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

One of the men put a small hammer in Yusif’s hand. Danny tried to kick free and roared,

“For fuck’s sake!”

And Yusif brought the hammer down with one ferocious swing. White hot agony ripped through Danny, and he let out a howl of pure dementia. Then he passed out.

He came to with Charley slapping his face.

“Time to move, Sunshine, can’t lie about here all day, eh?”

Danny gritted his teeth, bit down against the pain. Charley helped him to stand. He could... and found that ‘hobble’ was indeed the appropriate word.

Yusif said,

“Take your bag, my friend. I thank you for the gifts. Feel free to distribute the others on your way out. I shall expect you in one week.”

Danny said nothing. He managed to leave without falling. Charley watched as he left three red-ribboned parcels at three doors, and said,

“You’ll need more than friggin little bundles with that mob.”

Danny struggled to concentrate and said,

“Any chance you might help me to the main road so I can flag a cab?”

Charley behaved as Danny hoped.

“No friggin danger, mate, I got a game of cards to finish. You toddle off now. Come back and see us soon.”

Danny slowly made his way off Brandon. Waves of nausea tried to engulf him. A red mist seemed to shimmer before his eyes. He reached the main road... whispered,

“Now, you fucks, here’s an old song, ‘Let’s Dance’, eh?” and moved his finger to the first switch... said,

A train known as The Dart brings commuters into the center of Dublin. Early in June, the sun danced along the green, sleek carriages. The Irish revel in a bit of warmth.

Cries of,

   “Glorious weather.”

   “Mighty day.”

   “Isn’t it grand to be alive, and in yer health.”

rebounded through the train.

Save one.

Here, three youths in the advanced stages of yahoo-ism were tormenting passengers with shouts and obscenities. When the train reached the city center, the three horse-played on to the platform, drooling beer and insults.

A man approached and said in a pronounced English accent,

“I say... I say, you chaps, might I interest you in making some money?”

A slight limp as he neared was barely noticeable.

“He’d have dropped his trousers in The West End for a Valium,” Bridie said.

Tom nearly dropped his fork.

“Bridie... for God sakes... he was your husband.”

“That’s why I know him, he’d have become a bum boy for a fiver.”

Tom looked closely at his sister. What was she now, thirty-nine? She looked it, he thought. About 5’3”, she had blonde streaked hair. Streaked with desperation. Brown eyes, a large nose and a mouth that was built to smile. Always plump, she was leaping right into fat, no gentle slide there. Yet she still attracted men. Not the desirable type or even frequently. But sufficient to keep her in a state of anxiety. They were eating in a vegetarian bistro off the Kennington Park Road. A huge plate of salad sat untouched before her. She said,

“I got some decent shoplifting done this morning.”

Tom put down his fork.

“For heaven’s sake... is that meant to shock me... so okay, I’m downright... okay... now gimme a friggin break.”

Bridie smiled.

“Oh, Thomas, I’ll give you more than that. Look, look what I have here for you. Close your eyes first.”

Tom didn’t want to do that. What he wanted was to get to the bottom line. Dreadful it would be, it was always that.

“What the hell,” he said, “go on so, I’ll close them.”

“Now!” she said with a nervous giggle.

A tartan sweater lay over his plate. He could see “The Scotch House” label. Talking two hundred nicker... he sighed... easy. He said,

“That’s about two ton... in there, yea.”

“No, Tom, it wasn’t anything like that.”

“You nicked it. I’m supposed to wear a hot sweater, is that it?”

“You’re supposed to be grateful, sometimes you sound just like Gerry.”

Gerry was her first husband.

Bridie’s face darkened and she said,

“Well, if I go to prison, you can give me tips on how to survive.”

He knew she instantly regretted it as she reached over to touch his hand. To have spent two years inside and he wondered himself if he had survived.

The waiter appeared with a jug of water. Tall, in his twenties, he had a blond fake punk hair style. An air of smug blondness enwrapt him.

“Is everything to Madam’s satisfaction?”

Tom sat back, the “Madam” would cost him plenty.

Bridie held up her glass and asked,

“Are you married... what’s yer name?”

“Sevy.”

“Sevy!.. that’s a pretty name... and Sevy, are you married, is there a Mrs. Sevy, a bunch of littles Sevies at home?”

“Ah, no, Madam, but I am on the lookout. One lives on hope.”

“Well, go peddle it at some other table.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Fuck off, Sevy.”

Tom was already rising and reaching for his wallet. This scene had an all too familiar ring. He paid at the cash register and heard Bridie shout:

“I saw Gerry this morning.”

Tom kept moving. Outside, he shook his head and vowed never again. Gerry had been dead for over five years.

Much later, he remembered he’d left the tartan sweater behind. Chances were that Sevy would end up with it. Aloud Tom said,

“And who’s to say, the bastard might well deserve it, he would certainly earn it.”

He took a Morden train and sat between a black man and a man in a pin-striped suit. The black gave him a radiant smile and asked,

“How you doing, man?”

Tom figured he was drugs or religion. He was inclined to believe the latter was more dangerous in the long haul. It was hard to distinguish them. An old Roxy music song same to mind.

“Dancing in the City” and boy he thought, these days, they were certainly doing that. The man in a suit was listening to a Walkman. Tom would have heavy bet on a classical item but the sound leaking through sounded like noise.

“Must be the distortion,” he thought, “or else noise is the distortion.”

The black man said:

“Jesus is coming.”

And he said it loudly.

Tom wasn’t clear as to whether a reply was expected but felt on behalf of the carriage, he’d answer,

“I’ll be here,” he said.

No one indicated whether this had been appreciated and Tom got off at Clapham Common.

Laurel Street is just off Clapham Common, and Tom could actually see trees from his window. He rented the bottom half of a two storey house. The owner lived above but was rarely in residence. Tom had once seen a photo of Thomas Morton’s monastic cell. The Spartan bareness appealed to him. After prison, he was even more careful to avoid clutter. Furniture and fittings were kept to a minimum.

Tom examined his face in the bathroom mirror. He was into the fourth day of growing a beard and looked like a vagrant. He had hoped for the Miami Vice effect but no... downright dirty. It itched ferociously and he headed for the razor... considered and reckoned he could live with it a tad further.

He was forty-six with grey brown hair. The temples weren’t so much receeding as galloping. Brown eyes and a nose that had been broken. Deep lines were etched into his face. Such made Tom look haggard. Five-ten in height, he’d been described as thin in his twenties, slender in his thirties... and now, at forty-six decidedly ill.