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

“Jesus H. Ke-rist! Well, way to go, Ford.”

“That’s it, Grace? That’s all you have to say, ‘Way to go’?”

“Well, it’s interesting, but I mean, it’s not high drama, is it?”

Rage engulfed him.

“Well, I thought the Dalton bit would worry you?”

“Dalton! Why would that worry me? You mean the vicious little guy who panhandled?”

“Yea. The guy who fucked you.”

Astonishment lit her face, and he knew it had never happened. Relief and rage battled for supremacy. Grace’s face clouded and she leant over. For a kiss, he prayed.

“Just wait one ga-damn minute! I get it... He told you that and you... you dumb bastard! You believed him, didn’t you? All the rest, your pathetic story. You did it for revenge. You poor, dumb shit-kicker. All your grand design... Based on an empty premise. You sorry schmuck... You prize horse’s ass!’

She stood up. Panic grabbed him.

“Grace... Oh God! Grace, listen...”

“Take a hike, buddy. You’re one sick son-of-a-bitch.” And she was gone.

Gone, and he knew — forever. Horse’s ass. Good Lord! What a term! Him?

He looked up to see an effeminate man at the bar. The guy moved his hand suggestively to his crotch. Slow turning, he pouted his lips and blew a kiss to Ford. Perhaps there was such a thing as unisex violence, thought Ford and then he said, “Nothing... tis nothing but a passing fancy.” He surveyed the carnage of empty glasses. Very cautiously and with full deliberation he began to whistle. And whistle as if he meant it.

“For today, don’t react. To every situation, bring the gift of gentle response.”

Charles wrote this carefully in his notebook, next to his shopping list. London had been dancing on his nerves and, short of moving, he’d run out of answers. Then this gem of lucidity.

He was fifty-two years of age and recently redundant. A tall man, his hair was grey and thinning. A fragile build made him most unsuited to urban strife.

Samuel Johnson had written, “When a man was tired of London, he was tired of life.” Charles was tired of Johnson. He’d like to have Johnson with a bus pass... see how wise he cracked then.

Breakfast was one boiled egg, one slice of toast and one cup of tea. He knew that loneliness thrived on single items and, phew... he’d been lonely for such a long time. Colette had met another man ten years ago and they’d scarpered to Amsterdam. The chap was an artist and according to her... “FUN.” God, that word was like a curse of woesome proportions. He washed the cup and steeled himself for the day. He didn’t expect “fun” to be prominent.

He was third in the bus queue. A sizeable crowd fell in behind him. Top of the line was a cheerful black woman who seemed unfazed by the wait. The bus appeared, driver-only model. The line moved expectantly. The doors opened and the driver moved from his seat; he began to manoeuvre the outside mirror.

“Are you changing drivers?” the black woman asked.

“Hey... What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Fixing the mirror.”

“Hooray, give her a chat show.”

Finally, the driver moved back inside and the line began to enter. A man asked,

“Do you go over London Bridge?”

“Ask the fat lady, she’s the one with the answers.”

A silence fell on the group as they gauged the insult. Cowed, they filed to their seats. Charles couldn’t find a gentle response and he didn’t think silence covered it either. What he wanted was to slap the driver full in the mouth. He got off at Camberwell Green and resolved to put the incident behind him. “NAZIS,” his mind roared.

“Give them a uniform and the Third Reich thrives.”

Outside McDonald’s a young wino asked,

“Got any change?”

“Am... afraid not... all my loose change went on the bus.”

“I’ll take notes!.. and we accept major credit cards!”

Charles hurried on, the shouts of abuse bounced against his neck. He found the employment office and crossing his fingers went in. The receptionist was an impossibly young seventeen and reading a magazine. She didn’t look up.

“Excuse me, Miss.”

“Yea.”

“I’ve an appointment with a Mr. Hamilton.”

“Not here today.”

“Oh dear, I’m supposed to see him at eleven.”

“Well, he’s not ’ere, is he... he’s got flu...”

“I see... I see, shall I leave my name then?”

“Suit yerself.”

He stormed out... BLAST... Blast and damnation, he muttered... bad-mannered trollop... probably a reader.

He glared at passers-by with black hatred in his heart.

“Tea...,” he thought. “... a cup of English tranquility.”

A café on the Walworth Road and he sat wearily. Ordered a large tea. The waitress was sixty and tired. Her hair matched the colour of the tea. Only a fool would risk the soup.

“Colour coordination,” he thought.

A smudge of pink lipstick clung to the mug’s rim. Charles wanted to fling it through the window. A man sat opposite and ordered toast with poached eggs. When it came, he removed his false teeth and slipped them into his pocket. He said,

“I hate eggs.”

Charles sighed and wondered who’d planted the pink kiss on his forlorn mug. The man tapped him on the arm and said,

“Them Yanks... they’ve got all kinds of serial killers” (he pronounced it cereal) “and psychopaths. Here in London, we’ve got our own band.”

“Oh really?” said Charles.

“I’m telling you, matey... they’re out there... and they’re active.”

Charles began to tilt the mug and let the tea seep onto the table. He said, “Can’t say I’ve noticed, old boy... no can’t say that I have.”

He was a sad man. Even his clothes sang of sorrow. Old, too, she knew he’d not see seventy again. His face featured the look that said he wouldn’t want to, even were it possible.

The coffee bar was full and Cora desperately wanted a seat. New shoes were crucifying the very blood in her toes. Her Mother used to say, “A lady always buys a size smaller.” She wished her Mother were wearing them... see how lady-like she’d be.

Only the man’s table was free of other occupants. People sense misery and avoid it. Woe was neon-lit above the man’s head. On a busy day, who needed that. A full head of white hair topped his worn, lined face. Cora reckoned he’d smell of mustiness, old hangers and faded shirts. He’d probably have those hideous false teeth that startle in a face, like a shout.

Cora was thirty. Blonde and petite. At least her friends said that. “Petite”... it sounded like a delicate chocolate you’d hoard for a special day, or a fragrance you can never quite identify.

“May I sit?” she asked.

He looked up. Brown eyes, decked in some lost grief. Standing, he half bowed. It made him more forlorn.

“But of course.”

Cora ordered cakes and coffee. The waitress brought a tray of pure temptation. The coffee had a rich smell, like energy. Cora didn’t want to draw the old codger on herself but he was so thin.

“Join me in a cake,” she offered.

He gave a beautiful smile, even his eyes were linked to it. The teeth might well have been his own, uneven but clean. All of him was clean as a whistle, as if he’d been shine-scrubbed for viewing.

“I’d dearly love to but alas... I’ve gone beyond delicacies!”

Cora thought she’d leave well enough alone.