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

Oliver Philips. It had solidity. Presenting Oliver, Amy and Sherry Philips... the family Philips. The Holland Park Philips. Yes! she thought... oh yes. She’d dressed carefully for the meeting. A dark navy two-piece and discreet shoes. Pearls she’d considered but thought... over-toried.

A silk scarf with a splash of red to show her flair. For what exactly she wasn’t sure but she could wing it. She fixed her accent with the tiniest tot of gin... keep those vowels subdued. All hints of south of The River must be muted. South East London indeed... never heard of it. And now, this moron! “I’m an accountant, lass” was his opening “on account of there’s brass in it, geddit... can you FIGURE it out.”

Their date was set at a small grill and bar off the Charing Cross Road. Amy thought it boded well for her literary aspirations of Oliver.

“I picked this place, lass, cos I do the books here,” he said. More accountancy wit followed. “Cook more than the books... eh!” Amy would never swear to it but, to her horror, he winked. She had begun with a small gin, then ordered a second as the Oliver humour disintegrated. That was when he’d made the alcoholic reference. The evening shambled downwards. Oliver continued a vein of bawdy innuendo. During dessert (a forlorn crème caramel with septic cream), he’d tried to ram his knees between her legs. With the coffee, he launched on a treatise about knockers and Amy stood up.

“Shut up,” she said, “you stupid lecherous oaf.” Oliver did. She swept out, somewhat regally she thought.

A taxi got her home and she felt her heart had been mangled.

The pup tore around in delight at her appearance. Amy kicked off her shoes and pored a murderous length of gin. Two slow tears crept down her cheeks and fell softly on the ritzy scarf. More tears gathered. The pup launched herself onto Amy’s lap. A small, warm tongue began to lap at the tears. A bitty tail endeavoured to shake itself into a frenzy. Amy felt a glow of love at its purest.

“Oh Sherry,” she said, “Sherry darlin’.”

Man, born of woman, is full of misery and has but a short time to live. Morgan read the words and felt them heavy in his mouth. “God,” he thought, “but they’re depressing.”

He woke... the same dream.

Fr. Morgan to be exact. He was six foot and lean. An unruly mop of greying hair refused settlement. Blue eyes and a nose that looked broken. His mouth had a tendency to turn down. This was due to experience rather than temperament. At forty-two years of age, he felt every one of them.

His doctor had recently given him a full physical, even including measurements.

“You’re six foot,” he accused.

“I’m awfully sorry.”

“But you can’t be.”

“Well, Doctor, I didn’t come here proclaiming I was... in fact, I never mentioned height.”

“Only one man was ever six foot.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Himself.”

“Didn’t I just ask you not to tell me... what did I ask you?”

“It’s remarkable. How’s the priesting?”

“Steady... that war scare always drums up business. People like to get their premiums paid.”

“You’re an unlikely priest.”

How true that was. If he’d had a vocation, it was fast eroding. Now he saw it as a job and that was deep trouble.

“You think so?”

“The heart isn’t in it. Ah, you do the priestly things but like an actor... and speaking of heart... how many cigarettes are you doing?”

“I’m trying to cut down.”

“They’ll cut you down, laddybuck.”

“I’m having some problems sleeping, can you give me something?”

“Yes... advice... STOP SMOKING.”

“Ah, no... no, I won’t. I can go somewhere else.”

“Who’d have you, Father?”

“Wait till your next confession, by jingo, you’ll hop.”

On the street he’d felt a powerful urge for a drink. But pubs were for citizens. He’d love nothing better than the freedom to pub crawl. He walked the short distance to his parish. On the outskirts of Clapham, his church was “a good appointment,” and he was going to be the governor, as the locals said. The parish priest, a Fr. Malachy, seventy years old, had dropped dead after Sunday Mass. Malachy the miser. Never spend a penny when you could borrow two. Morgan was temporarily assigned his duties and a year later, he was still the boss.

As he turned the corner to the church, he was turning into nightmare such as his sleep had never conjured. He’d been with Malachy before the priest had said that Sunday Mass. The priest had turned to him and said,

“Some day, Morgan, you’ll come to know a high holiness.”

“You may be right.”

“But first, I feel you may have to understand the ‘Benediction.’”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. In fact, you suffer from what Herbert Marcuse called true ignorance... contempt prior to investigation. Now for a layman, it’s just a pity, but for a priest, it’s downright tragic. Smirk all you like!”

Outside the Church, the housekeeper, Mrs. Fleming, was pacing. She looked frantic. A dumpy woman from Tipperary. She was over sixty and a worrier.

“Ah, Fr. Morgan... Thank God... oh, you won’t believe what’s happened.”

“Now calm down, Mrs. Fleming, tell me nice and slowly.”

“It’s the altar, Father. They’ve... well, I can’t describe it... come and see. Tis pure blasphemy and worse.”

Morgan sighed and followed her.

The large crucifix usually suspended above the altar was inverted. A chill whispered at his heart. Along the aisle were strewn entrails from fowl or an animal. An appalling stink rose.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he said.

“There’s worse, Father... look... on the altar. I’ll wait here.”

It took all he had to approach. Scolding himself “I’m a modern man, this is just hooliganism,” he went. The torso of a headless cat was laid there. White Rosary beads bound its back paws together. Nausea assailed him. Bile rushed to his throat as he looked at the beads. Given to him by his mother for his ordination. He had to grip the altar to keep from fainting.

“The police... call the police,” he choked.

“How did they get the beads?” asked the policeman. A detective no less. No common bobby for church matters. He was a beefy man over fifty. The face looked squatted in... and for a long time. “I’m Brady,” he’d said, “and mind, no jokes about ‘The Bunch.’”

“I don’t know how they got them. I keep them with my breviary upstairs. My mother gave them to me... she passed away five years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” said Brady.

Whether for the mother or the beads, he didn’t specify. He had his men plod round the altar doing police things. They had the look of knowing more and, moreover, they’d be keeping it on a “need to know” basis. As usual, nobody needed to know.

Brady said,

“You have to wonder though.”

“What on earth about?”

“The head... where’s the head? Did you see The Godfather ?”

“No... no, I did not see it... can we get on with this?”

“The head of a horse, they put it in a bloke’s bed.”

“Pl... uu... ze.”

“Any enemies, Father?”

Morgan couldn’t believe he was seriously asked this.

“Detective, I’m not altogether sure your attitude is quite the correct one.”

Brady ignored this and soon after, he left. The cleaning up fell to Morgan as Mrs. Fleming had legged it. After cleaning the debris he took nearly two hours to re-align the Cross. An elderly parishioner watched him wrestle with it and chuckled.

“Ary, Father, I don’t think there’s room on it for the both of yer.”