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

“Haberna” from Carmen.

As if lucidity had been bestowed on him, he’d mouthed the lyrics,

A taste for opera had sparked then, but he’d never have told a soul of that. It occurred to him now that he’d play his favourite pieces for Rusty. Dogs loved what you loved, and they didn’t criticize.

“Top that,” he said and heard the doorbell.

“The dog hates me,” was Bridie’s opening gambit.

“Only the dog?” asked Tom.

She stormed in hauling what looked like half a ton of Alsatian. The dog perked up on seeing Tom and his tail began to wag furiously.

“Jesus, is that opera?... don’t you have any Bob Dylan?”

Tom released Rusty from the leash, fought off his licks of love, and let him out to his garden.

“Bridie, nobody listens to Bob Dylan, not even Joan Baez listens to Bob Dylan... would you like tea?”

“Ah, Tom, I need a pick-me-up... you wouldn’t believe what’s been happening. Gerry called yesterday.”

Against his better judgment, he gave her a medium vodka and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Bridie, you’ve got to stop this craziness. Gerry’s dead... alright. You start up this lunacy again, they’ll put you away. Do you hear me?”

She nodded and tears began to slide down her face, into the glass. It seemed to Tom they made a soft pling. Her mascara ran and she began to resemble Alice Cooper.

“I’m so afraid, Tom, I’m so afraid of being left on my own.”

“Hey... come on, I’ll mind you... okay, you, me and Rusty, we’ll open a guest house in Brighton.”

“I like Brighton, we went to see The Exorcist on my honeymoon there.”

Tom went to the garden and fed the chews to Rusty. The dog gazed at him with loving admiration. Henry James it was... he thought it was him who said if you wanted to know about spirituality, look into the eyes of a dog. Someone else said that religion was for people who were afraid of hell. Spirituality was for those who’d been there.

“What d’ya say, Rust, wanna go to the park and chase muggers? Yea... I thought you might.”

When Tom went back inside, Bridie had composed herself. The vodka hadn’t hurt the process.

“Do you ever miss Kendra...”

“Take a wild fuckin’ guess, Bridie, eh.”

“I’m sorry Tom, I wish I’d had a child, no one would ever have taken her off me... the bastards.”

He thought she was little more than a child herself but he couldn’t resist the sarcasm.

“What did you think, Bridie... that I could have brought her along to jail but decided not to? Is that it... you think I had some fuckin’ choices then?”

She hung her head. He wanted to shake her and shout,

“Wake up, smell the coffee.”

But instead he put his arms round her and stroked her hair.

“I might marry a Yank,” she said.

Tom released her, went to the bookcase and picked out Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love .

“Do you still like her?”

“Oh, Tom, yes... Remember you used to read her for me. Will you read something now...”

He flicked through, found what he’d hoped and read in a clipped colonial tone,

“One is always rather pleased when there is one America less in the world and I’m sure God will send them to a different place from one.”

He paused for the punch line...

“from one and Lord Byron.”

He’d held the book upright so that Bridie couldn’t see he was actually reading from tacked-on notes and not the text. The remark was from Mitford’s essays and letters.

“ The Pursuit of Love was dedicated to a French officer. She based Fabrice on him. They’d had an affair during the war. The officer had seen seen it as an amusing diversion and that’s all. To Mitford, it was the grand passion, so much so that she even moved to France. For 30 years, she hung on as a pathetic admirer. One morning, she read in the newspaper that he’d married into the French aristocracy and she died soon after.”

He closed the door and told her none of this.

“Was Nancy Mitford happy, Tom, did things work out for her?”

“She was. They did... Yo, Rusty, WALKIES!”

Before taking Rusty, he plugged in the iron, set up the board and laid the newspapers on it. Carefully, he ironed the paper.

“Tom, you’re ironing the newspapers? I knew you were neat, but good Lord.”

“It’s to dry the ink. I hate to read a newspaper and end up with my hands covered in black. Plus, you get a crisp solid read.”

He gave Bridie another hug and promised to be in touch. What he thought was she was touched in the head. The insane are revered in Pakistan as being marked by God. How he could apply this kernel of information to his own dilemma was a complete mystery.

The walk with Rusty was exhilarating. Released from the lead on Clapham Common, the dog near took flight returning home. Tom noticed a new billboard near the tube station. It was for the Diabetic Association and showed a mother holding her baby. In one hand she held a syringe. The caption read,

“Every day of life, this mother has to hurt the baby she loves.”

A faintness hit him and he felt his knees go. Rusty gazed at him with concern. He put his hands against a wall and force-kicked himself back to strength.

Kendra was diabetic. For her first year, he’d given her the insulin shots and she cried every time. It had torn the heart from him then, it did the same now. Feeling steadier, he made his way home, the dog eyed him carefully.

Back home, he got the vodka bottle and drank deep... it burned and roared down his throat. But it took near instant effect, he walloped another blast and sat down. The scene would replay now... now or in his dreams. He didn’t fight it.

It was a year ago. Liz had rung, warm and friendly. She asked if he wished to re-establish his links with Kendra. He’d taken Liz out to dinner and she’d been coy then flirtatious. They’d gone back to his place. No sooner in the door than she’d clung to him, whispering,

“Make love to me, darling, do it now.”

He did.

Afterwards, they were entwined on the couch and Liz, nigh drunk with afterglow asked,

“Was it good for you, sweetheart?”

“Well, Liz, it was about how I expected.”

She’d pulled away, stunned and finally said,

“What exactly is that supposed to mean, Thomas?”

“It means you get to feel what I felt the day you came to me in prison... you get to feel fucked.”

She’d risen and gone to the bathroom. Emerging, she said in a clear cold voice,

“The man your daughter calls daddy, he’s been showing her a little of what you just now so elegantly described.”

And she’d stormed out. It took some minutes for the total implication to hit him. He took after her but she’d gone. He knew now he might well have killed her then.

Shortly after, he’d found the shotgun on one of his jobs. He’d once heard that a person gets two chances to partake in the very glory of God. Once in teenage years and secondly, in the mid 40s. He’d reckoned he could have left the gun there. Each time he polished and oiled the weapon, he was glad he’d taken it,

Kendra’s birthday was due shortly and he felt that day would be appropriate.

As he relived this now, tears coursed down his face and sobs broke from him. The dog lay at his feet and whimpered. They stayed thus until a long time after the light had gone.

Periodically, the man’s hand strayed to the dog’s head and rubbed him behind the ears.