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

Cathy bought a book of names. As she sifted through them, she said to Frank,

“Jim left another message. He said if monkeys are so free of stress and worries, how come they’re in cages?”

“He’s deep, I’ll give him that.”

“He’s a wanker is what he is... so, any boys’ names you’re keen about?”

“Jim?”

“I thought Sebastian would be nice, it has a sort of majesty.”

“Jeez, Cathy, no way, they’d murder him in the playground... I say ‘Sebastian.’”

Cathy put the book down.

“Frank, are you going to be objectionable all evening. I mean, don’t feel you have to give me any help.”

“Well, there was the guy who named his son after all the players in the Arsenal squad.”

“This is a suggestion?”

“And fading rock stars, didn’t they call their kids names like ‘Dandelion’ and ‘Root-beer’... I’ll be honest with you, Cathy, I have some sort of block when I try to think of boys’ names. Maybe I’m afraid to tempt fate, or deep down I’m hoping it’s a girl.”

Cathy sighed.

“Well, girls’ names then. Can you give me some of those.”

“I’m sort of partial to Rachel.”

“Didn’t you have a thing with a Rachel?”

“Hardly that. I went out... once, with a Rachel, maybe twice.”

“Scratch that, Buster, it’s Dandelion before bloody Rachel.”

“Now who’s being awkward.”

No progress was made and finally Cathy flung the book aside. Frank picked it up, asking,

“Who writes these friggin’ books?”

The author was Serena Cole... and Frank looked at Cathy. She smiled and nodded. Only later did the horrible thought cross her mind that maybe it was the surname he meant.

Frank was a cautious man. Rarely did he throw caution to any wind. Computers suited him exactly. He fed a program in and it delivered. Control was very important, if he could have composed his own epithet, he’d have settled for,

   “Here lies a man

   under-whelmed by life.”

Religion was not a major part of his life. Brought up a Catholic, he’d fallen away and subscribed to the Mediterranean form of church going,

   1. They baptised you.

   2. They married you.

   3. They planted you.

Cathy had a more fundamental belief and clung closer.

Frank was coming down Great Portland Street when the Jewish synagogue caught his attention. For no reason he rang the bell and was admitted. In the vestibule was a huge lit tableau showing the counties and towns of slaughter. There was a silence such as Frank had never experienced. All around too was the sorrow and grieving that has never ceased... and a peace.

Frank remembered a line from childhood:

“Before you were born

I knew your name.”

All the names here that would never now be uttered. He said quietly,

“God, will you give us this little baby.”

Perhaps the very place put Fiddler on the Roof in his mind, and he paraphrased the song,

“Would it make such a huge difference to some vast eternal plan if this little baby is given to us, and that it’s well and healthy.”

He did offer up 10 % of his earnings or indeed offer to do good works in exchange. If it was a question of trade, of barter, he felt he’d nothing to use. Then he simply sat and let a melancholia envelop him. Coming out to the street, he felt subdued and quiet. The gut-grinding fear had dissolved and he didn’t know if all was going to be well. He did know he could face it, well, most of it anyway.

At the office, Jim had left a message, in the form of a Q and A.

Divorce lawyer.

“What do you call a married woman who says her marriage is wonderful?”

“What?”

“A client.”

Frank rang him, but no reply. The last time they’d talked Frank had tried to get him to face his drink problem. Jim had answered in an Aussie accent,

“No worries bluey, my problem’s trying to divorce me.”

In a blur it seemed, the day arrived. The doctor had told Cathy to come to the hospital on September 1st, the day the baby was due. They intended inducing the birth if it didn’t happen naturally. Frank couldn’t credit they could forecast so specifically. He wondered if this doctor had ever chanced the pools.

That morning Cathy had her bag packed. They were having breakfast, sort of. A mountain of toast, mega pot of tea sat between them, untouched. Twice, Frank had gone out with Heinz to the garden and devoured cigarettes. He’d have mainlined if such were possible. Back inside, Heinz eyed the toast, if they weren’t going to bother, he’d be glad to help. But today, he felt they noticed him without actually seeing him.

Frank picked up the paper, began to read aloud,

“Mike Slater, hooking in the fast bowlers second over got a top edge and was caught by Graham Gooch. Australia were nine for one. England had squeezed another 27 runs out of their last three wickets. Fraser scored 28 off 92 balls, only one short of his highest score.”

“Frank!”

“What!?”

“You’ve got to be joking, you’re reading me the cricket scores... I don’t believe it.”

“England only have three hundred to show for 23 half centuries this series.”

“I hate cricket.”

Frank put the paper down, took a slice of dead toast and began to gnaw it. Heinz’s ears leapt.

“I thought it would take our minds off things.”

Cathy laughed out loud,

“Short of an earthquake, I’m fairly tunnel-visioned today.”

“What will you wear?”

“Wear?... oh, something big. I don’t think it’s a dress occasion. Are you going to shave?”

Frank fingered the stubble and thought, “jeez, it itches.”

“No, I always had a picture of me stalking the corridors, chain smoking in a waistcoat, waiting for news.”

“Sounds more like a poker game. It’s not like that anymore.”

Frank fed some toast to Heinz and said,

“The likes of Bruce Willis, they video the event.”

“Yea... but who would you show it to... have people round for a showing... Good God, I certainly wouldn’t want to see it.”

The doorbell rang and Frank looked at his watch.

“It’s too early for the cab... isn’t it?”

“Mebbe it’s a stork.”

He opened the door, and couldn’t quite figure out the vision before him.

A man stood there in a dobro. Those white belted suits worn by Tae Kwon Do teachers. His feet were bare. He suddenly crouched in an attack position and emitted a shrill yell that sounded,

“The dee ho han... yoo... hai... eeeee... cho... chan,”

and brought his right hand swooping down.

Frank’s eyes settled on the hair.

“Jim, what on earth are you playing at.”

Jim looked disappointed and now, more than a little drunk.

“I wanted ye to know the baby will have a guardian and that I’m here for ye.”

“You could have phoned, Jim, this isn’t a really good time.”

“But look, I have something for Cathy.”

He reached in his tunic and extracted first a half bottle of vodka, he looked sheepish... said,

“Sorry... it’s not that.”

And then found the gift. A small crystal on a gold chain.

“Thanks very much Jim... listen I hate to rush, but...”

“Hey... Frank... Buddy-Mio... baby... I’ll come with you guys. Lend the old moral support... eh.”

“I don’t think so Jim... look, I’ll call you later and we’ll meet... O.K.”

“Frank-ster, whatever... I’m here for ye... night or day...”

Frank had the door almost closed when Jim asked,

“Are you familiar with George Meredith?”

“Am...”

Jim threw back his head and recited a quote he had obviously rehearsed,