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

   Tear apart

   the artificial lines

   of ill-defined

   communication

   would you... like

   me as much

   if

   close... as in the

   nearness of a situation

   we had been

   — Lord strive

   that near related

   Blood ties

   had brought... the

   ounce of tolerance

   have heard it claimed

   as part the heritage

   on the birth-right

   now obscured

   thru pain observed

   in Ireland... family

   have seen

   more sure-d-ly

   is peace the licence

   to... to hurt

   without the consequences

   care?

   Care I

   a murmer less

   to mutter twice

   blood is

   and it has seemed

   to long have been

   that thicker is

   than sense

   I might have known

   or broach

   the furthered cliché

   is

   to hurt — sign-full

   the ones

   you’re closest to... I think

   on that

   could only pray

   this cliché then, I hadn’t understood

   a family

   to plead the years

   thru waste

   to plead... is given

   what is given

   un-explained

   am better in

   the strands of old

   denial... here

   I don’t apply

   and sure

   it is

   if it is... that far

   from what I wish

   it might have been

   can live

   in rough-shaped harmony

   with what

   it is for now

   begin

   deliver... from myself

   an own

   with equanimity can’t say example

   — no

   from myself I guess

   on illustration.

Her family lived in Maunsells Hill. The sort of area where they deposited their rubbish in designer bins. My anticipation wasn’t eased by the brass name plate “La Rosario.” I rang the bell. Worse... chimes, and unless I was badly mistaken, did I detect the strains of “Viva Espana.”

Add my Greek-brandied level, and Europe was thriving. Marisa greeted me. There was no effective way of ignoring the chimes. If she’d greeted me in Spanish I’d have fled.

“For whom the bells chime,” she said.

There is no reply to that. Her parents were lurking in the sitting room. Tunnel vision helped me block out the various bullfighters and flamenco dancers lining the walls.

“Bill and Irene,” said her father.

I’d call them a lotta things. Their Christian names wouldn’t be included.

“A drink?”

“Whiskey,” said Marisa and shoved what appeared to be half a bucket of it into my hand.

“You’re in the Security business,” Bill said.

“I am.”

“The coming thing,” said Bill.

“Tell us about yourself,” said Irene.

I knew of few conversation killers to rival this. I took a near-lethal swipe of the whiskey. Marisa was a huge help. She said nothing. Irene produced the photo albums. I was almost relieved. Double vision obliterated the first two volumes. I muttered “Who”... “Where”... “Surely not”... “janey mack”... at staggered intervals.

Bill told me about the insurance game. He took as given that I knew nothing, and after a brief background, he recounted his coups across the country.

“You’re insured?” he said.

I didn’t know in my floating state, did he ask “You’re innured”... to what... to grief... did he know about the funerals? The whiskey lashed over the brandy. A supremacy struggle. The upper hand was definitely with the whiskey, and I didn’t throw up. I looked at this small plump man in his plump suit. Who the hell was he? I’d read that when you’re threatened by a person, try to see the child in them. I concentrated... and saw a fat kid in a fat suit.

“I renewed,” I said.

Irene was making ferocious hand signals from across the room — to me?

“Do you dwink... no... am... do you drunk yirself?” I asked.

“Never... never touch it... not a drop... nor does my wife. Not that we’re against it... in moderation.”

Would he say it... he did!

“Moderation in all things...”

I made a gigantic effort.

“Clen... clendii... dee... cleanliness is next to... whoa... to Giddiness.”

A total silence.

“Have you met Raoul?” Irene gasped.

Who the hell was Raoul? In fact, who the hell were these people?

“Raoul is our other child. He’s an English language teacher,” she persisted, “and Marisa is heartbroken since he left again.”

Two thoughts collided. The explanation for “And Dark Rain.”

The second thought I verbalized... sort of.

“His... hiss... hiss there a big demand for... fur... English langua... uage here.”

Marisa jumped up.

“We have to go.”

I was thinking “I’ll miss them” when she grabbed my hand. I was half-way down Maunsell Hill before I knew what had happened.

“Jay-sus,” she said. “Oh sweet Lord... oh God.”

“Where’s the fune... fun... the fun-eral?”

Marisa hailed a taxi.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

A long complicated word struggle, as first I had to remember myself. Sharing the information wasn’t easy. With the help of the driver we pieced it together.

“Langers,” said he. Pist in other words.

The driver helped me into the flat. I offered him tea.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a bit of whatever put you in orbit,” he said.

I lashed the last of the Metaxa into a mug. He threw it back.

“Paint off a friggin’ gate,” he said. “Well, goodnight to ye now.”

Marisa was building some form of fatal coffees. I slept. Raging thirst pulled me awake. The flat was dark. A litre of water later, I looked into the bedroom. Marisa was snoring lightly. Between spasms of nausea and remorse, I shuddered beneath the shower. Missing the funerals today was bad, but a line blazed thru my head. “And never to Maunsells Hill go no more.”

It was easy to slip quietly into bed. Noise of any volume was pain personified. It crossed my mind that less drunk, I might even now be slipping into Marisa. Drink is a rough mistress. She woke me with a coffee. I felt as if someone had slept — very badly — in me.

“You look like shit,” she said.

Ah... I thought. Not exactly soothing, but probably accurate enough.

“Well...” she said.

I figured this wasn’t an enquiry — gentle — into my health.

“I liked the taxi-driver,” I said.

“Do you know what you said to my parents?”

Was she insane; sure, wasn’t I part-time there? I didn’t.

“I’m sorry.”

I don’t have a hang-up with apologies. I make them unconditionally and let the flak settle where it will.

“My father asked you what you were in. Do you know what you said!” I didn’t.

“M... m... ph... not the exact words... no.”

“Words!” she roared. “Word... you said, ‘Bits.’

“When he asked later how you’re parents are doing... you said... or worse... you slurred, ‘Dead, thanks.’”

Sick as I felt there in the bed, I marvelled at my manners.

My stomach shuddered when the coffee hit.

“Good coffee,” I ventured.

My mouth wasn’t benefitting any better. Marisa was pacing the room. A fine recall she had. Though this perhaps was not the time to compliment it. She continued.