Cross

by Ken Bruen

  A man fell into step beside me – tall guy, beer gut, odour of garlic and Guinness emanating from his pores. He said, 'You're Taylor.'

  Had an edge, a tone of menace, and I knew this was going nowhere good. I had to strain to hear him, not that I really wanted to know whatever shite this creep was peddling. His whole body language screamed trouble.

  'So?'

  He was leaning in on me, crowding with his body, and said, 'Baby-killer.'

  Winded me. Any mention of Serena May and my whole body went into spasm.

  Before I could respond, he said, 'And now you got some poor kid killed as well.'

  Cody.

  I stopped. There is a small alley near my flat in Merchant's Road, and I moved my body in its direction. I said, 'I don't know who you are and I don't want to know. I'm taking that shortcut home, and if you're real smart, you won't follow me.'

  I hadn't even raised my voice, a real dangerous sign, means I'm heading for the zone, the cut-off place, where all rules are off. I'd been lured into alleyways by some of the most vicious bastards on the face of the planet, had me teeth removed with an iron bar in just such an area. The past few years, I'd been on the receiving end of the beatings, and whatever else, I was all through with lying on some spit-infested ground, some gobshite kicking me head in. The rage that had been smouldering since Cody's death, his parents' reaction to me, not drinking, not smoking, it moved up that deadly notch.

  It's a white hot/cold burn. If that's not too Irish a description. It electrifies your whole psyche and focus… fuck, it wipes the slate of all else. The sheer rush of impending violence is like a double of Jameson you've been denying yourself and then you grab the glass, gulp and wait for the blast.

  The dumb bollocks, he laughed, said, 'You're running, you cowardly prick. It's what you do, isn't it, you piece of garbage? I'm going to beat the living daylights out of you.'

  Perfect.

  The chat was done.

  There's an old saying, The law is practised in courtrooms, justice is dispensed in alleys.

  I turned into the alley and he ran to catch up, going, 'Hey.'

  I bent low, swung with my left elbow and caught him in the kidneys, sucker punch, and as he gasped, I turned, kicked his right knee hard. Caught him on the descent with my fist, breaking his nose, heard the bone go. Then stood back, let him catch on this was just the prelude. I was only limbering up, all the rage was out to play and, by Christ, I was looking forward to it.

  He managed to mutter, 'You broke my nose. Why'd you do that?'

  He had that long lank hair that something lives in, something vile. I grabbed a strand of it and slammed his head into the wall, heard a soft crunch.

  'You seeing stars yet? Because you fucking will, and for a long time to come.'

  His hand was up and he groaned, 'OK, enough, I'm done.'

  Done?

  I leaned in real close, echoed, 'Done? You kidding? We're not even started. That was just the trailer, the coming attraction.'

  Then I beat him systematically with every foul and filthy trick I'd learned both as a Guard and on the streets, and when I finished I was sweating from every pore. Blood ran down my hands and my teeth hurt from how tightly clenched they'd been.

  I stared at the huddled heap and began to walk off. And then, call it pure badness, I paused, walked back and gave him two kicks to the side of his head with my boot, and said, 'Now we're done.'

  Back at my apartment, I tore off my coat. Normally, after such an episode, first order of business would be a large Jameson. I downed two of Stewart's pills, made some tea, laced with sugar for shock, and examined my hands. They were in bad shape. The left was mainly blood, torn skin. Water, ice cold, took care of that. The right was more serious. The fingers might be broken, I thought. They'd been broken before so I knew that song.

  I tried to make a splint but couldn't get it together, and as I rooted around I found a card.

  Gina De Santio

  And phone numbers underneath.

  What was it she said? If I needed help? Well, let's see if she was full of smoke.

  I dialled the number with difficulty, waited then heard, 'Si?'

  Decided to go for it.

  'This is Jack Taylor. You gave me your card in the canteen of the hospital, said if I ever needed help?'

  I could detect sleep in her tone – see, detection is my profession.

  Took her a moment, then, 'Ah yes, Mr Taylor. I didn't expect you to call.'

  I was going to reply, 'So why'd you give me the fucking card?'

  But said, 'I need help, now.'

  To my amazement, she said, 'I will come.'

  Life – or people – just when you've lost all hope in the fuckers, they surprise you. The reason I was still getting up in the mornings, I suppose. I gave her my address and said, 'Bring some stuff, I have broken bones.' Thinking that would give her pause.

  It did, but then she said, 'I will be there in twenty minutes.'

  Go figure.

  Stewart's pills had kicked in by the time she arrived. She looked radiant, and I felt something I hadn't felt in, oh, such a long time. A stirring.

  Fuck.

  She was wearing an old Trinity sweatshirt, worn jeans, trainers and a tan raincoat. Her hair was swept back and she looked wonderfully dishevelled.

  'I really appreciate you coming, seeing as you don't really know me.'

  She was surveying my flat as only a woman can. Not exactly critical, though there was that, but more a total scan of the whole set-up, not missing a thing. Her eyes lingered for a moment on my curtains and I knew she was thinking, And when were they washed?

  Guys think, Where's the booze?

  She was carrying a Gladstone bag, and it looked like it had seen active service.

  She said, 'I might know you better than you think. I qualified as a doctor, but I work as a therapist mainly.'

  That slight trace of an accent was very attractive, as if she had to carve out the right pronunciation.

  I asked, 'Get you anything – tea, coffee? Oh, and I have Jameson and vodka.'

  She gave me a look that asked, 'This is a social occasion?'

  She said, 'Sit down and let's see what you've done to yourself.'

  She was thorough. She washed and cleaned the wounds, made those hmmm sounds unique to the medical profession, then applied a splint to the fingers of my right hand.

  'Those fingers have been broken before, but I'm fairly sure they're not broken now. However we'd need an X-ray to be certain, and I'm thinking you're not in any hurry to get that done?'

  My hands dressed and wrapped in light gauze, she stood back.

  'You'll live, but get to a hospital tomorrow.'

  I was feeling very laid back, not hurting at all and able to appreciate her scent – the scent of a woman and something else I couldn't quite identify, but I liked it.

  She looked at her watch, a very slim Rolex, and said, 'I'll have that drink now, vodka with tonic. I'm not working tomorrow so I can lie in.'

  I wanted to lie with her. Blame Stewart's pills.

  She asked if I was hurting much and the addict in me said, 'Lie big.'

  I did.

  She took some pills from her bag, rationed them out as doctors do, with that measured concentration lest they give you one more than you could need.

  She said, 'These are very strong. Don't take alcohol with them.'

  I tried not to grab them. I was building a nice little stash of defence. I got her the drink, asked, 'Why did you come? I mean, it's – what's the term – highly irregular?'

  She sighed and then I recognized the scent. Patchouli oil, like the hippies used to peddle. Don't know why, but it gave me hope. Of what… I don't know, it had been so long since I had any. I just took it without analysis.

  She stared into her glass. I knew there were no answers in there. The illusion of them, sure, but nothing that would give you the truth.

  She said, 'I am from Napoli. We grew up poor. I married an I
rish doctor, it's a long story, he is gone now and we had one daughter, Consuelo, the most beautiful girl. She died three years ago.'

  She took a decent wallop of the vodka and continued.

  'I got to join the most exclusive club in the world – the family of victims. No one wants to belong, we share the pain that never goes away and we can recognize each other, even without words. To outlive your child, this is the greatest torment the world can send. And when I saw you, saw the expression in your eyes, I knew you had joined.'

  I wanted to say, 'Bollocks, peddle your therapy in some other neighbourhood.' Not even the pills could still the anger I felt.

  I said, 'I sure do appreciate your help, but don't make any assumptions about me and loss.'

  It sounded as fierce as I intended.

  She gave a tiny smile and nodded her head. 'I understand rage.'

  I wanted to shake her, scream, 'Do you? Do you fuck.'

  She said in a quiet tone, 'It's one of the five stages of grief.'

  I was on me feet. 'Me? I've narrowed it down to two – anger and drinking.'

  She stood up, said, 'I must go. I would like to spend some time with you, Mr Jack Taylor.' And touched my face with one finger. It burned more than the spit of Cody's father.

  I faltered, 'You mean like a date?'

  She was at the door.

  'No, I meant like consolation.'

  'I don't need consolation.'

  As she headed down the stairs she threw back, 'I wasn't talking about you.'

  I was restless after she left, not knowing what to think. I picked up a book, opened it at random, read:

  … if once a man indulges in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing, and from robbing, he next comes to drinking and Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination…

  The hell was this? Looked at the author: Thomas de Quincey.

  Vinny, from Charly Byrnes's bookshop, had recently dropped me off a pile of books. A lot of them looked old and Vinny had said, 'Some of those volumes, the same age as yerself.'

  I put the volume aside and figured the only one of that list remaining for me was procrastination. But if you factored in my total lack of dealing with whoever had shot Cody, I guess I had that pretty well covered too. I knew I should really be out there, giving my full attention to finding the shooter, but I was afraid. What if it was Cathy, Jeff's wife? I'd destroyed her daughter and husband, her whole life.

  I took one of Gina's pills and waited, my mind in the dead place, and thought, 'These aren't worth a shite.'

  Decided to lie down anyway, and slept for eighteen hours. If I had any dreams I don't recall them, but you can be sure they weren't the skip and jig variety. They never were.

  The soaked-in-sweat sheets on my awakening testified to that. Business as usual.

  As I'd slept, they were fishing Eoin Heaton's body out of the canal. His days of dog investigations were over.

  16

  'If you carry a cross in your pocket,

  no harm will come to you.'

  Irish priest in his sermon.

  A local commented, 'It's not the cross in his

  pocket we have to watch out for!'

  When I came to, the first feeling I had was relief that I hadn't drunk. Then I checked the clock and realized with alarm I'd been out for nigh on eighteen hours, and… I was hungry.

  My right hand was throbbing, but not as bad as I'd expected. The guy in the alley, how would he be doing? I showered, made some kick-arse coffee and dressed in a white shirt, clean jeans and a tweed jacket I'd bought in the charity shop. It had leather patches on the sleeves, and if I had a pipe I could pass for a character out of a John Cheever novel or a professor on the skids. While I'd been shaving, I'd risked looking at my eyes in the mirror. They didn't reflect a killer, but then they rarely do. Murderous bastards I'd met – and I've met more than my share – had real nice eyes.

  I briefly listened to the news and they mentioned a man found in an alley, victim of a mugging, who was in intensive care. Did I give a sigh of relief?

  No.

  Headed out, taking my by now usual walk up to the top of the Square, to have a look at how the renovations were progressing.

  They weren't.

  And turning towards the city centre, walked past Faller's shop, stared with a pang of regret at the rows of gold Claddagh rings, then crossed the road and entered the Eyre Square Centre. They have a restaurant that still serves heart-attack food – fry ups, tons of cholesterol and no lecture. I ordered the special, the works, the whole clog-your-arteries mess: rashers, two fat sausages, black pudding, fried egg, round of toast, pot of tea. Got a table near the rear and was halfway through when my nemesis appeared.

  Father Malachy.

  He didn't ask to join me, just sat down, accused, 'Where have you been?'

  I was mid bite of the second sausage so needed a second to answer. Malachy was, to pun heavily, fuming, as he couldn't smoke here. This was a lunatic who set the alarm to smoke in the small hours of the morning. Life for him was simply an irritation that occurred between cigarettes. He had the smoker's pallor, the heavy lined face and that slight wheezing that sounds almost like humming.

  I decided to tell the truth, not something the Church was much accustomed to.

  'I was sleeping.'

  He was furious, spat, 'Sleeping it off, more like.'

  I wasn't going to let the gobshite get to me. 'I'm not drinking.'

  He snorted. It came out through his nostrils and was not a pretty sound, especially when you're halfway through breakfast.

  He said, 'You missed the funeral. That friend of yours was buried and you weren't bothered to even get your arse out of bed?'

  I kept my voice level as I poured a cup of tea.

  'I was asked not to attend.'

  He let out a snigger of – delight?

  'Well, by the holy – barred from a funeral, you're some beaut.'

  I felt my tolerance slide, but no, he wouldn't get to me.

  I asked, 'How did it go?'

  He mimicked, 'Go? The parents were crushed and his sister, the poor creature, was in bits.'

  I was surprised, asked, 'He had a sister?'

  He loved that.

  'Jaysus, the poor lad worked with you and you didn't even know he had a sister. Isn't that just typical of Taylor, Mr Selfish, Mr couldn't care less.'

  The temptation to bang him on the upside of his dandruffed head was building.

  He noticed my bandaged hands.

  'In the wars again?'

  Took the cheap route, said, 'Yeah, a priest annoyed the shite out of me.'

  He stood up, asked, 'Did you know that ex-Guard they pulled out of the canal?'

  'What?'

  'Fellah named Heaton. Drunkard like yourself. Did the world a favour and drowned himself.'

  I was trying to take this in when he added, 'He didn't have to take the dog with him – that was really sick.'

  'Dog?'

  'The dirty yoke, he'd tied a dog to his stomach. What kind of perverted mind does that to one of God's gentle creations?'

  So much for resolutions, Malachy had got to me in just about every way there is. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt this was my fault. The dog-napping case had seemed so trivial. Now it was something completely different and I hadn't one clue what the hell was going on.

  I spent the next few hours trailing round the pubs, the betting shops, the usual places Eoin Heaton would have frequented, and managed to discover that he'd been heading for a warehouse on Father Griffin Road the evening he'd died. He'd told one of his mates he was on the verge of solving a major scam.

  Took me another few hours to find out the address of the place, and by then, when I got to it, it was closed. I had the name of the owner, though. A man called King.

  Next, I rang Ridge from my mobile and she said she'd some information on Rory, the brother of the burned-car girl.

  My mind was speeding. I had so much happening,
and all at once, that I decided another good night's sleep was vital before I took action on all those cases.

  Ridge came by early the next morning. Dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, she seemed almost relaxed. I noticed her eyes, they seemed a radiant blue and had a shine in them, and for once her clothes seemed just right. They not so much fitted her as blended into the whole air of confidence she was exuding.

  For the first time in ages she took a full look at my place. In truth, it wasn't much. The sitting room, one battered sofa, the small television and, of course, the bookshelf, jammed with volumes. She checked the carpet – dust motes in every corner – then her eyes hit the small kitchen: the cups left in the sink, the dishcloth that badly needed to be thrown out, the packets of cereal way past their sell-by dates, and, in the bin, takeaway cartons of fast food, pizza and Chinese, testifying to the lonely bachelor in all his shabby glory.

  She crinkled her nose.

  'Do I smell smoke? Are you smoking again?'

  I snapped, 'Who are you, my mother?'

  Before she could lash back, I softened with, 'Any new information?'

  She told me what she'd learned.

  The Willises' eldest son, Rory, had killed a woman in a hit and run, been arrested, got bail and skipped, to England, they thought. The woman he'd killed, Nora Mitchell, had two children in their late teens, early twenties, who had been living in Brixton. Her family were not reachable and Ridge said, 'They probably moved. Families often do after such a tragedy.'

  All the sleep I'd been getting had me alert and – thoughts, ideas, hunches, whatever – my mind was getting crystal-clear pictures of a pattern. I waited a moment to put it together then dropped my bomb.

  'Oh, they moved all right, and I think I know where.'

  She paused.

  'You're not suggesting her family are responsible?'

  It was one of those rare moments, once every ten years, when I let my intuition act in unison with my experience.