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

Tom had thought about the thief to whom Christ said, “This day you shall be with me in paradise,” and he thought, “Did that guy get lucky or what?” What started out as a pretty rough Friday sure turned around. But what of the other chappie. Where did he go? Even some crude prison artist hadn’t reckoned his cross was worth filling.

“Time to go to work,” he said.

He dressed in worn plain splattered jeans, heavy sweater with holes in the elbows and rain blotched heavy work boots. Looking in the mirror, a labourer looked back. Walking up and down, he adopted the macho strut beloved of the building sites and let out a low wolf whistle. Tried out a few of the well tested lines.

“Cor, look at the body on ’er... wotcher say darlin’... get a load of this sweetheart.”

“Yea,” he added, “that will do it.”

On his release from prison, he’d hit a depression that was all enveloping. Access to Kendra was denied, money was short and he couldn’t adapt to London. One tortured morning he’d woke with tears in his face and knew that crying in his sleep was serious distress. A half remembered line had surfaced in his head.

“When you can’t stand it anymore, try kneeling.”

He’d thought, “And what have I got to lose.”

Bending his knees, he said,

“God, if you’re about, this is a good time.”

And nothing happened. For ten minutes he remained thus and heard only the beating of his heart. Various platitudes bleated in his mouth.

“The meek shall inherit the earth,” and immediately he thought of what Paul Getty said,

“Yea but they won’t have the mineral rights.”

And Job crying in torment.

“Why do you test me so hard?” and The Lord answered,

“Cos you really piss me off.”

Finally his knees began to ache and he looked upward, said,

“That’s about what I figured.”

Later that day he’d returned to thieving. He didn’t bother God any further.

Tom worked the “holiday” flats. These were short term luxurious lettings advertised in the quality papers. Usually Arabs, but lately drug dealers were the tenants. He’d draw up a list of the very best ones advertised then ring the agency to see what was vacant. Continue to ring until the letting was made. Then he hit immediately. Dressed as a labourer, he was near invisible. Ten minutes was the maximum time he’d spend and took only cash, coins or gold. It astonished him that people believed they’d found clever hiding places. Dirty laundry was the most common. He wore surgical gloves and recently, in a soiled pair of socks, was two grand in a tight roll. The shotgun had come from a block in Kensington Church Street.

Depending on the hauls, Tom estimated he’d need only six “Runs” a year. Too, there was the pipe dream of one major jackpot. What he’d do then, he wasn’t sure. The adrenalin rush, the sheer fix of the job would be hard to kick.

As he headed toward the tube, a small fat black woman galloped beside him. In a sing-song voice she gasped,

“Jesus wants you, only Jesus saves.”

He wondered why it was that short fat black ladies were particularly prone to lunacy. Almost every High Street had one and he contemplated if the councils provided them. Almost as prevalent as muggers, they appeared to work longer hours. He said to her,

“He saves, does He?... for what, a rainy day... is it?”

She gave him a worried look and began to back away. He moved after her.

“No, come on, don’t be modest, give me the credit plan.”

He learnt the only thing crazies feared was craziness. Put an even more psychotic face right into theirs and they legged it. Which is exactly what this lady did. Tom remembered a similar lunatic who’d been spraying his message on the walls of the tube.

“God might help you to travel

but you have to call the airport.”

Tom had thought then, there are two kinds of people.

One — those who can read the writing on the wall.

Two — those who put it there.

He thought much the same thing now.

His father had died during Tom’s first year in prison. He’d been escorted out for the funeral. The warder said,

“You get out to plant the ole boy.”

Handcuffed.

As they slapped the cuffs on him, he said,

“Bit fuckin’ strong, eh?? I mean... how dangerous am I, for heaven’s sake?”

The warder said,

“Shut yer mouth.”

He did.

It had been a freezing cold day. A drizzling rain soaked them. The mourners were few. Bridie was then in one of her periodic drying out clinics. After they’d planted his dad, a man had approached Tom and handed him a frayed, battered envelope. A previous name had been scratched out and his father scribbled hastily below,

“Your father’s effects”

“Bit scarce on the envelope, were ye. A shortage in the friggin’ stationery, is it?”

The effects were pitiful, one worn wedding ring. A strapless watch and a page of a jotter, neatly folded. It had “Thomas” written on it in his dad’s neat simple hand. On Tom’s release from prison, the first thing he’d done was hand these to a wino. The wino had roared,

“This watch’s stopped!”

The letter read:

My Dear Thomas ,

I’ll be dead when you read this. You have been a fierce disappointment to me. Poor Bridie was always away with the fairies but I expected more of you. I know it was hard on you that your mother was taken from us early. But I did my best .

I can’t believe how you’ve repaid my efforts. The shame of you in prison. It would have killed your mother .

Tom had paused here, sighed deeply and read on,

The mortification of your life hasn’t helped my health. It’s no use pretending otherwise. I don’t know what will become of you. It’s not too late to change. Go to confession and mebbe have a private chat with the chaplain. Ask him how you can make amends. Tell the authorities your plan to toe the line. God mind you, God knows I tried. I’ll leave you my ring but you’ll probably sell it .

Your heart broken father ,

For a long time, Tom had sat motionless and finally muttered, “Tell the authorities is it... I’ll tell them shit, you can bank on that.”

Shredding the letter, he’d dropped the pieces in his slop bucket.

Tom had watched the black woman gallop off towards the oval and whispered, “But is it cricket?” and gone thieving.

The job had gone surprisingly easily and he’d been in and out in fifteen minutes. Such ease was deadly to caution. He knew you could think it would always be so. And... he broke his own rules.

The wardrobe contained 6 Giorgio Armani suits and he’d taken two plus a small leather Bible he’d found in the bookcase. Always check the books, people distributed notes of large denominations amid the pages. This time, he found 500 dollars in The Day of the Jackal and thought, “some books just keep making money.” In the toilet cistern, he found four hundred pounds.

Later, he flicked through the Bible and paused at the crucifixion.

The criminal who hung upon the third cross hurled insults at Jesus.

“Aren’t you the Christ? Save yourself and us.”

But the other criminal rebuked him.

“Don’t you fear God?” he said, “since you are under the same sentence.

We are punished justly for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But

this man has done no wrong.”

Then he said,

“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Jesus answered,

“I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.”

Tom smiled. His father would have loved the “good thief.” Tom reckoned the guy was just hedging his bets. Now the other criminal, he’d have liked to know about him. What Christians saw as taunts and insults. Tom reckoned was pure desperation, he’d have liked to know his name.