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

Outside, Mrs. Dalton covered her ears.

Liz tried three times to get Tom on the phone. The phone rang unanswered. She said, “Bloody man, never there when it’s important!”

In Tom’s flat as the phone rang each successive time, Rusty lifted his head and tensed. Then he settled down to wait for his master’s return.

That evening, Tom stopped at a pet shop and bought a batch of edible dog toys. At the butchers, he had them give him two huge bones. He couldn’t believe how much he was looking forward to seeing the dog. Now that his heart had thawed a little, he felt he’d go with it.

The door to his flat was ajar and he felt a coldness. It wasn’t lost on him that that’s exactly what his “customers” experienced. Inside was a total mess.

“Rusty,” he called “here boy.”

Everything breakable was broken. A pile of excrement sat in the middle of the room. All his opera records were smashed.

With a sense of dread, he entered the bedroom. Rusty looked asleep, the blanket pulled up to his neck, his head resting on the pillow. Tom pulled the blanket back and let out a soft sob.

The dog had been gutted from end to neck. Tom sank to his knees and began to wail. As the anguish ripped him, it registered slowly that Rusty’s tail had been removed. His eyes could see that his mind couldn’t decipher the message.

He got shakily to his feet and stumbled to the wardrobe. The Armani suits were shredded, he tore them aside, the shotgun was gone. That this was near exactly what he did himself only added to his frustration.

Going to the shop, he tried to stop the tears that kept blinding him. He bought a bottle of brandy and a half dozen bin liners. Rusty he wrapped in a clean sheet and buried him in garden. All the time he swigged from the brandy. The third cross he placed on the mound of clay. Slowly, he packed the debris into the bin liners and used the work to freeze his heart.

The phone rang.

“Yea.”

“Tom.”

“Yea, who is this?”

“We were so sorry to miss you, we called but you were out.”

“Did you have to gut the dog?”

“Thing is me old china, though he entertained us hugely in your absence, alas — he took a piece outa my colleague.”

“What did you cut his tail off for?”

“Ah tut-tut, we were too subtle for you... and a man of your learning. You’re familiar with the expression ‘hair of the dog’.”

“You fuck.”

“Now, now, sticks and stones. We confiscated your shooter in the interest of your own safety. I trust we won’t need to trouble you further — you got our message.”

“Yea, that you’re a sick psychotic bastard.”

“Stay away from Mr Colbert, you wouldn’t want to meet us. Must rush, tootle-pip.”

And the phone went down.

It rang immediately.

“Yea.”

“Tom, this is Liz, are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Tom don’t stay there, a couple of thugs are on their way.”

“They’ve been. I was out but they left their calling card. You know them?”

“Oh yes, I know them, Terry and Bill, two bogus cockneys with a sadistic streak. Are you all right, would you like me to come over?”

“No Liz... and thanks a lot, I gather those cowboys have some connection with your husband.”

“My husband! Well, yes, he’s that... it’s so weird to hear you call him that... they’re his errand boys,”

“I see, okay, thanks again, Liz.”

He rang a major league villain he’d met in prison. A man he’d helped out once. Now he asked if the addresses of Terry and Bill might be provided.

They could, but it would take twenty-four hours.

Tom looked round his broken home. It seemed totally altered, he knew he’d never play his beloved opera in this place any more and decided then he’d look for a new address.

Back out to the garden, he stood over Rusty’s plot and thought, “I’ll grieve now... for this and all the other losses. Then I’ll move on to the business at hand.”

He thought if pain is some yardstick for growth, then he’d done all the growing he was going to do.

Robbie was drinking Pernod. The way it clouded over when the water hit was a source of endless interest. Didn’t taste too bad either, bit sweet, but wow, did it kick or what. He thought he might hang out in Paris when the deal came through.

In his mind, he was cruising along Boulevard St Michel when the “bone breakers” arrived. They looked decidedly pleased with themselves.

He switched off Paris.

“How’s the nose Mr C?”

“Never mind my friggin nose. How did it go? Did you put the fear of God in the bastard?”

Terry shouted to the barman.

Two pints of best landlord, and another Canary’s Abortion for my friend.

“So how did it go dammit?”

“Tut, tut Mr C, impatient boys don’t get dessert. You didn’t quite put us in the picture, did he Bill, didn’t play honest John, did he?”

Bill lifted a heavily bandaged hand to his pint, couldn’t manage and used the other hand. The merry eyes were far from merry. He mouthed as he wiped foam from his upper lip.

“Had to get a bleedin’ tetanus shot, didn’t I, be bleedin’ lucky I don’t get rabies.”

“He bit you, the convict bit you?”

“Steady Mr C, the dog it was.”

“Dog... wot bloody dog.”

“See Mr C... oh that rhymes... see, thing is, you didn’t tell us he’d a dog, a flaming Alsatian, too. Game bugger, I’ll give you that.”

“What about the convict?”

“Well like we’re trying to explain Mr C, the client wasn’t home but his dog was..., and he had a piece of old Bill here... gave him a right nasty nip. But no worries, we done for ’im.”

Bill gave a nasty chuckle.

“Yea, we done for ’im all right, slit ’im from head to tail and put ’im in bed then. All cosy like, sheets pulled up to his snout... lovely it were... bled a bit though... just a tad unpleasant, didn’t half pong.”

Robbie drained the Pernod, it made his eyeballs bulge.

“Am I supposed to be pleased with this fiasco or what? You really screwed it up.”

“Mr C, I’m a little peeved at your attitude especially as Bill went to the bother of bringing you a small gift.”

“Gift, wot bloody gift?”

Terry nodded to Bill who reached inside his jacket and took out a gaily wrapped parcel. He said,

“Heads you win.”

Terry said,

“and...”

Robbie tore the wrapping off and looked at the contents in horror, he whispered,

“Tails...”

Bridie was to most people, a person on the dark side of the moon. Not that she marched to the beat of a different drummer, she was the very melody. But all agreed, she had a gift with flowers. She stood now in her small garden and admired the ocean of flowers she’d cultivated.

   Lilies

   Clematis

   Poppies

   Bluebells

   Gladiola

   Roses

“You are all my children,” she said. And went inside. The house, a two storey semi-detached in Streatham was compulsively tidy but overflowing. She’d kept everything she’d ever got. Upstairs in a small white closet were a myriad of baby clothes. On very bad days, she’d rummage there and talk to the child she’d never have.

When she’d been told she’d never conceive she’d begun buying the clothes. Madness demands its attendant rituals. On these days she’d convince herself that Gerry was alive. That he’d simply gone out and would “be home for his tea”.

She’d then prepare his favourite, moussaka with pita bread and taramasalata, piled with olives and feta cheese. As evening fell and she knew she couldn’t make it happen, she’d sweep all from the table and grind all the food underfoot. The pattern was set, she’d drop a few pills and wash them down with booze... if she didn’t blackout and collapse, she’d hit the town and the town always hit back.