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

They skipped the jelly. He made coffee and slipped a shot of scotch into the cups. If she noticed, she kept it to herself.

Kate was silent for a long time, then she began,

“I was married... Martin died three years ago and there isn’t a day I don’t miss him. He was an alcoholic and a nicer person even drunk than most are sober.”

“Was it his heart?”

“No, it was suicide.”

Morgan was horrified. Words of comfort wouldn’t give themselves.

She continued,

“One bleak day, he obviously lost the battle with his demons and carbon monoxided himself in the garage. Not the Rover, his own one... a Datsun. Naturally, if you’re going to commit hari-kiri, use a Japanese car.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She seemed not to hear him. Her look was far and far away.

“Is he damned forever then?”

Morgan didn’t know so he said,

“I dunno, I think there’s a special compassionate part of Heaven for such desperation. You used the word ‘demons.’”

“What would you use?”

“Did he describe them?”

“Morgan, they don’t come with identikits. The nature of them is their non-descriptiveness. If you could name them, mebbe you could fight back.”

Morgan fetched the scotch. He was leaning over Kate to pour into her cup. The door opened. Sera stood there, the light behind her lit her hair like a halo. She said,

“Well, isn’t this cosy?”

Morgan shot up... fumbled... and dropped the scotch.

“Ah, Jay-sus,” he said, as the golden liquid spread across the floor.

“Join us,” ventured Kate. Sera tossed her head, saying,

“Three’s a crowd, I don’t think the priest is yet ready for the ménage a trois .”

Departing, she nigh took the door off its hinges.

“What on earth,” gasped Morgan.

“That... is a woman scorned.”

“Surely you don’t think... I mean, you don’t think she thought. Oh, God.”

Kate smiled and said,

“A murderess is only an ordinary woman in a temper... and that, Morgan, is no ordinary woman.”

Morgan began to clear up. Rattled by Sera, he resolved like Scarlett O’Hara to think about it tomorrow. Kate said it was late and she’d better get moving. He agreed and walked her to her car.

The Rover was parked at the rear. They found the tyres slashed and red paint had been lashed across the windscreen. They both hoped it was paint. They went inside for Morgan to call a taxi. Kate was pale. He made her a coffee and poured the remaining scotch into it. The dregs of the wine gave him some semblance of a drink, too. She said,

“Let’s not even hazard a guess as to what happened. We can speculate tomorrow. Right now, I have to go home alone.”

“Tell me about Martin.”

“I found with him what it means to truly love. I put everything about him before my own wants and needs. I wanted to please him more than I wanted him to please me. For as long as I loved for myself, I felt frustrated loving him, for his loving me set me free. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“Before Martin, I prided myself on my sensitivity. In fact, I was a touchy little bitch. I only knew what hurt me. Through him I learned that sensitivity is knowing what hurts others... so... gimme another shot of that lethal coffee.”

Morgan had to raid the church supplies to find drink. A bottle of Napoleon Brandy was kept for the Bishop’s visits. He took it. Two dynamite coffees were made. He said,

“Here’s to the Bishop.”

“May all his children be baptised.”

“Jeez, Kate, keep your voice down. I’d better call you a taxi... to Streatham, is it?”

“That’s home.”

“Is it a safe area?”

“Well, Morgan, I dunno about safe, but the pitbulls travel in pairs.”

He laughed and rang the taxi. Kate said,

“Gimme another of those suckers and I’ll skip home.”

“Aw, I think you’ve had enough, Kate.”

A tad unsteady, Kate allowed him to guide her outside for the taxi. The driver got out to help her. He looked at Morgan, one eyebrow raised.

“Plied her with drinks, did you, Vicar?”

“I beg your pardon.”

The driver smiled. “You know what they say, Vic, a bird in the hand is worth two in Shepherd’s Bush.”

“What are you suggesting? I have the number of your vehicle, I’ll have you know.”

The driver shrugged. As he put the car in gear, he rolled down the window and said,

“I have your number, Vic... yah randy old git... the News of the World pays for stories about the likes of you... give us a shout for the Christening.”

With a squeal of tyres, he roared into the night. Morgan said,

“A black Protestant.”

As Morgan re-entered the Church, he heard a loud voice.

“Great God, I would rather be a pagan suckled in a creed outworn so might I have glimpses that would make me less forlorn, have sight of Proteus rising from the sea or hear old Triton blow His wretched horn.”

Walter was striding up and down the function room, slugging from the brandy.

“Walter!.. what the hell are you doing?”

“Wordsworth, I’m quoting the lyrical poet himself.”

“That’s the Bishop’s brandy.”

“Ah render unto Caesar those things that belong to Caesar.”

Morgan grabbed the bottle, saying,

“Sit down. I want a word with you.”

Walter was dressed in blue dungarees and a fisherman’s smock. Brand-new work boots peeped from below the pants. Heavy gel was keeping his hair straight back. He sat and Morgan said,

“What’s your game? You’ve been masquerading as a priest... do you think this church is your house?”

Walter sighed and spoke as you would to a particularly dense child,

“Morgan, Morgan, Morgan... this is God’s House and it’s time you learned that. Is it not true that you are the one masquerading as a priest?”

“I don’t believe this... are you stone mad?”

Walter hopped up and before an astonished Morgan, poured two large brandies.

“Join me in the fruit of the nectar.”

He knocked back the brandy, clenched his teeth and went,

“Ar... ar... gh.”

Then he examined the remnants of the meal.

“Was it the Gaelic dish?... any left or did you villains scoff the lot? I saw jelly in the fridge. My, oh my... I do love a sliver of jelly.”

Morgan said,

“Looks like you put it in your hair... I’m going to ring the police for you, me lad.”

Walter put up his hand.

“HALT... let me share my wisdom with you. Never mind you didn’t share the stew. I bear you no malice. Are you conversant with Ralph Waldo Emerson?” Morgan was lost, he didn’t know how to rid himself of the man. He drank and said,

“Not recently.”

“A facetious answer but I’ll plough on,” the man said. “There are three wants which can never be satisfied. That of the rich, who want something more. That of the sick, who want something different, and that of the traveler, who says, Anywhere but here.’ What say you to that, Father?”

“I identify with the traveler.”

“I wish to put myself forward as caretaker to this Church. I am both plumber and scholar.”

Morgan felt he’d never be rid of him... if he was employed here, at least Morgan could keep some control. He said,

“I’ll consider it, but you better behave yourself.”

“You don’t believe I’m a scholar, do you? I’m particularly a fait with Greek mythology. Have you heard of Ares, the God of Warfare?”

“Enough for one night, Walter. You can begin by locking up. I’m for the leaba.”

“La... bah?”

“Leaba, it’s Irish for bed. Goodnight to you.”

“Morgan... reverse it, use your mind.”

A weary Morgan climbed between the sheets...