Ken Bruen - Cross

I asked, 'Is there a sign out there that says, Gather here all ye nutcases – if you want to find a dog or just generally go bananas, then this is the shrine for you?'

He fixed bloodshot eyes on me and repeated, 'Dog? What dog?'

I knew this could go on for a time so I cut to the chase, snapped, 'Were you looking for me?'

The question seemed to throw him and he disappeared. I wrote it off to the weather – storms bring out the crazies like a call to the wild. A tabloid was on the seat beside me and I glanced at the headlines, the lead story being BRITNEY'S SECOND WEDDING NOT LEGAL! This covered most of the front page, and in a corner was a small feature on the British hostage in Iraq. He'd been kidnapped with two Americans who had now been beheaded – his fate was literally hanging on a thread. His family had begged Tony Blair to help. Before I could turn to page three, where the story was continued, the guy was back, a large whiskey in his shaking fist.

He said, 'Sorry, man. I had to, like, get straight, get my act together.'

His body was in tremors. If this was him in shape, God forbid I'd ever witness him falling apart. I resolved to change pubs – it seemed the whole flaming town knew I was available in Garavan's. What disturbed me was he was so like me. The state of him, I'd been there so many times, and in my current guise was but a drink or two from his terrain.

He put out his hand. 'I'm Eoin Heaton.'

I took his hand. It was drenched in perspiration and after I withdrew mine I had to struggle not to wipe it. I felt the identification you have for a fellow sufferer but I didn't want to know, and was about to gently dismiss him when he said, 'I'm like you.'

Fuck.

As if he read my mind. I made to stand up. I really didn't need this shit and if he was seriously fucked, well, too bad, tough luck and all that, but hey, not my problem.

He said, 'I was a Guard and they threw me out.'

I sat back down, my own sad career flashing before me. He asked, 'Didn't you hit a politician, smack him right in the kisser?'

And had thus begun my glorious descent into years of pain.

His face had lit up at the thought of my action, the first sign of vitality he'd shown. I could see he was at heart a decent character, tinged with naivety but with an essential – what's the word? – goodness, if there's such a thing any more in a world where a pop star's mad marriages garner more newsprint than the imminent beheading of a man.

I said, 'Well, I have some regrets about that.'

He was eager to agree with me, asked, 'You're sorry you hit him?'

'No, I'm sorry I only hit him once.'

He gave a loud laugh, tinged with hysteria, then stopped abruptly, stared at me, asked, 'What's wrong with your voice?'

I was conscious that it was more guttural than usual, like I'd sucked in granite, and it had been paining me a lot in recent days.

I said, 'You smoke a thousand cigarettes and drink enough rotgut whiskey, it plays hell with your diction.'

He was torn between feeling bad for mentioning it and a certain excitement at being so close to someone who'd been… at a shooting . His curiosity won out and he asked, 'What was it like, if you don't mind me asking, you know, to… have that happen to you?'

What do you answer? That it was fun, and is the reason why you're smelling of raw whiskey at noon or that you're suffering, as the doctors warned, post-traumatic stress syndrome?

I opted for keeping it light. 'It ruined me whole day.'

He was nodding, as if he could imagine.

He couldn't.

I didn't have any more to add so I asked, 'What is it you want from me?'

Got a nervous smile. He looked at his now empty glass, as if to say, How'd that happen?

I knew the feeling.

He said, 'Lemme get us some fresh drinks.'

I wanted to, and having a bone fide drunk to keep me company, it should have been ideal, but I had parameters to keep.

'No, not for me, I've got to go.'

He was disappointed. Not quite the response he'd been expecting. He said, 'Can you help me?'

I liked him, but not that much.

I said, 'Get yourself into rehab, call AA, there's all -'

He cut me off, horror on his face, near shouted, 'Not that kind of help, Jaysus. A few days in bed, some paracetamol, bit of grub, some kickback time, I'll be fine.'

I thought, Dream on, sucker and waited.

He sat up straight, said, 'I want to do what you do. You know, find stuff, work on cases.'

I could have given him the lecture, told him he was buying a bucket of grief, but as I got ready to launch, he pleaded, 'Jack, I need a lifeline. I got nothing, I'm dying here. If you give me something to hang on to, I'll get back in shape. I just need, like, a focus.'

And yet again I made the wrong decision. Should have just set him adrift but he got to me, the expression in his eyes, that lost desperate cry.

I said, 'OK, I'm going to give you a start, and if you manage it, we'll see if maybe you can help me on some other stuff.'

He grabbed my hand, gratitude pouring out. 'You won't regret it.'

I was regretting it already, cautioned, 'You haven't heard what it is yet. You might not be so grateful in a moment.'

His face expressed the belief that wonderful events were about to occur. It's a result of Jameson on an empty stomach, the illusion that all will be well. I told him about the disappearance of the Newcastle dogs and my being asked to check it. I took out my notebook, gave him the name of the man who'd asked for my help. He looked really sick, not just drink sick but the illness that rides with acute disappointment. Took him a moment to digest the information and then he near spat, 'Fucking dogs – you want me to search for a missing frigging animal?'

I shook my head. 'I don't want you to do a blessed thing, I already told you that, but you said you were prepared to do anything. Here's your chance to prove it.'

He was wringing his hands, a gesture I thought was purely confined to books, and said, 'OK, I'll give it a shot.'

He was so far gone that the awful irony of his words escaped him.

There was resignation in his voice, the troubles of the world in his eyes, so I countered, 'Hey, listen up, you're not doing me any fucking favours. You have something else going on, then go for it, don't let me keep you from better things.'

He was wiped, looked at me with the face of a five-year-old boy, said, 'I'm sorry, Jack, I… I'll get right on it.'

I gave him my phone numbers and when he continued to sit there I said, 'Well, get to it. You think the solution's going to pop its head round the corner?'

As he reached the door he said, 'I understand now what they meant.'

To be rid of him I asked, 'Yeah, what was that?'

'That you're a hard bollix.'

He was gone before I could reply.

The barman came in, began to collect the glasses, asked, 'Get you anything else?'

'No, I'm good. You know that guy who just left?'

He wiped the table down, said, 'Heaton? You'd need to be careful of him.'

'Because he's a drinker?'

He gave a short laugh and glanced at me as if he wondered was I kidding, the kettle calling the pot black. He said, 'Well, there's that, but I meant he used to be a Guard. Them fuckers never change their spots.'

After the funeral of John Willis, his family shut down. At home were his parents and his sister, Maria. For a few days, neighbours called, bringing food, condolences and very little actually to say. The manner of his death, crucifixion, brought all comments to a halt. What was to offer in the comfort line?