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

“S... E... R... A...”

“Ah, sorry, that’s an unusual name.”

“It’s the one given to me, Father.”

“Yes... yes, of course, quite lovely... am...” (He wanted to say how even lovelier she was.)

He took her hand and electricity burned. A jolt of passion nearly toppled him. She knew... a tiny smile hovered. Sweat broke on his forehead.

“The job is quite varied... apart from Church correspondence, there’s personal letters, etc., I’d need you to take charge of.”

She handed him her references.

“Very impressive, are you married, Mzz... Miss... am.”

“No... please call me Sera.”

“Grand... and let’s dispense with the formalities. I’m Morgan... and when can you start?”

“Tomorrow... I never got married because the best ones are ‘unavailable.’”

She gave him a look that Raymond Chandler said “you felt in your back pocket.”

Lust tore throughout him and he felt the physical signs of this were soon to be mortifyingly obvious. Shame and Jameson burned his face.

“How is Malachy?” she asked.

Too stunned to answer, he gaped at her.

“I used to know him when I attended this parish years ago.”

“Am... he’s... no longer with us... I’m sorry to tell you he’s deceased.”

Sera prepared to leave. As she got to the door, she turned and said,

“I like to think they’re always with us... don’t you, Father?”

He sat down and lit a shaking cigarette. The nicotine burned like revelation. Alcohol whispered,

“No worries, son, nothing here that a few stiff belts won’t fix... let’s nip upstairs and finish that bottle... how much can be left in it.”

He did.

The small hours of the morning he came to. Stretched on his bed, still dressed and a mega hangover waiting. Looking at his watch, he remembered Scott Fitzgerald’s “It’s 3:30 in the morning of our souls.” Time of fear.

Thirst drove him out to the landing. Someone was at the top of the stairs.

“Hello,” he ventured.

His mother turned and smiled.

The impact floored him and he fell to his knees. Whimpering, he forced himself to look. The landing was empty. Trembling he eased down the stairs, expecting a hand on his shoulder. The sheer screaming of his thirst got him to continue. He turned the lights on in the kitchen. A gallon of ice cold water he promised. Opening the fridge, the cat’s head was grinning at him. A shriek made him worse and then he realized it was he who was making the woeful sound. Thirst forgotten, he fled back upstairs and bolted the door of his room.

Morning came, slow and heavy. A pack of cigarettes had brought his thirst to manic proportions. A scalding shower helped, and he drank from the bathroom tap. The shake in his hands made shaving a near massacre. Dressed in civvies he made his way tentatively to the kitchen. All was bustle and activity. Mrs. Fleming said,

“Tis yourself.”

“Sort of,” he thought.

A couple of altar boys were throwing toast, Sister Ben was shining the taps, and Mrs. Fleming moved back and forth from the fridge with ease.

“Nothing for me,” he said, “just coffee... and black... no milk.”

“But it’s all ready, Father.”

“What did I say... does everyone have a contrary opinion?”

“Oh well, please yourself. I’ll leave it for the cats.”

His stomach lurched.

“Hurry up with the coffee.”

The Church bell rang and then the visitors. Mrs. Fleming went, muttering darkly about the starving millions in India. Morgan made a full mug of coffee. Toast sailed past his ear.

“Get out, for the love of God,” he roared. The altar boys fled.

“Sister Ben... did you use the fridge this morning?”

“Is there something missing, Father?”

“Jaysus... sorry... sorry, could you just answer yes or no?”

“What’s missing?”

He made a manic run for the fridge. Sister Ben shouted in alarm. Flinging open the door, he steeled himself. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just fridge things. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Mrs. Fleming returned.

“A visitor for you, Father.”

“Who is it?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s my place to ask.”

Gulping down half the coffee, he considered putting her head in the fridge. A wino was waiting at reception.

Tall, over 6’2”, he had a huge mop of white hair, black ragged beard, and sunglasses with red frames. A heavy grey overcoat came to his knees. The wino’s tan covered large hands and his face.

“I’m Walter,” he said, and offered his hand.

Morgan shook it.

“Bit early to be looking for money, isn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon, vicar, I’m no beggar... ask for nothing from no man. None asked, none given, harsh but equitable.”

“I’m a priest, this is a Catholic church, the other crowd are across the common.”

“Are you sure? A policeman gave me directions. I’ve no idea how he jumped to a papist conclusion.”

“Well, good day to you then, sir.”

“A moment, priest... I’ve been toying with conversion. Anyway, I’m new to this borough and I like to present my credentials with the relevant authorities. Am I too late for breakfast penance?”

Morgan laughed. Something he thought he’d never do again. He took Walter through to the kitchen and instructed a sulking Mrs. Fleming to feed him. As he left, Walter said,

“I can see you’re fond of a drop yerself. I’m definitely converting.”

Morgan said a shaky mass and noticed a large crowd. Word of yesterday’s events was circuited widely. As he took the wine from the altar boys he saw them exchange a knowing look. “God,” he thought, “I’ll be known as the dipso priest.”

Sera was waiting in the small office. She wore a short black skirt, black blouse and black stockings. It made her hair shine like brilliantine.

“I’m all yours,” she said.

Passion again engulfed him. He outlined the work and added,

“I’ve some personal letters later.”

She crossed her legs and the sound the nylon was like a bomb.

“Your personals will receive my full attention.”

Unable to reply, he excused himself. Fresh air, he reckoned... and a drink, but that would have to wait. A killer, but vital. As he turned the corner outside, he nigh collided with Kate Delaney.

“You macho brute,” she said, and laughed.

“Sorry... sorry, I didn’t expect to find you creeping round here. What do you want?”

“A small favour.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a drinks pity party this evening to launch a new charity and the sight of a priest will boost the funds.”

“To go with you... is it?”

“Would that be so horrible?”

“Well, all righty. I will.”

They sat on a church stone seat. Weak September light gave an impression of warmth. He resolved not to tell her about last night. Any sane person would ask had he been drinking. She’d think he’d had the D.T.s. A moment later, he told her the lot.

“And had you been drinking?”

“A bit.”

“Sounds like the D.T.s”

Before he could reply, Sera appeared carrying a sheaf of papers. She looked brazen at Kate, to him she said,

“I’ll need your signature, Father.”

Kate smiled.

“Do introduce us, MORGAN.”

He did.

A loaded tension settled. He felt as if he was six years old and couldn’t think of a further word. The parishioner who’d watched him wrestle the Cross came by.

“Double dating, is it, Father?... Yah saucy rascal.”

Sera told him she’d wait inside. He watched her walk with renewed feelings of guilt and lust.

“Watch out for her, Morgan.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“As they say in Southeast London, ‘she’ll be ’aving you, that one.’”