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

Brady’s pub was situated at the wrong exit of The Mile End road. “Bandit country,” according to the locals. The clientele consisted almost exclusively of policemen. A stray drinker would be advised by Brady as to this and then cautioned...

“Watch your wallet.”

As a youth, Brady had been a merchant seaman and at some point had been tattooed. The right arm predictably proclaimed “Mother.” The left read “Watch Out.” One was well advised to heed this. During his travels, Brady had acquired a long, wooden club. A narrow handle led to a thick, ugly baseball type body. It had been fashioned with oak for weight and bamboo for flexibility. When swung, it made a vicious “swish” which put the fear of eternity about. The customers were very familiar with it. At closing time, without fail, the club would appear with the same cry “Drink up or join the club... permanently.” To policemen, of course, this was the height of comfort. The nightly “swish” was indeed Mother’s milk to their blue heats. Beat your own, so to speak.

On a wet November morning, a young Irishman attempted to steal from Brady. He managed to get into the yard at the back of the pub and was in the act of forcing a shed door. Brady caught him there and went to work with the club. The “swish” almost drowned out the litany of “Oh Sweet God... oh for the love of God and His Saints.” The he stopped. The words of entreaty hung on the air. Brady dropped the club, the wood rattled on the concrete yard. “God is it... ya thieving Mick... see those shoes... I worked for them... like everything else.” So saying, Brady three times swung his shoe at the unconscious head. And three times you denied me! Brady made a few telephone calls and the youth was discreetly removed from the premises. Cleaning the club took longer and afterwards it was placed under the Ruth Ellis shrine. The staff kept clear of their boss as he began to drink with ferocity. All through the evening session, he continued to drink and felt “watched.” From the corner of his eye, he’d sense a man’s eyes on him. He’d snap round and no one was staring. Last orders rang early and Brady’s surliness cleared the pub quickly. Along, he double-checked the door locks and windows. Moving to the centre of the bar, Brady felt he could watch the whole area. A fresh bottle of Scotch was open and the club rested on his knees. As the bottle diminished Brady’s attention lulled.

A man stood inside the bar, his back to Brady, covering Ruth Ellis. The sudden sight of him snapped something in Brady’s chest and a jolt of pain drew him upright. “Hey... who the bloody hell are you... want some of this... what... want to join the club fella?” As he lifted the club, a double jolt slammed his heart and he fell heavily on his back. The whiskey crashed to the floor. Brady tried to clasp the club but paralysis spread through him. He heard the man’s footsteps as he began to approach. The shoes made an odd sound... like the lilt that pervades an Irish wake. As the man’s shadow fell across Brady he roared “for the love of...” But blackness took away completion.

The pub didn’t open the following morning. By evening a group of thirsty, rather than concerned, coppers forced the door. Inside they found the bar had been cleaned and polished. No Brady! Eventually, a chief inspector from Hackney ventured the three flights to Brady’s bedroom. He found him in bed with the sheets up to his chin. The face was spit-clean and he looked as dead as he indeed was. More coppers came up and they drew the blankets back. Brady was clad in pyjamas with the sleeves rolled back to display the tattoos.

“Bugger’s dead,” they agreed. It was further agreed that Brady would wish them to have a few drinks. Shortly, a festive atmosphere prevailed and the drink flowed. A police cadet, fresh from Stepney Green, was assigned as barman. Cutting a lemon for the Chief Inspector’s gins, his eye fell on the Ruth Ellis photo. “Hello... it’s Marilyn Monroe... I’ll be having that,” and he quickly stuffed it beneath his tunic.

Upstairs, the door had been closed on Brady. For a while the sounds of merriment reached there but gradually the silence spread and settled. The club wasn’t found behind the bar and nobody seemed interested in its whereabouts.

In the months to come, Brady was remembered but was seldom missed.

“All you need is your own place... and a cat called Norman.”

Jack was eavesdropping on two women seated behind him... Norman... why Norman?

The pub was full and he worried about the delay in getting served again... if... and when, Melanie arrived. Jack was forty-three years old, five foot eight with a slight stoop.

A pot belly was building but he felt powerless against its march out and onward.

He had brown thinning hair and daily distress at recession. Soft brown eyes were his redeeming feature. They almost compensated for his poor nose and poorer mouth. He was doing what he did best, worrying.

Melanie arrived, looking carefree and careless.

A petite blonde with blue eyes, she was dressed now in jail sentence outfit. Short black mini, black boots, white cling sweater and midi leather coat.

“God,” he thought, “I worship her, I’ll light candles to her.”

“Hello,” he thought, “I worship her, I’ll light candles to her.”

“Hello,” he said.

“Oh hello.”

She had the knack of always sounding as if she’d never met him.

“What will you have?”

“A vermouth

   and perhaps... yes.

   a lightly tossed salad... mm... m

   Some French bread, check it’s fresh

   and

   a twist of lemon in the drink.”

His heart

   s

   a

   n

   k.

The barman was an animal and a very busy one. They’d already traded glares. A tossed salad!

“Coming up,” he said.

It took fifteen minutes before he got the barman’s attention.

“We don’t got no turned salad.”

“Tossed, that’s tossed salad.”

“You winding me up Guv?... we got salad sandwiches and we got burgers... we got other customers too. So, you wanna get yer skates on or wot?”

“Am... fine, a salad sandwich then, a large scotch and a vermouth, please”

He couldn’t, he just couldn’t ask for the lemon twisted or otherwise. The order was slapped down with no change from the ten pound note. Jack offered it for some soul in purgatory and fought his way back to Melanie.

She’d let his seat go and was chatting to the occupant, a navvy. In donkey jacket and vicious work boots, a hard-ass. Jack sighed and put the sandwich down, like an offering. He tried to slip the vermouth next to it.

“WHAT’S THIS THEN?” she screeched... she and the navvy eyed the sandwich.

“It’s all they’d left... am... darling.”

The navvy sniggered at the endearment. Jack wished for a bundle of things.

a) She’d lower her voice.

b) He didn’t feel the suicidal compulsion to call her affectionately.

c) He was in South America.

“That’s all they had love... the am... the tossed salad wasn’t available.”

Jack took a lethal belt of the scotch, chocked and felt his face burn.

“Toss the sandwich more like,” said the navvy.

Melanie removed the cellophane and delicately lifted the bread. Very dead lettuce hid slyly against the light. The navy roared,

“Lettuce pray for the recently departed.”

Melanie pushed the sandwich away and glared at the vermouth.

“Didn’t they have any lemon then?”

Jack finished his drink. He and Melanie had separated three months ago. This was to have been an attempt at reconciliation. Was it on himself or was it going down the toilet.