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

And hard.

Bridie enjoyed “shock” value as opposed to shock treatment. She’d had the latter but wasn’t too fond of it. It left her too disorientated and her grip was tenuous at best. No, she liked the expression on people’s faces when you did the completely unexpected.

Shop-lifting got a rise out of most. After two husbands Bridie was more than financially secure and had a second house in Kennington. It was rented to a civil servant. The gun Sevy had given her was in the fridge. Next to the Kerrygold. It gave her a frisson of excitement each time she opened the door. Seemed appropriate too that such an icy object should be kept in cold storage. The only time she’d held it, a shudder ran down her spine. What was the fascination they held for men she pondered. Not only were they ugly, but they made her feel similar. Tom came stomping into her mind.

As always she acted right on impulse. She called a mini-cab and went directly to him. His front door was ajar. She felt her heart palpitating. This kind of shock she didn’t like as it was outside her control.

Pushing the door she asked, “Tom...”

He was sitting in the middle of the room with a lost expression. Even in prison he hadn’t looked like that. She approached him slowly and he turned.

“Kendra?”

“No Tom... it’s Bridie.”

“Oh, hello Bridie.”

“What’s happened Tom... where’s your dog?”

“He’s in the garden, under the third cross.”

Then he told her everything... from Liz’s visit to prison to the present events. He looked up at her and said,

“But don’t worry. I’m not going to cry. I’ve done that. I was a bit lost there. I kind of forgot what to do next but I’ll be fine now, I just needed to spill my guts.”

And the lost look had gone. He fingered his face.

“Do you like the yard?”

“You look like Terry Waites.”

“Before or after his release.”

Bridie made him some eggs and then persuaded him to lie down. After he was asleep, she began to clean the rooms. For the first time in her life, she felt a growing sense of purpose. A thought was shaping in her mind and she sensed the beginning of a major change. Most of all she felt needed. She knew that maybe once in a lifetime, a man like Tom crashed out and even then, only every so briefly. A privilege it was she believed to have been the one who picked him out and up. Further, she prayed she’d be able to wipe the slate clean of the blight that overtook him.

Not altogether sure that it was the song to symbolise what she’d expressed, she sang it mainly as it gave her a sense of loyalty.

As “The Wind Beneath My Wings” grew in volume, her plan began to crystallise.

Tom’s dream was a kaleidoscope of images:

   Rusty in a prison cell.

   Kendra asking why the dog had no tail.

   His father demanding his ring back

   Shotguns out of reach

   and

   him, voiceless screaming silently.

Thus he woke, drenched in sweat. Rivulets had coursed down his back. A New York Yankees T-shirt was saturated. An aroma of fresh bread and frying reached him. Sometimes, such a combination can be the guise of hope. It calmed him, getting slowly out of bed, he felt battered and bedraggled. As if the living daylights had been pounded from him. The roof of his mouth tasted like bile with intent. He shook himself.

Dressed and showered, he felt part ways restored. Out to the living room and it was transformed. Vases of fresh cut flowers, new bright curtains and the scent of ventilation. Bridie was waiting with a nervous expression.

“What do you think Torn, are you angry, did I overdo it?”

He smiled.

“It’s bloody marvellous, maybe I won’t move after all. Smashing job, you’re a little treasure.”

“And Tom. I didn’t shop-lift anything. I paid cash money.”

“Good girl, so are we going to eat or wot?”

They did.

For after, Bridie had brought brandy and they sipped this.

“What will you do Tom?”

“Terrible things I think, but it’s a bit unclear. I’ll keep it simple and horrendous.”

“Oh I nearly forgot. A man rang you and I wrote down these addresses... here.”

He looked at them. Terry lived in The Borough, and Bill at The Oval. Quite an accent away from Bow Bells he thought.

Bridie bit her lower lip. Tom said,

“Don’t bite your lower lip. In little girls it’s cute, in women it’s downright ridiculous.”

“And your little girl, Tom... I can’t stomach that animal... well...”

“Do you still have that gun, Bridie?”

“Oh... no. Sevy took it back. I’m sorry.”

“No worries, I want something more basic. If the logistics were right Bridie, I’d crucify the three of them. Right on Clapham Common... now wouldn’t that be a sight to see.”

Bridie thought of the gun sitting in her fridge and marveled at how easily the lie had come.

Robbie laid out his kit. A small gold-plated box with a mirror, straw, two full vials and an old fashioned razor blade. The coke was already prepared and lay in five lines. A glass of water was next to his daboddle of dreams like a plain reminder of reality.

He snorted the lines and then dipped his fingers in the water. With a groan he allowed the drops to enter his nostrils... he muttered, “Fuckin’ nirvana on a good day.”

The intercom beeped and put the heat crossways in him. It was very new. He’d gotten it the day before at a boot sale. Just the touch he felt to signal his new found status. The Korean was in, he’d given a verbal agreement by phone and in two days the papers would be signed and the cheque handed over.

“A very big, very fat cheque,” he said.

He flipped the switch on the intercom.

“Yes Mrs. D.”

“It’s Mr. Naylor, he won’t wait any longer, he says he’s coming through... he’s the bailiff.”

As the coke soared, Robbie felt a brotherhood of man feeling.

“By all means Mrs. D, ask him to do so... and have the afternoon off eh... go shopping.”

“With what... I might remind you of my wages...”

He flipped her off and swept his kit into a drawer.

As Naylor entered, Robbie rose to greet him. He was feeling positively saintly and reckoned he might even send a cheque to Mother Theresa. A glow he felt emanated from him.

To Naylor he looked indeed all lit up. Two sheets to the wind. He asked,

“Bit early for it is it Mr. Colbert?”

“Never too early for cordiality my friend. We’ve met before.”

“Too right by halves, you know why I’m here.”

“I do indeedy and let me say on a personal level, you’re very adept. Might I drop a note of commendation to your superiors.”

“You might drop me a note of payment.”

“All in good time my impatient friend. Some beverage perhaps.”

“Let’s get on with it Mr Colbert eh, I don’t have all day.”

“Are you a family man Naylor; are there a brood of junior sheriffs at home, waiting to repossess you?”

Robbie’s high began to crumble. The very power of the drug was enhanced by it’s brevity. He said in a high voice.

“Two days... that’s it and I’m home free.”

“I’m afraid the time is up”... and he slapped a form on the desk.

“For God’s sake Naylor, gimme a break. You want something, a show of good faith is that it? Well here, (he began to unstrap his watch) take this, it’s a Phillip Patek. Bet you’ve never had one of those. What do you use, a Timex... or a Swatch... yea, one of those functional jobs. So live a little. Show it to the little woman, get her juices flowing. There’s more where that came from. JUST GIVE ME TWO LOUSY DAYS.