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

Tom made coffee and went to the wardrobe in the bedroom. He extracted a bundle from beneath a pile of linen and took it over to the bed.

Unfolding the bundle, he slowly extracted a swan-off shotgun. The short blunt barrel was cleaned to a dull sheen. He tested the weight and held it up in his right arm. From the bundle he took a box of 12-bore cartridges. With a practised movement he broke the gun and fitted two shells.

Immediately the gun felt different and he whispered,

“Now we’re talking.”

He began to quietly sing, “If ever you should leave me.” His voice was strong and even. Standing, he continued to sing and practised the swing and switch of the gun.

“It could only be...”

Lightly touching the triggers, he contemplated the damage possible at close range.

Robbie Colbert considered his surname. He said it aloud with what he hoped was a French accent.

“Col-bert... mm... Colbert...” yea better, deep breath, “Ah oui Monsieur Colbert.”

He thought it would need a little work. It was the old gallic attitude he had to perfect. He believed he’d buckets of charm, but it was to blend that with a certain arrogance.

“Tricky,” he said... “now sang fluid, as soon as I know exactly wot it means, I’m going to have me some of that.”

He lit a gauloises with a battered Zippo and inhaled deeply.

“Fuck!” he gasped and stubbed it out. He reckoned he’d settle for the aroma and lit up a Silk Cut.

“Better yea...”

The phone rang.

He snatched it. Earlier, he’d told his secretary not to put through any calls, especially from his wife. It was his wife.

“You bastard!”

“Ah Liz, I was hoping you’d call, I was just thinking about you.”

“You haven’t signed the papers.”

“They’re right here in front of me, darling... and one or two points I’d like to discuss.”

“Listen you piece of shit, there’s no discussion, either you sign those or I reveal the other business.”

Sweat broke out on his brown, he couldn’t quite contain his anger.

“Reveal to whom, are you going to set that ex-husband, the convict on me... is that it?”

“You better pray I don’t.”

And she banged the phone down.

Robbie was 5’8”. Black hair was swept back in a flourish, mainly to cover a creeping bald patch. A bulky frame was leaping to fat and all his clothes were a tight fit. A handsome smooth face was ruined by a mean mouth. All of him now shook. He moved to his desk and rummaged in a top drawer, took out a clear plastic bag. As he looked at the white powder he briefly remembered his father.

There’d been a drink then named Dick Turpin. His father would say,

“Two bottles of this and you flaming think you are Dick Turpin.”

The powder he laid out in lines and then folded a sheet of paper into a thin funnel. Bending down, he snorted five lines in a fast, jerky movement, stood straight and waited for the explosion.

It came. He roared,

“Ah, I can fucking see India!”

Mrs. Dalton, his secretary, came rushing in.

“What’s happening... Mr. Colbert?”

“Col-bèrt, you cow, we’re moving into Europe and stop putting calls through or I’ll fire yer fat arse... do you hear me... where’s my coffee?”

Mrs. Dalton retreated, thinking ruefully that “things go better with Coke” was way wide of the mark. She reckoned the only place that lunatic was going was down the toilet.

Robbie had offices in Canary Wharf. The rent was frightening and he hadn’t paid it for six months. A prospective real estate deal with a South Korean was the living hope. The one big sweet deal to clear the books and plonk Robbie on easy street. The prospect of jail was a spur to the deal. He had begun eating poolgogi as an omen to South Korea.

The first time he’d done cocaine had been at a friend’s flat. Robbie had been skeptical about its potency and was of the opinion that a double scotch was equally effective. His friend prided himself on a valuable Siamese cat which watched with contempt as Robbie loaded his nostrils. The flat was the fifth floor of a South Kensington residence.

Earlier brandies and the power of the cocaine propelled Robbie into a blackout. Next day, the friend rang to tell him he’d launched the cat from the window into the South Kensington night. Robbie felt sure this might be an amusing after-dinner anecdote but it hadn’t become so yet. Liz’s mention of “the other business” sliced through the cocaine high and he said aloud,

“God, I wouldn’t have... it’s too awful to contemplate.”

Tom dreamt he was back in prison. Back at the long table for a breakfast of porridge, dry bread and watery tea. Being locked in for 18 hours a day and two showers a week. One hour of TV every seven days.

In the dream he missed the hour’s exercise after breakfast and was straight into the morning lock up. He woke with a shout and though his head knew he was out, his heart walloped in his chest. An overpowering stench of boiled vegetables filled his nostrils and he shook his head to clear it. You left prison but it never left you. That, he reckoned, was the real sentence.

The long unbelievable hours of crushing boredom, accentuated by the sudden violence. Reading... he’d read so much his eyes hurt. Escape that way was only part escape. The heart hugged a pain that nothing would ever obliterate.

Married men did maybe the worst time. Thoughts of betrayal festered in a world that fed on paranoia. Tom had wanted to marry Liz before he met her. Small, dark, beautiful and appeared to worship him. Their daughter Kendra, was her miniature carbon copy. He’d said,

“Lucky twice over... lucky

lucky

lucky.”

Then he got caught, got four years. Liz came unexpectedly on a wet Thursday. Their conversation was burned into his mind, like a bad prayer.

“I want a divorce, Tom.”

“You can’t be serious. Sweetheart, I’ll be out in two years.”

“You got four.”

“It will work out at good behaviour at two years.”

“That’s too long, Tom, I’m sorry.”

“Liz, for God’s sake, I mean it’s not as if you’ve met someone else.”

“I have.”

“Oh God.”

“He’s a good man, Tom, you’d like him... and he loves Kendra... it’s not as if he’s a stranger. I used to work for him.”

“That Colbert fuck, you said he was a slimy bastard.”

“He’s doing really well, the property market is booming.”

That was then. The bottom fell out of the game and Liz and Colbert’s marriage.

Kendra was six now. Only in the past few months had Tom been able to see her. The girl seemed confused as to who he was and he felt the same, most of the time.

Tom was a thief. Early in life he discovered he’d a flair for it. The trick was to work alone, not get greedy and keep a low profile. Once, he’d broken all three rules and went to prison. The only mistakes he now believed were the ones you learnt nothing from. Two years behind bars to reflect on that.

He made coffee and checked to see how the beard was developing. Now he looked like a rested wino. But it changed his look all right. It gave a hard slant to his features and in London, how far wrong could that lead you.

One cold December morning in prison, he’d felt close to suicide. The building stifled you in summer, froze you in winter. The small church was a prospect of heat. A service had just concluded and the men were shuffling out. Clouds of their breath hung condensed in the air. Like false hope. A smell of incense was balm from the urine habitual stench. That mixed with bad cabbage.

Near the altar, someone had placed a home made version of Calvary cleverly constructed from nails, the three crosses had been buffed to a high sheen. Makeshift match figures to symbolise Christ and the person on His right had been dyed white. The third cross was vacant. Either the maker had lost interest or reckoned this figure didn’t merit significance. Tom reached down and touched it. It was held down and he gave it a sharp tug. Palming it, he turned quickly.