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

“I’ll tell you, Sweetheart. However slow Serena may be, she couldn’t possibly be as slow as him.”

And left her laughing.

He hated the doctor, more than anyone he’d ever hated in his life. The desire to throttle him, to give him full-fisted blows to the head was near overpowering. He knew why, to kill the messenger and obliterate the diagnosis. Insanity, he knew that, but he said aloud, “What, I have to be rational now.”

In the office, one of the girls had taped The Serenity Prayer. Frank said the short version,

“Fuck it.”

A nurse approached. He didn’t want to hear any words of sympathy.

“Mr. Marshall, your wife is in a private room, I hope you realize the cost. I don’t want anyone running to me later, crying they weren’t informed.”

Frank took a deep breath, it didn’t help.

“You think I’m going to do a runner, is that it? I’ve just been told my little girl has Down’s Syndrome, my wife is in a shocking state, and you’re worried about money.”

And then he began to lose it big time, pulling out his wallet, drawing out notes and credit cards.

“Here... here take whatever you floggin’ need, but so help me God...!”

Doctor Stevens appeared, put his arm round his shoulder, and said,

“Come on, there’s a good man. Nurse, collect Mr. Marshall’s things.”

He led Frank into his office and sat him down, produced cigarettes.

“Doesn’t do for it to be known I smoke, but what the hell eh.”

They were the old fashioned unfiltered type, that would punch holes in the stomach of a mule. Frank took a drag and felt the piledriver kick.

“Jesus...” he said.

The doctor smiled.

“The real thing, eh, they don’t put a warning on the packet, just give you a miniature shovel.”

“My mother-in-law, is she all right?”

“Yes, I spoke to her and I suggested she go home and see the baby in the morning. I’m going to call you a cab and we can talk tomorrow.”

“I wanted to kill you.”

“You, and most of the nursing staff. Now let me call that cab.”

By one of those vicious little turns of fate, the cab driver’s radio was playing,

Alison Moyet... “All cried out.”

Frank muttered, “not yet... no... not yet.”

A figure was huddled on his doorstep. Jim, in a swarm of flowers, chocolates, a huge Snoopy doll. His head was resting on Snoopy’s shoulder, he was snoring loudly. Frank shook him gently, and he came to, roaring,

“Elvis has left the building!”

Then he shook and got to his feet, grabbed Frank in a hug.

“Congratulations, old Buddy-Mio.”

“You know?”

“Hey, I rang the hospital, told them I was Cathy’s parish priest. Put the fear of hell fire in some Irish Jesse.”

“So you know it’s a girl?”

“Is that Snoopy pink or wot? Jesus, tell me it’s pink... at least, tell me you see a Snoopy. If that’s a rate, I’m full fucked.”

Inside, the dog went nigh hysterical with welcome. He wanted to sulk, but said the hell with it.

“Yo, 57 gifts for everyone.”

“57?”

“Heinz... wotever, get yer mitts round that boy. You’ve got a sister... opps, sorry Frank... isn’t he supposed to know?”

“He’s a dog Jim.”

“And life’s a bitch.”

The he began to sing in a very loud voice,

“Jim... jeez, Jim, hold it down a bit, O.K.”

“Whoops, sorry, ol’ Bruce Springsteen just begs for volume. You’re a daddy... the hell of it is... you already have the look. God knows you’ve certainly got the moves.”

Jim produced a bottle of brandy.

“So Frank, my man, Amigo, are we going to toast the baby’s health or what?”

Frank didn’t move.

“Yo, Franky... let’s get shaking bro’... is something wrong? Should I have not come?”

“The baby, she’s... Jesus... she has Down’s Syndrome.”

“Could be worse, there are some worse things.”

Frank jumped up.

“Don’t patronize me, you Scottish bastard. I don’t have the luxury of climbing into a bottle. Have you the slightest idea of what Down’s Syndrome is?”

Jim put the bottle back in his packages. Only now did Frank realize he wasn’t wearing the judo outfit. He’d dressed for the moment. In a very smart three-piece wool suit. Not so smart as he’d recently slept in it, but still impressive. Him reached down and rubbed Heinz’s ear. He said,

“My niece has Down’s Syndrome, she’s 19 now and attends college in Glasgow.”

“Oh, God Jim, I’m sorry... Christ, am I a horse’s ass. It’s been a rough day. I didn’t mean what I said about the bottle.”

“Oh, you meant it alright. It’s a bit out of control right enough. I sold the house to a fellah in the pub last week. I couldn’t remember a bloody thing about it till he called round. Mind you, I wondered where the wad of notes came from... his deposit it seems... and I’ve drank it since.”

“But surely, that’s not legal, I mean...”

“It’s a friggin’ mess is what it is.”

He stood up and gave the Snoopy doll a close concentrated look, then he planted a kiss on its soft snout.

“Frank, you know what I’d have really liked... course we’ll never know now, but... I’d have liked to be the wee lass’s Godfather. But that’s impossible now because of something else which I’d like to discuss with you at a later date.”

Frank stood up.

“You’re... you’re my friend, Jim.”

“Naw, I’m your friend?... you’re my best friend... you’re also my only one, but that’s my choice. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They shook hands, like civil servants, a meaningless gesture and scarcely civil.

Frank cleared up a bit, fed Heinz and then slumped in the armchair. He thought of Cathy and the way she thrashed in the bed. The image was burned in his brain. A drink might have momentarily helped, but he was afraid. He looked to attack whatever was doing this to the very beat of his heart, and could see nothing.

Frank shook his hand at the roof, too weak to make a fist, and cried,

“Would it have killed you to leave that little baby alone...”

Frank woke late and crashing into his mind came the words, Down’s Syndrome, like a lash.

“Jesus,” he said.

Paralysis hit him, and he thought,

“If I just sit here, don’t move, maybe everything will be O.K.”

Heinz began to hop at his feet, and obviously paralysis was not on his agenda. Frank moved and began the morning things. Showered and shaved, he looked better, he felt woesome. First, he said, I’ve got to find out what this thing is. Rooting through the bookshelf he found an old dictionary, and under “Down’s Syndrome” the first word he saw was “retardation” and dropped the book as if he’d been burned. Which in many ways he had.

En route to the hospital, he bought flowers, and didn’t know what to buy Serena-May, and realized he’d called her by her name.

Cathy was sitting up, the baby asleep in her arms.

“I adore her,” she said.

Her eyes were lit with wonder, and she said,

“A girl of twenty-two had a Down’s baby a few days ago. She’s hysterical and won’t take her baby. I thought my age was to blame. Are you mad at us, Frank?”

“I will be if you ever say that again.”

“O.K. So did you eat?”

Apart from eating Jim, he couldn’t remember.

“Well, I know Heinz did.”

“Do you think he’ll like our little baby?”

“He bloody better hope so.”

A woman stuck her head round the door.

“Mr. Marshall, a moment please.”