Ken Bruen - Cross

It had flock wallpaper, that awful stuff that lined the homes of the poor so long, and on the wall three flying ducks – the middle one was missing its head. The bed was a single and that made me sad, I don't know why, what the fuck difference did it make? But it did. Single beds for adults are symbols of failure. The sheets were dirty and I didn't think they'd be washed now. Laundry, I was fretting about laundry? I thought about what this man, this father was responsible for, the warped children he'd reared, created, and the deeds he'd not only condoned but supervised. I believed he'd orchestrated acts so vile and stomach-churning that it was nigh impossible to imagine what he thought when he lay his head on the pillow at night. Did he think of Nora, his beloved wife? No matter how twisted by grief he'd become, surely he knew that she'd have been horrified at what he'd done in her name, and, worse, caused her adored children to carry out.

I whispered, 'You bad bastard, you unleashed the wrath of hell. Did you think you could control it? Well, mate, I hope it's hot enough where you surely are now. And you know what? I hope if there's that afterlife, you never… never get to see Nora. Rest in fucking ribbons.'

Sean called up, 'Dad, are you OK?'

I came down, and Sean was staring at me, terror writ on his face.

I said, 'Call an ambulance.'

He didn't move.

'Is he going to be all right?'

'No, he's dead.'

Massive heart attack. He'd been sprawled across the bed, his mouth opened in a silent scream. Sean began to howl. I went to the phone, called 911 then went back to Sean and slapped his face hard.

'Get a grip. I have to go, I can't be here. Just tell them he went to bed and you went to check, found him as he is.'

He nodded, asked, 'What about Gail, what will I tell her?'

I had no idea. I said, 'It will be OK, just wait and do what I told you.'

I got out of there. I could hear a siren. I was halfway down the street when I realized I was still gripping the Glock. I said to myself, 'One down, two to go.'

I passed five pubs, two off-licences on the way home. They sang to me like rarely before.

I kept moving.

I was listening to the morning news a few days after and the death of an English national was reported. It said he'd suffered a coronary but had been dead on arrival at the hospital. The Guards were anxious to get in touch with his son and daughter, who were believed to have been staying with him.

What the fuck?

Sean legged it?

Gail didn't come home?

What the hell?

I tried ringing Stewart, but his mobile was switched off. A terrible thought crossed my mind. What if Stewart had been too smug and Gail took him off the board?

Jesus.

She certainly had the experience. And like a true predator, she could sense danger. I'd made up my mind to go round to Stewart's house when a loud rapping hit my door. I hesitated, then got the Glock, put it in my waistband. Opened the door.

Ridge.

A very agitated Ridge, who launched, 'What is going on?'

And she pushed past me, stood in the middle of my apartment, hands on her hips, accusation writ large.

I closed the door, moved to face her, asked, 'You want to keep your voice down?'

She didn't.

She said, 'Mitchell suffers a fatal heart attack, and then a young woman in her twenties is washed up on the beach, an apparent suicide.'

I had to sit down.

Gail?

The gun dug into my ribs and I took it out, laid it on the table.

She stared at it with disbelief. Took her a few moments, then she went, 'You answer the door armed? Who were you expecting?'

I was trying to get it into perspective.

'Jehovah's Witnesses or Mormons, I'm never sure which is which.'

She looked like she might strike me.

'You think you can joke your way out of this? You're up to your arse here. I know you, it has all the hallmarks of a Taylor fiasco.'

I was suddenly very tired, could already see how it might be read: the father has a massive heart attack and the daughter, grief stricken, drowns herself. Could fly.

I said, 'You told me yourself nothing could be proved against the family, so I backed off.'

She was beyond anger, didn't quite know what to do with me, said, 'You never backed off in your life.'

I wanted her to go so I could think.

I said, 'I think I'm finally beginning to learn.'

She moved to take the gun and I lashed out my hand. 'You don't want to do that.'

A full minute passed as we both held the gun, then she let it go and said, 'Get rid of it. Guns have never been part of your act, and if you get caught with it I won't be able to protect you.'

And I was moved, to hear her say I won't be able to protect you .

I was afraid to ask about the tests. If she had the result, would I be able to accept a bad verdict? We stood for a moment, worried about each other for different reasons, and yet a chasm of contorted stubbornness prevented us from reaching, bridging that awful gap. I tried to explain that Gail had come to my apartment a few days earlier and I'd felt I needed protection of my own.

Ridge pondered this.

'But you're not the shooting type. It's not you, Jack.'

Long as our history had been, there were some areas she didn't know about, some acts I'd committed that she'd never understand and that I certainly would never tell her.

I agreed that I'd get rid of it and then I asked, 'Any word on the results?'

Her face near crumpled but she reined it in.

'No, not yet. The waiting gets to you. Every time the post comes, you wonder if there's a letter that will change your whole life.'

I said a thing I never thought I'd ever say to her, said it in an American tone to keep it light.

'I'll protect you.'

And I swear to God, I thought she was going to weep.

But she moved to the door, said, 'I know that, Jack.'

I went to church.

You're Catholic, you're reared to believe that there is sanctuary there. With all the recent scandals, it was less a place of refuge than the belly of the beast. I went to get in from the rain. Had been walking by the cathedral when the heavens opened. Not your soft Irish rain, no, this was a full onslaught of biblical scale, drench-you-to-the-core stuff. The side door was locked, very welcoming, and by the time I got to the main one I was soaked to my skin, muttering, 'Shite and onions.'

That's literary allusion, James Joyce's favourite expression, honest to God.

I dipped me fingers in the holy water font. It was dry, wouldn't you know, and I guess that is some sort of ecumenical irony. I got in, shaking the rain from me sodden clothes, muttering like a lunatic. Told myself it was good to be there, light some candles for Cody, Serena May and the long list of my dead. I hoped they had more candles than holy water.

Time was, I took my candle business to the Augustine till they went techno. Yeah, automated buttons to light your wick. That doesn't do it for me, I need the whole ritual of the taper, the smell of the wax, to see the candle take flame. It comforts me, makes me feel like some items are not for sale.

I lit a whole mess of them, stuffed a wad of notes into the box, watched the candles burn.

Heard, 'A candle is a prayer in action.'

I turned to face a tall priest in his late sixties, with snow-white hair and a face that was not so much lined as seriously creased. He was like a clerical Clint Eastwood.

I asked, 'You believe that?'