Cross

19

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.'