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

Getting down on his knees, he began to gather the various items. A small bottle caught his attention. The label read “Patchouli Oil.”

“What?...”

He upturned the bag again and began to sift more carefully. A notebook. He flicked through. Halway along, the address of the coffee bar on the Strand. Where he’d first met Kate... and underneath was printed a name,

“Luigi d’Agostino.”

“The bloody waiter... she already knew him!”

Another entry gave the date of Malachy’s death. His mind was reeling... Click... Click... Click, came the sound of her heels... he dived back to his chair, the contents rammed back into her bag. Messy, but what could he do... hope... a lot. Kate was smiling and asked,

“We’ve time for another bourbon?”

“Absolutely... look, Kate, I just need to go to my room for a second... help yourself.”

As he left, she gave him a curious look. He bounded up the stairs, his heart in his mouth. The full impact of his discovery was nigh too much. A series of deep breaths didn’t help.

A sound behind... Kate was at the door. She said,

“So you know, priest... don’t you?”

“Why... what on earth for... Jaysus, I can’t get a grasp of this.”

Kate spoke, the voice from the confessional.

“The altar was easy... and true, the cat struggled... but your mother’s beads were a tremendous help. A personal touch is so endearing. Kept it in the family. When Martin died, the Church, your fuckin’ Church turned from him. Even in death, he was to be tormented. I thought I’d introduce the Church to some demons of their own. A suicide kills two people. I died with him. The church condemned us both.”

“But Sera... what about her?”

Kate chuckled, it sounded like a straight line to the very nature of viciousness. She continued,

“Might one say, the luck of the devil, a pure coincidence. A trollop on heat. Your thinking was all below your waist. You petty dipso cleric. I spit on you from a height... and always. I’ll be bear... to you.”

Tossing her head, she gave a laugh like a shriek and turned back to the stairs. He ran after her and made a grab for her arm.

“Are you insane?” he shouted.

She pulled free and her heel caught on the top stair. The movement threw her body forward, and she crashed down... a horrendous cry as she fell. Morgan rushed down. Her neck was twisted to the side and her legs were broken beneath her body. He knelt and began to form the words of Benediction.

Her mouth moved.

“F... u... c... k you, priest... I’ll be in your dreams... watch for me.”

Over at the convent, celebrations were in full roar. Sister Ben had turned her final lotto card and screamed,

“Cripes... I’ve won... it’s flaming torture... God forgive me cursing... yippee!”

Walter was on the other side. At the Church of England near Balham High Road. He was laying lavish praise on “The Book of Common Prayer” to a puzzled Vicar.

Conor was studying literature. He’d reckoned he’d found a gem in the following... from one of their own calling, too. A man of God... Thomas a Kempis. The quotation read:

“We could enjoy much peace

if we did not busy ourselves

with what other people say and do,

for this is no concern of ours.”

“Even Morgan would appreciate that,” he said.

“And all the old songs. And nothing to lose”

“England’s fucked!”

The thoughts burned neon in Danny’s head. As the train moved off from Kennington, he watched the antics of two skinheads. They were sprawled across a range of seats and the train was crowded. Instead of chucking these two from the seats, people cowered away. In the English fashion, as if the two didn’t exist. An Englishman’s home might be his castle, he thought, but they’d given up all rights on the underground.

The skinheads couldn’t have been more than 16 years old. But they were aged in bitterness. Nazi signs competed with the Union Jack in their display of tattoos. A series of grunts and obscenities dribbled from them. They’d keep.

At the oval, Danny had to fight to leave the train. A young black woman with a baby in a push-car cried,

“Excuse me... excuse me, I’m getting off.” No one moved.

Danny grasped the end of the push-car and helped her on to the platform.

She gave him a frightened look.

“Such is London,” he thought, “the Good Samaritan matches the police photo-fits.” The Four Top’s song, “Reach Out, I’ll Be There,” unraveled in his head.

He could go the distance so he said.

“The stairs are steep, why don’t I help you.”

She looked round, but no other offers were available.

“O.K.,” she said.

They’d just gotten to the escalator when Danny was jostled and the skinheads raced past, a breath of badness lining their speed. One roared,

“Yo’ nigger lover... give ’er a bit o’ white, John... eh.”

The girl appeared not to hear. You traveled on the Northern Line often enough, you developed a selective deafness. It was that or get a walkman ... or a magnum .

Danny smiled.

“Do you like the four tops?”

“Who?”

“Motown, the hits machine...”

She looked blankly at him. He shrugged and said,

“Never no-mind.”

The skinheads were baiting a guy who was attempting to sell The Big Issue .

“Geroff... buy The Big Issue... Yah prick... hey, gis a job man.”

Danny walked straight to them, said,

“Excuse me?”

The skinheads, surprised, took a moment before the sneers set.

“Wotcha want, nigger-fooker?”

“I wonder if I could interest you chaps in some money.” He hoped his plum accent would hold. They looked at each other.

“Yea, how much then?”

“A hundred pounds, how does that sound?”

“Each.”

“Well... Oh dear, all right, a hundred each... you chaps drive a hard bargain.”

The two now leapt to suspicion.

“Hey, is this some gay-boy thing... you wanna play bumboys, is it... you get somefin’ in your arse all right mate, yea, a fookin size 12 Doc Martin.”

Loud guffaws engulfed them. Danny waited, he never expected this to be easy. Then he said,

“Good Lord, no, I’m doing a magazine on the youth of London. I’d like you two chaps on the cover.”

“Yea’... wot’s the magazine, then?”

“ Borough Life .”

“Yea’, well... when do you want to do it, then, like we got fings to do man.”

Danny shot his hand out, he couldn’t resist a leap out of them. His hand narrowly missed one of their faces.

“See St. Mark’s Cathedral, over there? We’d like that as background. This evening at 7, where the benches are.” Uneasiness passed between the two, and before they could protest, he added a sweetener,

“I’ll bring along a case of beer. You chaps aren’t averse to a little drink, I hope.”

“Yea’... get special brews.”

“All right then, see you at 7.”

As Danny walked briskly away, he felt a river of sweat cascade down his back. He muttered,

“Jesus.”

The pain in his back hovered.

Danny... Danny Taylor was forty-six years old. He’d worked as a site foreman for the past fifteen. Two years ago, a fall had injured his back. An industrial tribunal had awarded him substantial damages, and he lived from that. The years on the sites had kept him fit, and his 5’10” height was free from flabbiness. Brown hair was graying fast. It didn’t give him a distinguished look, it looked like brown hair graying. A slightly crooked nose gave a hard look to his face, and he didn’t discourage it. Brown eyes with heavy laughter lines. Danny didn’t believe laughter had much to do with them. His mouth was set mainly in a hard line but transformed completely when he smiled. A rare event.