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

“God Almighty,” he said.

Bill had heard the same news. He instantly ran to check the locks on the door and window. Then to the bedroom and pulled the shotgun from under the mattress. Sitting in a hard chair near the door, he cradled the gun on his lap and began to slug from a bottle of scotch. In no doubt about his abilities, he knew Robbie and Terry were superior in every department. But not smart enough to stay alive... no, not that bright at all. He began to mutter,

“You won’t take me so easy you bastard, come and get some of this.”

As the scotch went down his bravado rose and he began to hope the caller would come soon.

Sergeant Woods was in the canteen. A tall man, inclined to fat, he eyed a jelly donut. The cake seemed to howl,

“Eat me.”

He did some calorie calculations. If he had a mug of tea without sugar, maybe he could have a donut. The canteen assistant was well used to the sergeant’s dilemma. It didn’t help that she vaguely reminded him of his mother.

“Ah go on Sergeant. Nobody lives forever... it won’t kill you.”

“Easy for you to say Molly. If the Super finished early in Forensics, he’d have my hide, he says I’m too heavy now.”

“That Super is a miserable git, no meat on his bones, he wants to spoil it for everyone else.”

The Sergeant had the donut and a large mug of tea. Sitting down, he took a huge bite and sweetness enveloped him.

“Bliss,” he thought.

Alas, as life goes, the Super arrived and came straight over.

“God Sergeant, stuffing your face as usual. You’ve got your mouth full and I’ve got my hands full...”

The Sergeant tried to swallow quickly and nearly choked.

“Ah use a napkin for heaven’s sake! I got the report from Forensics... they rushed it through. What’s the damn woman’s name, Margaret, is it?”

“Molly, Sir.”

“Whatever, hey you, bring me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.”

Molly ignored him.

The Super fixed his tie and began,

“This is getting out of hand. As we feared, the bullets came from the same gun. It gets better, this Terry worked for one Mr. Colbert. Him and another small time villain named Bill.”

The Sergeant had to open his mouth to dislodge the donut remnants and it had the appearance of a yawn.

“Sorry I’m keeping you up Sergeant, but this is of some priority. You’d need to get yer ass in gear laddie or it’s back on the beat for you. Be back bouncing the bunnies in Brixton... wot? Where’s that damn woman with my orange juice.”

“Bone breakers,” said the Sergeant.

“What’s that?”

“Terry and Bill, they operate as muscle and specialize in putting the frighteners on. They’ve quite a rep in certain circles. Terry’s the wide boy, vicious and cunning. Bill is the stooge, no less dangerous mind.”

“What’s the connection then?”

“Well, Bill recently parted from his old lady and Colbert too. Would there be one of them troit things.”

“That’s ‘menage a trois’. You might be on to something there. Where do you place our Tom Kenny, the jailbird, in all of this?”

“The way I see it Sir, how about we grill all players. Shake the tree and see what falls.”

“Remaining players that is... well, it doesn’t look like any orange juice is going to be shaken anyroad. Let’s get moving then.”

Molly watched them leave and when they were well clear of the canteen she said in a dramatic voice,

“Oh Superintendent, your orange juice!”

Tom tried again to ring Bridie. Her phone was now off the hook. He contemplated going over there.

“And then what?” he thought, “Ask her if she’s shooting half the male population of London. Still, it made a change from marrying them.”

A more immediate problem was the certainty that the police would be around again... and again. If he was to do a job, he’d have to do it now before the heat really increased. They’d never expect him to go thieving today. He forced his mind to business and made half a dozen calls round the estate agents.

A place in Brompton Road had just been let... close to Knightsbridge. He didn’t like to work this fast but time was becoming scarce. Out came the labourers gear and he tried to match his enthusiasm to his haste.

The two policemen walked casually to the fourth floor of Bill’s building. The Super vetoed the lift as he said,

“No need to advertise our arrival, and the exercise will do you no harm.”

The sergeant said nothing. They listened outside Bill’s door. Another door opened and a middle-aged woman said,

“Oh he’s in there all right, fell in drunk as usual last night, the smell of drinking in the corridors was appalling, just appalling.”

Superintendent Barnes said,

“Well Sergeant, don’t just stand there, give it a good thump.”

He did.

Bill had fallen into an alcoholic stupor.

The knock stirred him and he came to in a panic, though the door was being forced. Without thinking he squeezed both triggers of the shotgun.

The blast took out most of the door and slammed the Sergeant against the far wall, killing him instantly. For a few moments, nothing moved. Superintendent Barnes, shocked and crouched, saw Bill’s head appear through the shattered door. He was whimpering.

“It was Terry... not me... I didn’t do nowt.”

Tom marveled at the flimsy lock on the door to the apartment and in sixty seconds, he was inside. He knew the rents for these places were exorbitant and yet they wouldn’t spend a penny on a decent bolt. Once inside, he leant against the door and listened for sounds. Twice he heard voices in places and had left instantly. Only silence here. He looked at his watch, ten minutes tops.

The living room was strewn with clothes and empty cups. A quick frisk there revealed nothing. Then to the small kitchen and opened the fridge. Milk, frozen burgers, large containers of Greek yoghurt. He took the tops of these and put his hand in... extracting jewellery wrapped in cellophane. A matching set of male and female Rolex into his pocket.

The second carton held a batch of Krugerrands. Not as valuable as they’d once been but a nice earner. He spotted a tin of pure ground coffee... and they had a percolator. The temptation to brew up was nigh overpowering. But he knew what he did in people’s homes was bad enough. Somehow he felt that using their cups or food was in the realm of desecration. A chill hit the back of his neck and without waiting to look round, he dived to his left. A baseball bat crashed down on the coffee tin, flattening it like rotten fruit. A large black man in some ceremonial African dress was wielding it. He swung round to get another shot and Tom scurried to his feet. The man had tribal scars on his face and an expression of concentrated murder. He held the bat with a practised ease. Tom faced him. In prison he’d learnt the rules of fighting.

— There are no rules.

Do whatever it takes to bring them down and ensure they’re in no mood to rise. Tom feinted to his right and the man in his eagerness for damage lunged there. As he did, Tom dropkicked him with all his might and that was that.

Tom let out a long breath of fear and relief. Then he noticed the woman standing at the kitchen door. Also in ceremonial dress, she was tall with a face of striking composure and dignity.

Shame washed over him. He said,

“I’m so sorry... he’ll be okay... just a bit sore... you have nothing to fear from me... I’m going.”

He didn’t even know if she spoke English and with a deep mortification he began to shuffle past her. All he wanted was to get out fast.

He’d moved past and was half way across the living room when he heard a horrendous scream and she came rushing at him. Her assault knocked him backwards and she fell over with him. Then her nails went for his face and narrowly missed his eyes as she tore down. Burning lacerations exploded on his cheeks as she sank her teeth in his ear and bit deep. He screamed and smashed his fist into her face. She went over backwards and was still.