Cross

by Ken Bruen

  On the beach, most evenings, I'd see groups of teenagers drinking Buckfast, with a token bottle of vodka to put the flourish on the whole deal of getting wasted.

  My teenage years, it was a flask of cider, split about five ways, and a packet of Woodbine. Dope was unknown then. The new generation, they had lots of dope, from E to coke to crack. Crystal Meth had been showing its ugly dangerous face in more substantial quantities. I'd talked to one of the teenage girls and she told me the deal: none of that slow burn, gradually getting a bit merry, having a rites-of-passage adventure; their whole aim was to get wasted, fast. No in-between time, no period of silly giggles, it was just get totally out of your head in jig time.

  I'd asked, 'Why?'

  Dumb, right? And old, fuck, oh yeah.

  She'd given me that look of contempt with a slight sprinkle of pity and said, 'Cos life, like, sucks.'

  She could have fitted right into Miami Beach or any American frat party. The government was trying to come to terms with the epidemic of teenage pregnancies, sexual diseases, and I thought, one evening alongside the sea front, they could have seen the whole saga unfold.

  I thought about Cody a lot: his wild annoying zest for life, his determination to be a private investigator and how my actions had got him killed. The weight of that was sometimes more than I could bear. Such times, despite my limp, I'd walk like a man trying to outrun his thoughts.

  A week went by, no Sean, and I was assailed by doubt. Was the whole plan an exercise in futility? I stayed with it. I enjoyed the walk, if nothing else. To be beside the ocean had always soothed me. And Christ, I needed all the help available. Mostly, on those walks, I thought of all the people I'd known and why I was still above the ground.

  Ten days into this deal, I met Jeff.

  I was so convinced he was gone and I'd never see him again. He'd been my great friend and then I let his daughter fall to her death and he disappeared into the booze, last seen as a homeless person. His wife, Cathy, had been the one who shot Cody. She had known Cody was like my surrogate son. Perhaps that explained why I never went after her for the shooting.

  An eye for an eye.

  I took her daughter, she took my son.

  Fair trade?

  The tenth day of my search, I was turning for the walk home when I saw a man sitting on a bench, staring at me, and, as I neared, I recognized him.

  Jeff.

  At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks. I'd frequently seen someone who looked like him on the streets of the town. This was no mirage, it was him, the long grey hair tied in a ponytail, a long leather coat and his eyes burning into mine. He stood and I didn't know if he'd attack me. Our last encounter, he'd spat in my face.

  I stopped about five yards away, a tremor building in my body.

  He said, 'I heard you'd been walking this way, same time every evening.'

  I didn't ask who told him.

  How do you greet a man whose life you've destroyed? Good to see you doesn't quite cut it. He looked well, certainly in comparison to how I'd last seen him, a drunk on a park bench, his eyes dead. His eyes now were clear, hard but clear. A fresh scar along the top of his forehead. You live on the street, it's part of the deal. His clothes were clean, and though he'd visibly aged, he seemed in good nick. His hands were deep in his pockets and I concentrated on them.

  'Still investigating, Jack?'

  I finally found my voice. 'It's all I can do.'

  He looked out at the ocean, then said, 'Still wreaking havoc in people's lives then?'

  No argument there.

  He sighed, said, 'The Guards are looking for Cathy, in connection with that shooting.'

  I said I'd heard that and then he asked, 'And you, Jack, are you looking for her?'

  His tone was neutral, as if it didn't matter.

  'No, I've caused her enough grief.'

  He moved a step closer and I had to struggle to stand my ground.

  He asked, 'You think that evens the score? That what you think, Jack?'

  His use of my name was like a lash. Each time I felt the sting, I said, 'No, I don't think anything can ever… even the score.'

  He was right in my face now, snarled, 'You got that fucking right, pal.'

  Then he backed off. I'd have been grateful if he'd walloped me, it would have been easier.

  He asked again, as if he needed it in blood, 'Are you going after Cathy?'

  'No, I'm not.'

  I wanted to know how he'd turned himself round, how he'd come back from the streets, but I couldn't find the words.

  He stared at me, as if trying to find out who I was, then he said, 'I loved you, man.'

  And he walked away.

  The use of that past tense lacerated my soul.

  27

  Double-cross.

  Three nights later, I found Sean. As was my routine now, I'd walked the prom. It was a bit later than my regular time and darkness was falling. I'd reached Blackrock, was about to turn for home when I took a last look at the ocean. Down among the rocks, near the edge of the water, a lone figure. I nearly didn't see him. I took a deep breath and made my way down. He was sitting on a strip of sand and smoking a joint, a tiny cloud of smoke above his head.

  Before I could speak, he said, 'Wondered when you'd show up.'

  I moved to his right, could smell the strong aroma of the weed. I'd expected him to be like a vagrant, in terrible shape.

  Wrong.

  He was the picture of health and prosperity, wearing a new heavy coat and new faded jeans. His hair had been cut and his eyes were alight. He offered the spliff.

  'Not for me, thanks.'

  This amused him and he looked at me. He was playing with the rosary beads that he wore as a bracelet.

  He said, 'I went back to the house after my dad was gone and you know what, I found a wad of cash. So I searched some more in Gail's room, found a whole stash of it. They'd been holding out on me, can you believe it?'

  I thought about that and then gradually it began to dawn on me, my whole reading of Gail's death was wrong.

  'Must have pissed you off.'

  He laughed, said, 'Taylor, they'd been pissing me off my whole life.'

  His use of my surname was deliberate, letting me know the rules had changed.

  Had they ever.

  He flipped the end of the spliff into the water. It made a slight fizzle, like the end of the saddest, most worthless prayer, the one you say for your own self.

  He said, 'They collected my mum's insurance money, never told me, and me, dumb fuck, thinking we were out of cash. What we were out of was time. At least, they were.'

  I asked, 'So you were in the house and Gail came back?'

  He stretched, as if this was oh so slightly boring, said, 'Yeah, I told her good old Dad was a goner and she'd killed him. She freaked, and then, the weirdest thing of all the fucking bizarre events in this mad trip, she retreated.'

  I wasn't sure what he meant, so echoed, 'Retreated?'

  He looked at me, asked, 'You deaf?' Then laughed, said, 'Oh, whoops, the hearing aid. Yeah, she went back to how she was just after Mum died – a vegetable. Went to wherever it was she'd been before, and I figured, this time she wasn't returning. A one-way ticket, you know?'

  I could see it. The two dominant figures in his life were gone, and instead of going to pieces, he'd adopted the personalities of both.

  'What did you do with her?'

  He was quiet for a moment, as if he debated telling me, then said, 'I helped her go swimming.'

  And then, the worst sound of all, he giggled. I told myself it was the dope, hoped it was.

  He added, 'Thing was, get this, she forgot she couldn't swim. And you know, the crazy bitch, she kept asking me if I saw the flames. I doused them for her.'

  I thought of the Glock, sitting snug and useless in the top drawer of my desk.

  He said, 'So, Jack, what's your thinking, you going to let this slide? You can walk away, we'll forget we ever had this conve
rsation.'

  He was literally measuring me up, and, alas, I knew what he saw: a broken-down middle-aged man with a limp and a hearing aid. If I said I couldn't let it go, how hard was it going to be for him to… deal… with me? He was strong, young and had nothing to lose. He'd drowned his own sister, crucified a young man, burned a defenceless girl in her car. Was he going to worry about me?

  I said, 'If – and it's a big if – I walk, what are your plans?'

  He was surprised, and to my horror I recognized the expression in his eyes. It was like Gail's, and for one eerie moment I wondered if evil could be transmitted thus. He moved real close to me. Was it my imagination or had his shoulders become broader? What had happened to the Kurt Cobain harmless boy I'd met in the coffee shop?

  A half smile curled on his lips and he said, 'Hmmm, good question, Jack-o. You know, I think I like it here, but what I wouldn't like is the thought of you shambling round, maybe getting a sudden burst of – what's it you Catholics call it? – conscience.'

  And he lashed out with his right fist, knocking me on my back. He walked round so he was standing at my head. I noticed he was wearing Doc Marten's, well-scuffed ones, and I hoped to fuck they weren't the steel-toed variety. My jaw hurt like a son of a bitch and I understood he was going to kill me but was in no great hurry. He had discovered the greatest, most potent aphrodisiac on the planet – power. I moved to try for some distance and he kicked me on the back of my head.

  Hard.

  I saw stars. Not the spangled variety, but the ones that tell you you are in deep shit and it's not going to get any better.

  He asked, as if he actually cared, 'Did that hurt, Jack?'

  Then two more swift kicks to my side and chest, and I felt something give – a rib, perhaps. My breathing tightened.

  He said, still in that pleasant conversational tone, 'I've often wondered what it's like to kick the living daylights out of a person. All my life, I've been the one getting kicked, and you know what? You know what, Jack-o? It's kinda neat, as the Americans might say.'

  And that galvanized me. America… my new life, Ridge's tests, not being there for her, all because of this – pup?

  I groaned, 'Sean, one thing.'

  He hesitated, and I kept my voice low so he had to bend over. He still couldn't hear me and bent real low. His face was in mine, I could smell garlic off his breath. I clamped my teeth on his nose, bit down with all the ferocity I've ever known, and swear to Christ, I bit clean through.

  He staggered back, blood pumping down his face, going, 'What the fuck did you do? You bit me!'

  I managed to get up on one knee, saw a clump of driftwood, hoped the water hadn't softened it.

  It hadn't.

  And I blasted it across his skull, saying, 'Don't call me Jack-o.'

  A few more wallops of pure, unadulterated rage and his face and head were mush.

  I muttered, 'We don't want you in our town, we have enough garbage as it is. How do you think we're going to win the tidy-towns competition?'

  Had I gone insane? I can only hope so.

  I gathered some stones, a lot of very heavy ones, piled them into the pockets of his new smart coat and dragged him to the water. Then, to my horror, he groaned, and I don't know for sure but it sounded like, 'Please, Dad, don't.'

  It took a while but eventually he was struggling no more. I took him way out, as far as I could manage without going under my own self. It was cold. With the amount of rocks in his pockets, it was hard work and I nearly abandoned it, but I had to be sure he wouldn't surface. When I was sure he would stay down, I took a deep breath and went under with him, his eyes staring at me like a mild reproach, and added more stones from the bottom of the sea bed. My teeth were doing a fandango of fear and shock. I felt that seeping numbness that whispers to you, 'Rest, let the water soothe you.'

  The temptation was massive, but with a supreme effort I put the last of the rocks on him and broke the surface, gasping for air. I looked at how far I'd come and wasn't even sure I'd make it back to shore, then muttered, 'Just do it, stop whining.'

  I came out of the water and the inclination to lie down was overpowering, but I managed to keep going. The pain in my head, chest and side was beyond belief. I swallowed a whole shitpile of Stewart's pills, kept moving.

  I was nearly home when I realized something from Sean had snagged on my jacket: the rosary beads he'd worn as a bracelet. It had that tiny cross on it.

  I was passing a litter bin, put it in there.

  I was all through with crosses.

  28

  Almost a clean getaway.

  The following Monday, a man in his twenties came to inspect the flat and finalize the deal. He did a thorough walk around, even pounded the walls. He was representing a businessman named Flanagan.

  He said, 'Mr Taylor, I don't see any problems. We'll get our engineer to examine it, of course, but I think we're set. I'm prepared to write you a cheque now for the deposit.'

  Here it was, the actual moment, and I baulked. Did I really want to do this? My tickets for America had arrived a few days before and I'd shoved them in a drawer. The money to be paid for the apartment stunned me, but it also meant I'd be homeless.

  I asked the guy, 'What will Mr Flanagan do with this?'

  He seemed to find that an odd question.

  'What do you care?'

  I cared.

  Mrs Bailey, my one-time landlady, constant friend and supporter, had left it to me.

  I gave the guy a look and he said, 'Well, he has a son coming up to college age, so maybe he'll keep it for him, or perhaps just as a little place in town for overnight stays. You can't go wrong with property in the centre of town.'

  That bothered me a lot.

  He sensed my unease.

  'You do want to sell, Mr Taylor?'

  I said, 'Yeah, sure.'

  And got rid of him.

  I was imbued with a sadness, a melancholy as heavy as the stones I'd laden Sean with.

  My passport was renewed and the photo in it made me look like a furtive ghost. I'd nothing to get rid of. Gail had burned my books and I'd long ago burned most of my boats. My goodbyes… yeah, they'd take all of two minutes. I was restless, got out of the flat, walked down the town, asking myself, 'Will you miss it?'

  I didn't know.

  I went into a coffee shop. Knew if I went into a pub, I'd definitely drink and that would solve all my travel problems. I ordered a latte and blocked all thoughts of recent events from my mind. As my coffee arrived, so did Stewart. He asked if he could join me, and I got the waitress to bring him a herbal tea. He was wearing a business suit, expensive shirt and tie. When you've bought cheap all your life, you know what's quality. He seemed completely at ease.

  He said, 'So, Jack, you find Sean?'

  A small smile was playing around his lips.

  I said, 'No, no luck there.'

  He thanked the waitress for his tea, then said, 'Must have gone back to London, you think?'

  'I've no idea.'

  To get him off this track, I told him about the sale of the flat and my emigration plans. He asked who was buying my place.

  When I told him, he frowned.

  'What?' I asked.

  'I'm just a little surprised at you, Jack, you being an advocate of old Galway, the keeper of the Celtic flame, all that good stuff. This guy, this Flanagan, he's a speculator. He'll turn your place into bedsits, shove three non-national families in there.'

  I felt raw, he'd touched a nerve. I knew it was not what Mrs Bailey would have wanted. She hated greed and ruthlessness, and here I was, part of the new deal.

  I tried, 'Three bedsits? You couldn't swing a cat in my home.'

  He smiled. 'I doubt pets will be allowed.'

  Then he said, 'I've been keeping an eye on you. I notice you've stopped your nightly walk.'

  I felt my heart accelerate.

  'Following me? Why?'

  'I owe you, Jack, have to ensure you're safe.'

&
nbsp; I kept my voice low, said, 'Don't follow me, OK?'

  I stood, put a few notes on the table.

  He asked, 'Was the water cold?'

  I froze. A moment of that utter stillness again, then Ridge passed through my mind and, yeah, my heart.

  I walked out.

  Muttered, Don't think, just walk.

  There was a busker outside The Body Shop, doing a real fine version of 'Crazy'. I waited till he finished, took what coins I had and put them in the cap he'd before him.

  He looked at it, counted it, went, 'The fuck is that?'

  I said, 'It's all I've got.'

  He was angry. 'You get a live version of my act and that's what you think it's worth?'

  I had to rein myself in. Arguing with a busker, it was a no-win situation. I said, 'Have a good one.'

  He shouted, 'Yeah, with that fortune, maybe I'll buy a new car.'

  It wasn't helped by the fact he had a Brit accent.

  It answered my earlier query about missing Galway.

  The next few days, I put the finishing touches to my travel arrangements. I had to see my solicitor, sign the deeds of sale, I'd arranged for the money to be transferred to America when it came through. I packed one suitcase. Looking at it, sitting in the hall, ready to roll, it seemed forlorn, the remnants of a life of waste.

  I went to the cemetery to say goodbye to my dead. It was too late to say sorry. The rain had stopped and a furtive sun was teasing the sky. I walked among the headstones, and after I'd said my pathetic words to the ones I loved, I decided to visit the graves of Maria and her brother, asking myself, 'Did I get justice for them?'

  A young man was standing near the freshly turned clay and his resemblance to Maria was uncanny.

  I approached, said, 'Rory?'

  He wasn't startled. I suppose after what had happened to his family, he was beyond shock. He looked at me, his eyes wet, tears on his cheeks. He sighed, asked, 'Are you the Guards?'

  More's the Irish pity, not any more.

  I said, 'I was a friend of your sister's.'

  He was only a young man, but his whole body had the suggestion of age that has nothing to do with time and everything to do with horror.