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

Trembling with shock, pain and outrage, he dragged himself to his feet and shouted,

“What the fuck is wrong with you people? Jesus, didn’t ye ever hear of passive resistance.” He pulled himself over to a cupboard and tore it open, grabbed a bottle of whiskey. He drank deep and shuddered.

Moving towards the bathroom, he looked in on the black man in the kitchen. The man was doubled up, whimpering softly. Tom said,

“I swear, if you get up, I’ll kill you. I’m not able for any more of this shit.”

He picked up the baseball bat in case any more of the family were lurking.

Tom had heard your whole life flashed before you when you’re right up close to death. What he found was two incidents rushed into his head with astounding clarity. What they were related to or why they should surface now, he couldn’t figure. A blast of madness perhaps.

The first involved his father telling him a joke.

“A man tells his wife he has only six months to live. She answers ‘never mind dear, with summer coming, you’ll never find the time passing.’”

And secondly, when he was 19, he’d gone to the Big Irish Dance on a Saturday night. You couldn’t fail to score according to local heroes. He’d said to the first girl who danced with him,

“Might I have the last dance?”

She said,

“Honey, you’re having it.”

In the bathroom, he was horrified to see two long ugly gashes in his cheek and his ear looked like it was mangled. All were bleeding freely. He found some band-aids in the cabinet and managed to cover up most of the carnage. He now looked like Frankenstein unbinding. And he cursed out loud for the instinct that had him shave his beard, saying,

“Well, fuck-it-all to hell, wasn’t I busy.”

There were some Tylenol and he swallowed a handful, washed them down with a Whiskey. The room spun and he thought he’d better get going. If he passed out here, maybe the Africans would eat him. As he got to the door, he took out the Rolexes and tossed them on the sofa, saying,

“You sure earnt these back.”

He almost fell out on the street and used the bat to steady himself. A car was directly in front of him and the door opened.

Bridie leant out. Tom didn’t know if he was hallucinating and said,

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I followed you, I wanted to see you at work. You look like something chewed you.”

“They did.”

“So, was it worth it?”

“What... was what worth it?”

“All that for a baseball bat, wouldn’t it be easier to buy one... Oh by the way, you’re bleeding all over the footpath.”

He got into the car and an overwhelming compulsion to sleep came at him. He said,

“I’d love to sleep.”

“So do.”

And she put the car in gear.

It was hours later before he came to full consciousness. A vague memory of Bridie’s house in Kennington and her helping him inside. Something about her Civil Servant lodger chasing Arab boys in Morocco or was it the other way round.

Sitting up now he saw Bridie at the table, watching him. His face was freshly bandaged and his ear had a dressing. The sleep on the sofa had restored him partially. As he turned he felt something stick in his side. Reaching down, he took out the bundle of Krugerrands and let them drop to the floor.

Bridie brought him soup and French bread. He said,

“I didn’t know you had a driver’s license.”

“I don’t.”

He thought,

“When... when will I learn to stop treating her like a normal person.”

And he asked conversationally,

“So Bridie, did you shoot anyone today or is it a bit early yet?”

She smiled.

“The third musketeer took care of himself.”

“I don’t follow you, but then, I never did.”

“The Bill fellow, the police went to see him and he blasted one of them to smithereens. They’ve got him in custody now.”

Tom felt a chill with the relish she said this. Her loving emphasis on “blast” and “smithereens” was a horror show to hear.

He had like most convicts devoured crime novels. The hard-boiled work of Raymond Chandler was forever in demand. So too was Micky Spillane but you told yourself,

“This is prison, not the public library. Am I going to go highbrow? In every sense, you took what you got.”

Chandler had written about murder and,

“Giving it back to the kind of people that commit it for reasons, not just to provide a corpse and with the means at hand, not hand-wrought duelling pistols or tropical fish.”

He looked close at her as if her eyes could spell out who she was.

“How do you feel?”

“Feel... I feel fine, it was so easy and the rush, I nearly passed out from it. I tell you Tom, it’s better than sex, well better than any I ever had with my deadbeats.”

Her use of the present tense and the suggestion of further action appalled him.

He hung his head and she said,

“Tom, they deserved it. That Colbert was a child molester.”

“No, no he wasn’t.”

“Yes he was, you told me so yourself.”

“I was wrong. Kendra made it up to bring me back with Liz.”

Bridie lost it for a moment, panic then horror washed over her features. Then whatever demon had taken up residence reasserted control. Cunning turning to malevolence replaced these. She said,

“Liz, it always comes back to that bitch. She deserted... no abandoned you then married that creep. Yes... yes. We may have to fix that bitch too.”

“Good god Bridie. Are you gone stark raving bonkers? Kill Liz? This has to end... and now. You need serious help.”

Bridie stood up.

“I can’t believe you’d defend that... cow... you call me names. I can’t believe how ungrateful you are... don’t fuck with me Tom. There are things in my life you don’t want to know. To think I brought you a present too.

She snatched her handbag. Rummaged in it and took out a brightly wrapped parcel. For a frozen moment he thought she was going for the gun. This more than anything else made him realize how far gone he believed she was. She’s always been out there way beyond the boundaries of mere eccentricity. He didn’t think there was any coming back for her... or him.

“So are you going to open the gift.”

He took it and slowly unwrapped it. A gold cross with three jewels encased on the top. He didn’t know what to say and she said,

“Three jewels, for the third Cross, like you told me... remember, Tom.”

He stood up. Bridie seemed as if she might move to hug him but, let her hands fall useless to her sides.

“I brought you some clothes from your place Tom, while you slept. Don’t go, I’ll go to my own home. You’re safe here.”

“Give me the key Bridie.”

She rummaged again.

“I dunno where I left it. I’ll bring it by in the morning... okay Tom.”

With a low tone he said,

“Bridie, stay away from Liz. I’m going to help you with all this mess. You’re not responsible.”

She moved to the door and before she went, she said,

“Don’t threaten me Thomas. I don’t like that. I’m very annoyed at your whole attitude... you’ve changed... and that’s a terrible pity.”

Then she was gone.

The gashes in Tom’s face throbbed and he felt the onset of a massive headache. Fatigue pounded his bones and he wanted to sleep for a week. Moving to the phone, he rang Liz.

She sounded on the verge of hysteria and demanded to know what the dickens was happening. He hoped he could stay calm and not enrage her further.

“Liz, I’ll come round in the morning and explain everything. If Bridie calls, don’t let her in, on any account.”

“Bridie... what’s she got to do with this, what’s this about?”