Ken Bruen - Cross

I wasn't letting up, said, 'If it's too much for you, I can get someone else, someone who doesn't reek of stale booze.'

I'd hurt him and I wasn't sorry, not one bloody bit.

He tried, 'I'm on it, Jack. Honest to God, I can handle it, I won't let you down.'

I threw some notes on the table and as he eyed them I said, 'It's for the coffee.'

His eyes had the look of a broken child and he asked, 'Could you maybe advance me some cash?'

Without skipping a beat I replied, 'So you can piss it up against a wall? Get me some results and we'll see then.'

As I turned to leave he said, 'You're one hard bastard.'

I smiled. 'This is me on a good day, mate.'

And then the silence… Out of nowhere, I was enveloped in this eerie quiet, as if everything had stopped. I thought at first it might be as a result of my ear examination, some late kick-in, an aftershock, if you will. But no, it was an utter stillness, the kind that survivors describe when they attempt to articulate the moments before a disaster. I literally couldn't hear a thing. I was walking but couldn't hear my feet on the footpath. I was alarmed but not yet panicked. And then…

Then my phone shrilled.

I pulled the phone out of my pocket, realized my heart was pounding, pressed the little green key.

'Mr Taylor?'

'Yeah?'

'This is the hospital. You'd better get up here.'

'What, is it Cody? Is he all right?'

'Please get here as soon as you can, Mr Taylor.'

Hung up.

I don't much believe in anything no more, but attempted, 'Oh God, let him be OK. I'll be better.'

Whatever 'better' meant, I'd no idea.

Maria Willis just could not get past the death of her brother. That he had been crucified only added to the horror in her head. John had been a gentle soul. In a world of chaos, cruelty and sheer indifference, he'd been almost childlike. Her impulse had always been to mind him. She couldn't help wondering if he'd thought of her as they drove the nails into his hands.

The only comfort she could find was to drive out to Salthill, sit and watch the ocean. It calmed her, she didn't know why, it simply eased the agony she carried in her heart.

Thursday evening, she was sitting again, parked down from the old ballroom. Her parents had danced to the show bands there. Before the tragedies, her father would recite the names of the bands like a rosary, the names slipping from his mouth with obvious delight: the Clipper Carlton, the Regal, the Miami, Brendan Bowyer with his famous dance, the Hucklebuck. Once, he and her mother had demonstrated this particular oddity. It consisted of sliding both feet and moving like you had a greyhound on your arse. They had all fallen about laughing and her mother had said, with deep warmth, 'You might laugh, but that dance was the craze of the country.'

Maria would have given her soul to be back in the kitchen, watching her parents, sweat pouring off them, delight on their faces, and her brothers smiling, despite their efforts to appear unmoved.

A tap on the window of her car. She looked to see a wild-haired girl, her eyes heavy with mascara and dressed all in black, a young man behind her. The girl was one of those – what did they call them? – Goths?

She rolled down the window, wondering if they were going to ask for money. The girl said with an English accent, 'So sorry to bother you, but we have information about your brother.'

Maria was taken by surprise and when the girl moved to open the door, Maria let her. The girl sat in the shotgun seat, and the man – more boy, really – got in the back. Maria didn't like him behind her.

The girl smiled reassuringly and said, 'It must have been very hard for you, the awful way that John died. He must have suffered so.'

Maria thought she detected a sneer in the words and the girl's eyes, they were definitely… malevolent. She began to regret her rashness in allowing them into the car.

The girl said, 'Grief, it just kills you, don't you think?'

Maria looked through the windscreen, but no one was about. The evening was cold and the usual walkers had stayed at home.

She asked, 'You said you had information about… John?' It hurt even to utter his name.

The girl was fumbling in her bag. She produced a lighter and asked, 'You smoke?'

And the boy grabbed her from behind, holding her tight in a vice-like grip.

The girl produced a small can of petrol and began to douse Maria, saying, 'Juice you right up, girl.' Then she flicked the lighter, opened the door of the car, said, a smile on her lips, 'You're cooking now,' and set the flame on Maria's jacket. A whoosh followed instantly and Maria could have sworn she heard the boy say, 'I'm so sorry.'

They were halfway down the prom when the flames hit the tank. The explosion sounded unbearably loud.

The girl did a little ballet step and let out a holler:

'Way to go, girl.'

The girl's eyes opened. She'd been dozing and now snapped awake. She took in her surroundings, this awful room in such stark contrast to the home her mother had kept. And dampness, the whole house reeked of it. Blame the Irish weather? No, just a cheap landlord.

A slight smile curled on her lips as she thought, 'Can introduce him to the flame too.'

Even as she thought it she could smell smoke, a burning not too far away, and she allowed the scent to engulf her, to lift her up.

She was delighted, and emitted a series of giggles before wrapping her arms round her thin frame, hugging to herself the stark fact that she'd now killed twice. It gave her a rush of such adrenalin and power, it was like a whole new mode of intoxication. And yet she was still dissatisfied. More… she needed more.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a whoosh of flame. It started in the corner of the room and crept along the wall, but when she turned to look at it directly, it vanished. When this occurred, as it did more and more, she usually checked people around her to see their response. She couldn't believe they hadn't seen it – but no, they seemed oblivious. This just confirmed that the darkness had chosen her. Only she could hear and act out the dark scenario, the malignant blueprint of revenge.

Her heart accelerated with images of fire.

She recalled the flight to Ireland with Aer Lingus, the cabin crew asking if they were going on holiday. There had been flames in the corner of the cabin – couldn't they see them? She'd smiled and said, 'Oh yes, a family outing. We're going to have us a high old time.' She'd waited before adding, 'Our mother is already over there.'

The crew had thought it was refreshing to meet such a close-knit family and had promised, 'You'll love Ireland.'

She'd pulled her eyes away from the inferno she could glimpse along the wings of the plane and replied, 'And Ireland is going to love us.'

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.