Cross

13

I could have caught a cab to the hospital, but I wanted to delay the news that I dreaded I was going to hear.

Cody had come to me asking to be my partner in investigation, and he was a mix of naivety, pseudo-American swagger, irritation and aggravation.

Then the amazing thing had happened. I hate to go New Era but we . . . fuck it, we bonded. I began to love the kid. He was annoying as hell, but would suddenly do something that tore at my heart, like buy me a very expensive leather jacket. I was wearing it when he was shot, his blood all over the front. I burned it.

We'd had one memorable day when we went to a hurling match, bought the team's scarf, shouted like banshees, had a huge slap-up meal after and near hugged at the end of a perfect day.

I was something then that I, oh, so rarely have ever been – I was happy.

But mo croi briste . . . me heart is broken.

Let me put it this way: those whom the Irish gods would destroy, first they give a shard of joy to. Least it's how they fuck with me and often.

A few people had asked then if he was my son. I was delighted and was beginning to see him as such. A chance of family, the dream I'd never even allowed me own self to entertain.

When the sniper shot those holes in him, the shots burned a wound in my soul that would never close.

I'd been round and round with speculation as to who had done the shooting. The stalker I'd dealt with for Ridge had a solid alibi; Cathy Bellingham, wife of my best friend Jeff, sure had cause – I'd been responsible for the death of her three-year-old daughter – but she'd disappeared and I was in no hurry to find her. The third possibility was Kate Clare, sister of Michael who might have beheaded a Father Joyce and whom I'd pursued to the gates of hell. Among the more awful aspects of this was that I actually liked Michael Clare, and, Christ, as a victim of clerical molestation he'd already suffered the torment of the damned before he killed himself. Kate, it transpired, had flown off to the Far East and her whereabouts were currently unknown.

Truth is, I didn't care who had done the shooting. All I wanted was for Cody to be returned to me and then I'd deal with the shooter, whoever the fuck it was. And deal biblically.

I got to the hospital, my heart in me mouth, went up to the ward and met a nurse. She knew me from my daily visits, even used my first name.

She went, 'Oh Jack, I'm so sorry.'

Dizziness hit me, but before I could even catch my breath, a couple approached and the nurse said, 'It's Cody's parents.'

They had the look. That horrendous expression of sheer disbelief.

The man, in his late sixties, wearing a good suit, his face a mask of rage, snarled, 'You're Taylor?'

I nodded, still reeling from the implication of the nurse's opening line.

He spat in my face.

'You got our son killed, you bastard.'

His wife pulled him away and as she dragged him down the corridor, he shouted, 'I hope you burn in hell.'

There was literally a beat of silence – one of those moments of pure quiet when a terrible curse has been laid on a human being. All present froze in a tableau of pure shock.

My legs began to tremble. I don't mean a slight shake, I mean the full-on tremor that signals a major collapse.

The next hour or so is hazy. I think I asked if I might see Cody, but I'm not sure. For some bizarre reason, I found myself in the café downstairs, a cup of coffee before me and devastation all around me.

'Are you all right?'

I looked up to see a woman in her late forties, with a good solid face, long dark hair, huge eyes and – odd how the mind can work on some level – a slight accent. English was not her first tongue.

I almost accused, 'You're not Irish?'

She gave a small smile. 'You need someone Irish?'

What the fuck was this?

I said, 'I don't need anyone.'

For a moment, it seemed like she might touch my hand and that would have been a huge mistake. Instead, she said, 'You are in pain. Did you lose someone?'

My oldest ally, rage, was waiting to strike. I let the dog loose and snapped, 'Who the fuck are you? Leave me alone.'

She stood up, said, 'My name is Gina. I sense you are a good man and I can help you,' and pushed a business card towards me.

I said, 'Sense this – I want you to fuck off.'

She did.

I dunno why – madness, perhaps – I put the card in my jacket.

Then I was outside and it was raining heavily. I muttered, 'Good, hope I catch me death.'

Just outside the main door of the hospital, a veritable cloud of smoke near obscured the entrance. Not from the weather, no . . . the smokers, huddled like frightened lepers. The smoking ban was a year old now and these groups of social outcasts were a familiar sight, frozen in winter, laughing in summer – if you can ever call a summer in Ireland such.

A new term had been coined as nicotine romances had sprung up. People got talking; in their allied addiction, social barriers that might have taken much longer to overcome were now literally so much smoke. The flirting thus was termed Slirting . . . Flirting with the smoke.

I reached for me cigs and remembered I didn't smoke any more, didn't drink either. No, I was too busy killing all I cared for.

If one of the smokers had noticed my gesture and offered me one, I probably would have taken it. My eyes were locked on the River Inn, clearly visible from where I stood. I began to move.

I was at the hospital gate when I heard,

'Jack?'

And now fucking what?

A man in his early thirties, well dressed if casual, a good-looking guy but with a wary air about him. It was that that triggered my memory.

'Stewart?'

My former drug-dealer. He'd been busted, got six years and then hired me to investigate the supposed accidental death of his sister. That case had been among the worst I'd ever been involved with and led to the death of Serena May, the Down's Syndrome child of Jeff and Cathy.

He smiled, a smile of no warmth. I suppose if you do hard time in prison, warmth isn't going to be one of your characteristics. The time I'd gone to see him in jail, his front tooth had been knocked out and that was just what was visible. I noticed the tooth had been replaced. And his eyes – when I'd first met him, his eyes had been full of energy, and now they were pools of granite.

He asked, 'Are you OK? You look like someone died.'

How to answer that? Fall at his feet and bawl like a baby? Go hard ass and say, 'No biggie'?

I said, 'People are dying all the time.'

He considered that, then said, 'I have a new flat, just down the road. You want to come have a drink . . . ?'

He paused, added, 'Or a coffee?'

My drink history was known to all and sundry. I said, 'Why not?' and we began to walk towards St Joseph's Church. Before we got a chance to speak, a Guard's car passed, the cops giving us the cold scan.

Stewart watched them cruise slowly by and after they'd passed he said, 'They never let you move on.'

Amen.

His flat was near Cook's Corner. The pub there, almost a Galway landmark, had a FOR SALE sign, but then what hadn't?

Cook's Corner is literally the centre where three roads cross. You can walk down Henry Street, the canal murmuring to you on both sides, or turn and head north to Shantalla, literal translation being 'old ground' and still home to some of the best and most genuine people you could ever hope to meet. Or you could retrace my path, back to the hospital. There was a fourth option, but no one ever mentioned it; a fourth road that was there, but never alluded to: the route to Salthill. Years ago, it led to Taylor's Hill (no relation) and housed the upper classes. You had money or notions, you lived there. So it was never referred to by the people, money and notions not being on the agenda. But times, they were a-changing and Cook's pub was about to open the door to all sorts of speculators suddenly taking an interest in what had always been described as the poor man's part of town.

You think I'm kidding?

There were three charity shops on this patch alone.

We went into a plain two-storey house and he opened a door on the ground floor, said, 'Welcome to my humble abode.'

I never believed people actually used such clichés. What was next, Mi casa es su casa?

I have seen houses and apartments of all descriptions, and lots of them were bare, due to poverty or neglect or both. Shit, I grew up in one. We had a few sticks of furniture, and one particularly rough winter we used the kitchen chairs for the fire.

You think I'm talking about Ireland in the last century – would it were so. My father worked hard, but there were times the work just wasn't there. My mother would put his best and only suit in the pawn. That same pawn shop is now located in Quay Street, the trendiest area in our new rich shining society.

Stewart's place was the barest accommodation I've ever seen, and I've seen Thomas Merton's cell in photos. There was one chair, hard back, a tiny sofa, and two framed quotations on the wall.

Stewart was amused at my reaction.

'Bare, eh?'

I let out my breath, went, 'You moving in or out?'

He spread his hands in a futile gesture.

'Prison teaches you lots of stuff – sheer random cruelty, for one, and that's just the wardens; and, more importantly, the bliss of nothing. I've been studying the Zen Masters, and with a bit of time I'll be still.'

I wanted to go smart arse, say, 'Still what?'

But said, 'The only Zen I know is pretty basic.'

He waited and so I muttered it:

'After the ecstasy

The laundry.'

He laughed, there was actually a little warmth in it.

'Trust you, Jack. That is so typical of what you'd choose.'

I could have argued the toss, but the truth was, I couldn't get past Cody. I could see him the first time he'd offered me the business cards, his whole face a light of eagerness and desire to please. A shudder hit me and my whole body began to shake.

Stewart went, 'Whoa there, big guy. Take a pew, I'll get you something.'

I sat on the hard chair, naturally – keep it rough – and Stewart reappeared with a glass of water and two pills.

'Take these.'

I held them in the palm of my hand and said, 'I would have thought you'd had enough of the dope business.'

The insult didn't faze him. He motioned for me to take the stuff and I did, washing it down with the water. He said, 'I'm out of the trade but I keep some . . . essentials here. I got out of prison, but that doesn't mean I'm ever free of it. I wake in the night, covered in sweat – I'm back there, some thick gobshite from the middle of the bog trying to stick his dick in my backside. I don't think I need to explain panic attacks to you, Jack.'

Carve that in Connemara stone, or better yet, Zen it.

His mobile rang and he said, 'Gotta take this. You just sit there, be still.'

What's the biblical line? Be still and know?

Know, as the Americans say, 'It sucks.'

I zoned out, went away to that place of white nothingness. The mind shuts down and there's a slight humming to be heard, and if you could see your own eyes, they'd have that nine-yard stare.

Then Stewart was back, I looked at my watch and nearly an hour had passed. I was mellow, laid back, tranquillized, thank fuck, feeling no pain.

I stood, moved to the wall, read one of his framed quotes. It went:

'The fundamental delusion of reality is to suppose that I am here and you are out there.'

The attribution was to some fellah named Yasutani.

I said, 'Deep.'

Stewart considered it, then said, 'At the risk of repeating myself, I think that describes you also.'

Whatever those pills were, they were the bloody business. I felt relaxed, a concept that was as alien to me as niceness, and my mind was clear. It wasn't till then that I realized how burdened it had been with fear, grief and worry about Cody. Can you be saturated with sorrow, seeped in sadness, a walking mess of melancholy?

I was.

I asked, 'You ever hear of Craig McDonald?'

He simply stared at me.

'He was a newspaper editor in Ohio and became a bestselling novelist. He wrote a novel about pain that would pull the teeth from your skull,' I said.

He thought about it, then said, 'Your kind of book.'

I sighed. 'Reading about it makes you feel you're not alone.'

He handed me a vial of pills. 'More of the same. You get the rush of panic, you drop some of those beauties and you'll, like, chill.'

He used the American expression with more than a hint of malice.

I said, 'You've been pretty damn helpful to me.'

He shrugged and I had to know, asked, 'Why?'

He was surprised, took a moment to gain composure then said, 'You proved my sister's death was not some drunken accident, so I owe you.'

I didn't want that. 'Hey, pal, you paid me, paid me well. Debt's cleared, done deal, you can move on.'

He smiled, a tinge of sadness in there, and said, 'You probably won't accept this, you being such a hard arse and all. The front you like to project – nothing gets to ol' Jack Taylor. Me, I see you different. I like you. Sure, you're a pain sometimes and, God knows, you got a mouth on yah. But bottom line, you're that rarity, you're a decent human being. Flawed, oh fuck, more flawed than most, but you're not cold. And trust me on this, after my time in Mountjoy I'm a goddamn expert in the sheer coldness of the human condition.'

Some speech.

I made to go, said, 'You give me more credit than is warranted, but . . . thanks.'

He handed me a card.

'My phone numbers. You want to talk, get into some Zen, I'm around.'

I had to know. 'You still peddling dope?'

It hurt him and he winced a little. 'Like I said, you've a mouth on you, but am I dealing? Sure, but not dope.'

He wasn't offering any more so I shook his hand, which amused him, and I was out of there.

The drunk and the dealer, a match made in a moment of surreal tenderness. But what do I know? Tenderness is not my field.

I muttered aloud, 'Still . . . ?'

As Zen as it gets.