Ken Bruen - Cross

I waited, wondering if he was going to slam the door, but he gave a small smile, his mouth contracting, like it had forgotten how to.

'You're the man who saved the swans.'

And then before I could respond, he said, 'Please come in.'

He ushered me into a dark hall, then shut the door quietly. 'In here, please.'

A spotless living room, with a flamenco dancer poised on top of the television, testament to happier times, perhaps. A cabinet with a glass front held trophies, photos and a line of Reader's Digests .

He motioned for me to take a seat and said, 'I'll just get my wife. Would you like coffee, tea, or maybe something stronger?'

I declined, if not easily. I noticed a silver photo frame, the centrepiece on the cabinet, and moved closer. It showed three people: two young men and a girl. The dead man I recognized and the girl would be the sister, Maria, but the third? A line of T.S. Eliot ran in my head… something about a third who walks beside you. His hair was red but his resemblance to the other two was marked, he had to be a brother. I muttered, 'There is another brother?'

How had Ridge missed him? I'd need to check him out.

The silence in the house was unsettling. The father returned with a woman who looked even more defeated than him. Her body had folded in on itself.

She put out her hand and said, 'Pleased to meet you.'

Jesus.

I muttered some cliché about their loss and she nodded. I caught a glimpse of her eyes and wished to Christ I hadn't. If there is a step beyond anguish, beyond torment, she was there. We stood, an awkward trio, no one sure what to do.

So I tried, 'I hate to intrude, but I'm looking into the circumstances of John's…' And for the life of me I couldn't find an apt word – death, demise, murder, all too harsh.

Instead of asking me on what authority I was thus engaged, she said, 'We're very grateful.'

Out of desperation, I asked if I could see his room and the father led me to a small back room. He said, 'We haven't touched anything.'

A young man's room: the bed unmade, a bookcase with car magazines, a CD player and a rack of music. I stood there and wondered what the hell I was doing.

After five minutes, I went back to the couple and asked, 'What was John like?'

Got an outpouring of love and affection. He was an ordinary lad – played football, worked in a garage, had lots of friends.

The front door opened and a girl came in. I knew instantly she was their daughter, from the photo on the cabinet. Hard to fool a professional investigator.

The mother said, 'We'll leave you with Maria. She and John were very close.'

After they'd shuffled out, she stared at me and asked, 'How is this any of your business? Did you know John?'

I said I didn't, but that as the Guards weren't making any progress, I wanted to see if maybe I could help.

She digested that, asked, 'Are you being paid?'

'No, but…'

She wasn't angry, just confused.

'So you're just a good guy who goes round helping out, righting wrongs, that it?'

Before I could answer, she said, 'You're full of shit.'

I felt on firmer ground. Aggression suits me best, none of that polite tiptoeing, so I said, 'I'd have thought you'd welcome any help available.'

She studied me for a minute, not much liking what she saw, then said, 'Who gives a fuck what you thought? John isn't coming back. Would you do me a favour?'

'Sure, if I can.'

'Leave us the hell alone. Would you do that? Go play Superman with someone who gives a fuck.'

Then she walked me to the door, her body language saying, You're gone.

As she watched me begin to walk away she said, 'Another thing, Mr Taylor, the mints don't work.'

I knew that, right?

Back at my apartment, I put on Tom Russell's Road to Bayamon . There's a bitter-sweet song there, 'William Faulkner In Hollywood'. Made me yearn for a better life and I had to stop it mid track. Rang Ridge. She sounded her usual hostile self.

'What?' she grunted.

'Did you know a Guard, Eoin Heaton?'

A pause as she weighed up the reason I might be inquiring.

'Yes, I knew him. Why?' Her voice was dripping with aggression.

'They kicked him out, right?'

A sigh and then, 'Yes, he suffered from your complaint.'

I didn't need to ask what that was, so I tried 'Was he any good, as a Guard?'

She waited a beat, then said, 'They threw him out. How good could he have been?'

I wanted to shout at her, tell her to climb down off the bloody high horse, but instead asked – and I had to strain, no doubt about it, I was literally finding it hard to hear – 'What did he do, apart from drink? What were the grounds for dismissal, or are you sworn to secrecy?'

'He took a bribe to let a man off a drink-driving charge.'

I hadn't anything to say so she added, 'You probably approve of that, and think he was harshly dealt with.'

Enough, I thought, so I lashed out with, 'How would you know what I think?' Then I took a deep breath and asked, 'Did you know John had a brother? I've been to see the family, met the parents and the sister. I really think – and it's a strong feeling, a gut instinct – that you should find out about this brother. Can you do that? Anything, everything on him you can get.'

She was silent for a moment, then asked, 'You really think it's that important?'

'Absolutely.'

I at least had her attention and just before she hung up she said, 'OK, what's to lose?'

After I'd put the phone down, I was actually feeling pleased with my own self and realized that for once I was driving this whole gig onwards.

I'd been bothered for some time by a problem I was trying to ignore, felt if I didn't acknowledge it, it would just go away.

Yeah.

My hearing.

With the television, I had to turn it to max volume, and my music, top level too. And when people spoke to me, I had to lean in close to catch what they said. You hit fifty, things are going to start to decay. Fact of frigging life. My eyes were still OK, but the life I'd led, it was a miracle I was still above ground. Lots of days, I wished I wasn't.

So I got out the telephone directory, found an ear specialist and made an appointment, straining to hear what the receptionist said. Jesus, if I lost me hearing… I already had a limp… how old was that?

No point in sharing with Ridge, she said I never listened anyway. I admitted to me own self – a thing I hated to do – I was scared. I was alone. Your Irish bachelor in all his pitiful glory, shabby and bitter, ruined and crumbling.

With a plan.

Christ Almighty, a plan. Me whole physical being was shutting down and I had a plan. Isn't that priceless? Here I was, on me last legs, and instead of planning for a retirement home, I was heading for America. Can you beat that?

You could say I was fighting back, showing fortitude in the face of fierce adversity, refusing to lie down, fighting the good fight. And anyone who knew me would savour this fine line of reasoning then utter, 'Bollocks.'

A morning shrouded in despair. In Irish we moan, Och ocon … Woe is me, with bloody knobs on. I'd been in deep depression for nigh on two weeks. No drinking, of course, not because I didn't want to or think it a good idea, but I didn't think I'd another round of so-called recovery in me.

Watched telly in betwixt times. The news was ferocious in its darkness.

Ken Bigley was beheaded. There are no words to describe how that felt, like seeing the Twin Towers get hit. The same disbelief, the same sick horror. I went into a further spiral of black dog and dreamed of dogs – yes, the Newcastle ones. They howled and bit at my ankles, barking for me to do something . The phone rang continuously. I jerked the plug out of the socket and I swear it still rang.