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

“Social Services Director Mauled by Former Colleague”

“Neville Biggins, BSC, was accosted and assaulted by a disgruntled colleague in the toilet of a public house. Thomas Ford, an Irishman, was said by a confidential source, to have gone berserk and threatened to blow up the Dept. of Social Services. The Judge called Ford (36) a public menace. The case continues .”

The story underneath exposed a major rock star’s obsession with his dead dog. Ford kept the clipping. Maybe send it to Boston and see what shook loose.

Back to work and to Alison. Her Scottish background understood all about the police and pub brawls. The ceremony of the rings moved closer. A week after the court case, Ford went to his bank. He asked for “new accounts.” An assistant manager summoned him. Ford sat at the small desk. The nameplate read “A. Richards.” As opposed to A. Wanker, mused Ford. A. Richards was about thirty, in there. Neville would have liked the suit. Brown wool with a discreet stripe. Bald on top, A. Richards had seriously swept hair from the side to cover this. It didn’t. Thick glasses hid his eyes and the adjective prissy leapt to mind for his mouth. The desk said, “this is a busy man.”

“Mr...” he looked at his notes, “Ford.”

“You already have an account with us?”

“I’d like to open one for my daughter.”

“Splendid. A savings account, I’d suggest. Her name, please?”

“Annabell-Lee Ford.” His throat choked as he slowly said this.

A wee man kicked his heart, and hard.

“The mother?”

“I don’t want to open an account for her.”

A. Richards gave a professional laugh. An unpleasant sound.

“Of course. But I’ll need her name.”

“Why?”

“For our records. Very important, Mr Ford, for next of kin, etc. Not that I’m not certain you’ll outlive us all.”

He was beginning to seriously irritate Ford. Perhaps The Sun clipping would soften his cough.

“Amanda Biggins.”

“Biggins. Is that Amanda Biggins hyphen Ford?”

“We’re divorced. D-i-v-o-r-c-e, like in Tammy Wynette. Jeez, it’s hard to give money to you crowd.”

“How will the money be paid in, Mr Ford?”

“Carefully. Quarter of my weekly salary.”

“Capital. Jolly good. A few days to process the paperwork and your book will be sent out. Good day to you, sir.”

Ford didn’t move.

“There was something else?”

“A question. Do you like your work?”

“Rather. One does one’s best.”

Ford stood up and leaned across the desk. He looked into what was visible of the eyes of A. Richards and said, “One felt you’d say that.”

He bought a small cardboard box and adhesive labels. Alison had typed the name for him: “Annabell-Lee Ford, c/o Neville Biggins, 29 Kensington Church Street.” She didn’t comment. Carefully he wrapped the white rosary beads in crepe paper and put it in the box. A surge of grief begged for release. Sellotaping the box, he applied the label. A hand tremor caused this to appear crooked. “Like yer inlaws,” he said. Gently sliding the package into the post box, he muttered the words from Belle’s mother, “Who you be boy?” Indeed!

Outside the Post Office, an apprentice thug held a rottweiler on a thin leash. The dog’s jaws leaked spittle. The thug, though, appeared to have the edge in madness if the eyes were any indication. Both wore spiked collars. You sensed that neither had yet achieved the full potential in thuggery, but were getting there. He wore a red T-shirt which proclaimed “Shit Happens”. “And sooner than you ever imagined,” said Ford. Though the slogan might not achieve the wisdom of the ages, it was current and it had a ring to it. “Would suit Neville, match up with his dark worsted.”

Ford was cleaning the bar. The only customer was an old Irish lady drinking a milk stout. Everyone said, “She has a heart of gold.” In other words, a nobody. The door swung and Dalton walked in. A very different model. The swagger was gone. Weight hadn’t so much fallen from him as fled. His usual furtive look had become one of total desperation. Ford hadn’t seen him for well over a year.

“It’s yerself,” he said.

“Yea... Give us a big drink.”

No hugs of reunion here. A double whiskey was put before him. Draining it, he looked round and saw the old lady.

“Who’s the oul biddy?”

“She’s got a heart of gold.”

“I’ll bet, sewn in the drawers, I’d say. You’re a hard man to find, Ford. What have you been up to?”

“Well, let’s see, I got fired, married, divorced, arrested and convicted.”

If any of this was a surprise to Dalton, he didn’t show it. He said, “And did you rest on Sundays? That Neville sacked you, did he? The bad bastard. Want him fixed?”

“Fixed?”

“Yea. A ton will buy a full beating and he won’t be squealing to no one.”

“Naw. Thanks all the same. What’s your story?”

Belle hovered in the air between them. Another double was poured and put away.

“Remember that black wan. I slipped her a mickey finn. And later, I slipped a little Irish into her. Know wot I mean?”

“Jaysus!”

“Yea. Well, a while ago, I musta caught some bug. I’m cold all the time and feverish. My throat muscles keep locking. Christ, it’s terrible. I’ve had tests done and I’ll hear next week. What do you think?”

“Sounds rough. I’m sure they have something for it.”

What he thought next was, “Yea, a coffin.” He looked at Dalton and felt hatred like a shroud envelop him.

Dalton said, “I need a fair bit of cash. I’ll get it back to you, don’t worry. But it’s like, I’m in a hurry.”

“Upstairs, the end room. There’s the till takings from last night. We’re forever being turned over here, so no worries. There’s only me here at the moment so you’re safe. Just be quiet and quick.”

“Jeez, you’re a life saver, Ford. What did I always say? You’re one of the very best.”

“I’m well graced, so to speak.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Better do it before the Guvnor arrives. He’s a tough one.”

“Ah, all them crowd are wankers. The day they worry me, I’ll pack it in. Catch ya later.”

Those were the last words Ford heard from him. After Dalton slipped up the stairs, he lifted the phone.

“Jack, I don’t know if I’m imagining it or not but I think I heard someone on the landing. I was in the cellar for a few minutes. Will I come up?”

“No, son. Leave it to me.”

A ferocious racket erupted, and then Dalton was carried by the seat of his pants down the stairs. Jack had the bat in his other hand. Across the bar and flung into the street.

Jack said quietly, “If I see you again, I’ll kill you,” and he shut the door.

“Well done, Ford.”

Ford had read how the use of brutality itself brutalises. What he felt might be even worse — self righteous and justified.

The Ceremony of the Rings!

The day had come. He read his horoscope and it promised “Momentous events to those who care.” Sounded not unlike Neville. A lot of Uranus entering cusps of Capricorn, which was highly suggestive if not downright lewd.

“Lewdness is good,” he said.

He withdrew a wedge of cash from the bank. It sat in his pocket like reassurance. Then the jewelers. A gaggle of schoolgirls were, as usual, outside. Shrieking and pointing, the window display brought them to fever pitch. A well dressed man asked him for Guy’s Hospital. Ford went to pains to tell him, and the man said, “Might I trouble you for the price of a meal?”

“Ya chancer. Hoppit!”

“Wooftah! You bald wooftah.”

A little shaken, Ford purchased two Irish wedding rings and spent more than he’d planned. “Thin end of the wedge,” he lamented. Next, two bottles of Chivas Regal and back to the bank for further funds. The same teller said, “Have you considered the benefits of a credit card?”