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

“Have you considered the merits of minding your own bloody business?”

Well pleased, if poorer, he next purchased a dozen long-stemmed roses. The price rocked him.

“Bit steep,” he said.

“A rose is forever,” said the dreamy sales assistant.

“Jeez, it would need to be.”

He called Alison and arranged for her to arrive at eight. A call to “Gourmet Services” and a hot, sealed dinner was scheduled for home delivery at seven thirty. The Chivas Regal was opened and he poured himself a big one. “Ain’t Life Grand” was the song he hummed.

Fair damage was done to the first bottle when Alison arrived. She’d had her hair done. A tight, black miniskirt set Ford’s pulse zooming. The roses pleased her immensely. The gourmet meal hadn’t arrived so he began to kiss her neck. His hand slid under her skirt, and in jig time he was astride her.

As he came, the blood pounded in his ears and he said, “Oh my God! Oh! Argh! I love you. Oh... Grace, I love you.”

That he loved her now wasn’t open to even the slightest doubt. He’d bought two extra large, white T-shirts and they sat in the afterglow. The T-shirts read “We’re a couple of Scouts.” He’d managed to blank out the “u” and Alison was delighted. Ford took her hand and began to slide the ring on her finger... It didn’t fit, not any finger... His own fit. Too tight, and he knew only prayer and soap would next detach it. It squeezed like amputation.

“Will you, Alison Dunbar, marry me?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

Elvis was singing in the background, “I jest can’t help believing, when she slips her hand in my hand, and it feels so small and helpless...”

And was it pure sadism, or was The King deliberately emphasizing, “This time the girl is gonna stay”?

Maybe she hadn’t heard right.

“I’m asking you to marry me!”

“I know that, and NO, I won’t.”

“You can’t be serious. I love you.”

“You love Grace! You call me that all the time. In fact, you just did.”

“A name! A bloody name. You’re turning me down over a friggin’ name.”

“That name. Yes. And... I don’t love you.”

“You don’t love me! You’ve been stringing me along. I can’t believe it. You... hussy!”

Alison gave a mighty laugh from deep within her.

“Hussy! Well, where on earth did you find that?”

Ford struggled to his feet. “Out! Get outta my house... my life.”

Alison took her time dressing. Ford rushed through a series of drinks, all ball busters.

“Alison, what did we just have here, eh?”

“What we had was lovely.”

She opened the door and a man in a white jumpsuit said, “Gourmet deliveries.”

“In there,” she said as she departed.

The food was deposited on the coffee table. Alison’s ring sparkled beside it. In a daze, Ford pushed a bundle of notes at the man who counted it carefully. He stood waiting.

“What? Is there a problem?”

“No tip?”

“No friggin wonder. Here, d’ya like roses? Give them to your girlfriend.”

The gourmet took them and left muttering darkly about lunatics. With a ferocious sweep of his arm, Ford took all the food from the table. He kicked the cartons for good measure. In a paraphrase of the old saying, he thought:

“To lose one woman is accidental

To lose a second is tragic

But to lose a third... It was downright criminal.”

“What in heavens name is wrong with them?” he roared.

Grace had told him once, “Never talk to a woman about another woman.” And he’d asked, “Even if she asks you?” “Especially not then.” “Wow”, he thought. Why hadn’t I heeded it? Advice always seemed particularly wise after you’d ignored it.

He was sitting in the bar with Jack after closing time. They were sipping beer with whiskey chasers.

“Hits the spot,” said Jack.

“Yea.”

It was a week since Alison’s departure. The ring stubbornly refused to budge. It clung. Like gossip. Hurt too. The loss of her had shocked him. A hole seemed to sit in his gut. Jack said, “This business suits you.”

“I like it.”

“Ever think of getting your own pub? I’d recommend you to the Brewery.”

“I dunno.”

“Thing is, you’d have to be married.”

“Oh!”

“What about young Alison? I thought you were serious there.”

“Her? No. No, I blew her out. She started talking about love and stuff.”

“Jump ’em and leave ’em, eh Ford?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, have a think about it. See me and Stella... made for each other. She’s never looked at another man since me. Want to know why?”

“Er — Okay, why?”

“Bed. I give her enough. She’s not likely to stray, and that’s the secret. Good humping.”

Ford drained his glass. A mountain of tankards waited to be washed.

“Better get going on that lot.”

“Naw, leave it. Lemme tell you how to satisfy a woman.”

Ford’s heart sank. The word that leapt to his lips was “wooftah”.

On his free mornings, he began to frequent that bar off New Oxford Street. It was here she’d asked, “So Ford, wanna get laid or what?”

Tommy, the barman with the lopsided grin, was still there. He still smelt of Old Spice and old ruin. If he remembered Ford, he hid it well.

“Remember me, Tommy?”

“Can’t say that I do, John.”

“Actually, it’s Ford.”

“Whatever you say, John. You want a drink or conversation?”

“Sour Mash.”

“Coming up.”

Ford couldn’t leave it alone.

“Remember Grace?”

“An American chick?”

“Yes, that’s her.”

“Listen, John, everyone remembers Grace.”

“Oh! I see.”

He didn’t, and certainly didn’t wish to pursue this. Over the next six months he got there about three mornings a week. Each time, Tommy called him John and acted as if he’d never seen him before. It wasn’t even personal. He called everyone John.

Ford drank sour mash and brooded. Sometimes he played the jukebox. The old rock and rollers. Everly Brothers, Buddy Holly. Like that.

One morning he was startled to hear Tommy speak to a customer.

“The bloke over there. Looks half asleep. He’s a sour mash drinker too.”

He looked up... There she was. Those blue, blue eyes. Dressed in a grey sweatshirt and nigh faded blue jeans. These were tucked into soft leather boots. Her hair was now to her shoulders. The sweatshirt logo read “I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” Ford knew W.C. Fields loathed that city. On his tombstone was such an inscription. She smiled and walked over.

“Bin waiting long?”

“Two years.”

“Sorry I’m late then.”

Silence. They eyed each other. He loved what he saw. She just saw.

“Are you back long?” he asked.

“Like six months, I guess.”

“You didn’t think to ring me?”

“Guess not.”

Another silence. He wanted to throw his arms round her and plead love and adoration. But hurt too, he wanted to lash out and see pain. As the silence built, he got up and ordered a double round of sour mash.

“I thought of you the other week, Ford.”

His heart leapt.

“The Quiet Man”. We caught it on cable. I said to Cecil, “Hey, Cecil, I know a guy like that.”

Cecil! Bloody Cecil. And he couldn’t resist it. He had to know.

“The John Wayne character?”

“Hell, no. The little guy. The priest. Barry something or another.”

“Fitzgerald. That was Barry Fitzgerald.”

That was the trigger. He started to speak, and in a low monotone he told her of all the events since last he’d seen her. She was silent as the saga unfolded and at odd moments, signaled to Tommy for fresh drinks. Near exhaustion, Ford finished and swallowed the nearest drink.