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

“You think I’m a hussy, don’t you, that I’m forward. Bur that’s how things are today. It’s a woman’s prerogative to do the asking.”

Danny reckoned she wasn’t all in it.

“You’re not all in it, are yah... O.K. let’s go for a drink, just let me get my pills.”

“In case you got lucky... is it... I’ll get my coat.”

Danny went to the phones and found the pub’s number. After a delay, Richie came on the line.

“Richie, I can’t make it.”

“Who can, Daniel, but we have a little something to put pepper in the old pencil.”

“What, is this drug humour, is that it?”

“Whoa, lighten up, Daniel... I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nora was waiting. She’d put on a belted navy coat over her uniform. To Danny she looked like a policewoman, but he knew he was batting paranoid.

“So,” she said.

“What?”

“Do you like my coat?”

“Are you serious, I don’t know you five minutes, you ASK me do I like you’re coat.”

“It’s not a difficult question.”

“Look, I don’t even know if I like you... do you want me to call a mini cab or wot?”

Nora had a car, a beat up mini in what was once bright red. She said,

“Don’t look at it like that, it goes great, the appearance keeps it from being stolen.”

“Promise me one thing... Nora, don’t tell me it has a pet name and start outlining a history of loveable eccentricity. It’s a car, and it goes? Right, let’s go.”

She drove fast but measured. Danny’s wound throbbed and they stopped at a late open chemist. He had the prescription filled and got back into the car.

Nora smiled.

“I hope you didn’t buy any of them condom things.”

“Excuse me?”

“I never do it on a first date so you’ll have jumped the gun... if you’ll pardon my Freudian slip. Let’s go to The Anchor. It’s a quiet place.”

They did.

They did.

The pub was near empty. They’d just sat down when the barman came over.

“Evening all. What’s your poison?”

Nora ordered a medium sweet sherry and Danny asked for a double scotch. Nora said,

“No you won’t... bring him a mineral water... you’re not to mix alcohol with those pills.”

Smirk from the barman. Nora said,

“Don’t sulk, I’ll treat you. What do I call you?”

“Danny.”

“The pipes... the pipes are calling.”

“That’s very original... Nora, it’s Nora, is it? I’ve never had that line before.”

“That’s my name. You say it like a caress, as if you were reciting a poem. I’d like you to drop the sarcasm though.” The barman brought the drinks.

Nora said, “Sláunte.”

Danny said nothing.

She took a sip of the sherry and said,

“If I’m not mistaken, Clapham... and the year... hmm... 92... m... m. Are you married, Danny?”

“I was.”

“Drove her away with your levity, did you?”

Danny drank the mineral water and knew he shouldn’t reply.

All his instincts said to batten down.

“Well, Nora... interesting you should use the word ‘drove.’ My wife Katie... and our little girl, Darcy, were waiting for a bus at Camberwell Green. A joyrider ploughed into them. Cut Darcy in half... and she was only a tiny thing... killed Katie too. People said the joyrider couldn’t have been more than 14, said he couldn’t even see over the wheel. He legged it and they didn’t catch him... not yet anyway.”

Nora looked sick.

“Oh, God, Danny, I’m so dreadfully sorry... I mean I never... I wouldn’t, oh sweet Jesus, me and my big mouth. Oh God!”

Danny excused himself, went to the bar. The barman slowly brought his smirk to the counter.

“A large scotch, please.”

“Don’t let her catch you, eh.”

Danny said nothing, took the drink, and walloped it home.

It shook him. He said,

“Same again.”

“If you want my advice, sir.”

“I don’t, what I want is the same again. Can you do that, eh?”

He could.

Danny brought the second drink to the table. Nora asked,

“Do you know Annie Lennox?”

“Why?”

“That’s the song. Heaven’s above, how did you know?”

“Whoa hey, hold the phones lady... before you get hyper on some ESP garbage or unspoken communication, I was only asking a question, alright... so let’s calm down.” Hurt washed her face and she took a sip of the sherry. Then she said quietly,

“I was only going to say there’s a line in her song that goes, ‘Why can’t I learn to keep my big mouth shut.’ Do... do you know it?”

“I only know old songs. I only like old songs.”

They said little after that and Nora drove him to the Oval. As he was getting out, she gave him a slip of paper.

“That’s my phone number, if you... well, anyway... you’ll know yerself.”

He said goodnight. Almost immediately, a man in his late 30’s approached.

“Wanna score, got some quality stuff?”

“Yea’... got any speed?”

“My man, I got it all. More variety than Boots, and no prescription required.”

They moved into a small lane, lined by railings. The man produced an envelope and began to spill coloured capsules into his palm.

“Let’s see... speed-o... hmmm... downers, quals, dexies... ah, yea’.”

And he dropped some. He bent down quickly and Danny grabbed his hair. With all his force, he slammed the man’s face against the railings... once, twice... and a third, and then let the man slide to the ground. Danny bent and rummaged through his pockets, took a bundle of money and two more envelopes. As he walked away, he stopped and went back to lean over the groaning figure, said,

“My man, do you have the time?” and removed the man’s watch, a heavy, silver Citizen. He liked the irony of that brand name.

As he headed home, he hummed The Commodores,

“You’re once,

you’re twice,

three times a lady.”

Richie came by early, a smaller black man in tow. But anyone appeared small next to him. They both sported the reversed baseball caps. Danny felt hungover and his side ached. He went to make tea. Richie introduced his friend as Roy.

Elvis was extolling the “wonder of you,” and Roy said,

“Got any rap?”

Danny said it was tea or nowt. He made a mountain of toast and plonked it all down on a small table. Roy bit into the toast, he was on his third slice when Richie slapped his shoulder.

“What the fuck wrong with yo’ man... this be the man’s breakfast... wotcha gonna do... and take dat cap off man, jeez... where you been?”

He snatched the cap from Roy’s head.

“But ye be wearing yo’ cap, Rich.”

“Am I eating de toast, you see me eating de toast?”

Danny marveled anew at Richie’s rapid register of accents. He’d throw in a toff amid a swelter of Jamaican. Richie turned to Danny.

“So, my man, what’s shaking?”

“Not a lot, Richie... just doing it.”

Roy took a tabloid from his jacket, unfolded it and held out the front page.

“Some bro’ bin sticking it to the street people.” The headline read,

“Vigilante strikes twice in

one evening.

Four seriously injured.”

Danny put down his cup. Richie said,

“Dat de kind of crazy shit you likely to pull, eh, Danyell... you probably rooting for this dude.”

“You think he’s wrong?”

“I think he’s fookin’ crazy, that wot I be thinking and I think he be a fascist, too.”

“Come on Richie, a fascist?”

“Yea, them Vigilantes, today they come for him, tomorrow they be coming for you... Them dangerous mut Danyell, you all listen to ole Rich here. I see them fascists in de prison, all tattoos and patriotism.”