Sanctuary

7

I was having a coffee in the Eyre Square Centre, listening to the various conversations round me. The main topic was the poisoning of the water system. Nearly a quarter of the town had been to the hospital with diarrhoea and vomiting, and some of the schools had been closed. The bug lasted up to two weeks and finally the powers that be had announced that the water was contaminated and instructed us not to drink it.

I thought, Now they tell us?

They suspected a parasite in the water. Tests were being carried out and meanwhile, they suggested, we should boil all water or drink bottled water.

In other words, they hadn’t a clue and were covering their arses.

The supermarkets had run out of supplies and were madly scrambling to get bottled water brought in from nearby towns.

I had no idea how it was I’d escaped. Being sober, of course, I wasn’t dehydrated and so had no need of water as such.

A shadow fell across me and I looked up to see Stewart, my former drug-dealer, who’d spent six years in jail. I’d helped solve the murder of his sister and he felt indebted. He’d become a Zen student and tried to enlist me.

Right.

Prison had given him a hard edge but he covered it with the Zen stuff. His eyes had a granite sheen that told otherwise. I don’t know if we were friends but we were connected.

He said, ‘Mr Taylor, might I join you?’

I indicated the empty chair and he sat in one fluid motion. He was wearing a very expensive blazer, knitted tie, blinding white shirt and grey slacks, and looked prosperous. I had no idea what he did now, but it clearly paid well. I asked if he’d like anything and he quoted, ‘“He who is satisfied with his lot is rich.”’

I sighed. ‘I’ll take that as no.’

He was in his early thirties, and yet had the air of someone much older. Prison ages you in ways that aren’t always visible.

I asked, ‘How come you’re not involved with someone? Married, even?’

This amused him, as did most things I said. He answered, ‘“One must know oneself before one can relate.”’

Jesus.

I tried again. ‘You strike me as a bloke who knows himself pretty damn well.’

‘Outward appearance, Jack, and if I may be so forward, always your downfall. I seek to find the inner core.’

I’d had enough of this horseshite, said, ‘Any chance you’ll talk like a normal person?’

He was further amused and asked, ‘How is your friend, the Ban Garda? Ridge.’

I told him she was drinking and he said, ‘Perhaps your own. . er. . life experience may be of help?’

My expression answered that for him.

He leaned in close. ‘I’ve some news that may either be of some comfort or deep distress, and I meditated long and hard before deciding to share it with you.’

I said, ‘Stewart, the only thing that would really surprise me any more is good news, though I’m not sure I’d recognize it.’

Ignoring my flippancy, he said, ‘This is truly lifealtering news and I want you to be sure you can handle it.’ He stared at me, gauging how well or unwell I was, then asked, ‘When the little girl went out the window, Jack, what were you doing?’

It was the central tragedy of my life. I’d been minding my best friend’s little girl, lost focus and she went out the window. My life effectively ended then, as did the lives of her parents, Jeff and Cathy. Jeff had become a street person and Cathy disappeared. She might have been the one who shot my surrogate son, Cody.

Stewart said, ‘I regret having to resurrect such pain for you, Jack, but did you by any chance doze off when you were looking after her?’

It was possible, but I was getting agitated and shouted, ‘What the fuck does it matter? I wasn’t paying attention, and Sere-’

I couldn’t say her name, went with ‘The little one went out the window. What are you implying?’

He took his time, then said, ‘What if someone else pushed her out the window?’

I was stunned, then raging. I nearly went for him, snarled, ‘Are you fucking mad? It was my fault. I live with it every day and now you trot out this nonsense.’

He put his hand on my arm but I shrugged it off.

He said, ‘Jack, you’re my friend. Why would I deliberately upset you?’

Jesus, I could feel tears in my eyes.

I’d been doing penance for so long, tears were no longer part of the daily trip. I asked, ‘What is this about?’

He exhaled a long breath, then said, ‘One of my ex-clients was in rehab and she shared a room with a woman. You know how total honesty and making amends, all that good karma, is part of the whole gig? This woman said she pushed her own child out the window and let someone else take the rap.’

It was like being hit by a truck. I stammered, ‘Cathy?’

He nodded.

I couldn’t take it in.

‘That’s impossible.’

His voice quiet, he ventured, ‘Wasn’t that time exceptionally hot? A heatwave, if I recall. And you were coming off a bad case. Isn’t it possible you nodded off for five minutes?’

‘Christ almighty.’ All these years of such agony, guilt — for nothing? ‘Why? Why would she do such a thing? She adored that child.’

He took his time, then said, ‘The little girl had Down syndrome. Her mother felt she’d be better off out of a world that would only hurt and ridicule such a child. It’s not uncommon.’

I was reeling, spat, ‘She threatened to kill me. She let her husband go down the toilet, and all the time she was the one. The fucking bitch, how could she do that?’

He said, ‘Denial is a very powerful tool, Jack, and Cathy used to be a junkie, right?’

I said, ‘I’ll fucking kill her.’ I meant it. I was nearly blind from tears and rage.

He waited, then said, ‘Don’t you think she does that to herself, every single day?’

My whole body began to shake, from anger, hurt, confusion and the terrible waste and loss.

Stewart reached in his suit jacket, took out a small envelope and slid it across the table. ‘Take one of these babies, you won’t be hurting. No more than two a day.’

I wanted to say, Shove your fecking pills. But I’m an alky and thus, as an addict, open to anything mind-altering. The last years of my drinking had been about numbness. I was no longer seeking joy or fun. I was drinking, as Exley said, to ‘Simply dim the lights’. Fred Exley’s book A Fan’s Notes was nigh essential reading for a drinker, and though the words are somewhat different in the book, that’s what he meant. The lights had been glaring for years and, alas, not blinding me but allowing me to see all too clearly. There was no greater curse.

I took a pill out. It was large and black and I raised my eyebrows.

‘Black beauties,’ he said simply.

I had to ask, ‘And are they beauties?’

He gave a tight smile, no warmth. It was a long time since Stewart did warmth; the closest he ever came was his odd friendship with me. Music was playing over the speakers and Snow Patrol came on with ‘Set The Fire To The Third Bar’. Hell of a title and hell of a song.

Stewart asked, ‘You’ll be returning to your day job, I suppose?’

Investigating.

I said, ‘Soon as Ridge gets in shape, I’m outa here.’

Like any ex-con, his eyes were continually darting round, checking the exits, the people, gauging the threat. I realized how sad but true it was that you could leave prison but it would never leave you.

He said, ‘If you need any help, I’m available. And as you know, I know everyone, in some capacity.’

So I showed him the list and, unlike Clancy, he didn’t dismiss it, said, ‘A judge killed himself yesterday.’ He filled me in on the details and then added, ‘Around his neck was a placard with the block letters I HAVE TRESPASSED.’

Christ on a bike.

I said, ‘That’s the same language as in the letter.’

He studied the list, then said, ‘Any idea who it might be?’

I shook my head.

‘Lemme root around.’

‘You’ll want paying?’ I asked.

That icy smile again. ‘Course.’

Then before I could say anything, he said, ‘Let me share my Zen learning with you.’

Ah fuck.

I said, ‘I’d rather pay you in, like, cash.’

He was standing now, said, ‘Cash doesn’t last. I think you and me both know that.’