Cross

by Ken Bruen

  I said a thing I never thought I'd ever say to her, said it in an American tone to keep it light.

  'I'll protect you.'

  And I swear to God, I thought she was going to weep.

  But she moved to the door, said, 'I know that, Jack.'

  I went to church.

  You're Catholic, you're reared to believe that there is sanctuary there. With all the recent scandals, it was less a place of refuge than the belly of the beast. I went to get in from the rain. Had been walking by the cathedral when the heavens opened. Not your soft Irish rain, no, this was a full onslaught of biblical scale, drench-you-to-the-core stuff. The side door was locked, very welcoming, and by the time I got to the main one I was soaked to my skin, muttering, 'Shite and onions.'

  That's literary allusion, James Joyce's favourite expression, honest to God.

  I dipped me fingers in the holy water font. It was dry, wouldn't you know, and I guess that is some sort of ecumenical irony. I got in, shaking the rain from me sodden clothes, muttering like a lunatic. Told myself it was good to be there, light some candles for Cody, Serena May and the long list of my dead. I hoped they had more candles than holy water.

  Time was, I took my candle business to the Augustine till they went techno. Yeah, automated buttons to light your wick. That doesn't do it for me, I need the whole ritual of the taper, the smell of the wax, to see the candle take flame. It comforts me, makes me feel like some items are not for sale.

  I lit a whole mess of them, stuffed a wad of notes into the box, watched the candles burn.

  Heard, 'A candle is a prayer in action.'

  I turned to face a tall priest in his late sixties, with snow-white hair and a face that was not so much lined as seriously creased. He was like a clerical Clint Eastwood.

  I asked, 'You believe that?'

  I didn't really give a toss what he believed, I was all through with the clergy.

  He said, 'It's a lovely thought, don't you agree?'

  I was in no mood for being agreeable.

  'Seem like just candles to me.'

  He considered that, then took me from blindside by asking, 'Would you like some tea?'

  'Isn't that what got you boyos in the trouble you're in, issuing invitations like that?'

  He took it well, said, 'I don't think I'll be taking advantage of you.'

  Good point.

  Before I could say that, he added, 'It's only that I don't like to drink my tea alone, and I thought, seeing as you're soaked, you might like to join me.'

  I could hear the rain still hammering down so I said, 'Why not?'

  He led me to the vestry, and it had a small alcove to the side. He closed the door, began to do tea stuff. He indicated I should sit so I did, on a hard chair, even though there was a soft, well-worn armchair beside it.

  He asked, 'You don't want the easier option?'

  Priests, you got to watch them, they sneak up on you with loaded questions.

  I said, 'I figured that was yours.'

  The kettle was boiling, making a sound like friendship, a rare sound to me.

  He said, 'But at a guess, you take the hard route most times.'

  See, just like I said, sneaky.

  He heated the cups – you don't see that any more – then used real tea, Liptons no less, and spread some Hobnob biscuits on a plate, the ones with one side covered in chocolate. I don't know, that alone made me like him. He put the lot on a small table, urged, 'Dig in.'

  I asked, 'What do I call you?'

  He wiped crumbs from his mouth, put out his hand, said, 'I don't see you calling me Father, so Jim is fine. And you're?'

  I took his hand, strong grip.

  'Jack Taylor.'

  Didn't ring any bells for him, thank God. He poured my tea and I asked, 'How's business?'

  He loved that, took a moment to savour it.

  'We're having some problems, but I'm optimistic.'

  Or an idiot.

  I asked, 'Despite all the… problems… what's with the attitude? I mean, the top guys, they're still as arrogant as ever, still issuing pronouncements and what do they call them… edicts? What's with that?'

  He sighed, admitted, 'Old habits die hard.'

  Which was fair enough.

  He had a question of his own.

  'So what do you do, Jack, beside light a riot of candles?'

  A riot, I liked it.

  'Mainly, I don't mind my own business, bit like the Church.'

  I tried the tea. It was strong, bitter, like the old days, but at least it was familiar. I had another question.

  'Where are you on the nature of evil?'

  He reconsidered me, gave me a thoughtful scan.

  'Odd query.'

  'That's an answer?'

  He smiled, said, 'I'm playing for time.'

  I waited, then he said, 'I believe in it. I've seen it, felt it, and, alas, it seems to be on the increase.'

  Jesus, he had that right.

  I pushed, 'If you knew someone who was truly evil, beyond so-called redemption, what would you suggest?'

  He went with the script.

  'We believe that no one is beyond saving.'

  My turn to smile. 'You're not getting out much, I'd say.'

  A bell tinkled and he said, 'The confessional, I'll have to go. Perhaps we might continue this another time.'

  I stood up, said, 'What's the penance these days, three Hail Marys and a Glory Be?'

  He gave my shoulder a warm grip, said, 'You haven't been for a time, I'd think?'

  I said, 'I met the devil in Shop Street the other day.'

  He wasn't surprised.

  'He does tend to be in the commercial sector. How was he?'

  'Bad teeth.'

  He enjoyed that. As we headed out, I said, 'He offered to shake my hand.'

  'And?'

  The rain had stopped. I looked round the church – it seemed warm and I was reluctant to leave, but headed for the door, said, 'Take a wild guess.'

  He said, 'Never underestimate the Antichrist.'

  I told him I'd bear it in mind.

  I continued to ring Stewart's mobile. I was demented with worry. What if Gail had taken him out too? I'd just lost Cody, I couldn't cope with another young guy going down.

  It was nearly a week later when he finally answered. 'Yeah?'

  I was so stunned to hear him, I didn't speak for a moment and he repeated, 'Yeah?'

  'Where the hell have you been?'

  'This can only be Jack Taylor. The warmth just seeps from you, Jack.'

  I was spitting iron, translate as seriously enraged, shouted, 'What's going on? What happened with… you know… and where the hell have you been?'

  If my anger was affecting him, he was hiding it real well.

  'Sorry, hadn't realized I had to report in to you. And where have I been? I've been on retreat.'

  I wanted to tell him how worried I'd been, but like Ridge, words stuck in my throat when it came to these moments of vulnerability, and for the thousandth time I asked myself, What is wrong with you?

  'Retreat? What the fuck does that mean?'

  His voice never changed, kept that low pitch. He said, 'Meditating, with a Zen Master, learning to be still. Wouldn't do you any harm, it seems.'

  I was so relieved he was alive that I wanted to kill him. Does it get any more Irish than that? I tried to bring down the bile. 'We need to meet.'

  He let a silence build.

  'Need? That's what has the world so screwed, Jack. We actually don't need anything.'

  I realized if he kept up this shite, he might well hang up on me, decide to be more still, or stiller?

  I took a deep breath. 'May we meet?'

  I could hear the amusement in his tone. He said, 'See, you're calmer already. Doesn't that feel better? I'm at home, come round at your leisure.'

  The fuckhead.

  I said, 'See you in twenty minutes.'

  'I'll be here.'

  I considered bringing the Glock
, putting a bullet in his knee, seeing how still that left him.

  A freezing wind was blowing across the city and sleet was promised. I shivered, though I'm not entirely sure it was due to the weather. I was at his place in ten minutes, resolved to keep cool. Rang the bell.

  He took his sweet time in answering, then opened the door, said, 'Jack, good to see you.'

  Waved me in. He was dressed in some kind of white judo outfit, his feet bare. His home looked even more vacant than before. He asked if I'd like some tea and I said no. He indicated I should sit and he sat on the floor, assumed the lotus position, his features betraying nothing.

  Still wanting to kick him in the head, I got straight to it.

  'What happened?'

  He regarded me with mild curiosity, as if he was seeing me for the first time.

  'You mean in the global sense, on the world stage? I can't help you there. My view…'

  He paused, as if searching for the right word.

  '… has become more… neutral.'

  He was nuts, just plain crazy. All his previous experiences – his sister's death, jail – had finally got to him and he'd lost it.

  I counted to ten, said, 'Gail, the date you had with her, she turned up… drowned.'

  He nodded, as if he knew but it had slipped from his mind.

  He said, 'She had nowhere left to go. The water was cleansing really, took her away from all the torment.'

  If he'd said she was now still, I'd have battered him senseless.

  'Did you help her along?'

  He considered this as if it was vaguely interesting, not riveting but maybe deserving an answer.

  'Oh Jack, you jump to conclusions, you decide something is the way you want it to be and you make everything else fit into that.'

  My patience was real low. I reached into my reserves, tried to find some patch of tolerance.

  Nope.

  Didn't have it.

  And I was up, grabbed him by his judo shirt, hauled him to his feet, then slammed him into the wall.

  Hard.

  Said, 'Enough with the Zen horseshite. Did you kill her?'

  He let his body stay loose, didn't react to my violence, said slowly, 'I was with her on Friday night, remember?'

  My fist was clenched, ready to pound him. I wanted to so badly, gritted, 'Yeah. So fucking what?'

  His voice was even, measured, the way you talk to an unruly child.

  'Jack, she drowned on Sunday night.'

  I let him go, moved back, said, 'What?'

  He smoothed his outfit, leaned against the wall.

  'You really ought to check your facts, Jack. Sunday night, I was on retreat in Limerick with fifty other people.'

  I didn't know what to think.

  'She committed suicide? Or someone helped her?'

  He moved away from the wall, took up his frigging lotus stance again.

  'You're the investigator, so… investigate.'

  I was completely lost.

  'I'm totally in the dark.'

  He smiled, said, 'For many, that is the true beginning.'

  I stormed out before I did serious damage to him.

  26

  'Mysterium iniquitatis.'

  'The mystery of evil.'

  St Paul

  I needed to talk to somebody, to try and get some idea of what was going down.

  Gina had experience of psychology, so I gave her a call. She seemed delighted to hear from me. That anyone would be pleased to hear my voice was stunning. I fumbled a bit, finally got round to asking her out to dinner, and arranged to meet her at a new Mexican restaurant she was anxious to try.

  What did I know about Mexican food? Then reprimanded me own self. Fuck's sake, this was not about food.

  An hour before I met her, I was nervous, my heart hammering. Was this like… a date?

  How the hell did you behave, and, worse, sober? It had been so long, I no longer knew the ritual. And in the days when I did date, I'd slam home a few Jamesons and not give a toss whether the woman showed or not. By the time the evening was through, most of the women were sorry they'd showed.

  I wore a blazer, tan slacks, comfortable shoes. For comfortable, read old. I debated a tie and then went with the open-neck gig, casual but cool. Checked my reflection. I looked like a dodgy geezer selling property in Spain.

  The restaurant was in Kirwan's Lane, just a pint away from Quay Street. My hands were sweating. Gina was waiting outside, wearing a dark suit jacket, skirt and heels, and looked terrific. Her hair was tied back, showing her strong features. I felt woefully inadequate. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and said I looked marvellous. I wanted to run.

  A maître d' told us we'd have to wait ten minutes and might he bring us a cocktail? Bring me a bucket, buddy.

  We sat in the lounge. Gina had a Vermouth and soda and, yeah, I had a Pepsi. Rock 'n' roll. Gina looked round at the white stucco walls, the cacti, the paintings of old Mexico and said it was very authentic. A couple next to us were lashing back tequila, the whole salt-and-lemon vibe, and having a whale of a time. I felt like a priest and that's about as bad as it gets.

  The drinks came and we clinked glasses.

  Gina said, 'I'm glad to see you, Jack.'

  I wanted to cut to the chase, go, 'Look, I want to pick your brains, can we just do that? Forget all this politeness crap, and then I can go home, alone.'

  Very worrying was the fact that I was more attracted to her than I expected. And to handle that without a shot of something, I hadn't a clue. Desperate for time, I asked about her work and she effortlessly talked on that. I tried to show interest. The sound ringing in my ears was the tequila bottle and a rage was building in me. How many fucking drinks were those bastards going to have? Didn't they have dinner to eat yet?

  Then I registered Gina asking, 'Is it very difficult for you?'

  What?

  I gave a smile of tolerance, as if I was resigned to whatever fate had been dealt out to me.

  She said, 'A social evening without alcohol, is it awful for you?'

  Sympathy, just what I needed, fucking wonderful.

  I lied, 'No, it's not so bad.'

  The waiter came, said our table was ready and she was prevented from replying.

  I let Gina order the food and she chose enchiladas, fritos, tapas, and lots of dips with very spicy origins. She said she'd have a glass of wine, and, me, mineral water.

  We ate and stayed on neutral topics. I'm sure the food was good. Gina said it was first rate, but it all tasted like loss to me.

  When the plates were cleared away and we settled to a coffee, she asked, 'What's on your mind, Jack?'

  This was the reason we were there, so I laid out the whole series of events. And she was a good listener, only interrupted once to ask if Sean had turned up yet. I noticed she'd only had one sip out of her wine. Yeah, I counted, it's what alkies do. Me, I'd have been on the third bottle by now.

  Go figure.

  I can't.

  When I was finished, she asked, 'What do you want from me, Jack?'

  I framed my reply carefully, said, 'Give me your opinion of the family, and – here's the hard part – where would Sean go?'

  She then asked a series of questions, mostly on Gail, and I told her everything – my encounter with her in the graveyard, then her visit to my apartment, the meeting she had with Stewart. I described the father, Mitch, how I'd found him and how I thought he'd been involved.

  She was silent for a second round of coffee, then said, 'Jack, it's almost impossible to make any diagnosis when you've never met the people, and anything I say is purely conjecture. I want you to bear that in mind. It's purely guesswork.' Then she smiled. 'To let you in on a little secret, a lot of what we do is a shot in the dark at the best of times, but we don't advertise that.'

  I assured her that I wouldn't be quoting her and that any help, any suggestion would be taken in that spirit.

  Pushing her cup to one side, she leaned forward and asked, 'Are you
familiar with folie à deux?'

  I wasn't.

  She explained.

  'It's a shared psychotic disorder. You get two highly damaged individuals who come to share the same psychotic belief, they become almost one person, with the same destructive aim. There is usually one leader, as it were, and the second person begins to take on board all the delusions, hatred and mania of the first. Fusing together, they form a highly lethal relationship, for example the Hillside Stranglers in America.'

  I thought about it, said, 'Gail and her father.'

  She nodded, then again stressed this was pure speculation.

  I asked about Sean.

  She said, 'My bet is he would return to the scene where Gail was drowned, almost like keeping vigil. What are you going to do with him?'

  I hadn't been really clear, but now it began to come together.

  'If I find him, I'm going to let him go, tell him to get back to London, try and build a life.'

  She was surprised, I could see it in her eyes, and she asked, 'Why, don't you think he should pay for his part in these horrendous crimes?'

  I was close to telling her of the terrible mistakes I'd made in the past, when I let my madness for revenge override everything and innocent people had died. Instead I said, 'I think there has been enough death.'

  The waiter brought the bill and I paid.

  Outside I hailed a cab and said, 'Gina, I'm so grateful.'

  She was amused. 'I'd hazard another guess and say I'm going home alone.'

  I muttered a whole range of nonsense about us getting together real soon and the wondrous help she'd been.

  Shite talk.

  The cab came and I held the door. She gave me a long look, then said, 'Goodbye, Jack.'

  I should have said something, that it wasn't like that, that I'd call her real soon. She gave a sad smile and the cab pulled away.

  I walked up Quay Street, telling myself I would call her, course I would. Maybe if I said it often enough, I might actually believe it.

  I began the ritual of walking the prom every evening. Gail had been taken out of the water at ten in the evening, so I aimed at that. Part of me saw it as a fool's errand. What if he never showed? Told myself, at least it's exercise, gets me out, gets me moving. And it sure helped with the limp. Her body had been washed up at Blackrock. Time was, that was a men-only bathing area. That had been overturned and women could now use the facilities.