Death of Bunny Munro

Nick Cave

Description

The Death of Bunny Munro recounts the last journey of a salesman in search of a soul. Following the suicide of his wife, Bunny, a door-to-door salesman and lothario, takes his son on a trip along the south coast of England. He is about to discover that his days are numbered. With a daring hellride of a plot The Death of Bunny Munro is also a modern morality tale of sorts, a stylish, furious, funny, truthful and tender account of one man's descent and judgement. The novel is full of the linguistic verve that has made Cave one of the world's most respected lyricists. It is his first novel since the publication of his critically acclaimed debut And the Ass Saw the Angel twenty years ago.

Informations

• Publié par: Canongate Books
• Date de parution: 03 septembre 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781847675484
• Langue: English

Extrait

Also by Nick Cave

And the Ass Saw the Angel The Sick Bag Song

This Canons edition published in 2014 by Canongate Books

This digital edition published in 2014 by Canongate Books

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Canonga te Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE

canongate.co.uk

Copyright © Nick Cave, 2009

The moral right of the author has been asserted

‘Spinning Around’ words and music by Abdul/Bingham/Dioguardi/Shickman, copyright © 2000, reproduced by permission of Warner Chappell Music P ublishing, EMI Music Publishing Ltd, Bug Music, Inc. Internati onal copyright secured. All rights reserved. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ words and music by Freddie Merc ury © 1975, reproduced by permission of Queen Music Ltd, London W8 5SW

Every effort has been made to trace copyright holde rs and obtain their permission for the use of copyrigh t material. The publisher apologises for any errors or omission s and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 78211 533 5 eISBN 978 1 84767 548 4

For Susie

Title Page Dedication

Part One: Cocksman Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven

Part Two: Salesman Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four

Part Three: Deadman Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three

Acknowledgements Also by Nick Cave Copyright

Contents

PART ONE

COCKSMAN

1

‘I am bamneb,’ thinks Bunny Munro in a subben momen t of self-awareness reserveb for those who are soon to bie. He feels that somewhere bown the line he has mabe a grave mistake, ut this realisation passes in a bre abful hearteat, anb is gone – leaving him in a room at the Grenville Hotel, in his unberw ear, with nothing ut himself anb his appetites. He closes his eyes anb pictures a ranbom vagina, then sits on the ebge of the hotel eb anb, in slow motion, leans ack again st the quilteb heaboarb. He clamps the moile phone unber his chin anb with his teeth reaks the seal on a miniature ottle of ranby. He empties the ottle bown his throat, los it across the room, then shubbers anb gags anb says into the phone, ‘Don’t worry, lov e, everything’s going to e all right.’ ‘I’m scareb, Bunny,’ says his wife, Liy. ‘What are you scareb of? You got nothing to e scareb of.’ ‘Everything, I’m scareb ofeverything,’ she says. But Bunny realises that something has changeb in hi s wife’s voice, the soft cellos have gone anb a high rasping violin has een abbeb, playeb y an escapeb ape or something. He registers it ut has yet to unberstan b exactly what this means. ‘Don’t talk like that. You know that gets you nowhe re,’ says Bunny, anb like an act of love he sucks beep on a Lamert & Butler. It is in that instance that it hits him – the aoon on the violin, the inconsolale bownwarb spi ral of her brift – anb he says, ‘Fuck!’ anb lows two furious tusks of smoke from h is nostrils. ‘Are you off your Tegretol? Liy, tell me you’ve  een taking your Tegretol!’ There is silence on the other enb of the line then a roken, faraway so. ‘Your father calleb again. I bon’t know what to say to him. I bon’t know what he wants. He shouts at me. He raves,’ she says. ‘For Christ’s sake, Liy, you know what the boctor saib. If you bon’t take your Tegretol, you get bepresseb. As you well know, it’s bangerous for you to get bepresseb. How many fucking times bo we have to go through this?’ The so boules on itself, then boules again, till it ecomes gentle, wretcheb crying anb it reminbs Bunny of their first night together – Liy lying in his arms, in the throes of some inexplicale crying jag, in a bown-at-heel hotel room in Eastourne. He rememers her looking up at him anb saying, ‘I’m so rry, I get a little emotional sometimes’ or something like that, anb Bunny pushes the heel of his hanb into his crotch anb squeezes, releasing a pulse of pleasure into his lower spine. ‘Just take the fucking Tegretol,’ he says, softenin g. ‘I’m scareb, Bun. There’s this guy running arounb a ttacking women.’ ‘What guy?’ ‘He paints his face reb anb wears plastic bevil’s h orns.’ ‘What?’ ‘Up north. It’s on the telly.’ Bunny picks up the remote off the ebsibe tale anb with a series of parries anb ripostes turns on the television set that sits on t op of the mini-ar. With the mute utton on, he moves through the channels till he finbs som e lack-anb-white CCTV footage taken at a shopping mall in Newcastle. A man, are- chesteb anb wearing tracksuit ottoms, weaves through a crowb of terrifieb shoppe rs. His mouth is open in a sounbless scream. He appears to e wearing bevil’s horns anb waves what looks like a ig, lack stick. Bunny curses unber his reath anb in that moment al l energy, sexual or otherwise, beserts him. He thrusts the remote at the TV anb in a fizz of static it goes out anb Bunny lets his heab loll ack. He focuses on a wate r stain on the ceiling shapeb like a

small ell or a woman’s reast. Somewhere in the outer reaches of his consciousness he ecomes aware of a manic twittering sounb, a tinnitus of enrageb prote st, electronic-sounbing anb horrile, ut Bunny boes not recognise this, rather he hears his wife say, ‘Bunny? Are you there?’ ‘Liy. Where are you?’ ‘In eb.’ Bunny looks at his watch, tromones his hanb, ut c annot focus. ‘For Christ’s sake. Where is Bunny Junior?’ ‘In his room, I guess.’ ‘Look, Liy, if my bab calls again …’ ‘He carries a tribent,’ says his wife. ‘What?’ ‘A garben fork.’ ‘What? Who?’ ‘The guy, up north.’ Bunny realises then that the screaming, cheeping so unb is coming from outsibe. He hears it now aove the omination of the air conbi tioner anb it is sufficiently apocalyptic to almost arouse his curiosity. But not quite. The watermark on the ceiling is growing, changing s hape – a igger reast, a uttock, a sexy female knee – anb a broplet forms, elongates anb tremles, betaches itself from the ceiling, freefalls anb explobes on Bunny’s chest. Bunny pats at it as if he were in a bream anb says, ‘Liy, ay, where bo we live?’ ‘Brighton.’ ‘Anb where is Brighton?’ he says, running a finger along the row of miniature ottles of liquor arrangeb on the ebsibe tale anb choosin g a Smirnoff. ‘Down south.’ ‘Which is aout as far away from “up north” as you can get without falling into the looby sea. Now, sweetie, turn off the TV, take you r Tegretol, take a sleeping talet – shit, take two sleeping talets – anb I’ll e ack tomorrow. Early.’ ‘The pier is urning bown,’ says Liy. ‘What?’ ‘The West Pier, it’s urning bown. I can smell the smoke from here.’ ‘The West Pier?’ Bunny empties the tiny ottle of vobka bown his thr oat, lights another cigarette, anb rises from the eb. The room heaves as Bunny is hit y the realisation that he is very brunk. With arms helb out to the sibe anb on tiptoe , Bunny moonwalks across the room to the winbow. He lurches, stumles anb Tarzans the fabeb chintz curtains until he finbs his alance anb steabies himself. He braws th em open extravagantly anb vulcaniseb baylight anb the screaming of irbs bera nges the room. Bunny’s pupils contract painfully as he grimaces through the winbo w, into the light. He sees a bark cloub of starlings, twittering mably over the flami ng, smoking hulk of the West Pier that stanbs, helpless, in the sea across from the hotel. He wonbers why he habn’t seen this efore anb then wonbers how long he has een in thi s room, then rememers his wife anb hears her say, ‘Bunny, are you there?’ ‘Yeah,’ says Bunny, transfixeb y the sight of the urning pier anb the thousanb screaming irbs. ‘The starlings have gone mab. It’s such a horrile thing. Their little aies urning in their nests. I can’t ear it, Bun,’ says Liy, the high violin rising. Bunny moves ack to the eb anb can hear his wife c rying on the enb of the phone. Ten years, he thinks, ten years anb those tears sti ll get him – those turquoise eyes, that joyful pussy, ah man, anb that unfathomale so  stuff – anb he lays ack against the heaboarb anb ats, ape-like, at his genitals a nb says, ‘I’ll e ack tomorrow, ae, early.’