Cross (12 page)

'All those who consider external things
important
are stupid within.'

Chuang-Tzu

It was early morning. The postman had come, bringing an official-looking letter. I'd made strong coffee, toast but had no appetite, tore open the letter. It was from the estate agent.

I read it in amazement, crunched on a slice of hard toast, tasting nothing. There'd been three offers to buy. The figures were ridiculous. I couldn't actually take in that such amounts of money were available. Galway was reputed to be the most expensive area in the country and the price of houses was beyond insane. All I had to do was say yes to the highest offer and I'd be rich . . . and homeless.
The latter was familiar, but the former – how would that feel?

A knock on the door and I put the letter aside, figuring Ridge.

It was Stewart, dressed like civility: smart overcoat, silk scarf loosely tied around the
collar, dark stylish pants. His shoes were dazzling in their spit polish.

I asked, 'How did you know where I live?'

His eyes were alight with dark energy.

'Don't be stupid, Jack.'

I moved aside to wave him in. He gave the apartment intensive scrutiny, then spotted the estate agent's heading.

'Selling up?'

I closed the door, said, 'Well, selling out is what I do.'

He sat on the hard chair and I asked if he'd like anything, saying I'd, alas, no herbal tea.

He declined, looked at me, said, 'I found her.'

'Gail?'

'We're dating.'

He had to be fucking joking, though humour was one of the traits he'd left in jail.

I asked, 'You're joking?'

He gave me that odd look, as if he still wasn't quite sure when I was serious.

'In all our odd and colourful history, Jack, you ever knew me to be a kidder?'

A slight edge leaked over his words and I
wondered anew what he'd had to shut down, to cut off, to survive in prison. Whatever it was, it wasn't returning.

I shook my head, said, 'Tell me.'

He gave a slight smile. This was the Jack Taylor he was most comfortable with.

'There's the Guard in you still remains. I
told you I have contacts, and though I don't deal drugs any more, I know the network and that means knowing where the players hang out. You with me?'

How fucking complicated was it?

I said, 'Gee, I think I can follow it.'

He let that slide.

'So I checked out the clubs, like revisiting my youth, and third strike, I found her. And I have to tell you, Jack, you didn't do her justice.'

I wasn't sure where he was going with this, but I was sure I didn't like it. I snapped, 'What do you mean?'

He drew a deep sigh.

'My sister, who was killed – and I'll never forget you got justice for her – she was the best person I ever met, true goodness. I think Gail might have once been a little like her, but after her mother died, after the suicide attempt, she died.'

My expression must have shown cynicism.

He continued, 'Sure, she came back, but wherever she was during that time before, someone else came back, a true malevolent
being. I met the worst men on the planet in jail – real scum, pure evil, psychos, sociopaths, you name it, every type of dangerous animal –
but they are nothing, nothing compared to the sheer power of darkness in this girl.'

I wasn't buying it, said, 'She's just a girl, and a nasty vicious thug. Don't make her out to be some super being.'

Now his smile was full but not warm. He said, 'Good, we're on the same page, my friend. I needed to know you were on board.'

What the hell was this?

I stared at him and he said, 'Jail isn't going to stop her. You have to remove her.'

I was pacing, said, 'Call it what it is: kill her.'

He stood up.

'Here is the address of the house they're renting. On Friday night, she'll be meeting me.
Why don't you go and have a chat with the father and son, and I'll keep the girl . . .
occupied
.'

I wasn't sure what he was driving at, so I
asked, 'And what the hell am I supposed to do?'

He let his shoulders slump, the classic body language of defeat.

'Jack, this is your gig, I'm just along for the ride.'

Fuck.

I said, 'Nothing's exactly that . . . nothing.'

He stopped at the door, taken by surprise.

'Is that Zen you've been studying?'

And that rarity in his tone: delight.

I let him savour it, then said, 'Fuck no, that's Paul Newman in
Cool Hand Luke
.'

'Death is Nature's way of telling us
to slow down.'

Irish proverb

The address Stewart had given me was in Father Griffin Road, and I figured I better have a look at it. My limp was acting up, so the walk would be good. I walked along Shop Street and buskers, mimes were out in full swing.
One mime, raised up on a box, was meant to represent the devil, covered in red paint, with horns, tail and what appeared to be a pitchfork, though it was a little bent – maybe that was the intention. A young boy was staring up at him, transfixed, I stopped for a moment and the devil spoke to me in a Galway accent.

'Want to shake hands with Satan?'

Tempted to tell him I'd been doing that for more years than he'd believe. I put some euros in his box and he gave me a wide grin.
His teeth were black, I don't think they were part of the disguise.

I saw a familiar figure coming towards me –
Caz, a Romanian who'd been in the city for nearly six years and had become completely acclimatized. He'd learned Irish-English to an amazing degree, he usually tapped me, and somehow got the message across that by taking the money he was doing me a favour. As I
said, he'd learned real well.

He greeted me with, 'Jack, me oul' mate.'

Very Romanian, right?

He was dressed in a new suede jacket, designer jeans and very flash cowboy boots.
The last time I'd seen him, he'd been expecting deportation. Things had obviously improved, big time.

'Caz, how are you?'

He stared at me, asked, 'What's with the hearing aid?'

What do you say?

I said, 'Old age.'

He nodded, no argument there.

Fuck.

He looked round, as if he'd something important to tell, then 'I'm a little short.'

The touch.

I palmed him some notes, and he quickly put them away.

He said, 'I hear odd stories about you.'

Did I want to know?

I risked it, asked, 'Like what?'

'That you don't drink any more, that you haven't had a drink for donkey's years.'

In Ireland, that is as odd as it gets.

I said, 'Yeah, it's been a while.'

Drinkers hate to lose one of the gang. It's an implied threat that maybe they might be next.

Perish the thought.

He asked, 'How's that going for you?'

Just fucking dandy, a joy a minute.

'It's OK, you get used to it.'

Like fuck.

He scratched his head, pressed, 'What do you do, you know, with all the time?'

I had no idea.

I said, 'I read a lot.'

He began to move away, said, 'You poor bastard.'

Amen.

I did a mini tour of my city. America was looming nearer and I might never again get to walk these streets. I went towards St Joseph's, Presentation Road. I remember my father telling me about the Black and Tans and the British Military lined up outside that church, when Father Griffin had been shot by them in a reprisal. The murder of priests was not part
of our history. The difference now was, we no longer needed occupying armies to do it. We were the killers.

The funeral of Father Griffin in 1920 had left Mill Street and crossed O'Brien's Bridge, and there were still old people who swore that as the hearse hit the middle of the bridge, three salmon leaped from the water, hung suspended in mid air for a moment and then slipped gracefully back down. You don't see the salmon leap any more, the poison in the water has them lacklustre, much like the population. My dad, telling me this, his eyes wet, said the driver of the hearse, a guy of rare courage and spirit, wore a top hat and sash in defiance of the ruling edicts. Then and now, I see that man, a hero to his own fierce belief. The following week, he was shot dead.

You ask the young people who Father Griffin was and they give you the look that goes, 'Like, dude, I dunno priests.'

I found the house in Father Griffin Road without any trouble. It's a narrow street and used to be real old Galway. Not any more, but then, what was?

For Sale signs were the main feature now. I
had to be real careful. If any of the family spotted me, I was fucked. The house was near the middle, seemed quiet, no movement.

I jumped when a man spoke, asked, 'You looking for someone?'

I turned to face a man in his seventies, with a dog on a leash – I was going to suggest he stay away from Newcastle. He had a bright, alert expression and his accent was local.

I said, 'I was thinking of buying a house.'

He looked at the house, said, 'That one is rented to an English family, but the others, down a bit, they're for sale. You'll need a few bob.'

'What are the English crowd like?'

His face suggested this was a really dumb question.

'They're polite . . . but friendly? They're Brits, they don't know how to do that.'

And he had no more to say on the subject. I
thanked him, began to move off.

He added, 'Used to be a real nice street.
Didn't everywhere?'

Back home, the man who'd driven Father Griffin's hearse was vivid in my mind and I
swear I could see him as I dry-fired the Glock a few times, trying to picture myself using it on
Gail. Stewart was right – prison was not the answer for her. But this?

My phone went. Gina, the doctor, inquiring as to how my hands were recovering. I said they were healing well, and then there was silence. I suppose it was the space where I
should have asked her if she'd like to maybe get a meal or go out. I wanted to, but couldn't do it. I said I'd give her a call real soon, as soon as I got a few details sorted. Yeah, like kill a young woman. I could tell from her voice she didn't think I was going to call. I thanked her for her concern, sounding like an ungrateful asshole.

I checked my watch. Stewart would be meeting Gail soon and it was time to go call on Mitch and Sean. I put on my Garda all-weather coat, loaded the weapon and put the gun in my right-hand pocket, hoping to hell I
wouldn't have to use it on Sean. It's not that I had a liking for that kid, but he was definitely caught up in events he had no control over.

It was dark when I got to Father Griffin Road, lights were blazing all over the house. I
debated trying to break in the back way and then thought, the hell with it, I'd take them head on.

I rang the doorbell, my right hand in my
coat pocket, gripping the Glock. It was three minutes before the door was pulled open.

Sean stood there, his face ashen, his eyes wide. He gasped, 'My dad, something's wrong with him.'

I thought there was a lot wrong with them all, but went in, asked, 'What do you mean?'

Sean was near hysterical.

'Gail had a huge fight with him. We're running out of money, and she said she'd found a new source. Dad was saying that it might be time to call it quits and she went ballistic, called him a coward and stormed out.'

I was looking to see where Mitch was. I
didn't want him coming at me from my blind side.

Sean continued, taking huge gulps of air, 'Dad was clutching at his chest, then he staggered upstairs, and I've been afraid to go up.'

'How long ago was that?'

Sean tried to think, his mind obviously in ribbons. 'Three hours? More?'

I listened: no sound.

I said, 'Wait here, I'll go up.'

'It's the big bedroom, on the right.'

I went up slowly, debating whether I should
have the gun drawn, decided to risk not doing so. I went into the bedroom.

It had flock wallpaper, that awful stuff that lined the homes of the poor so long, and on the wall three flying ducks – the middle one was missing its head. The bed was a single and that made me sad, I don't know why, what the fuck difference did it make? But it did. Single beds for adults are symbols of failure. The sheets were dirty and I didn't think they'd be washed now. Laundry, I was fretting about laundry? I thought about what this man, this father was responsible for, the warped children he'd reared, created, and the deeds he'd not only condoned but supervised. I believed he'd orchestrated acts so vile and stomach-churning that it was nigh impossible to imagine what he thought when he lay his head on the pillow at night. Did he think of Nora, his beloved wife?
No matter how twisted by grief he'd become, surely he knew that she'd have been horrified at what he'd done in her name, and, worse, caused her adored children to carry out.

I whispered, 'You bad bastard, you unleashed the wrath of hell. Did you think you could control it? Well, mate, I hope it's hot enough where you surely are now. And you know what? I hope if there's that afterlife, you
never . . . never get to see Nora. Rest in fucking ribbons.'

Sean called up, 'Dad, are you OK?'

I came down, and Sean was staring at me, terror writ on his face.

I said, 'Call an ambulance.'

He didn't move.

'Is he going to be all right?'

'No, he's dead.'

Massive heart attack. He'd been sprawled across the bed, his mouth opened in a silent scream. Sean began to howl. I went to the phone, called 911 then went back to Sean and slapped his face hard.

'Get a grip. I have to go, I can't be here. Just tell them he went to bed and you went to check, found him as he is.'

He nodded, asked, 'What about Gail, what will I tell her?'

I had no idea. I said, 'It will be OK, just wait and do what I told you.'

I got out of there. I could hear a siren. I was halfway down the street when I realized I
was still gripping the Glock. I said to myself, 'One down, two to go.'

I passed five pubs, two off-licences on the way home. They sang to me like rarely before.

I kept moving.