Ken Bruen - Cross

Now I was, to borrow her word, thrown . She didn't even know Cody.

I shouted, 'You didn't even know him.'

She sat up, turned to look at me, asked, 'Him? What are you talking about? It's not a him – it's the boy's sister, Maria.'

My blank look infuriated her and she nigh shouted, 'The crucified boy. You've forgotten him already, even though you promised to look into it. Well, don't bother. His sister, Maria, they burned her, in her car. Only her driving licence and teeth identified her. Everything else… everything else… was burned to a… fucking crisp.'

The room danced in front of me. I couldn't take in what she'd told me and I had to lean against the wall for balance.

She stood up, concerned now, asked, 'Jack? Jack, you all right?' And put out her hand.

I brushed it away, took some deep breaths and began to ease down a bit.

She backed off, then asked, 'You said him. Who were you talking about?'

My throat was constricted, as if something was lodged there.

Finally I managed, 'Cody, he died. Yeah, the little bastard just packed it in, and guess what? – you'll love this – the family don't want me to attend the funeral. How do you like them apples?'

She slumped back in the sofa and said, 'You'll have to go and buy me some alcohol, you hear me.'

And why the fuck not?

The world had turned so nuts, it made a sort of Irish demented sense. I said in a cheerful party voice, 'Yeah, I will. You just relax your own self and I'll do what I'm best at, buy the hooch.'

The off-licence guy knew me, and as I loaded a basket with vodka, mixers, Jameson, he eyed me warily. I threw in peanuts and crisps and asked, 'How much?'

He knew I'd been dry for quite a time and seemed about to say something till I glared at him, daring him to go for it. I'd have dragged him over the counter. He rang up the stuff.

As I paid him I said, 'Isn't it wonderful I'm not smoking?'

He didn't answer.

The bollocks.

My mobile rang. I pulled it from my jacket. My ears were acting up – what wasn't? – but I heard, if badly:

'Jack, it's Eoin Heaton.'

He sounded drunk.

'The fuck do you want?'

He was stunned, I could hear it in his gasp, and he said, 'I found the dog-nappers.'

Jesus.

Dogs, now?

I said, 'And what, you want a medal? Try to remember you used to be a Guard. Use some initiative, solve the frigging thing.'

There was a note in his voice I should have caught. He said, 'But Jack-'

I didn't let him finish, said, 'And try not to be bribed, OK? Isn't that why they fucked you out of the force?'

I got back to the apartment and plonked the bag of booze on the table.

'I wasn't sure what to get, so I got everything.'

She waved her hand in vague dismissal, so I opened the vodka, poured a glass I'd have considered healthy, added some mixer and handed it to her. She grabbed it, downed half, let out a deep sigh. I swear, I could feel the stuff hit me own stomach. I went into the kitchen, made some coffee, got two of Stewart's pills and washed them down.

Bizarre aspect of addiction: even though you know the pills will help you, mellow you on down, you'd trade them in a second for the sheer blast, the instant rush of raw alcohol.

I went out to Ridge, sat in the chair opposite her, asked, 'When was the girl killed?'

She was staring at her glass, empty now, with that expression I'd had so often. How'd that happen?

She said in dead monotone, 'I've been on duty for forty-eight hours straight. I heard the medical guy say she'd been torched – that's the word he used, like American television.'

I didn't offer her another drink. I'd done my part. She wanted to get plastered, she could do it her own self.

I said, 'So it's obvious someone is targeting the family. There's no drug connection, no vendetta we've turned up.'

Then a thought hit me.

'Did you get anything on the other brother?'

She had her notebook out, the heavy job I'd carried all those years I'd been on the force. It gave me a brief pang for the past. She was scribbling fast.

She said, 'Yes, his name is Rory. He's in London, but we haven't been able to contact him yet.'

I'd been leaning into her and she suddenly pulled back, asked, 'Why are you stuck in my face? You deaf or what?'

I decided this was not the time to share my latest cross with her.

She was up now. As she buttoned her tunic she said, 'I'm going to get right on this.'

I cautioned, 'Shouldn't you get some sleep? I mean, they see vodka on your breath, not good.'

She had that face of pure ferocity, said, 'Fuck them.'

I liked her a whole lot better.

I indicated the booze. 'What am I going to do with this?'

Her eyes were like coal. 'You'll think of some use.'

I liked her less.

The girl was fingering the small silver cross she wore round her neck. She knew neither her father nor brother understood the significance the cross had held for her and her mother.

Her mother had been a fervent Irish Catholic, and marrying an Englishman only intensified her passion. Over and over she'd told the girl, 'Christ died on the cross for our sins, and the world will try to crucify you if you allow it.'

Logic didn't play a large part in this. If you have the Irish faith, massive guilt and a personality disorder, you're ripe for symbols. Her mother had fixated on the crucifix, her home ablaze with writhing Christs of every shape and size. Only the girl truly knew where this obsession had originated. She'd never told before and she wasn't about to share now. They were men, they'd never understand.

The girl stood up. She'd been kneeling, praying, not to a Catholic God but to this new dark power that so energized her. She moved to the mirror, saw the silver cross shine around her neck, and from the corner of her eye saw the now familiar flame light up the corner of the room.

Whoosh.

When she turned to look directly at it, it was gone.

She smiled.

The cross was Celtic, given to her on her sixteenth birthday by her mother, who had said, 'Never forget the cross.'

Her mother's secret, the whole reason for the cross, came vividly into her mind. She could see it like a scene from a movie. She'd been twelve, always hanging out of her mother's arms, and one evening, home early from school, she'd found her mother sobbing in the kitchen, an empty bottle of sweet sherry on the sink. Her mother never drank and in that state she'd hugged her daughter, told her how before she'd met the girl's father she'd had an abortion, said it was like being crucified, the sheer agony of the procedure.

Then she'd added, 'I pay every day of my life for that sin.' And she'd grabbed her daughter's wrist harshly, hurting her, and warned, 'If anyone ever does real damage to you, there's only one way to atone. Do you know what it is?'

The girl, terrified, had shaken her head, tears running down her face. Her mother had said, in a voice of pure ice, 'You nail them to the cross, as Our Lord was, and drive the nails in with all the passion that Our Saviour decreed to us.'

Thursday evening, I killed a man.

Least I think I did.

Certainly gave it my best shot.

I'd gone to the pictures – sorry, I just can't say movies. Sideways had been getting tremendous reviews – Paul Giamatti had that hangdog expression I so identify with, a Woody Allen for the new despair. But all the wine drinking got to me. I was never a wine buff, I liked me booze fast and lethal. I was starting to taste Merlot in me mouth, and of course with my dodgy hearing, despite the Dolby digital stereo, I had difficulty catching all the dialogue. So I baled.