Ken Bruen: Sanctuary

I was stunned, then raging. I nearly went for him, snarled, ‘Are you fucking mad? It was my fault. I live with it every day and now you trot out this nonsense.’

He put his hand on my arm but I shrugged it off.

He said, ‘Jack, you’re my friend. Why would I deliberately upset you?’

Jesus, I could feel tears in my eyes.

I’d been doing penance for so long, tears were no longer part of the daily trip. I asked, ‘What is this about?’

He exhaled a long breath, then said, ‘One of my ex-clients was in rehab and she shared a room with a woman. You know how total honesty and making amends, all that good karma, is part of the whole gig? This woman said she pushed her own child out the window and let someone else take the rap.’

It was like being hit by a truck. I stammered, ‘Cathy?’

He nodded.

I couldn’t take it in.

‘That’s impossible.’

His voice quiet, he ventured, ‘Wasn’t that time exceptionally hot? A heatwave, if I recall. And you were coming off a bad case. Isn’t it possible you nodded off for five minutes?’

‘Christ almighty.’ All these years of such agony, guilt — for nothing? ‘Why? Why would she do such a thing? She adored that child.’

He took his time, then said, ‘The little girl had Down syndrome. Her mother felt she’d be better off out of a world that would only hurt and ridicule such a child. It’s not uncommon.’

I was reeling, spat, ‘She threatened to kill me. She let her husband go down the toilet, and all the time she was the one. The fucking bitch, how could she do that?’

He said, ‘Denial is a very powerful tool, Jack, and Cathy used to be a junkie, right?’

I said, ‘I’ll fucking kill her.’ I meant it. I was nearly blind from tears and rage.

He waited, then said, ‘Don’t you think she does that to herself, every single day?’

My whole body began to shake, from anger, hurt, confusion and the terrible waste and loss.

Stewart reached in his suit jacket, took out a small envelope and slid it across the table. ‘Take one of these babies, you won’t be hurting. No more than two a day.’

I wanted to say, Shove your fecking pills . But I’m an alky and thus, as an addict, open to anything mind-altering. The last years of my drinking had been about numbness. I was no longer seeking joy or fun. I was drinking, as Exley said, to ‘Simply dim the lights’. Fred Exley’s book A Fan’s Notes was nigh essential reading for a drinker, and though the words are somewhat different in the book, that’s what he meant. The lights had been glaring for years and, alas, not blinding me but allowing me to see all too clearly. There was no greater curse.

I took a pill out. It was large and black and I raised my eyebrows.

‘Black beauties,’ he said simply.

I had to ask, ‘And are they beauties?’

He gave a tight smile, no warmth. It was a long time since Stewart did warmth; the closest he ever came was his odd friendship with me. Music was playing over the speakers and Snow Patrol came on with ‘Set The Fire To The Third Bar’. Hell of a title and hell of a song.

Stewart asked, ‘You’ll be returning to your day job, I suppose?’

Investigating.

I said, ‘Soon as Ridge gets in shape, I’m outa here.’

Like any ex-con, his eyes were continually darting round, checking the exits, the people, gauging the threat. I realized how sad but true it was that you could leave prison but it would never leave you.

He said, ‘If you need any help, I’m available. And as you know, I know everyone, in some capacity.’

So I showed him the list and, unlike Clancy, he didn’t dismiss it, said, ‘A judge killed himself yesterday.’ He filled me in on the details and then added, ‘Around his neck was a placard with the block letters I HAVE TRESPASSED.’

Christ on a bike.

I said, ‘That’s the same language as in the letter.’

He studied the list, then said, ‘Any idea who it might be?’

I shook my head.

‘Lemme root around.’

‘You’ll want paying?’ I asked.

That icy smile again. ‘Course.’

Then before I could say anything, he said, ‘Let me share my Zen learning with you.’

Ah fuck.

I said, ‘I’d rather pay you in, like, cash.’

He was standing now, said, ‘Cash doesn’t last. I think you and me both know that.’

I’d just approached the entrance to my flat when a BMW pulled up, like in the movies or a bad novel, with a screech of brakes. The door opened and what Mickey Spillane would call a bruiser got out. He was one of the largest men I’ve ever seen, and remember, I’d trained as a young guard with the men from the Midlands and they don’t come much bigger. This guy was.

He didn’t quite have cauliflower ears but it was a close call. Scar tissue round his eyes testified to his time as a boxer. He moved right up to me, said, ‘Taylor, someone wants to meet you.’

He was wearing an expensive suit but it didn’t conceal his bulk; he was used to his sheer size doing his work for him. I was in a pretty shitty frame of mind, close to real meltdown, and this fuck, with his tone, got me in all the wrong ways. I asked, ‘And who might that be?’

He gave a condescending smile, making me like him even less, if possible, and sneered, ‘All in good time, bud. Get in the car.’

Bud?

He was right in my face and I could smell aniseed on his breath, very strong and nauseating. I asked, ‘And if I don’t?’

He loved that, like he’d been hoping I’d take that route. He jabbed a fat finger in my chest and said, ‘Then I’ll put you in.’

I kneed him in the balls, hard, and as he doubled over, I caught him by his expensive lapel and said, ‘Tell your boss to make an appointment and get some decent help.’

I gave him a light slap on the face, added, ‘And don’t call me bud.’

I let him slump to the ground and went inside feeling a whole lot better. My gay neighbour was waiting, wringing his hands, looking scared. I was in no mood for theatrics, snapped, ‘What?’

He was shaking as he handed me a leaflet and asked, ‘Have you seen this?’

‘What the fuck is it now?’

I took the leaflet, read:

BUGGER BOYS ARE A VIRUS

LEAVE WHILE YOU STILL CAN

THIS IS NOT A WARNING

IT’S A PROMISE.

O. F. R. L.

I read it twice. ‘What do the initials stand for?’

He looked at me in astonishment. ‘You don’t know?’

Jesus.

‘If I bloody knew, would I be asking?’ My meltdown was back.

He wrung his hands some more and said, ‘Organization For Right Living.’

I thought, Just what the town needs. The water is poisoned and here are a bunch of crazies with their own brand of poison .

I said, ‘Fucking head cases. Chuck it in the bin.’

Still shaking, he said, ‘They’ve been beating up gay people outside clubs.’

Bollocks. ‘People get walloped outside clubs all the time, it’s part of the entertainment. How do you even know it’s them?’

He stood back, his outrage overcoming his fear, and said, ‘Because they have a hot iron and brand those letters on your hand.’

I’d had enough. ‘So stay home or call the cops.’

He spat, ‘The cops, right, they would just love to defend homosexuals. In Catholic Ireland, they’re probably part of the organization.’

As I put the key in my door I said, ‘You run across them, give me a shout.’

I was inside, shutting the door when he called, ‘And who exactly is it you’d help, them or me?’

I turned the radio on to drown him out.

My mind was in tatters. The shattering thought that I wasn’t responsible for the death of Serena May was too much to take in. All those years of guilt and the subsequent fallout because of it.