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

“I’ll have me some of that.”

To maintain the edge I smoked... and whacked down a week’s worth of beer.

“When a woman asks you what you’re thinking about, especially in bed, always — get that ALWAYS — reply ‘I’m thinking about you, dear.’ Stick relentlessly to it. Bearing this seriously in mind Dillon, what are you now thinking of?”

I ran the limited replies a bit. I wanted to tell her the only requirement for a haiku was your quality hangover. I said, “I’m thinking of you.”

“And... did you want to add anything?”

“Oh right... dear.”

“You know, Dillon, I odd times think you might be the only company I need... and that’s got to be real close to love.”

“As close as you might need.”

“But...”

But! My heart lurched. Even the beer sagged. What’s this “but” crap. Yer shot of pathetic fallacy... lean heavy on the ole pathetic.

“The truth is... I can live without you... in Greece. I thought of you all the time but abstracted. You’re a deep vital part of me, but you don’t of necessity have to be part of my life.”

I lit some fags. The psychic kick to the cobblers. Nicotine seemed a kind alternative. What I was thinking was, you callous bitch. I hated her full then. The pure hatred nurtured on love. Accept no other. I nearly hummed, “My Sentimental Friend.” Go for broke. I reached for her breast. The love we made was slow and with more tenderness than I’d ever now concede. The cigarettes burned slower in the ashtray. Without care, they burned regardless.

Before she slept she asked, “What are you thinking of, my love?”

I stretched with what must have appeared total contentment.

No contest.

“I’m thinking of you, dear...”

She chuckled way down in her throat.

The refrain played a long time as she slept. It whispered cruel — sex is... is sex... sex is.

Julie hadn’t a whole lot of say in the morning; I had less.

“Will you meet yer wan on Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got to meet a fellah... how about a double date?”

Was she mad! Flick the range of morning melodramas. Reply with the lash:

1. Screw you lady.

2. I’d rather borrow money from O’Malley.

3. What the hell — is the hell going on with you.

To prepare myself, I spooned the dead eggs before me... go. “Fine... see you in The Weir at 8:30.”

We left the flat without any post mortems. No fuss. Wasn’t it grand to be free of the kiss on the cheek... the “Have a nice day, dear” rigamarole. I didn’t mention I was going to be in fine time for the 9:15. At the canal, Julie said, “Bye.” I said much the same. Would a morsel of warmth be so dangerous. I looked at the Chesterton plaque she’d given me. High above the water, I hurled it. I didn’t wait to see it hit. My closest friend. Close... yeah.

   “Close”

   Age

   itself is solving... most

   the dreams

   I’d longed for... bad... and

   fear

   of course ensures

   the present ambitions

   elusive do remain... that

   close

   I’ve been

   to knowledge — I evaded

   all my skirmished life — on

   near

   is near enough

   for what

   I’d need to know.

My hangovers had an echo of Samuel Pepys about them. While watching a living man about to be castrated and disemboweled, he said, “The man was looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.” I felt that kind of cheerfulness.

The 9:15 was a small affair. The deceased was an old-age pensioner. The casket was open. I looked long into the dead face. Shriveled and decrepit. Of the small crowd, maybe four of the people actually knew him. A man, remarkably similar to the corpse, tugged my arm.

“Did you know oul Kearns?”

“Yes.” In the grave tone.

“He was a sour oul bastard, the same fellah.”

“M... m... ph,” I mumbled.

Decipher that, you wasted fart.

“He was a blow-in — he’s from Kildare.”

Not any more, I nearly said. The death hadn’t caused any furor in Kildare. Come to the West and get yerself a begrudged send-off. The coffin was closed, and we shambled towards the door. Let’s go Mr. Kearns...

The manager of the clothes department in Traders dropped dead that afternoon. In the fruit section. They didn’t appreciate that. He had no business down there. A massive stroke threw him across the vegetables. During the confusion, the clothing department was nigh-on cleaned out of its winter woolens. Those shoplifters nearly ran me down as woolen-laden they headed for the hills.

I was to guard the body ’till an ambulance arrived. The manager had been a Dubliner. Dead among the cabbages, I noticed his socks were from Dunnes. What a betrayal... and him in the clothing section, too. Mind you, he was in a no-win position on every level. If he’d been wearing the Traders brand, they’d say he’d stolen them. The fruit section staff had gone to the pub. Grief has to be liquified. I wondered if they’d jettison the cabbages. They were a sick-looking collection, though. I guess the corpse wasn’t doing anything to enhance the presentation.

The suit appeared to be a Penney’s pin-stripe. Some years ago Penney’s had a super sale on these, and did that item move... Jeez... oh. They had a particular sheen. A snag was that every tinker in the town had invested in them. T’was rumoured that even the beggar on the Weir Bridge sported one as he made his pitch. No matter how much you paid for such a suit now, be it gilt-tailored or not, it was seen as a Penney’s special. It didn’t matter a rat’s ass to me what a person wore. I did feel that he might have lain in some dignity in any other type of clothes.

The ambulance arrived, and when the doctor finished, they hauled him off. One of the attendants winked at me and slipped some oranges into his jacket. The store closed early, and we were asked to try and show for the funeral. Good grief! A legitimate reason to attend a funeral. I didn’t know if this one could be notched up in the total. On the way home, I kept seeing the dead manager. His suit looked as if he’d finally disappointed it.

I decided I’d get a mass for the manager. I dropped into The Old Franciscan church. They gave masses at the old rates and V.A.T. hadn’t yet featured. The Jesuits now were right up alongside inflation. You could call them Jack and Tom... your buddies, so to speak. You’d be sure of a modern, sparkling mass and a right good whack out of your wallet. The only thing the Franciscans called was your bluff. You still had to call them “Father.” Confession was the wallop and skelping form. None of the sacrament of reconciliation for them. You took the licks and got the blast of forgiveness. The other crowd, they’d hold your hand, dispense understanding, and apply the probation act.

Father Benedictus came out to see me. He was nearing eighty, gruff and fearsome.

“Wot do you want... I was in the middle of me dinner...”

That it was four in the afternoon mattered not at all.

“Would you sign a mass card for me, Father?”

“Is it yerself, young Dillon... are you not at school.”

“Finished for the day, Father.”

He peered at the name.

“Who’s this fellah?”

“A manager up at Traders.”

“He’s not from town?”

“No, Father... he’s... am... was... a Dubliner.”

“Smart-alecs them crowd, they know everything. They’d lift the eyetooth outa yer head... you couldn’t watch them. And dirty footballers, too.”

I didn’t feel a comment was required for any of this. So I didn’t offer one. I had heard the same tirade from him with regard to the English... and Northern Irish... and Nuns.