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

“She’s been drinking again, you know how crazy she gets, okay.”

“You and your family.”

He wanted to let her have a piece of his rage or frustration but bit down and let it go.

“I’ll talk to you in the morning. Goodbye.”

He went into the kitchen and it took a while to locate some booze. Finally he found a bottle of Southern Comfort and began to work on it. Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow I’ll make a decision about Bridie. He stretched himself on the couch and resolved he’d shower and change in ten minutes. In a quarter of the time he was sound asleep.

In the police canteen, Molly was wiping down the counter and weeping quietly. Over and over she thought of what she’d said to the sergeant.

“It won’t kill you.”

She knew she’d never be able to see a donut without wanting to weep. If the Superintendent looked in, she had a gallon of fresh squeezed orange juice for him. Aloud she said,

“I don’t think he will... not now.”

A ferocious crash pulled Tom from his sleep and before he could sit up, policemen poured in through the ruined door. He was grabbed from the sofa and thrown to the ground, his hands locked behind him. Cuffs clicked on his wrists, elbows banged his head and a heavy boot sank into his groin. Throwing up, he was dragged to his knees and a fist took out his front teeth.

Superintendent Barnes said,

“Now now lads, easy does it.”

Tom spat out the vomit and managed to ask,

“What the hell is this?”

“Mr. Thomas Kenny. I am arresting you for the murders of Robert Colbert and Terry Neill. I’m also charging you with assault and battery, breaking and entry plus robbery, from a holiday home yesterday.”

“What are you talking about?”

The superintendent moved close to Tom, grabbed his hair and said,

“As the result of a tip we went to your home in Clapham late last night and found a Glock automatic, the murder weapon I believe, and a roll of coins from the robbery yesterday.”

Tom said to himself.

“She took the bloody Krugerrands when she gave me the cross... crucified me all right.”

They dragged him out with his shoes scraping the carpet. A keen-eyed constable bent quickly down and palmed the golden cross. As he slipped it into his tunic, he thought,

“Probably fake but you might get lucky — you could never tell.”

The island of Ponos

Greece .

4 months later .

At Harry’s outdoor cafe, an American woman had been left behind by her tour. She’d felt exhausted in the morning and decided not to accompany them on a day cruise to Hydra. Bored now, she was in the mood for company.

She looked round and saw a blond haired woman sitting alone. Rising she approached and asked,

“May I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

“I’m Edie... Edie Barton from Trenton, New Jersey.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Edie was pleased to hear the British accent. London was next on their itinerary and she might learn some useful tips. Plus, like Edie, she was inclined to plumpness and that gave them something in common. The Daily Mirror was open on the table. A headline about some murder trial. Edie said,

“Nobody’s safe anywhere these days.”

The woman closed the paper and said,

“I never read that type of thing. Crime disturbs me.”

Edie felt a slight rebuff she wasn’t a woman easily discouraged. Anyway, the British were snotty, it was part of their history, like Burberries. Charming too.

“What’s that you’re drinking?”

“It’s a frappe, cold coffee.”

“Oh you mean like iced coffee.”

“No, like cold coffee.”

Edie felt the charm might be wearing thin and looked round. It was brave the gauntlet of predatory Greeks or brazen it out. “What the hell,” she thought and said,

“I thought all you English people only drank tea.”

“You were misinformed.”

“Are you travelling alone?”

“Well Kendra, my little girl, she’s at boarding school. I’m expecting my husband Gerry in a few days.”

“Why that’s wonderful.”

“He’s my second husband actually.”

Edie loved the ‘actually’, so authentic.

“I’m with you honey, second husband’s are better, they try harder.”

This usually met with laughter and Edie laughed to set the mirth in motion. She laughed alone.

“Well honey, family is important.”

“I only have Gerry and Kendra. I had a brother but he died, poor Thomas. My Kendra was nearly set upon by one of those perverts but we found out in time.”

“But my gawd, how awful. It’s a jungle out there.”

Edie was indeed horrified but more so at the can of worms she’d opened.

She though the woman might be unbalanced. Eccentricity was charming too but something about the woman’s intensity alarmed her. For no reason other than intuition, she knew the woman was lying, certainly about her husband and child. She’d have bet her American Express Gold Card this woman had no children. There was a look, and it was absent here. She noticed the woman’s hand reach to an odd cross around her neck. It was quite ugly and appeared to be fashioned from a nail of some sort. To distract her, she asked,

“What a most unusual piece of jewelry.”

For the first time the woman became animated and said,

“Actually, it’s known as ‘The Third Cross.’ Do you know the story?”

“No honey, I haven’t come across that, I’d be fascinated to hear it.”

All at once the woman’s face lost all interest and her eyes withdrew to some other place. She said in a cold voice.

“No... no it’s quite boring really. I found it in a market in Istanbul. It’s just a piece of junk.”

She snapped it from her neck and let it fall to the table, saying

“Nothing of consequence.”

If you want to make God laugh, make plans. Frank and Cathy Marshall had one. They enjoyed the sound,

“The Marshall Plan.”

They had everything, almost.

   Jobs

   Home

   A dog

   each other

They didn’t have a child. Entry to that special club of parent was denied. No carrying of snapshots in the wallet.

Always that moment in conversation.

“Do you have children?”

“No.”

It hung there like sin, a failure, a definite lack of something. Worse, the other person then rushed in with the bland reassurance.

And Cathy died a little each time.

She was 5’4” with a thin, hardy body. Black hair cut short and blue eyes. A snub nose guarded a full mouth that verged on a downward slide. The effect was close to prettiness, but the eyes could lead the face to moments of beauty. In her own words,

“What I’ve got isn’t great, but I know how to use it... sometimes.”

Her voice was deep and her Irish-London background gave a lilt that averted hardness. A scattering of Irish expressions littered her face and speech.

“I’m as skinny as a tinker, but I move fast.”

Her job as a personnel manager suited her temperament.

“I don’t work hard. What I do is I work well.”

At 30, she’d one divorce behind her. No children. A party she’d reluctantly attended was winding down and so was she. An empty glass in her hand, a man had approached.

“Are you Cathy?”

“What?”

“It’s not a difficult question.”

She gave him the hard look. Sufficient usually to “ice ice.” He appeared unaffected.