politeness that slaps your face.

“You are Thomas A. Ford, of 11 Cockram Street?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Were you acquainted with one Isobelle Banks?”

“Were?”

“Please answer the question, sir.”

“Yes... I am... I was. God, is she alright? She was one of our clients.”

“I’m sorry to inform you, sir, that the lady appears to have taken her own life.”

“Appears? Is there a chance maybe...”

“No sire, it’s her. Any light you can shed on her state of mind?”

“State of Grace,” thought Ford. A spasm rushed through his system and he threw up in the waste basket. This had a label attached which read:

He’d never noticed it before and wondered if the coppers would mention it. Sweat then tried to blind him. Madness in its purity somersaulted through his mind.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Chicken... Arch. The bloody chicken is back.”

The two policemen exchanged a look and withdrew. Ford fumbled for a pencil. On the blotter, he began to sketch a large menagerie of fowl. He worked quickly and rumbling pounded his stomach.

When he’d finished, he wrote across the top, “Foul Play.”

Neville gathered the staff for a homily. A drained Ford cadged a cigarette from the receptionist.

Neville began, “People, I’ve collected you en masse to speak of our current sadness. Our profession receives a bad press. We are the unsung soldiers in this urban land war. Isobella turned to us when all doors were barred. Let us not dwell on the tragedy but believe we gave her solace in the months before. For all the Isobellas out there, I say, “We are here for you. We dare to care. Our great Wordsworth might have known our plight when he wrote:

‘Let us not grieve for what

we have lost

but rather find strength

in what remains behind

let us remember in splendour

in the grass.’”

“Whoops,” thought Ford on these final words as Neville’s eyes locked with his. Sun ’n’ Splendour danced between them.

“Thus,” concluded Neville, “I reiterate, let us dare to care and care to dare.”

“What does he mean?” whispered the receptionist.

“That we’re wankers,” said Ford.

The receptionist was a small, blond girl from Aberdeen. Warm blue eyes, pert nose and a mouth built to smile. She had a threatening weight problem. This currently gave her an air of voluptuousness, and large breasts enhanced the image. If she wasn’t quite the American mammary vision, she was within shouting distance. Her name was Alison. Alison Dunbar. Like many Scots, she had a low tolerance for subtlety. Ford staggered outside. Leaning his forehead against the wall, he thanked the coolness. Alison followed him and said,

“All in all, just another brick in the was.”

“Pink Floyd?”

“Yes, do you like them?”

“I hate them.”

“Well, there’s no maybe in that.”

“Con men!”

“A bit strong, Tom.”

“Ford, call me Ford.”

“A wee bit sorry for yourself, are you?”

“No, but that Neville. What an egomaniac!”

“I’ve never been sure, Ford, what ego is?”

“Where he goes, e-goes.”

Alison accompanied Ford to the inquest. A verdict of death by misadventure was recorded. “Misadventure,” fumed Ford, like some excursion that had to be cancelled due to rain. A large black woman sat in the front row and sobbed loudly.

“Mrs Banks,” whispered Alison.

“Banks?”

“Isobelle’s mother.”

“Oh God!”

Afterwards, on the pavement, the woman stood and great heaves of grief hit her body in waves. Ford felt it would be best all around to let her be. Grief was a private thing.

“Excuse me,” he said.

Big mascara streaks ran down the woman’s fat cheeks. Thru the tears, Ford could see the warmest eyes he’d ever beheld.

“I hate to intrude, Mrs Banks... but... am... I’m so sorry.”

“Who you be, boy?”

“Oh, yes... right. I’m Ford... Thomas Ford, I... am... was... er... Bella’s counselor. No... her friend...”

Ford felt his full name sounded like he’d invented a motor car. Not a particularly exciting make either. The woman threw her arms round him. Ford thought she’d attacked him and let out a small “Argh!” The hug nigh suffocated him.

“A good mon... You be a good mon. Bella say you be white kindness... A true heart you be, Bella say.”

She released him and began to rummage in her huge, black handbag. A white crystal rosary beads was pulled out. “They be Bella’s, boy... I give them to you.”

She wrapped the beads round Ford’s hands and without another word, she turned and walked away. A shaking Ford looked at the beads on his hands. “Handcuffs,” he said. He knew with absolute conviction that the sentence she had passed on him was without any prospect of parole... Ever. He knew and was damned.

Ford went to the off-license. He ordered two bottles of Kentucky Sour Mash. The proprietor was a burly Sikh. He looked at Ford’s credit card as if it were rabid. A call was made to check the credit rating.

“This card’s no good,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Run out, it’s no good.”

He produced a large brass scissors. Ford thought he meant to stab him. A loud clip and the two pieces of plastic fell on the counter.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to do that,” whined Ford.

“It’s no good. Run out.”

“Cripes, you already said that. Do you have to tell the world”

Alison had enough cash to pay for a bottle of Scotch. The Sour Mash was put back on the shelf, like longing itself.

“C’mon, Ford,” said Alison.

He looked at the two bottles out of reach and very out of pocket.

“What’s with those bottles anyway?” she asked.

“Shades of Grace,” he said.

Alison had a single bed sitter in Earl’s Court. A single bed, a single window, and more loneliness than Leonard Cohen ever san about. It was spotless, and the vision of her cleaning this neat cell just about finished him.

“Let’s have hot toddies,” she said.

“And music,” he whispered.

An old Stones album was selected. As “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” began, Ford built some lethal drinks. Two spoons of sugar, big slurps of scotch, boiling water. Stir. “You can’t always git what you wan,” nasaled Jagger. Ford and Alison provided backup vocals.

“Wish we had cloves,” she said.

“Cloven feet.”

She didn’t have a big music section so they played the Stones again. And again. Ford slid his hand under her skirt and she smiled. He gently rolled down her tights and knickers and she lay back. A massive hammering began in his chest as he mounted her. Light perspiration dotted his forehead as he began to move in her.