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

Danny looked at his watch, his Citizen watch. He was unfamiliar with its weight.

Roy’s eyes shone.

“Nice piece of watch, bro’.”

Richie had an odd expression, said,

“Man could be mugged for a piece like that.”

Danny smiled.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Richie, I don’t think so at all.”

“Roy, how about you start the car, seeing is yo’ all had ’nouf toast, n’all.”

Roy put his cap on, fixed it fussily in it’s reverse position, said,

“That Elvis, sure can sing, yea... I’d like to hear him rap.”

Richie stood, looked round as if he expected someone.

“Danny, I gots a problem, need to ask you a favour.”

“O.K.”

“I gots this package, I can’t keeps it at my crib so...”

“Should I ask what’s in it?”

“No... no, Danyell, bests be you don’t.”

“Let’s have it, then.”

Richie produced a brown paper sack, and gingerly handed it over. Danny took it with both hands, it was sealed with brown tape and weighed like a pound of sugar.

“I come by in a few days, take it offa yer hands, how that be?”

“That would be fine, Richie.”

“O.K., my man, you take care now, huh,” and he grabbed Danny in a bear hug. “You no beauty Dan-yell, but you alright.”

“Excuse me.”

“That an old song, that be your Boss, Bruce Springsteen, see, I be listening out for you, always.”

After he’d gone, Danny did what he’d see in a hundred movies. He ripped open the bag, put his index finger in, tasted.

“Well, it doesn’t taste like sugar,” he said.

It had a bitter kick-back. Danny considered it for a moment then went to the toilet. He upturned the bag and watched the white powder spill into the bowl, then he flushed.

“Nobody will find it there,” he said. He most hoped it belonged to Roy, he didn’t like Roy at all.

Danny had to forgo his exercises as his side was too painful. A little worrying this, as he had to be in shape for the events. The lack of these exercises also allowed his memory to kick into gear.

From a blind corner came the words of “Honey”. One of the great schmaltz records, everyone derided it as pure slush and yet it was a massive hit. Twice. It was on its first massive upswing when Danny met Katie and she’d hum it to them, half-in-earnest. Danny frequently called Darcy, “Honey II”.

He wondered what Nora would make of it. A long time ago he’d thrown out the record, with the photos. Danny went to the West End. As he strolled through Leicester Square, he marveled at the amount of event candidates. A nigh feverish hunting ground this would be.

Entering the record shop, he was stunned at the poster for the current hit-makers. Who were these people, he’d never heard of any of them. So ‘O.K.’ he though. ‘I’m out of touch. I’m over 40, but this was a complete alien world.’ He moved to a counter.

“I’m looking for a honey,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Honey, that’s h-o-n-e-y!”

“Sorry, sir, this is a music store, there’s a chemist two doors down. Or you might try our cafeteria on the third floor.”

The girl turned away. Danny wanted to hit her.

“It’s a song... from 1968 or so... by a guy called Bobby Goldboro.”

She looked confused, then like a cartoon a bulb seemed to light above her head. A huge smile and she said,

“I get it, you’re Bobby GoldsBERG, that’s it... is this some 60’s revival thing? You’ll have to go to the basement, sir, for vintage stock.”

She began to giggle, all of 17 years and he must seem older than Steptoe. He turned away, deep mortification burned his gut. Another sixties song, “A Deck of Cards” had a line he could use,

“I was that Soldier.”

But what he was, was tired.

In McDonald’s, he got a large, black coffee. They throw in a dab of hostility for free. Danny began to think about his mother. Perhaps Nora being Irish too, had let her loose in his head. Or maybe, he thought, it was just time to think a little about her.

A small, shy woman who loved to sing. Her favourite was, “Pal of My Cradle Days.” She’d sing that in a loud, clear voice, and all shyness fell away.

“God gave us songs,” she’d said, “because he didn’t give us wings.”

A shiver ran down his spine and he gulped at his drink. He thought it was Margaret Atwood who described coffee as “Jitters in a cup.”

“Yea’”, he thought, “that, too.”

An employee was attempting to mop under his feet, persistently. The place was packed, yet the man hung at Danny’s table like glue.

Danny touched his arm.

“Hey, could you give it a rest, mate, it’s clean, OK... you’ve been at it for 10 minutes already. It’s fine, OK?”

The man looked blankly at him and began to wipe the table.

“Hey, for fucksake, piss off, alright!”

The manager appeared, he looked no older than the assistant in the record shop. His name tag read, “Bob”.

“Is there some problem here?”

Danny handed him his coffee carton.

“Be a good lad, Bob. Leap up there and get me another of them coffees. No milk mind, and... yea’, I seem to have plenty of sugar. Yea, plenty of that.”

To the amazement of all three, Bob did. Danny said to the astonished cleaner,

“Aye, there’s nowt as odd as folk.”

His mother had caught Guillain-Barré syndrome. Danny often wondered about the usage of the word “caught.” What, the person went out looking for it or something? “Ah, here’s an interesting disease, gotta grab me some of that!”

Danny shook his head. When his father was told the news, he roared,

“Oh, naturally, nothing common for your mother, she’d have to get something that no one an pronounce. Sounds like a poxy French job, eh...”

As time went by, her breathing became more and more laboured. The disease eventually leads to death by suffocation. Danny had been with her till she died. He said to Kate once,

“Do you know what my Mother said the moment before she died?”

“What, Danny?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, I’m making it up, what do you think, take a flying, friggin’ guess!”

He was making it up. His Mother had taken his hand and whispered,

“Ah, Danny, I was always afraid in London, afraid of the streets, but not afraid now... well, only a little bit. I’m glad I don’t have to get up for school in the morning, I’ll be here where it’s warm.”

Her hand had slipped from his.

The third event fell into his lap. He’d planned on recuperation, let his body and mind heal. He was wary too, of becoming hooked on the adrenaline rush. Fear of arrest didn’t bother him, he just didn’t want it to happen yet. Rising to his seat, he said to the still lingering cleaner,

“I’m going to the toilet, will you be cleaning in there, or can you give me a head start?”

As he put his hand to the door of the toilet, it was pulled open suddenly. A middle-aged man stuck his head out and said,

“Go find another toilet, shit head, I’ll be here for a while.”

Danny took a quick glance round.

“O.K.” he said, and pushed the door with all his might. He felt it slam the man and he followed through. The man had been propelled back against the wall, blood already pouring from his nose.

“What the fuck,” he gasped.

Danny moved right in, kneed him in the crotch and caught him as he fell, dragged him to the toilet bowl, said,

“You got a dirty mouth mister, and we’re gonna clean it out.”

As Danny worked the flush he thought,

“That’s twice today I’ve flushed the garbage.”

He went to the basin and washed his hands. As he left, he met the cleaner, and said,