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

He worked in the City. As Frank’s office was off Charing Cross, they infrequently met.

“Top of the morning to you Frankie boy!”

A whiff of alcohol came from him and he had only haphazardly shaved. The hair, as usual, was a disgrace. Today it looked like a poorly styled hair piece and a rather cheap model.

“Good morning Jim.”

“I see there’s another claim for R.S.I. in this morning.”

“Not right now Jim, O.K. I’ve other things on my mind. Cathy’s pregnant.”

“Who’s the father?”

He took one look at Frank’s face and regretted the bolstering drink.

“Sorry Frank, I’m not myself... that was in poor taste... CONGRATULATIONS.”

Frank gave him a moment then asked,

“Had a few belts before we came out... did we?”

“Well, I dunno about a lot, but I certainly had a wee dram. The old Presbyterian ethic. Go to work on a jar.”

“That’s an egg, Jim, go to work on an egg.”

“Ah... I must have misheard... did I tell you Helen was found. Jesus... bet you didn’t even know she was missing.”

Frank stopped at the entrance to the station and lit a cigarette. The nicotine slammed his brain and burned his mouth. Exactly as he hoped. Jim looked at the newsagent’s display and said,

“Do I buy a rag which I’ll really enjoy, or the sort of quality one hopes to be seen reading.”

“I don’t think the world cares what you read, Jim... so Helen’s saved, is she?”

“Yea... and in a loud way. It’s a theory of mine that if you can’t have fun, have religion... well, let’s go, Dad, eh.”

Frank ground out his cigarette.

“Jim, don’t call me that... O.K.”

Jim didn’t buy a paper. He said he’d read over somebody’s shoulder and irritate the hell out of them. Frank said, “Well, Jim, I guess it’s nice to have a plan for the day.”

“You know, Frank, I dunno is it the light in here, but you look old? Probably just the light.”

“Isn’t this your stop?”

They didn’t say goodbye or even the mandatory London “see ya later.” Frank felt for the book in his jacket. Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair . He knew it almost by heart... it had a poetic bleakness that chilled his heart. It was, he felt, what he’d feel if he ever lost Cathy. She’d asked him if his eye ever roved, and he’d fallen back on the old Paul Newman adage,

“Why settle for hamburger when I’ve steak at home.”

He’d always remember the smile she’d given.

“Good answer, Frank. No... it’s a great answer. How do you think I’d be if you had yourself a floosie?”

“A floosie?”

“Well, if the word’s good enough for John Steinbeck, I don’t see why you should have trouble with it. So... answer the question... carefully.”

“Am... I don’t think you’d be... what’s the word?... compassionate.”

The fire had lit her eyes.

“I’d burn her house to the ground first. What do you think, I’d sit home knitting?”

“And then?”

“Oh, then I’d cut your balls off.”

And that ended that chat.

“Try the fava,” said Frank, “it’s split-pea pulse.”

They were celebrating their news with a meal in a Greek restaurant.

Cathy asked,

“What Rev... ith... o — ICEFTEDES... or indeed... let me try to say this O.K.... SPAN... A... KO... RIZZO.”

“That’s good, so’s your pronunciation. That first job is Chickpea Rissoles, and the other is spinach rice... you might like briam, it’s a kind of vegetable stew.”

“Why, cos I’m Irish? Is it on meself or are they a tad obsessed with chickpeas?”

A Greek in traditional costume played bouzouki and Cathy gave him a look.

“Jaysus, I hope that fella won’t be twanging while we’re trying to eat.”

The waiter brought hot pita bread and Tzazitzi dip. He recommended they try the Sporiakopittas, spinach pastries, and put two glasses of ouzo before them.

They drank.

She said,

“Ah, paint off a gate... will you want to know, Frank, if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“No... I’d prefer not to know.”

“Me too. There’s a test they can do... to see if anything’s wrong with the baby...”

She looked down at her hands and added slowly,

“You know... if there’s anything wrong... they can terminate.”

She’d begun to wring her serviette. These were the old-fashioned kind. It wound her fingers like a shroud.

“Good Lord, no. I mean... no.”

She smiled and reached over, touched his hand.

“Thanks Frank. So what’s a sheftalia or kleftiko? I dunno about eating them, but it’s fairly fulfilling just trying to say them.”

“Right, now the first is rolled minced pork sausages with onions I think, and the other lad is very tender meat on the bone. Here, dip the bread in this melitzzanos. It’s an aubergine dip.”

“Gee, Frank, I love it when you talk dirty. I’d say you’d prefer to have a boy, would you? Don’t men want heirs and stuff like that.”

“A boy! He’d probably grow up and kick the daylights outa me. Mind you, I’ll be over seventy... not that that’s any protection nowadays. In fact, it seems near obligatory. I’d have to learn the names of football teams too. God, I don’t even know who Gasgoine is married to.”

“He isn’t.”

“See... my point exactly.”

The months of the pregnancy, Frank held his breath. He thought if he relaxed, something would go wrong. If the gods saw you weren’t in good form, they seemed less inclined to send trouble. As if they didn’t need to grab your attention. Frank suddenly noticed other pregnant women and wanted to give them smiles of encouragement. But such behaviour in London could get you nicked or married. It would certainly get you noticed and that’s the worst thing.

Cathy seemed to develop like a character from an American soap. All the clichéd things. She blossomed, bloomed and never looked better. Physical discomfort was at a minimum. The hospital visits for the scan were terrifying, she went convinced they’d find something amiss, and she feared her terror would communicate itself to the baby. But all continued well.

Her mother rang with dietary suggestions and tips on where to buy baby clothes. Jim’s drinking increased and his wife left. He took to ringing Frank and leaving odd messages. His favourite was the advice given to politicians about to make their first speech.

Heinz, the dog, suspected treachery. They were too nice. He could live with “the edge” stuff. You never knew if a clout or a biscuit was following. The Russian roulette of it appealed. But a continuous diet of care and consideration made him highly suspicious. They were either:

   A) out of their minds,

   OR

   B) about to disappear.

B) he could handle as humans were easy to track, they needed so many things. A) he’d always considered, but this constant blandness was driving him to distraction. He considered running away, but humans always looked in the wrong places. Ulterior motives played a large part with them and he could never grasp the concept. Getting away with outrageous behaviour was useless if it happened all the time.

No, something was in the air and he knew it bode ill for him. All he could do was stay vigilant and be ready when it happened. Cathy was being downright pleasant and even fed him tidbits from her plate. Frank looked on with an idiot smile, and Heinz knew this couldn’t last. Hard times were coming, but he couldn’t figure from where. If he knew anything of human behaviour, it was that they were never consistent. Meanwhile, he’d test them to the limit and see what shook free.