Ken Bruen - Cross

'What did you do with her?'

He was quiet for a moment, as if he debated telling me, then said, 'I helped her go swimming.'

And then, the worst sound of all, he giggled. I told myself it was the dope, hoped it was.

He added, 'Thing was, get this, she forgot she couldn't swim. And you know, the crazy bitch, she kept asking me if I saw the flames. I doused them for her.'

I thought of the Glock, sitting snug and useless in the top drawer of my desk.

He said, 'So, Jack, what's your thinking, you going to let this slide? You can walk away, we'll forget we ever had this conversation.'

He was literally measuring me up, and, alas, I knew what he saw: a broken-down middle-aged man with a limp and a hearing aid. If I said I couldn't let it go, how hard was it going to be for him to… deal … with me? He was strong, young and had nothing to lose. He'd drowned his own sister, crucified a young man, burned a defenceless girl in her car. Was he going to worry about me?

I said, 'If – and it's a big if – I walk, what are your plans?'

He was surprised, and to my horror I recognized the expression in his eyes. It was like Gail's, and for one eerie moment I wondered if evil could be transmitted thus. He moved real close to me. Was it my imagination or had his shoulders become broader? What had happened to the Kurt Cobain harmless boy I'd met in the coffee shop?

A half smile curled on his lips and he said, 'Hmmm, good question, Jack-o. You know, I think I like it here, but what I wouldn't like is the thought of you shambling round, maybe getting a sudden burst of – what's it you Catholics call it? – conscience.'

And he lashed out with his right fist, knocking me on my back. He walked round so he was standing at my head. I noticed he was wearing Doc Marten's, well-scuffed ones, and I hoped to fuck they weren't the steel-toed variety. My jaw hurt like a son of a bitch and I understood he was going to kill me but was in no great hurry. He had discovered the greatest, most potent aphrodisiac on the planet – power. I moved to try for some distance and he kicked me on the back of my head.

Hard.

I saw stars. Not the spangled variety, but the ones that tell you you are in deep shit and it's not going to get any better.

He asked, as if he actually cared, 'Did that hurt, Jack?'

Then two more swift kicks to my side and chest, and I felt something give – a rib, perhaps. My breathing tightened.

He said, still in that pleasant conversational tone, 'I've often wondered what it's like to kick the living daylights out of a person. All my life, I've been the one getting kicked, and you know what? You know what, Jack-o? It's kinda neat, as the Americans might say.'

And that galvanized me. America… my new life, Ridge's tests, not being there for her, all because of this – pup?

I groaned, 'Sean, one thing.'

He hesitated, and I kept my voice low so he had to bend over. He still couldn't hear me and bent real low. His face was in mine, I could smell garlic off his breath. I clamped my teeth on his nose, bit down with all the ferocity I've ever known, and swear to Christ, I bit clean through.

He staggered back, blood pumping down his face, going, 'What the fuck did you do? You bit me!'

I managed to get up on one knee, saw a clump of driftwood, hoped the water hadn't softened it.

It hadn't.

And I blasted it across his skull, saying, 'Don't call me Jack-o.'

A few more wallops of pure, unadulterated rage and his face and head were mush.

I muttered, 'We don't want you in our town, we have enough garbage as it is. How do you think we're going to win the tidy-towns competition?'

Had I gone insane? I can only hope so.

I gathered some stones, a lot of very heavy ones, piled them into the pockets of his new smart coat and dragged him to the water. Then, to my horror, he groaned, and I don't know for sure but it sounded like, 'Please, Dad, don't.'

It took a while but eventually he was struggling no more. I took him way out, as far as I could manage without going under my own self. It was cold. With the amount of rocks in his pockets, it was hard work and I nearly abandoned it, but I had to be sure he wouldn't surface. When I was sure he would stay down, I took a deep breath and went under with him, his eyes staring at me like a mild reproach, and added more stones from the bottom of the sea bed. My teeth were doing a fandango of fear and shock. I felt that seeping numbness that whispers to you, 'Rest, let the water soothe you.'

The temptation was massive, but with a supreme effort I put the last of the rocks on him and broke the surface, gasping for air. I looked at how far I'd come and wasn't even sure I'd make it back to shore, then muttered, 'Just do it, stop whining.'

I came out of the water and the inclination to lie down was overpowering, but I managed to keep going. The pain in my head, chest and side was beyond belief. I swallowed a whole shitpile of Stewart's pills, kept moving.

I was nearly home when I realized something from Sean had snagged on my jacket: the rosary beads he'd worn as a bracelet. It had that tiny cross on it.

I was passing a litter bin, put it in there.

I was all through with crosses.

The following Monday, a man in his twenties came to inspect the flat and finalize the deal. He did a thorough walk around, even pounded the walls. He was representing a businessman named Flanagan.

He said, 'Mr Taylor, I don't see any problems. We'll get our engineer to examine it, of course, but I think we're set. I'm prepared to write you a cheque now for the deposit.'

Here it was, the actual moment, and I baulked. Did I really want to do this? My tickets for America had arrived a few days before and I'd shoved them in a drawer. The money to be paid for the apartment stunned me, but it also meant I'd be homeless.

I asked the guy, 'What will Mr Flanagan do with this?'

He seemed to find that an odd question.

'What do you care?'

I cared.

Mrs Bailey, my one-time landlady, constant friend and supporter, had left it to me.

I gave the guy a look and he said, 'Well, he has a son coming up to college age, so maybe he'll keep it for him, or perhaps just as a little place in town for overnight stays. You can't go wrong with property in the centre of town.'

That bothered me a lot.

He sensed my unease.

'You do want to sell, Mr Taylor?'

I said, 'Yeah, sure.'

And got rid of him.

I was imbued with a sadness, a melancholy as heavy as the stones I'd laden Sean with.

My passport was renewed and the photo in it made me look like a furtive ghost. I'd nothing to get rid of. Gail had burned my books and I'd long ago burned most of my boats. My goodbyes… yeah, they'd take all of two minutes. I was restless, got out of the flat, walked down the town, asking myself, 'Will you miss it?'

I didn't know.

I went into a coffee shop. Knew if I went into a pub, I'd definitely drink and that would solve all my travel problems. I ordered a latte and blocked all thoughts of recent events from my mind. As my coffee arrived, so did Stewart. He asked if he could join me, and I got the waitress to bring him a herbal tea. He was wearing a business suit, expensive shirt and tie. When you've bought cheap all your life, you know what's quality. He seemed completely at ease.

He said, 'So, Jack, you find Sean?'

A small smile was playing around his lips.

I said, 'No, no luck there.'

He thanked the waitress for his tea, then said, 'Must have gone back to London, you think?'

'I've no idea.'

To get him off this track, I told him about the sale of the flat and my emigration plans. He asked who was buying my place.