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

He joined in the chorus,

Opening the front door, he jumped back. Richie was standing there, silent and grim.

“Jesus Christ, Ritchie, you put the heart sideways in me. How long have you been standing there.”

“Long enough. I could hear you singing to your records, be a happy morning for you, I figger.”

“So, are you coming in or wot?”

“Yea’, I comes in.”

Agitation came in waves from Richie... and something else too... something Danny had never for from him, hostility.

“What’s up, Richie, you want some tea or coffee?”

Only later did Danny realize that as Richie spoke, he’d dropped all the accents, not a hint of patois nor a flavour of Irish. Even the clipped British inflexion was absent. His voice was plain and cold.

“What time was Roy here?”

“In the evening, it was still bright, in fact, the weirdest thing... the sun tried to shine. Don’t you want coffee or something?”

Roy Orbison was now “Running Scared.”

“You want to turn that shit off Danny, I need you to hear me.”

Danny considered it, but decided to let it slide.

“O.K.”

“And Roy left here... with the package?”

“What the fuck is this, Richie... are you interrogating me... I turned off the music but don’t get ahead of yourself? Yea, he had a drink... he was very hyper... as if he was something... and, yea, he left... with the friggin’ parcel... wot you think, I flushed it down the toilet?”

They were facing each other, and violence hummed all round. Richie climbed down.

“Yea’... sorry, bro’. Roy hit the roundabout at the Elephant and Castle at over 90 miles an hour. The car was totaled and him too. I’ve been telling him, don’t mess with that stuff. Thing is... that package, it been bought and paid for. I was like... a courier. You heard of The Yardies?”

“No.”

“North London gangs, use shooters and no messing round. Scotland Yard was so concerned they set up a special task force just to deal with them.”

“And did they... deal with them?”

“Shit, no, those fuckah’s are beyond crazy. You see ’em, you run.”

“What’s this to do with you?”

“Their package, man, and they be wanting it soon... jeez.”

Danny got two mugs and made coffee; he placed the brandy bottle on the table too. They sat down.

Richie took a large gulp of coffee, grimaced and grabbed the brandy bottle. He dolloped generous shares into both mugs. They drank in silence and let the brandy work its therapy of chemistry.

It kicked in. Danny began,

“You remember when Darcy and my Katie were killed?”

“Jeez, Danny, yea’... man, I never forget that... never.”

“Well, I was thinking, the kid who was driving, he was probably on drugs.”

“I dunno, Danny, mebbe... yeah, who know. Why?”

“Oh, I was just thinking that.”

Richie got another major hit of the brandy. He shuddered.

“You know, Danny, I’m a big man... yea’, ain’t nothing I been scared of. But one thing, one thing does. You know what that is?”

“Those Yardies?”

“No, Danny. You. You scare me, man. Ain’t no human being, alive or dead, I care mo’ for, but I gotta tells you, man, you give off a chill. I dunno for sure wot you doing, man, but it’s not righteous. I was always to you, ‘take care’, but I been thinking, it’s me... me was gotta take care.”

He stood up. Danny didn’t. When he opened the door, he looked back, and Danny said,

“Take care, Richie.”

During the night, Danny woke suddenly. Sweat was teaming down his body, the nightmares of his childhood. He cried out loud, and tears mingled with the perspiration.

Malcolm, his dad’s name. All through his early years, the pleas of his mother,

“Malcolm, please.”

But there was no pleasing Malcolm. During the last year of her illness, his mother could hardly speak, and her beloved singing was out of the question. Danny had bought her a songbird, he’d gone all the way to Knightsbridge to get a guaranteed songster.

It sang for her.

Ole Malcolm refused to acknowledge her illness. He expected business as usual. Laundry, meals and homage. Returning one evening, no meal was prepared.

“Danny will make you a sandwich,” she said.

“Sandwich, wot poor people eat. I’ll show you a fuckin’ sandwich.”

He’d grabbed the songbird from its cage and slapped two slices of bread round it.

The songbird, being of such a delicate nature, was dead when he put it back in the cage. Danny’s mother had a year to endure still. Malcolm had whined,

“Ah, lass, I was only joking... eh, can’t have been much of a canary if it can’t take a bit o’ handlin’... No mind, lass, we’ll get you a dog soon... keep the boy company, too.”

As Danny tried to settle back in bed, he muttered some lines of Edna St. Vincent Millay, followed by his father’s words.

“... summer sang in me once,

it sings in me no more,

eh... lass,

never mind, lass.”

The following evening, Nora came to his flat. She looked tired and said it was a long shift.

Danny said,

“I’ve cooked Irish Stew. I dunno how authentic it will be, but I piled in the meat and potatoes, so... ready to eat?”

“O.K.”

“Hey. Lady, liven up. I don’t think you’ve know me long enough to pull moody. You’ve had a bad day, everybody gets a bad day. Trick is, don’t prolong it.” Nora came to life, eyes blazing.

“Bad day, is it, how dare you presume to know my life. We had a woman in the hospital today, you know what she had... in this era of central heating and technical brilliance — hypothermia.”

“Well, that’s rough, I grant you.”

“Oh, you do, do you, Mister, let me tell you how hypothermia is. The body tries fiercely to compensate for the drop below the normal 98.6 degrees.”

“Nora, I don’t think I want to hear this. O.K., lemme get the stew and...”

“You will hear it, the body starts to speed breathe and then to shiver and to try to make heat. Blood vessels in the arms and legs start to shut down. The brain can’t get blood and the mind goes. This is the good bit, Danny, you’re a coffee drinker, you’ll appreciate this. Palpitations begin and the heart gets walloped with a massive assault... so don’t tell me I’ve had a bad fuckin’ day... O.K.?”

Then she began to cry, large tears rolled down her face and a quiet whimper started.

“I just want to be held. I don’t want stew, just a hug, can you give that to me.”

He could.

From that to the bedroom. After that, she asked him,

“What age are you?”

“42.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Well, thank heaven for that.”

“No, I mean you look older, I thought you were 50.”

“Jesus, maybe I am.”

In the kitchen, the stew sat cold and forgotten.

In Brixton, they began to break Richie’s legs.

In the morning Danny made love to her in what he reckoned was a fairly impressive manner.

“See who’s 50, now,” he thought.

Well pleased, he settled back to await her flattery. But, apart from various little sighs, she didn’t say anything.

“So, Sweetheart,” he asked, “was that good for you, or what?”

“Hmm, let’s just say it was English.”

“Excuse me?”

“Now, don’t go all offended, it was adequate, but you know, English.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

He was out of the bed now.