Ken Bruen - Cross

I said, 'It's not really me you have to worry about.'

Had her full attention and she asked what I meant.

I said in a slow measured tone, 'There's a man named King, owns a warehouse in Father Griffin Road, had a shine for Maria, and seemingly he has a way of proving you're the torch.'

I could see her literally mouthing his name, then, 'You tell him to stay the fuck out of my business.'

I was pleased to see I'd got to her, added some fuel.

'Nothing to do with me, but this guy has juice. Me, I'm nobody, like you said. But this fella, he has the means to see you get taken down.'

Her eyes closed for a moment and thank Christ I couldn't see whatever it was she was seeing.

She came back, said, 'I'm going now.'

I stared at her, she seemed almost ordinary.

Then, 'You stay the fuck away from me, Taylor, and, who knows, I may lose interest in you.'

I held her stare, said, 'There's the catch, me girl. I have no intention of losing interest in you. In fact, next up, I'm going to have a chat with your brother. And I know where you live, did you know that?'

Her hand came up and only with supreme control did she rein it in.

'Sleep lightly, Taylor. Sometime, I'll be over your bed, you'll wake up and you'll hear the sound of a match strike.'

I kept my face in neutral, said, 'I'll be expecting you. I might even get to show you the Irish version of a cross.'

She didn't get it, had to know, near spat, 'What the hell is that?'

'Oh, much like you did to the boy, with one difference.'

She raised her eyes in dismissive mode, asked, 'And that would be?'

'More nails.'

And she was gone, like some spectre that doesn't really belong to the daylight hours.

I went to the cemetery, feeling so guilty I hadn't attended Cody's funeral. And what to bring?

A little late for flowers and he wasn't really your flowers kind of kid. He'd been raving about the band Franz Ferdinand, so I bought one of their CDs, the assistant in the record shop telling me, 'They're past their best.'

Like I asked.

I wanted to add, 'Cody too.'

It was raining. Graveyards, I think they have a statute that rain is mandatory. As I walked among the crosses of the dead, I tried real hard not to read the inscriptions. I was carrying enough of the departed to keep a convent in perpetual prayer. Marvelled again that we're still the only burial ground with a Protestant and a Catholic side.

Up North, they wondered why the Peace Process was in shreds yet again and, here, even the dead were divided.

I found the grave within five minutes, a small temporary marker simply with Cody's name and the date of his death. You're not allowed to erect a headstone for a year. Why? Like you're going to change your mind and go, 'I've had some time to reflect on it and don't think I'll bother with the memorial'?

The plot was a riot of flowers, mini statues of every saint in the calendar, tiny fluffy animals, well sodden from the rain already, and a framed photo of Cody. It didn't look like him and I was kind of relieved. It was a posed picture and you'd never have seen him still long enough for such a formal study. I never know the etiquette of graves. Do you kneel, pray, look forlorn as part of the deal, what?

I knelt.

Fuck it.

My pants dredging up the grass and dirt – be a bitch to clean – I placed the CD on the end and said, 'You could have been a contender.'

Said it in an American accent, he was real fond of that. I think I meant it, though like the best prayers it sounded hollow at the centre. Not the words, they were as good as any, but just phony.

I got to me feet, my knee aching and heard, 'Mr Taylor.'

Turned to meet Cody's mother. I'd only seen her the one time, when her husband spat in my face. She was dressed in a heavy black coat as dark as the shadows beneath her eyes. I nodded, truly lost for words.

She looked at the package I'd left and I said, 'A CD.' Feeling not only cheap but ridiculous.

She nodded, said, 'He loved music.'

Can a voice be tired, worn out?

Hers was.

She reached out and I flinched, expecting a lash. She touched my arm gently, said, 'He so admired you.'

Oh God.

I had to say it, feeble as it was.

'I'm so dreadfully sorry.'

She was staring at his photo, her eyes containing all the sorrow you'd ever see.

She said, 'You lose your child, life loses all meaning.'

Before I could mouth some awful platitude she added, 'You are a man who loss flows around.'

And for a horrible moment, I thought I'd lose it.

She added, 'I don't hate you, Mr Taylor, you gave our Cody a real sense of purpose for a little time.'

I wanted to say thank you but my voice had deserted me.

She continued, 'If I said my prayers any more, I'd even try to pray for you. But like me, I think you are beyond divine help.'

I've been cursed many times by experts, but few utterances have damned me like that. It was the quiet tone of utter conviction.

'Please go now, I want to be alone with my boy.'

As I shuffled away, I said to my own self, 'Dead man walking.'

I met with Ridge in Jury's Hotel, at the bottom of Quay Street. They'd a coffee bar that was priding itself on its class. That's the deal they were offering, and I don't know, don't think buying a coffee is going to endow you with class, no matter how much you pay for the damn stuff, but what the hell do I know. I ordered a double espresso but the machine was broken, so I had a Diet Coke.

Ridge arrived looking more together than of late. She was dressed in a leather jacket, one of those short bomber jobs, and a skirt!

I stared at her legs and she gave me the look.

I said, 'What? You wear jeans all the time, I just wondered what you were hiding.'

She was angry, but being a woman, also curious. Asked, 'And…?'

Being nice to her was always fraught, so I went with 'I've seen worse.'

She stared at my hearing aid and my bruised hands.

'This a whole new image? You're what, expecting them to do another remake of Rocky ?'

I scowled at her, said, 'You're making jokes, drinking in the mornings – think you're having a mid-life crisis yer own self.'

I had given her the material Keegan had sent me from London and told her about my encounter with Gail. Now I asked, 'When will they arrest them?'

She looked away, didn't answer and I felt a surge of disbelief.

'You have everything you need, tell me they're going to act on it.'

She took a deep breath.

'It's all circumstantial, there's no hard proof and the feeling is that this English family suffered a bereavement in Ireland; to accuse them of these appalling crimes, without evidence, it would damage the tourist trade, affect relations between us and the UK and-'

I stopped her with 'Yeah, I know how it works, but for Christ's sake!'

I hadn't the words to vent my frustration. Sure, the system, as the Americans put it, sucked , but God Almighty, after me handing her the whole case on a plate, she must be able to do something.

I slammed my hand against my forehead in rage. I wanted to scream.

'I literally give this whole deal to you signed, solved and delivered, and what – nothing?'

Her face mirrored my consternation and I realized that blaming her was fruitless. I tried to let the rage burn off. All my life, God forgive me and with apologies to Eoin Heaton, I'd whipped the wrong dog.

I muttered, 'Aw, fuck it… fuck it all.'

'We'll be keeping a close eye. The official line is denial that any new leads have been found.'

Jesus, I was tired.

'You ever hear of Claud Cockburn?' I asked.

'Who?'

'He said, Never believe anything until it's officially denied.'