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

“Yea... tell me about it.”

“Well, God’s hand seems heavy at times, but we mustn’t lose hope.”

Danny gave a tight smile.

“Well... how many of you exactly am I talking too.”

The priest lost it momentarily, then rallied and tried anew.

“I’m Father Riordan, but most people call me Joe. A new era in the church, less formal.”

Danny didn’t call him Joe. He didn’t say anything.

“Well, then, if I can be of any help, if you feel you need to talk.”

“I’ve just talked to the ones I needed to talk to.”

“Yes, there it is, they’re in a better place.”

“Hey, Padre, do us a bleeding favour, eh, give it a rest.”

Danny strode past him and heard the Priest rush after him.

“Those things... am, the flowers and the... toy, they’ll be lifted, you know! I mean, it’s terrible, but it happens all the time.”

Danny said without turning,

“Not while I’m here, they won’t. When I’m gone, it doesn’t matter.”

He was glad of the ache in his legs, it kept him from dwelling on the devastation in his heart. Searching his mind for an old song, he couldn’t find one and said,

“Sometimes, you just can’t sing ’em.”

Danny rang the newspaper when he got home. First he was put on hold, then a young voice,

“Can I help you?”

“No, I want to talk to Mr. Baker.”

“Yea, you and the rest of the world. Ring back on Friday.”

Danny smiled.

“Do you have a pen?”

“What, oh right.”

“Write this carefully, as it will probably be your final piece for the paper.

‘Mr. Baker, the Vigilante rang, and

I told him to ring back Friday.’

Have you got that or do you need time to spell vigilante.”

“Don’t hang up... O.K.... I’m putting you through right away.”

A sound of muffled voices, banging receivers and vicious obscenities, then,

“This is Baker... hello.”

“Mr. Baker, I wanted to give you major advance notice of a big event.”

“And when might that be? I gotta tell you, pal, the story’s near finished already.”

“In three weeks, on May 1st.”

“Not some sort of lost commie, are you? Look, why don’t you meet me, give me an exclusive. We’ll put some jizz back in this... people are bored already.”

“Not of Royal fascination... eh, Baker?”

“Any chance of your being ‘Squidgy’... I mean you don’t have to be, just claim you are. We could work up a front page there. Di and the Vigilantes, now she moves papers.”

“You’ve been told.”

Danny went through his records, found Buddy Holly and turned him to full volume.

“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

He sang along with Buddy. It was an old recording, but Danny reckoned those Crickets sounded fine, yea’... just fine.

That night a bone-exhausted Danny fell into bed. His father shot briefly into his head. He knew where the grave was, but he’d never been to visit, and, if there was an afterlife, where was his father now?

Aloud, Danny said,

“If there’s any justice, and I fear there isn’t any, he’s, I hope, where he deserves to be.”

And just before he slept, he muttered,

“Hot enough for you, is it?”

The Brandon Estate is notorious, even by South East London standards. Coming up the Kennington Park Road, it’s merely obscured by the park, but you turn it, and it seems to jump in your face.

The police refuse to accept there is any area in London that’s a “no-go” for them.

“This, after all, is not Northern Ireland.”

Not yet.

Thus as they deny their refusal to enter any district, they add quietly,

“Except for Brandon, of course.”

It’s already huge reputation was solidified when poll tax collectors were literally strung up. They didn’t die but they never returned either. Social workers refer to it as a “black hole” in the field of community care. Others simply call it, the black hole. Almost anything illegal is available there, and legend has it that even the hardened villains are apprehensive about using it as a hide-out.

The whole of the ground floors are a bazaar of drug dealing. The basements are a shooting gallery, for junkies and shooters. A tight-knit band of dealers move merchandise to and from the ground floor.

Richie was accepted there, though on a tentative basis. He’d brought Danny there on two occasions. Whether as protection or education, Danny hadn’t asked. Colour is not an issue, as to your intentions, they better be vouched for.

Danny’s years on the building sites had given him an eye for planning and lay-out.

All of the next morning, he laid out charts and designs of the estate. The detail of the concept was soothing to him, He almost felt like he was working again. What would have helped most was Richie’s collaboration, but Richie knew he couldn’t ask him. Richie’s help would have been invaluable on every level (of the operation) but he’d have had to tell him what the “event” was.

“No,” he said, “no, Richie’s out.”

He sang quietly as he worked,

The risks would be enormous. He had no illusions on that. But he was determined on a simple plan, and, if he didn’t pull it off, then he’d be a permanent resident on Brandon. Once, in his reading, he’d found a proposition in Part 4 of Spinoza’s ethics. He’d copied it down. It had found its significance now, he thought.

“A free man

thinks of nothing less than death

and his wisdom

is a meditation

not of death

but of life.”

Standing, he stretched, and ran the lines over again.

“Time to chill out, Richie... eh?”

The Buddhists believe you can measure “a man’s wealth by what he can do without.”

They’d have had an interesting concept in Frank Norton. He was a “getter.” Not a go-getter as his parents might have wished. Whatever you could want that wasn’t available legally, then, provided you had the cash, Frank would get it. He didn’t ask questions save one,

“How much are you willing to pay?”

Years ago, he, Danny and Richie had had a few drinks together. Then they’d gone to see Wall Street. A scene in the movie has Marty Sheen say,

“I never judge a man by the size of his wallet.” Frank had laughed out loud, and said,

“Fuckin’ Hollywood, what do they know.”

They’d gotten curry take aways and walked along by Waterloo.

Before they parted, Frank had touched Danny’s arm, whispered,

“You ever want anything on the QT, you give Frank a bell, you know what I mean... nod to the wise, eh.”

Danny knew alright.

Now he certainly needed some items and decided to test just how good Frank was. He phoned, and a cautious Frank agreed to meet him in the pub in a few hours.

En route, Danny decided to sit in the park and get his yarn ready for Frank. Another fine April day, and all the park benches were taken by winos or pensioners. A young woman in a grey track suit had a bench to herself. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He decided to go for it.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Well, what do you think?”

“What do I think, I think it’s impossible to elicit a civil answer in this town.”

“Solicit... is that what you said?”

He sat and remembered her. The hooker from the other evening, she of the killer-bimbo outfit.

“Mislaid the American accent, did ya?” She laughed and said,

“I know you, the guy who never pays for it, right?” Danny stretched out his legs and took a good look at her. Without her working gear, he estimated her age to be early 20’s. Blonde, streaky hair, button nose, blue eyes, and a cupid mouth. Not pretty, but in there.