Ken Bruen - Cross

As I left, the ticket guy asked, 'Didn't like it, huh?'

He had one of those Irish faces that are boiled – red cheeks, lobster lips, pale skin, and still the American accent.

'I liked it too much.'

He gave me a look, the one that says, 'Old dude, already safoid (Irish for mental).' And said, like he'd been born in Kentucky, 'Whatever stirs your mojo.'

Fuck.

A light drizzle was coming now. Nothing major, just enough to remind you that you were in the land of baiste (rain). I was wearing item 8234, me old Garda coat. Like me own self, it had been burned, beaten and trampled on, and still hung in there. I turned up the collar and was debating getting a takeaway kebab. Thing is, with that you really need a six-pack.

A man fell into step beside me – tall guy, beer gut, odour of garlic and Guinness emanating from his pores. He said, 'You're Taylor.'

Had an edge, a tone of menace, and I knew this was going nowhere good. I had to strain to hear him, not that I really wanted to know whatever shite this creep was peddling. His whole body language screamed trouble.

'So?'

He was leaning in on me, crowding with his body, and said, 'Baby-killer.'

Winded me. Any mention of Serena May and my whole body went into spasm.

Before I could respond, he said, 'And now you got some poor kid killed as well.'

Cody.

I stopped. There is a small alley near my flat in Merchant's Road, and I moved my body in its direction. I said, 'I don't know who you are and I don't want to know. I'm taking that shortcut home, and if you're real smart, you won't follow me.'

I hadn't even raised my voice, a real dangerous sign, means I'm heading for the zone, the cut-off place, where all rules are off. I'd been lured into alleyways by some of the most vicious bastards on the face of the planet, had me teeth removed with an iron bar in just such an area. The past few years, I'd been on the receiving end of the beatings, and whatever else, I was all through with lying on some spit-infested ground, some gobshite kicking me head in. The rage that had been smouldering since Cody's death, his parents' reaction to me, not drinking, not smoking, it moved up that deadly notch.

It's a white hot/cold burn. If that's not too Irish a description. It electrifies your whole psyche and focus… fuck, it wipes the slate of all else. The sheer rush of impending violence is like a double of Jameson you've been denying yourself and then you grab the glass, gulp and wait for the blast.

The dumb bollocks, he laughed, said, 'You're running, you cowardly prick. It's what you do, isn't it, you piece of garbage? I'm going to beat the living daylights out of you.'

Perfect.

The chat was done.

There's an old saying, The law is practised in courtrooms, justice is dispensed in alleys .

I turned into the alley and he ran to catch up, going, 'Hey.'

I bent low, swung with my left elbow and caught him in the kidneys, sucker punch, and as he gasped, I turned, kicked his right knee hard. Caught him on the descent with my fist, breaking his nose, heard the bone go. Then stood back, let him catch on this was just the prelude. I was only limbering up, all the rage was out to play and, by Christ, I was looking forward to it.

He managed to mutter, 'You broke my nose. Why'd you do that?'

He had that long lank hair that something lives in, something vile. I grabbed a strand of it and slammed his head into the wall, heard a soft crunch.

'You seeing stars yet? Because you fucking will, and for a long time to come.'

His hand was up and he groaned, 'OK, enough, I'm done.'

Done?

I leaned in real close, echoed, ' Done? You kidding? We're not even started. That was just the trailer, the coming attraction.'

Then I beat him systematically with every foul and filthy trick I'd learned both as a Guard and on the streets, and when I finished I was sweating from every pore. Blood ran down my hands and my teeth hurt from how tightly clenched they'd been.

I stared at the huddled heap and began to walk off. And then, call it pure badness, I paused, walked back and gave him two kicks to the side of his head with my boot, and said, 'Now we're done.'

Back at my apartment, I tore off my coat. Normally, after such an episode, first order of business would be a large Jameson. I downed two of Stewart's pills, made some tea, laced with sugar for shock, and examined my hands. They were in bad shape. The left was mainly blood, torn skin. Water, ice cold, took care of that. The right was more serious. The fingers might be broken, I thought. They'd been broken before so I knew that song.

I tried to make a splint but couldn't get it together, and as I rooted around I found a card.

Gina De Santio

And phone numbers underneath.

What was it she said? If I needed help? Well, let's see if she was full of smoke.

I dialled the number with difficulty, waited then heard, 'Si?'

Decided to go for it.

'This is Jack Taylor. You gave me your card in the canteen of the hospital, said if I ever needed help?'

I could detect sleep in her tone – see, detection is my profession.

Took her a moment, then, 'Ah yes, Mr Taylor. I didn't expect you to call.'

I was going to reply, 'So why'd you give me the fucking card?'

But said, 'I need help, now.'

To my amazement, she said, 'I will come.'

Life – or people – just when you've lost all hope in the fuckers, they surprise you. The reason I was still getting up in the mornings, I suppose. I gave her my address and said, 'Bring some stuff, I have broken bones.' Thinking that would give her pause.

It did, but then she said, 'I will be there in twenty minutes.'

Go figure.

Stewart's pills had kicked in by the time she arrived. She looked radiant, and I felt something I hadn't felt in, oh, such a long time. A stirring.

Fuck.

She was wearing an old Trinity sweatshirt, worn jeans, trainers and a tan raincoat. Her hair was swept back and she looked wonderfully dishevelled.

'I really appreciate you coming, seeing as you don't really know me.'

She was surveying my flat as only a woman can. Not exactly critical, though there was that, but more a total scan of the whole set-up, not missing a thing. Her eyes lingered for a moment on my curtains and I knew she was thinking, And when were they washed?

Guys think, Where's the booze?

She was carrying a Gladstone bag, and it looked like it had seen active service.

She said, 'I might know you better than you think. I qualified as a doctor, but I work as a therapist mainly.'

That slight trace of an accent was very attractive, as if she had to carve out the right pronunciation.

I asked, 'Get you anything – tea, coffee? Oh, and I have Jameson and vodka.'

She gave me a look that asked, 'This is a social occasion?'

She said, 'Sit down and let's see what you've done to yourself.'

She was thorough. She washed and cleaned the wounds, made those hmmm sounds unique to the medical profession, then applied a splint to the fingers of my right hand.

'Those fingers have been broken before, but I'm fairly sure they're not broken now. However we'd need an X-ray to be certain, and I'm thinking you're not in any hurry to get that done?'

My hands dressed and wrapped in light gauze, she stood back.

'You'll live, but get to a hospital tomorrow.'

I was feeling very laid back, not hurting at all and able to appreciate her scent – the scent of a woman and something else I couldn't quite identify, but I liked it.

She looked at her watch, a very slim Rolex, and said, 'I'll have that drink now, vodka with tonic. I'm not working tomorrow so I can lie in.'

I wanted to lie with her. Blame Stewart's pills.