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

“You’re sure?”

“Look, I’m not shedding any tears over him but I had nothing to do with it... okay. Is Kendra alright?”

“She’s exhausted, I put her to bed.”

As Tom turned to go he said,

“One thing Liz, if I’d gone after Colbert they wouldn’t have been round here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There wouldn’t have been enough of him left to identify. Do you understand that.”

On his way home, Tom thought about Bridie.

“She couldn’t have, no way. I mean she’s crazy but is she pathological? God Almighty, what am I doing... blaming my own sister.”

Back and forth the inner debate raged in him and he stopped at a call box. Her answering machine said,

“I’m not home right now and if my luck holds, I won’t ever be. Whatever your position in the world, you have a right to be here.”

For an awful moment, he thought she was going to recite the whole of the Desiderata but the bleep stopped it. He left a message for her to get in touch — urgently. He thought about Colbert and didn’t think the world was dimmed by his passing. Then he moved to Kendra and that was the usual mix of joy, pain and regret.

Terry and Bill were drinking gin. As to whether it added to their air of depression was debatable, but it didn’t inspire levity. They were sitting in their usual pub at a corner table.

Terry said,

“I suppose we should drink that Pernod piss as a momento mori.”

“Fuck ’em.”

“Yea, do you think the convict had ’owt to do with it? Would he have the bottle to kill Colbert... What cha fink?”

“I think maybe tomorrow we should call on the convict anyway. Shake him up for a few sobs.”

Bill had an ex-wife to support and money was a constant preoccupation. He’d recently sold his car and had to rely on Terry’s. Marriage or such considerations never entered Terry’s plans. He kept budgies and his own company.

Bill looked over Terry’s shoulder and said,

“There’s a woman at the bar, keeps looking at you... looks like you’re about to score again.

“What’s she like?”

“Got a body on ’er. I’ll give her that and worth a few bob I’d guess.”

Terry had a knack of getting women. This he saw as further evidence of his all round superiority. Bill was envious to the point of hatred.

“You’ll have the knickers off that I suppose.”

Terry stood, stretched so’s the woman could have a full eyeful and walked slowly over, his smile in place. He had practised the smile to syncronize with the walk in his full length mirror. As he neared, the smile deepened.

The woman gave a tiny smile.

“Gotcha,” he thought and said,

“You are one beautiful lady but I expect you’re sick of hearing that. What are you drinking?”

“Would a vodka and slimline tonic be okay?”

“You don’t need slimline, you’ve the perfect figure.”

“Yo Fred, let’s get some service over here, large vodka for the lady, a bucket of gin for morose Bill over there and a large Gordon’s... fresh lemon.”

The woman looked at him with shining eyes and laid two fingers on his arm.

“I like a masterful man. It’s so rare.”

He casually brushed her knee.

“You gotta let the buggers know what’s what, if you’ll pardon my French.”

“Oh no, I like a man who lives life to the full. Who’s not afraid to take what he wants.”

Terry thought, “Bingo!”

Bill came over a little later and said,

“I’m going to call it a night, Terry. I’ll be round early so’s we can call on our friend.”

Terry saw no point in introductions. He nodded and said,

“Mind how you go Bill, it’s a jungle out there.”

He ordered more drinks and felt lust grow in proportion. A little after ten, he suggested they leave. The woman agreed. Outside, he pushed her against the wall and rammed his hand under her skirt.

“No” she said, “not here, do you have a car?”

He smiled and led her to it. They got in the back and she said,

“Just turn your head a moment while I take my knickers down.”

He did. Then he unzipped his fly and put his hand behind her head...

“Here’s what you want bitch.”

He forced her down and threw his head back in anticipation of the pleasure. A coldness hit his groin and a sharp pain... it was a few seconds before he realized it was the barrel of a gun, he shouted,

“What the fuck.”

“Shut up or I’ll blow your balls off.”

He shut up.

The woman sat upright, the gun held in place. She said,

“I can’t for the life of me pronounce the name of this gun but I don’t think you’ll mind. I mean what’s in a name? I can assure you though it works. A Mr. Colbert could have vouched for it but alas, he’s moved on.”

Terry felt fear grip him and thought he was going to soil his pants.

“Now Terry, tell me, how did it feel to kill the dog?”

“It was Bill done that. I love animals...”

“Now isn’t that the oddest thing Terry. I felt in my bones you’d say that. I wonder if I’m psychic.”

He thought “bloody psycho more like” but kept it to himself.

She hummed a while and he wondered what on earth she was waiting for. Finally she said,

“You’d like to fuck people I think, if you’ll pardon my French... Are you uncomfortable Terry?”

“Well, if you could maybe... you know... move the barrel a tad, I feel a bit exposed...”

“I’ll think about it Terry, okay...”

And she went silent again.

Terry had no interest in culture. Indeed he referred to the whole area as a dance floor for nancy boys. Once though, he’d heard Richard Eyre talk about arguments at home. He’d said,

“I was fascinated not so much by the obvious entertainment of the streams of violence but by the silences that followed:

    epic

    giant

    immense

    terrible

    and

    terrifying .”

Terry had said then,

“Wot a load of cobblers.”

But now he understood exactly the meaning of those silences. A strong smell of sweat and fear oozed from him.

She spoke and he tried not to jump.

“Terry, I was at the hairdressers the other day, not that you’re interested in that, but I was reading an issue of Cosmopolitan. Do you know what I read?”

“N... o” This came out as a faint croak.

“Sixty-two percent of Australians prefer surfing to sex. Eighty percent think of sex while surfing. And fifty percent think of surfing during sex.”

This near finished Terry off as it convinced him she was completely whacko.

He heard her say,

“I saw my husband Gerry today.”

And then she pulled the trigger.

Next morning Tom shaved his beard. As he did, Radio 4 played Ave Maria and he sang aloud with it,

As his face emerged, the music rose in him a profound sense of yearning for what he didn’t know. It was he thought the very not knowing that gave the feeling such intensity. An alcoholic in prison had tried to tell him what he reckoned a drink would accomplish.

“I might fill the hole in my soul.”

Tom hadn’t followed that exactly but a junkie had leapt in saying,

“That’s it, that’s nearly it... a fix is like kissing God.”

Tom thought the nearest he’d ever come to fulfilling the yearning was his love for Kendra. It frightened him a little that it made him so vulnerable. But it was as constant as his heartbeat. Clean shaven, he studied his new appearance. Ten years had fallen away but his face looked hollow. All the words in the world couldn’t fill it, he whispered. The Ave Maria finished and the news followed. It included the story about Terry being shot to death in his car. The police were anxious to trace a woman seen leaving a public house in his company.”