Cross (10 page)

'Not knowing how near the truth is,
we seek it far away.
'

Hakuin

The Americans have an expression for verbally attacking someone. When you want to really lash into someone, they say,
tear 'em a new asshole
.

I tore one for Ridge.

Like this.

'The fuck when you were going to tell me about Cathy Bellingham?'

I'd asked – no, amend that, I fucking ordered her to meet me in the Great Southern Hotel and slammed down the phone.

I got there first, went to the end of the lounge, under the bust of James Joyce, stared at him, near shouted, 'The fuck are you looking at?'

Yeah, you're screaming at a bronze head of one of Ireland's most famous writers, you've either gone completely mad or just heard you lost the Booker Prize.

The porter approached. He and I had history, most of it bad, and he ventured, 'Long time no see, Jack.'

His voice was quiet, as if he wasn't yet sure if I was drinking. If I was, he was heading for the hills. As I said, history.

I sat down, levelled dead eyes at him. 'Help you with something?'

He gave a nervous laugh. 'Actually, those are my lines. I'm the one who works here.'

Keeping it light, as if we were just a couple of old mates having a touch of merry banter.

I said, 'So go work, you see me preventing you?'

He looked round – for help?

None was forthcoming so he asked, 'I, er, wondered if I could get you something – tea, coffee?'

'Get out of my face, you could get me that.'

He did.

Ridge arrived, dressed in smart new suede jacket, tight jeans and those pointy-toed boots that have to be murder. The porter had a word with her and I could see her nodding, so I
figured he'd warned her I was not exactly mellow. I don't think this was a surprise to her.
She walked over, a purpose in her stride, like she wasn't going to take any shite from me.

'Yeah?'

I launched in straight away. She reeled for a moment then asked, 'How did you find out about Cathy Bellingham?'

Cathy . . . Oh God, our long and tortuous history. We'd met originally when she washed up in Galway from London. She'd just kicked heroin, was a real punk, had lived the life.
She sang like an angel and had a tongue like a fishwife. We hit it off immediately. She'd helped me on a number of cases, then I
introduced her to my best friend, Jeff, and damn it all to hell, they jelled, got married and had the little girl with Down's Syndrome, Serena May. She sure had reason to want me dead.

'Clancy told me. Remember him, your boss?'

She savoured that then said, 'Her apartment was searched and bullets were found that matched the rifle, the . . . er . . . weapon
. . . used.'
She was treading delicately round the use of Cody's name. I could understand that, I found it difficult to utter his name too.

'And where is she now, apart from lining up another shot at me?'

Ridge put her head down, muttered something.

I'd been able to get the earpiece repaired.
Despite the Guard's stomping, he'd only managed to crack the casing. Hardy little suckers those – the earpiece, that is.

I adjusted the volume and said, 'Speak up.'

'We don't know.'

I sat back, let that sit between us, then said, 'What an outfit. I give you enough proof to arrest a family of psychos, and you do nothing.
You have evidence to arrest the person who tried to shoot me, and you can't find her.
How are you guys doing with traffic these days?'

She said the worst thing. 'I understand your frustration.'

I jumped up – well, jumped in so far as a bad leg allows – said, 'Like fuck you do.'

And stormed out.

I needed to do something, so I concentrated on the weak link of the murderous family: the brother, Sean.

According to the information Keegan had sent, his only interest seemed to be music, so I began a stake-out of the record shops, places where they sold musical instruments.
Boring, frustrating work, but I had nothing else to do.

Three days of this tedium and I was about to pack it in, when I thought I spotted him. Just off Dominic Street, going into a secondhand shop that sold guitars. He was admiring one hanging on the wall when I came up behind him.

'Nice instrument.'

He whirled around. 'I know you?'

And suddenly the photo clicked into place, the nagging feeling I'd had that I knew him.
He was the grunge kid, the Kurt Cobain lookalike from the coffee shop in the Eyre Square Centre.

His eyes suddenly brightened, he remembered me too.

He tried to brush past me and I grabbed his arm, not gently, I could feel the stick-thin sinew, and squeezed.

'Hey, that hurts.'

A burly guy manning the counter raised his head and asked, 'Is there a problem?'

I said to Sean, 'I've spoken to your sister.

You want me to tell the guy about the crucifixion or you want to come have a coffee with me? We can talk about your band.'

He pulled his arm loose and headed out.

I looked at the counter guy, indicated the guitar, said, 'It's only rock and roll.'

Sean was standing outside. A slight bead of sweat was forming on his brow, yet he was rubbing his hands as if he were cold.

I said, 'The Galway Arms, they do good coffee, and who knows, you behave yourself, might have a sticky bun.'

As we began to walk he said, 'I don't like sweet things.'

Christ, I nearly laughed.

The owner of the place gave me a warm greeting and Sean sneered, 'Know everybody, doncha?'

His accent was much more Brixton than his sister's. Her tone had acquired a sophisticated veneer. I suppose if you reinvent yourself, a change of accent is the least of your problems.

I said, 'Thing is, pal, I know you.'

The owner brought over a pot of coffee and some cups and said, 'Enjoy.'

Sean waited till the guy had gone, then said, 'You don't know me.'

He took out a pack of roll-ups and some tobacco and began to build one.

'You can't smoke, it's the law. You've been here long enough to learn that.'

He stuffed the tobacco in his jacket, said, 'Stupid fucking law.'

I smiled. 'And of course the law doesn't apply to you or your family, right?'

I poured the coffee, looked at him. He had the body language of a beaten dog, living his life waiting for the next blow and rarely waiting long. And I was just one more in a long line of beaters. His face was riddled with acne and his lips were sore, cracked from his nervous licking of them. He had delicate hands. Who knows, maybe he could have been a musician. Wasn't going to happen now.

'I don't think your heart is in this . . . gig.
You're being swept along, and guess what?
When the shite hits the fan, which it will and real soon, guess whose arse will be in the sling? It sure as hell isn't going to be your sister, she's way too smart for that.'

He lifted his cup, a shake in his hand, made a slurping sound, more like a groan, and then said, 'I'm not afraid of you.'

He was. And not just me, everything that walked the planet. Just one of the world's natural victims. I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

I said, 'Not me you have to be afraid of. In fact, I might be the only hope you've got.'

He attempted some hard, had probably
waited his whole life to attempt it, made a feeble effort at a snigger. 'Yeah, right.'

Time to rattle his cage. His one shot at bravado and I was about to smash it.

'One of two things in your future. You either get caught, or you carry on looking for the elusive brother your family are so desperate to find. Rory, that's his name, right?
You probably know the answer to that better than me, but pretty it won't be. We can agree on that, right? When I had my little chat with your sister, I didn't get any sense of fraternal affection.'

He was staring at me. 'I dunno what fraternal means.'

Jesus.

I sighed. Demolishing this kid was not the simple task it had first presented. Christ, he was like a puppy on a busy road, hoping a car would stop and take him in. I continued, though I had lost any zeal for it.

'Or you go to prison. And a kid like you, the long hair, the weak-as-shite personality, they'll run a freight train through yer arse before supper, and that's just for openers.'

Hard to say which scenario freaked him more. His body gave a shudder and he said, 'I
want to go home, that's all. Just leave.'

No protestations of innocence, no argument about me being wrong, no fight at all.

I said, 'Not going to happen, kid.'

He began to weep. I could have taken anything
– anyfuckingthing – but that. I nearly reached out to him, and then what?

I let him cry it out then I said, 'Give it up. I'll help you, get the best deal that's going.'

He dabbed at his eyes, then said, 'I need a smoke.'

I left some notes on the table and followed him outside. He didn't wait, started to move away and I followed.

'What's it going to be, kid? You with me?
This is it, make-up-your-mind time.'

He stopped, turned, gave me a look of such agony that I had to glance away, and then he said, 'I can't, they'd kill me.'

'They'll kill you anyway.'

He looked up at the street, terror in his eyes, but I couldn't see anybody. He said, 'I
hope so.'

When I finally got home I was bone tired, but not too exhausted to miss the smell of smoke.
I cautiously entered my tiny sitting room. All my books had been piled in a heap, set on fire and were smouldering nicely.

I went to the bathroom, filled a basin with cold water and doused my prized possessions.

Then I noticed the table. It had one of those toy cars, it had also been burned, and I could see a tiny stick figure in the front seat, burned but still recognizable. Meant to be a girl, I'd hazard. And underneath the tiny car was a note:

Hot enough for you?

Gail

The fucking bitch.

And then, in one of those odd moments of madness, I thought, 'Girl, you sure saved me from having to decide what to do with the books. With my going to America, I wasn't sure which volumes to bring. That's solved now.'

But rage was building. She'd not only come to my home, but taken the one thing that still had any meaning. Books have been the only reliable, the only comfort zone I
had left, and I swear, the bloody demented psycho, she knew, she fucking knew how to hit me.

Took deep breaths, tried to see myself on that plane in a month's time, all of this behind
me. Didn't ease the storm of pure hatred I felt and I swore, 'I'll bring you down before I
leave, girl, I swear by all that's holy, if it's the very last thing I do. I'm going to put a halt to your insane gallop.'

'A cross offers two options: you can be nailed
to it . . . or lie on it, as a voluntary act.'

Irish saying

I needed protection.

Chances were that Gail would take another pass at me and a more serious one. I better be ready, and if I was going to take on the whole family, at least Gail and her father, I'd need more than an attitude. You want to buy a gun in Galway these days, you are spoiled for opportunity. So many different nationalities here that weapons have become more and more common. You frequent the pubs, the back streets, it doesn't take long to find out where to score dope, hookers, whatever you fancy.

I went to a pub in Salthill, not a place I'd go to by desire. It's off the main strip and looks seedy. It is seedy, and has gained a new rep as the place to buy and sell . . . anything.

An East European named Mikhail, who
depending on the day was Russian, Croatian, Romanian and other nationalities I couldn't pronounce, held court at a table by the window. In a month's time he'd move somewhere else, but by the ocean was the venue for now. I knew him, if not well, at least well enough that when I asked 'Buy you a drink?'
he agreed.

He had that buzz-cut hair we used to call a crew cut, a long face pitted with scars, and eyes that held no expression at all. He was thin to the point of starvation and his age was in that zone between late forties and very bad fifties. He said a shot of vodka would be most welcome. I got that and a Diet Pepsi for meself, sat at the table.

He looked at my drink, asked, 'You no drink Coca-Cola?'

The fuck did he care?

I said, 'I'm on a diet.'

He surveyed my hands. The cuts and bruises were healing but still visible, and he asked, 'You a street-fighting man?'

When I bought the gun, maybe I'd shoot him.

'Not by choice.'

Right answer. He loved it, laughed out loud, exposing a mouth of rotten teeth with flecks of
– gold? – in there. I'd ensure not to amuse him further.

'Ess a song by the Rolling Stones. You love this, yes?'

Sure, my favourite.

I said, 'My favourite.'

More laughter, fuck, and he accused, in easy fashion, 'You make joke with me, am I right?'

And I was smart enough to add, 'But not at you.'

He nodded. No doubt about it, we were made for each other.

Then he knocked back the vodka in one fell swoop, asked, 'What I can get you, Mr Street-Fighting
Man?'

I leaned in close, said I needed a gun.

His mobile phone rang but he ignored it, said, 'Please, to come to my office.'

I followed him outside, and up beside Salthill church.

He'd a battered van, unlocked it, asked, 'Please to join me.'

We got in and he reached in the back, took out a heavy bundle wrapped in cloth and unfolded it to reveal a Glock, a Beretta and a Browning Automatic. Guns R Us. That his business was right beside the church seemed to make a sort of new Ireland twisted sense.

I asked, 'Aren't you afraid of the van being stolen?'

He exposed those teeth again and I swear snarled, went, 'Who is going to steal from me?'

As if I had inside information.

To distract him, I asked the price of the Glock and it was expensive.

I said, 'It's expensive.'

He shrugged, as in
Tell me about it.

With a full round of ammunition, it was more than I'd expected to pay, but what the hell, it wasn't like I could use the Yellow Pages.

I asked, 'How do you know I'm not a policeman?'

Huge laugh. 'You?'

I didn't ask him to elaborate.

He indicated my earpiece.

'You no hear so good?'

'I hear what's important.'

That intrigued him.

'How you can tell the difference?'

I couldn't, but decided to shine him on.

'It's not what's being said, but how the person saying it is acting.'

A crock, right?

But he bought it big time, said, 'This I like.
May I please to use this?'

Jesus.

I said, 'Knock yourself out.'

Got another mega laugh. Maybe I should go live in Eastern Europe, become a stand-up.

I said, 'Thanks for your time.'

He put out his hand and we shook.

He said, 'I like you, Meester, you make me laugh. This country, it don't make me laugh so much.'

At the risk of sounding like a Zen master, I
went for 'You're looking at it the wrong way.'

He considered, then asked, 'And how is, how is to look at it?'

'As if it doesn't matter.'

Not really grasping that, he probed, 'And does it matter?'

I got out of the van, finished with, 'Soon as I
find out, I'll let you know.'

I also needed somebody to talk to.

Before, I'd always just forged ahead, ignoring advice, making it up as I went along. And of course, I'd been drinking. Who needed advice? I had the booze giving me all the crazy suggestions I could handle.

Sober now, or dry, whatever, maybe it was time to get some help. Ridge was out. We were so locked in combat she wouldn't be any
assistance, and if she knew I'd bought a gun, she'd probably arrest me.

Jeff, my great friend, was MIA. Since I'd caused the death of his child, he'd vanished off the face of the earth. All my efforts to locate him had failed.

And that was it. To get to my age and have no one, not one soul to confide in, it's a crying shame and testament to how much my way of life had cost me. I toyed with the idea of giving Gina a call. I definitely felt something for her. I no longer knew what love was – if I
ever had – but till I sorted out the family of killers, I decided to wait.

Which left Stewart, the drug-dealer. Instead of analysing it to death, I just called him and he said, 'Come by, I've just bought some new herbal tea.'

I could only hope the tea was a joke.

I stopped in a religious shop en route.
There's one near the Augustinian church: lots of relics of St Jude, spanking new books on the late Pope. I couldn't find what I was looking for, just like U2.

The woman behind the counter said, 'I
know you.'

Like the theme song of me life.

And never uplifting.

She said, 'I knew your mother.'

I waited for the usual homilies, platitudes, the dirge about her being so holy, damn near a saint and all the other horseshite. I
nodded, thinking, Let's get the beatification over with.

She said, 'Hard woman, your mother, but I
don't suppose I have to tell you that.'

I warmed to her instantly, asked, 'Have you a St Bridget's Cross?'

She smiled, a smile of real warmth.

'By the holy, we don't get much demand for those any more.'

But said she'd check the storeroom.

I read a plaque of the Desiderata while I was waiting, and figured with that and the Glock, you were set for life's setbacks.

The woman had one cross, blew some dust off it and said, 'There's no price on it.'

I handed over a twenty-euro note and she said it was far too much. I told her to put it in the poor-box.

She allowed herself another smile.

'Oh, we don't call them that any more, we say
the disadvantaged
.'

I had no reply to this, thanked her for her time.

As I left, she said, 'God mind you well.'

I sure as hell hoped someone would. I was doing a bad job of it me own self.

When Stewart answered his door I didn't recognize him for a moment, then realized he'd shaved his head.

I said, 'You're really taking this Zen gig to the limit.'

He motioned me in.

'I'm losing my hair. This way, I don't have to see it happen piecemeal.'

Argue that.

It gave him a hard-arse look and, coupled with the new stone eyes, totally changed him from the bank-clerk type I'd first encountered those years ago. The whole vibe cautioned, 'Don't fuck with me.'

The flat was still spartan and held an air of vacancy.

He said, 'I'll get the tea.'

Yeah.

I sat wondering if I could score some more of those magic pills.

He came back with two mugs of some vile-smelling stuff, put it in front of me, asked, 'What's on your mind, Jack?'

I moved back from the mug and tried for levity. 'I can't just drop by for a social call?'

He shook his head, took a sip of his tea.
'You don't do social, Jack, so what's on your mind?'

What the hell? I told him. All of it – the family who killed as a unit. Took time to lay it all out.

He listened without interruption, and when I finished, I almost took a taste of the tea.
Then I remembered the present, took it out of my pocket, said, 'House-warming token.'

He was surprised, opened it and said, 'You bring me a cross – you don't think I've enough of a burden?'

Didn't sound like gratitude.

'It's good luck, keep your home safe.'

He put it aside, said, 'Take more than St What's Her Name to achieve that.'

I was a bit put out.

'Those crosses are hard to get.'

Jesus, sounded lame even as I said it.

He finished his tea, said, 'So is luck.'

Before I could reply, he asked, 'What are you planning to do?'

'I've no idea.'

He let that float around, then said, 'It's fairly simple. I've been reading Thich Nhat Hanh, who said, "Don't just
do
something. Sit there."'

Just what I needed, philosophy.

I asked, 'You're saying I should do nothing?'

He stood up, flexed his body in some sort of yoga movement.

'I'm saying, kill the sister.'

I'd hoped for some brilliant idea, some radical scheme that would solve everything and, in truth, let me off the hook. So I could walk away, go to America and have, if not a clear conscience, then at least some tiny measure of ease.

Wasn't going to happen.

I raised my hands in a futile gesture, meaning
'That's the best you can do?'

He reached in his pocket, took out a tube of pills and threw it to me.

'You'll be wanting these.'

I wanted to protest, get indignant, fling them back, exert some dignity, but I wanted the pills more.

'Thanks.'

He shrugged, asked, 'You want help?'

Did he mean with my growing addiction?

He said, 'You'll need to know where the enemy lives, and let's face it, I can do that better than you, I still have all my network.'

Ridge wasn't going to help me, and tramping around on me own, hoping to get lucky,
that wasn't too smart, so I said, 'Yeah, I'd appreciate that.'

He smiled, actually a hint of warmth in this one.

'You don't like relying on people, do you, Jack?'

Not a whole lot of mileage in lying so I said, 'No. No, I don't.'

He moved over to a small press, rummaged in there, took out a CD, frowned at it, then said, 'And when I find them, and find them I
will, you want me to come do the deed with you?'

The deed?

Before I could mouth some crap about needing to do this alone, he said, 'My sister was murdered, and you helped me. These . . .
people
. . . wiping out a whole family, I feel I
could get some closure by blowing out their candle.'

I had to ask, 'Stewart, you do know what you're saying?'

He'd come to some decision on the CD.

'I always know what I'm saying – that's why I
say so little.'

Deep.

I stood up, didn't know if I should shake his hand, seal the pact, but he was offering the CD.

'This is for you. You give me a cross, here's something similar back, though perhaps a bit easier to carry.'

It had a black cover, which was appropriate.
The title was
I've Got My Own Hell To Raise
, by someone called Bettye LaVette.

I indicated the title, asked, 'Cryptic message to me?'

He was moving me towards the door, said, 'It's a CD. Not everything has significance.'

I gave him my mobile number and he said, 'You'll be hearing from me, so keep the hearing aid on.'

Yeah.