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

Tom slept that evening. In prison he’d learnt to sleep at a moment’s notice. Any given day was shriek-full of noise,

   the slamming of cells

   rattling of keys

   cries and yahoo’s

   the resonance of rage

   and

   the echo of desperation

You learnt to tune out or you got some kind of noose and let yer heels dance their final fandango.

He learnt.

A warden asked him once,

“What will you do when you get out?”

He’d taken a long time to discover that you get out but you’re never released. It got into your soul and a past there was forever imprisoned. He’d heard the Eagles song, “Hotel California” and reckoned they’d got it right with the lines,

“You can check out anytime you want,

but you can never leave.”

Rising, he showered and rubbed gel into the increasing stubble. Making strong coffee, he put on a plain white shirt and decided to try on an Armani. The suit was a little big but the general loose cut disguised that. Rejecting a tie, he closed the top button of the shirt. Shaping up before the mirror, he thought if he’d less hair he could pass for Phil Collins and said,

“But would you want to?”

And grabbing the hair brush, he held it like a microphone, did a rapid shimmer, bent his knees and sang,

“Don’t be cruel.”

How it would seem to anyone else, he couldn’t guess, but he thought he sounded pretty good. Drinking the coffee, he felt a burst of adrenaline. Once, he’d mistaken that artificial buzz for hope.

Not anymore. Now it was only caffeine. Janis Ian had sung

As the job had gone well, he decided to celebrate. A meal and a hooker. Satisfy all the appetites. He decided to head for High Street Kensington. The tube was full and he had to stand.

“Give them a chance to admire the suit,” he thought.

He was feeling good, not great or euphoric, but ticking over. A young woman boarded at Victoria with a small boy. The child was carelessly beautiful. As if the gods finished him with a flourish. Blond tussled hair, blue eyes and a hesitant smile. The woman carried Harrods bags and wore effortless expensive clothes. Designer sunglasses crouched in her hair, in wait for all contingencies. A man offered his seat and she took it without thanks. Without preamble she began to tongue-lash the boy. A stream of vile whining complaint. The boy, his face glowing red with shame, glanced around.

“Don’t look away when I’m talking to you,” she said.

And

Arm outstretched, she began to give him long sweeping blows to his head. People looked anxiously away. She was in mid-swing when Tom seized her wrist.

“Mind yer own business,” she spat, “he’s my child.” Tom bent down and looked her full in the face, and said,

“You mindless bitch, hit him one more time and I’ll break your fucking nose.”

She sank back in her seat. Tom leant into her face.

“I know where you live, you take it out on the child later, I’ll know.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You tramp, I’ve known you all my life.”

He released her wrist and moved back to the door. The boy’s eyes shone, in wonder and fear. Tom thought, “What the fuck, the kid will probably grow up to become Ted Bundy.”

A parable from childhood church days returned.

The parable.

A man is jogging on the beach. The tide has washed up hundreds of starfish and they’re marooned above the tide mark. Another man is slowly and methodically throwing the creatures back into the sea. The jogger approaches and says,

“Bit of a futile exercise, eh, what difference can it make?”

The man pauses mid-throw, looks at the starfish in his hand, answers,

“Makes a difference to this one.”

Tom sighed and whispered,

“The wisdom of the fucking ages.”

And got out at High Street Kensington. He didn’t look back.

At a spaghetti house, he ordered a bottle of Asti Spumanti. The waiter served with a splash of indifference that was close to catatonia. As he paid, the manager asked,

“Was the meal to Sir’s satisfaction?”

“It was hot, I’ll give you that.”

Sometimes, that was the best it might be.

In a telephone kiosk, he scanned the cards plastered to the booth. A whole range of sexual offers. He rang what seemed like the least offensive one,

“Busty American lady gives relief and fantasy.

Ring Lisa.”

The address was within walking distance and he headed there.

An intercom buzzed him through the third floor. A woman in her late twenties was peeking out the door.

“Lisa?”

“That’s me, honey. Y’all come right in.”

“Actually, there’s only me.”

“Ya kidder, honey. I do surely like a man with a sense of humour.”

She had a Dolly Parton wig, more makeup than Boots, and... as advertised... very large boobs. A flimsy pink wrap-around was... wrapped around. Her accent was a mix of Texas and London Bridge.

“A drink, darlin’?”

“Scotch would be good.”

She gave him a heavily watered one and he took a slug.

... very large boobs. A flimsy pink wrap-around was... wrapped around. Her accent was a mix of Texas and London Bridge.

“A drink, darlin’?”

“Scotch would be good.”

She gave him a heavily watered one and he took a slug.

“Y’all know what you’d like, darlin’? Y’all want me to dress up or dress you up or tie me down or...”

“Hey, Lisa... hold the phones, okay. I just want the basic business. Stop calling me honey or darlin’, alright.”

“Well, okey-dokey, hon...! That’s seventy-five in advance. I didn’t charge you for the drink... Y’all want Lisa to freshen you up?”

“No, one glass of water is my absolute limit. Can we get a condom?”

She lay back on a sofa and began to moan.

“Give it to me big boy, oh you’re really hung... no kissing on the mouth and touching the hair... come on, yah big stallion.”

“Lisa... hey... yo, Lisa, drop the dialogue for pity sake... just shut the fuck up already.”

She did. He did the basic business and got out of there in jig time. He made a note of the building and reckoned he might return in a working capacity... after all, he’d money invested there.

“The Rake’s Progress.”

Fried up a batch of eggs, washed them down with scalding tea and headed for the local mini-market. Bought the papers, edible chews for Rusty and on consideration, half a pint of Vodka. Back home, he rifled through notes on literature he’d begun to keep. Notes on Abbott’s “In The Belly of the Beast .”

The literary elite had come together to gain Abbots release from prison. The first night out, he stabbed a waiter to death and the elite galloped for the hills.

“Oh dear, we got that wrong... sorry.”

Next up was Jean Genet.

Tom was particularly interested that Genet’s stealing was linked to the other obsessions he had... betrayal. Genet liked to present himself as

   “the golden thug”

   Thief

   Convict

   Homosexual.

Tom’s research in the prison library had revealed a somewhat tarnished thug. Four years Genet had spent inside. Later, he seemed to specialise in the betrayal of friends and the desertion of lovers.

Tom made fresh tea and thought that for him, prison was the reference point in his life. Everything new came back to that. He didn’t dwell on “what might have been”. The thing now was to stay out, at any cost.

The day of his release, as he’d waited in the office for the paperwork to be processed, a radio was playing,