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

Danny owned the ground floor of a house on Vassil Road. He kept it Spartan and functional. The sole luxury was music. One wall was lined with albums. He hadn’t yet joined the C.D. revolution and felt a record belonged on a record player. Mainly, he just liked the feel of a disc and to handle the sleeve of a record. He made coffee and let the Moody Blues re-sing the seventies. A Scot on the building site said once,

“I came to London on a Sunday for a Moody Blues concert.”

... And...

As “Knights in White Satin” kicked in, the face of Kathy tried for a foothold in his mind; he blanked it and sang.

He took down the metal aerosol container and checked the spray was loose and ready.

“Test time,” he said.

In his small bathroom, he took a newly purchased sponge and set it in his bath. The sponge was shaped as a pink duck. Then he judged the distance...

“Get up close... O.K.”

And he pressed the nozzle.

Later that evening, he dressed for the meeting. A worn faded track suit that, apart from being comfortable, gave him ease of movement. Dark trainers that gripped and weighed almost nothing. He put four cans of special brew in a hold-all, and then carefully laid the aerosol alongside. Taking a deep breath, he said aloud,

“Let’s rock and roll.”

After he left, a faint hiss still came from the bathroom. Shreds of the pink duck lay in the bath. Part of the enamel from the bath’s side was fully dissolved as the last of the acid burned through. On the floor were the usual creams and cleansers. Nigh hidden among them was a full jar of Brylcreem, the old style formula. Glue like it sealed the hair when applied.

The end of March, and Danny had clocked up three events. He called them that as he refused to use the word, “Attack.” Each event, he’d used the aerosol. A white chart hung in his bedroom, and in black script it read,

   1. Two skinheads

   2. One punk

   3. Two teenage girls

The newspapers were slow to pick up the thread. But now they’d sensed a pattern, and the “events” got to page 2 on most of the tabloids. He hadn’t made the quality papers yet, but he wasn’t in any hurry. It was time for a new weapon, and he’d gone to High Street Kensington.

“... we learnt more from a 3 minute record than we ever learnt at school.”

As he strolled past Barkers, a line from Bruce Springsteen leapt in his mouth,

“We’re casing the promised land.”

You could night smell the money that lined the street. A young man asked him for “a few bob”. Danny recognized the lilt of Dublin. Katie had the same accent. For her, maybe, he gave over a few pound coins. The man was astonished.

“Jaysus, thanks a lot.”

“How do you like London?”

“Fuckin’ brutal.”

While perhaps not how Samuel Pepys would have put it... the accuracy couldn’t be faulted.

Katie had introduced him to the poetry of Louis MacNeice, the lines from “Autumn Journal” about the Irish. Danny saw them lines as a sort of damning:

   “they stagger round

   the world

   with a stutter and

   a brogue

   and a faggot of useless

   memories.”

A part return, he’d bullied her into listening to “All the Old Songs.” When Darcy had come along, the little girl had lit his world with wonder. Once she said,

“Daddy, do you love me as much as songs?”

Whoa-hey.

Thoughts of Darcy hit his stomach like a poll tax. He forced a new feeling into place. Right here on Kensington High Street, Richie was driving and they’d stopped for a red light.

From nowhere a windscreen merchant appeared. Before you could protest, these guys had your windscreen covered in suds and then wiped it off. A spit and sod job. Richie rolled down the window.

“Hey... hey, you wanna ask or somefin’ before you paste my screen with that gunge.”

The guy smirked and said,

“Any contribution will help.”

Danny leant over and said,

“Here’s a contribution, learn some manners.”

The guy turned his face and said,

“Who asked you, fuck face?”

Danny was out of the car, grabbed the guy’s right arm and snapped it cleanly across his knee.

Richie gunned the engine and Danny piled into the back.

As they burned rubber, Richie asked,

“What the hell is wrong with you, Dan-yell, are you crazy? Jesus... what a thing to do, You broke that cat’s arm.”

“I wanted to break his legs, too.”

“Chill out, Danny... Good grief, you’re losing it, get a bloody grip.”

Danny asked,

“What do you think of Philip Larking?”

“Yo... I dunno them National Hunt jockeys, I only follow the flat.”

“You ignoramus, he’s regarded as among Britain’s finest poets.”

“Hey, Danny, I’m a black man, remember. What I want to know about a white man’s poems?”

A sulky silence settled as the car moved slow towards Marble Arch. Richie spoke.

“O.K. man... what we have to say, this Barking...”

“Larkin! He said that poetry was like trying to remember a tune you’ve forgotten.”

“So, Daniel... are you writing poems, is this some confession, man?”

“Jeez, Ritchie, I dunno why I bother trying to talk to you. I’m showing you a piece of my soul here. My life feels like that... as if I’m trying to remember a tune that had all the right words, if I could just get the melody, I’d be all right.”

“So, meanwhile, you break my arms, yea’? I dunno what that is man, but I don’t think it’s poetry.”

And, indeed, theirs was an unlikely friendship. Five years before, Danny was managing a site in Croydon. One of the labourers called him,

“Dan... Danny, there’s a darkie looking for a job, he’s down in the office.”

“Tell him we’re not hiring.”

“Jaysus... Danny, he’s a big fooker, you tell him, you’re the governor.”

Big he certainly was. Over six foot and weighing in at about 15 stone. Not so much black as tinted.

Danny said,

“You’re a big ’un.”

“I’m not afraid of work, man, and I’m strong.”

“Where were you before?”

The man looked around, then down at his feet and finally taking a deep breath said,

“I was in prison man, alright, and mos’ like I go back there. But I met a woman, a real fox, and she on that straight and narrow. If I to keeps her, I gotta work. This kinda work, yea’ man, I gotta be outa them doors... so man, I ain’t askin’... I’m begging, and I ain’t never, no sir, no time, ever begged in my life. But I got’s to tell you, I only gonna beg once and this here is it.”

Sweat had cruised down his face and he swiped at it.

Danny said,

“When can you start?”

And they took it from there.

Danny snapped out of his reverie. An American sports shop was next to Kensington Market. No sooner had he entered than an assistant was upon him. A lanky man in his twenties, he wore a Laker’s T-shirt, baseball cap and aviator glasses. His American accent lapsed into Hackney at intervals.

“Yo, partner, and what can we do you for?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was there a particular item sir wanted to purchase?” Danny felt his teeth grit but resolved not to lose it; however, he had to know one thing.

“Firstly, I’m not your partner, O.K.... or your buddy, so let’s drop the breezy tone. Secondly, are you American?” The man looked anxiously around. No help in sight. “I’ve spent a lotta time there, quality time.”

“But you’re not actually an American, so let’s drop the phoney bit, eh. Now, I’d like to see a baseball bat... not metal or some new unbreakable plasticine. Just wood, can you do that?”