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

“Ah, Danny, lighten up. The English do it as if they read the instructions, but with no passion.”

“I don’t believe this, I don’t flaming believe this, you’re some sort of global expert, are you... fucked most of the world, have you... God, you’re incredible. That’s the most bigoted remark I’ve ever heard.”

“True though, and more’s the pity.”

To his utter amazement, she turned over and slept. He stormed to the kitchen, but no amount of banging drawers of slamming cutlery woke her. A thousand things raced through his mind, and aloud, he said,

“Go figger.”

Danny dressed and went to the local shop. It amused him that above the door it read, “local shop.” It didn’t amuse him now. The rarity about it was, it was owned by an Englishman. A nation of shopkeepers were now multi-national.

“Morning, Bill.”

“Morning, Dan.”

In ten years, they’d never gone beyond this. Danny took the paper, milk, bread. Paid. As he was leaving he turned.

“Bill.”

“Yes, Dan.”

“Do I look old to you?”

“None of us getting any younger, Dan.”

“Right, right, but would you describe me as old... say if you were talking to another customer?”

“I mind my own business, Dan, best way.”

“Yea, but hypothetically speaking. I mean, I’m not going to quote you for Chrissakes.”

“Can’t says I’d rightly know, Dan, can’t say I do. Leave the tittle tattle to the little woman, know what I mean.”

“Well, would she... oh, forget it, eh... Nice talking to you, Bill. I may well go home and build a novel on this.”

He’d shop somewhere else in the future he resolved, and thought.

“What a wanker.”

There’s a makeshift rubbish dump off the main road into Brixton. It’s not official, but always busy. Most of Richie was thrown there, amid 7-Eleven and Diet Coke cans.

Danny was making toast and still ruminating on England and its citizens. He reckoned the reason he analysed it so much was the Irish blood in him that prevented full acceptance. No one he knew had even heard of Philip Larkin, the most English of poets.

But Larkin’s father...

“Another one,” muttered Danny.

Sydney Larkin, fascist. He kept a statue of Hilter on his mantelpiece. When you touched it, it gave the famous salute. Philip Larkin said of his family life that it filled him with

   Black

   surging

   twitching

   boiling

   HATE.

Danny knew all about that. He thought that yet again he might use as his won defense, the dictum of Marx,

“the past weighs like a nightmare on the brain of the living.”

“Yea’... let them chew on that, the bastards,” he said.

He chewed on the toast and washed it down with scalding tea.

“Hits the spot right enough,” he’d said when Nora appeared.

“Who are you talking to?”

“England.”

“Ary, you’re not all in it, is that toast for me?”

She leant over, kissed him on the neck, and helped herself to a slice. Danny turned the radio on, he felt fairly turned on himself.

The DJ was talking about RAGGA, the music of the angry black underclass. It began in Kingston, Jamaica, in the violence of the dance halls. White urban America was apprehensive about some of the lyrics, which appeared to glorify guns, gangs, homophobia, and a hatred of women.

Danny switched it off.

“You can’t beat the old songs,” he said. Nora looked concerned.

“I’m afraid of black people.”

“Why?”

“I don’t even know why... ’cos I’m white, I suppose.”

“Believe you me honey, there’s white folk out there you should be afraid of.”

She picked up the paper and read the police were confident of an early arrest in the vigilante case.

“This poor devil, this vigilante, he needs help so he does.”

Danny smiled.

“He seems to be doing all right on his own.”

“Silly! I meant medical help, he’s obviously off his head.”

Danny got up and made fresh tea. He needed a moment before he could trust himself to reply.

“You’re a psychologist now are you, or have you been reading Cosmopolitan?”

He heard her cup clatter on the table.

“You condescending little bastard, Danny, how dare you insult me like that. You sound as if you approve of this lunatic.”

Danny sat.

“Look, ordinary people live in fear. Every time they go out on the streets they have to wonder if they’ll be mugged, raped or attacked. While they’re out there, they also worry that their homes are being ransacked. There’s no let up.”

“But it’s the times we live in... all the unemployment.”

“Ah, don’t give me that. I’m talking to you about the way it is, not why it is... No, no, let me finish. Now imagine if it were possible to reverse things a little. If it were dangerous out there for them,

   the muggers

   thugs

   the predators.

When yer average thug is combing his hair with his knife one evening... what if he was to worry about being attacked... eh, how would that be?”

“Ary, that’s nonsense, Danny. Can I have a shower? I’m free today, would you like to spend it together?”

He wouldn’t.

“Sorry, Nora, today’s the day I go to the cemetery... to see... well, to visit Darcy and her Mum.”

Nora had a lost expression for a moment, then took the risk.

“I could come with you, if you liked... that is, if you wanted me to... for the company, you know... am.”

“I don’t need company there, in fact, that’s why I go there, for their company.”

“Yes, well... O.K.... I’ll just have a shower and get out of your hair. I won’t be two seconds.”

After she’d done that, she seemed not to quite know how to leave. She said,

“I’m not sure how to leave.”

“That’s no problem, Nora, I’ll walk you to your car.”

He did.

They didn’t kiss, and he said he’d ring later. She had an expression of full sadness, and said,

“I better not hold my breath.”

Danny resolved he’d think about it later. Right now he had to get ready. The Morse suit was trotted out again. En route to the cemetery, he bought six red roses and an ALF doll. Darcy was dead before ALF made it big on the children’s favourites. But, for a long time, he had watched TV to gauge what she’d like. He didn’t want her to miss anything, she’d already missed everything. The ALF was a small fortune and he’d have paid that twice over if he could once again see her smile.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

As he entered the gates, it was one of those cold, brisk April days. Earlier rain had washed over the headstones, they gleamed and shimmered. A drinking school was gathered under a tree, bottles of V.P. and Jack being passed round. Danny wondered what he’d have done if they’d perched on his family’s plot. He knew exactly what he’d have done, and tried to get a hold of his temper.

Looked at his Citizen watch... minutes before noon. The two headstones were midway in the place.

“Hello, Katie,” he said, and laid the roses before her.

Then he placed ALF down and said,

“Honeybunch, this is ALF, he’s a bit crazy like yer old Dad.”

Time passed. He felt somebody behind him and he whirled around.

A priest in his early 30s was standing there. Tall, with a huge head of black hair. Some broken veins in his face told of his fondness for the bottle.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, but you’ve been standing there so long.”

Danny checked the time, 3.30, and felt aches in his legs. He shook his head to end the trance he’d been under.

The priest moved a step closer.

“Loss is a hard burden.”