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

Tall, six feet or so. The age between late 40s and shaky 50s. Brown eyes, the wide set model. A bad nose, either it had been broken or should have been. His mouth was a thin line... verging on meanness. A slight smile promised some redemption.

“Yes, I’m Cathy... so?”

“We have a friend in common. Deirdre. Deirdre Rankin.”

“Hardly a friend.”

He sighed and said,

“You know, I thought it was odd an attractive woman should be standing alone. Now I’m beginning to think it’s little wonder. I’ll leave you to it.”

She liked his voice, deep and smokey. Only years of cigarettes and harsh whiskey could do that.

“Or,” she thought, “was that harsh women.”

“Hang on, are you going to get me a drink?”

“Something bitter, no doubt.”

But he took her glass.

When he returned she asked,

“I saw you earlier with the boys, the ones who try to look as if their wives don’t belong to them. Did they warn you about me?”

“They said you were a ball-breaker.”

She laughed.

“Interesting description, it conveys a colourful mental picture.”

“And are you?”

“Stick around and find out.”

He looked thoughtful at this and asked,

“Would you be free for a little dinner some evening?”

“A little dinner, what... are you on limited expenses, is that it?”

“Cathy, you have a problem with direct questions, did you know that.”

“I don’t. I have lots of problems with the people who throw them... and no... no, I would not like a little dinner. Is that a clear answer.”

However he felt about it, his face kept it under wraps. He drained his drink.

“Right then, I’ll be off.”

“I’d be free on Tuesday to go to the pictures.”

“What’s showing?”

“What do you care, you’ll be too busy trying to keep your hands off me.”

The startled smile he gave did indeed redeem his face.

It began thus. Two years later they got married. Now Cathy was forty-one years old and nervous. Heinz, the dog, bounced at her feet. His expression said, “I know you’ve got things on yer mind lady, but I’ve got to pee... so are you letting me out or what?”

She let him out. He was small, black and neurotic, in short, a London dog. They named him for being “57 varieties” as his pedigree contained at least that.

She rang her mother.

“Hello Mam.”

“Hello Catherine. Please, I asked you to call me Dolores.”

“You’re my Mother, why can’t I call you motherish things?”

“It’s so aging Darling... and I do think you’ve outgrown ‘Mam’ at 40.”

“I didn’t know there was a cut-off period. So what, you’re hoping to be like my sister, is it, like in the shampoo ads?”

“Don’t be facetious, Darling, there’s a good girl.”

Dolores was English. She’d married an Irishman and even yet was in cultural shock. Since his death, it seemed she’d decided to regain her Englishness. Her accent achieved new shades of plumminess daily. Cathy was torn always between the wild call of the Irish and the etiquette of the English. Mostly, it left her tired.

“Are you following the series, Darling?”

“For Heaven’s sake Mam, am I supposed to volley back that Kilkenny are in the All Ireland hurling final. Give us a break. Let Rupert Brooke lie.”

“Who?”

“Mother, I’m pregnant.”

Silence. Cathy waited then conceded her Mother was an expert in this.

“Mother, are you there, did you hear what I said?”

“Well really Catherine, I don’t know how you can do this to me.”

“To you...! To you.”

“At your age, you should be ashamed of yourself. What on earth were you thinking of?”

“England, most likely.”

“I don’t know, Catherine, I don’t know how I’ll be able to cope with this... you realize that, at your age, the child won’t be right.”

Cathy hung up. Fear crawled all down her back, and then a blistering anger. She wanted to sweep the things from the breakfast table. Frank walked in.

“Where’s the dog?”

“I hung up on her.”

Frank raised an eyebrow and headed for the coffee.

Frank was among the few smokers left in England. Or so it seemed to him. There was a rumour of a lady in Milton Keynes, but she probably did it for money. Cathy had stopped and tended to the zealous vigilance of the ex-smoker. She was particularly rough on early morning cigarettes. This was Frank’s favourite. For peace, he usually waited till he was out of the house. Cathy gave him a searching look, said,

“Frank, you look fifty today.”

“I am fifty... remember, but good of you to mention it.”

“No... no, I mean usually you don’t, but today you look old.”

He drank the coffee, black and bitter, it burnt his tongue. In fact, much as the cigarette would do shortly. No reply he felt was fitting.

“You’re probably gasping for a cigarette, Frank, you can’t wait to get out of the house and away from me.”

He stood up, said,

“No darling, I think I miss you already.”

Grabbing his jacket, he headed for the door.

“Frank... Frank, do you think I’m too old... too old to have a baby?”

“Christ!”

and he remembered Jack Nicholson’s line in Terms of Endearment .

“Almost a clean get-away.”

But he kept it to himself.

He moved and put his arms round her.

“Are you angry Frank?”

“Good Heavens, I’m delighted. I’m scared but delighted.”

“Me too.”

They didn’t hear Heinz hurling himself against the door, he couldn’t believe they’d forgotten his breakfast. What they listened for was the sound of a new and tiny heartbeat. Frank said,

“You’ll be eating coal now, I guess. Don’t you get cravings and such.”

“Makes your teeth whiter, or is that boot polish? We’ll be O.K.... won’t we Frank?”

He didn’t know, and said,

“I dunno.”

Cathy hugged him tighter, and he moved his head to look at her.

“I’m late, Cathy, I better go or I’m in trouble.”

She laughed and said,

“I’m late, that’s what has me in trouble.”

Frank managed and owned a small computer company. Trouble was looming from a completely unexpected quarter. For years it had been a poor joke that video display units were dangerous to health. Now it was actually beginning to appear they were. A report from the London Hazards Centre. Many employees were now paying the cost of indiscriminate use of technology in the form of repetitive strain injury, stress and eye damage.

Further problems, such as back pain, skin irritation were also being claimed. R.S.I. had already been recognized at British Telecom. Two former data processors were given £6,000 compensation, plus interest. The move now was for regulations stating that staff working on screen will have their area checking for hazards, especially their distance from the screen.

It was a nightmare to Frank. He’d only just begun to show profit, and the threat of claims was imminent. The initials R.S.I. made him choke. America, he believed, was the culprit for abbreviating everything. As if shortening things would soften them. Take the pain out with the length.

The Marshalls lived at the Oval. Owning their own flat beside the tube station. Frank could hear the cricket. At least he could hear the crowd. As he walked to the tube, he was hailed by his friend, Jim Barnard.

“Never trust a man with two first names,” was Jim’s habitual plea. Whatever humour this might have once echoed was long over. They’d grown up together, and longevity more than loyalty maintained their friendship. Jim drank... a lot and often... and increasingly without control.

He was tall and gangly. It didn’t suit him, but he had a build that weight would simply lopside. A thin face with thin eyes, he was capable of warmth that his features denied. A startling feature was his hair, black and luxurious, rampant even. In truth, a terrific crop, and would have appeared so on anybody but Jim. He was a man who deserved to be bald. Few do. You looked at Jim with his riot of hair and felt baldness might not always be a bad thing.