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

He could.

In no time, he brought back a long box and produced the required item. He then stood well away. Danny rested it in both hands and then took an easy, flowing swing. A quiet shoosh followed in the wake. The man said,

“State of the art, sir, and as a special promotion, we provide a Yankees cap in a colour of your choice.” Danny stopped his swing.

“Do me a friggin favour, eh.”

“You don’t want the cap?”

“Just wrap the bat, alright.”

As Dany left the shop, the radio in the shop kicked into life and Peter Sarstead came on,

“Where do you go to my lovely.”

By the time Danny got to the tube, he hummed most of it and a gentle sadness lined his face. He gripped the bat tightly, like a prayer.

Back at his flat, he rang the largest of the tabloids and asked for the features editor. Finally a gruff voice came on,

“Baker here, what’s the story?”

“Are you familiar with the L.V. attacks?”

“L.A., the riots, that’s old news, fellah.”

“L.V.”

“What... what’s that, luncheon vouchers or somefin’, eh?”

“London Vigilante, do you want this story or not?”

“Oh, right... am, just let me get me a pen here. Now, your name is?”

“This is to tell you there’ll be three more ‘events’ this month. The acid will be replaced by a new instrument.”

“What... is this on the up and up? Are you the one... hey, I can make you famous fella, rich too...”

“Baker, is it... give it a rest, O.K....”

“Look, fellah, you can trust me... really, I’ll put this paper right behind you.”

Danny laughed.

“Good grief, wot a horrible idea... all you need to know is that a small piece of London is being claimed back for ordinary people.”

And he put the phone down.

His shirt was wet through from perspiration, he said aloud,

“Is that what I’m doing... is it, am I making a difference... am I?”

This event was to be the one in which he got stabbed. ‘Event’ was his father’s word, and Danny wondered how he’d like the use to which it was put.

His recurring image of his father was scalded on his heart. The man leaping to his feet, struggling to pull his belt loose, roarin’,

“I’m going to skin you alive.”

Danny told people his father was a drinker.

He wasn’t.

His nigh psychotic temper was simply — bad temper.

He liked to beat people, he loved to beat Danny. Time reaches out for all bullies. At 17, Danny’s father pulled his belt loose and prepared to launch another event. Danny had moved straight to him, seized the belt and whispered,

“How would you like that wrapped round yer fuckin neck, you bastard.”

“Ah son, it’s been to make a man of ye... see, see now you’re learning.”

Danny had snapped the belt from his hand and flung it across the room.

If time brings forgiveness, then Danny reckoned the clock had a bit to go yet.

“Ya bastard,” he muttered as he fitted the bat into a sports hold-all. He took the train to The Angel. A small park near the station was his target. As he waited for the train, he watched a small, aged oriental woman. She had the tiniest feet he’d ever seen, and they were shod in sparkling new white sneakers. Obviously fascinated by them, she made little jumps back and forth. He thought she’d probably been subjected to the binding of her feet as a child. Now she was relishing the freedom or...

“Or,” he whispered, “maybe she just likes the fucking shoes.”

The train came. A line of Flaubert burned in his head.

“I’m crammed with coffins, like an old cemetery.”

March was nearing an end, and he could see a stretch in the evenings. Once, he’d have cared. Checking his watch, two minutes to seven, near mugging-hour. He sat in the small park and composed his victim’s face. This was a mix of eagerness and a slightly lost look. It instantly had an effect as a middle-aged woman hurrying paused,

“Oh, you don’t want to sit there, love, no, you don’t want to do that.”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Well, my goodness, love, don’t wait long. It’s not safe here.”

He wondered where was, and thanked her for her concern. Richie was expecting him at 10 for a drink. His woman had walked at Christmas and soon after, Richie did the same from his job. He was smoking a lot of dope.

“Nothing hard,” he explained.

Danny liked the explanations for drugs these days.

“Designer”... or “Recreational.” As if they were a nigh useful fashion accessory and definitely not hazardous. His favourite description was “soft drugs.” Did they make you soft in the head, he wondered.

That too.

A nagging suspicion tugged at Danny that just maybe Richie was into dealing. He had to put this on the back burner. If such were so, didn’t Richie qualify for an event? He shrugged it away.

Richie’s most recent acquisition was “ICE.” An amphetamine derivative that was popular in Japan. Just beginning to dent the market in Britain. According to the stories, it was used originally by the Kamikaze pilots. Danny thought that was a suitable metaphor all in itself, but as a selling point? Danny had asked him,

“So what does it do for you?”

“It makes you hyper tense, but like, you see with 100 % perception. You don’t eat, sleep. And it lingers for about three days.”

Danny said,

“Bit like love, is it?”

In fact, the ‘events’ did much the same for Danny. Two youths, black and white, approached him. As if they materialized from the shadows. He hadn’t seen them enter the park, and resolved to cut out these reveries... and muttered,

“Money-vampires. Predators from the pavement.”

“Got the time, John?” they began.

And so did he.

Danny’s daydreaming had nearly cost him his life. He never saw the third. Later, he’d ruefully parody T. S. Eliot,

“Who is the third

Who walks behind.”

The knife went in on his left side, deep and ferocious.

He was never quite sure how he’d gotten away. The sound of the bat’s swing and his own agonized grunts were the soundtrack. That and breaking bone.

A wedge of money persuaded the cab driver to take him to casualty, plus a mugging yarn.

They patched him up and he was sitting in reception after, waiting for a pain-killer prescription. A nurse stood over him.

“What happened to you, at all?”

Soft brogue.

He looked at her. Average height with dark, curly hair, blue eyes and a full mouth. Pretty in the Irish fashion. Her name tag read, N. Mulkerns.

“Is the ‘N’ for Nurse or Nosy?”

“Nora... what are you so touchy about?”

“Go away, Nora, peddle the Mother Theresa act down the wards.”

She smiled and it transformed her. An average, pretty face came close to beauty. Not completely but in there.

“Aren’t you the wicked one, you have a mighty fierce tongue on you.”

He stood up and pain took a mighty wallop at him.

“Fuck,” he said.

“What kind of language is that from a nice lookin’ man? I’ll get you a cup of tea, to sweeten your disposition.”

She did.

“No bikkies, I’m afraid, economy cuts.”

Danny took a swig of the tea, realized he was parched and drained it. A burning sensation like memories.

“Well now, you certainly enjoyed that.”

Danny felt for his watch... gone in the event.

“What time is it?”

“Half past nine, I’m off duty at 10.”

Danny looked closely at her, said,

“Why are you in my face, is this some follow up treatment or are you just trying to annoy the shit out of me, ’cos believe you me, you’re succeeding.”

She put her hand on her hip and replied,