Purgatory

11

Stewart stood outside the Bridge Mills, lots of people around. A voice in his head telling him,

“Leave it alone, this is not the way to get Brennan.”

Weighed that.

Moved.

He was in the penthouse in five minutes, the burglar kit making entrance easy. He’d taken the precaution of wearing surgical gloves. The place was massive, testament to a guy with too much money and no taste. Gigantic TV, copies of

Autos

Penthouse

Hustler

Loaded

Ikea furniture; heavy cloud of blended weed, nicotine, curries, and empty pizza boxes. The bedroom had a walk-in closet, four Louis Copeland suits, twenty pairs of built-up shoes, tracksuits, and a set of weights. Under the mattress, a sawed-off shotgun, bags of coke. Enough to warrant a major bust. Stewart moved back to the front room, settled to wait.

He let his mind Zen-float, his body at ease, time suspended.

The apartment was dark when he heard keys in the front door. Didn’t move.

Brennan came storming in, lights going on, packages being strewn on the floor. He was making a drink near the window when he realized he wasn’t alone. Spun round, going,

“The fuck?”

Stewart continued to sit, stared at him. Brennan was dressed in a sweaty tracksuit, gym clothes, a white towel round his neck. Stewart stood, did a loosening exercise, asked,

“Why did you attack Ridge?”

Brennan was regaining his composure, his eyes darting to the bedroom, assessing how much of a threat there was. His expression answered,

“Not much.”

He said,

“Sonny, you picked the wrong fucking place to park your sorry arse.”

When Stewart didn’t answer, he pushed,

“And who the fuck is Ridge?”

Stewart said,

“A female Guard, asking about your dumb son stealing the statue.”

Brennan laughed.

A nasty blend of scorn and bile.

He asked,

“You’re not a cop? Was she your girlfriend? I got to tell you, fellah, she was one ugly cunt.”

All reservations, doubts about the value of violence, moral considerations vanished with the mention of the c-word. He shot out his left foot, catching Brennan in the crotch, followed through with a series of lightning kicks to the ribs, kidneys, face.

Finally, drawing breath, he pulled back, looked in almost wonder at the bundle at his feet, muttered,

“Jesus.”

Checked for a pulse. Faint. Got outside the penthouse, left the door open, and called an ambulance. Back on the street, he looked in dismay at his hands, the gloves coated in red, understood for maybe the first time why Jack needed a large Jameson after an event.

He dumped the bloody gloves in the trash.

Zen didn’t quite cut it.