Mark Pearson - The Killing Season

‘Cork City?’

‘Near it. Ballydehob.’

‘I’ve never been.’

‘Most people have never been to Ballydehob.’

‘I meant to Ireland.’

Helen’s hand had been shaking as she poured the drinks, the neck of the bottle rattling against the rims of the glasses. It wasn’t me she was nervous of. I took a sip of the sherry, which was surprisingly dry. Probably a good one but I had no real framework of reference.

I looked around the room. There was no sign of the dog. The music playing was calming, soothing.

‘Where’s Bruno?’ I asked.

She flinched a little. ‘In my bedroom. Having a nap.’

Bruno started barking. ‘Sounds like he might have woken up,’ I said and produced a soft dog toy in the shape of a blue octopus from my pocket. ‘I brought him a little present.’

‘That’s kind of you. Hang on, I’ll fetch him.’

There was moisture in her eyes as she left hurriedly and I heard her put the chain back on the front door. I guess I could tell what the Brothers Grim had threatened Helen Middleton with and I didn’t find my dislike of them lessening any.

She came back, holding the dog in her arms, and looked at me for a moment or two before speaking.

‘I don’t want you doing anything that will bring harm to him.’

‘I won’t do that, I promise,’ I said.

‘I am an old lady. He is the only thing that I have left. Apart from my house and my work.’

‘I understand, Helen. The innocent have the right not to be afraid, especially in their own homes.’

‘I can’t help being afraid. But they should not be allowed to get away with this. I realise that now.’

‘I took the wrong approach with them. I thought the threat of the law would be enough. But I of all people should know that sometimes it isn’t.’

‘I don’t wish you to be getting into any further trouble. I understand the police have reprimanded you.’

‘I can take care of myself.’

Helen nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think you can.’

‘You just take care of Bruno,’ I said and handed him the toy. He held it between his teeth and it set his tail whipping again.

‘Thank you, Jack,’ she said.

‘It’s just a little toy,’ I replied. ‘It didn’t cost much.’

‘I wasn’t talking about the toy.’

‘I know.’

Our house was built in the mid-nineteenth century.

A fisherman’s cottage in brick and flint. There was a small front garden, with steps leading up to the front door bisecting it. Shingled areas on both sides, with plants and seaside ephemera: a few lobster pots, a small anchor, an olive tree that Kate’s cousin had planted in a large half-barrel. Coastal kitsch. But it worked and it was a million miles from my old place in Kentish Town.

I was standing in the farmhouse-style kitchen, looking out onto the pergola and the patio that stretched down to the garden proper. It was half-covered and in the summer and early autumn I had barbecued there while Kate cradled our baby Jade and sat with Siobhan on a bench and watched me. Looking out at the darkness now it seemed a long time ago. But the night was filled with stars. One of the best things about being away from the city was the night sky. You could actually see the stars when the sky was clear. Millions of them.

‘Penny for them?’ Kate asked.

‘I’ll give you a kiss instead,’ I said and made good on my promise.

‘Nice.’

‘I know.’

‘What are you going to do about Helen Middleton?’

‘Probably best you don’t know.’

‘I’m going up to bed to read,’ she said and kissed me again. ‘And Siobhan said to remind you that you promised to read her a story, or make one up like you usually do.’

‘OK.’

‘And please, Jack. Nothing about drugs or dead hookers or violent crime.’

‘OK.’

‘I mean it. You haven’t had her English teacher asking me where she gets some of the stories from when she has to write a holiday essay. Her “What I did last summer” piece nearly had them calling social services.’

Kate went through the door that led from the kitchen to a narrow, steep, typically Norfolk stairway. I waited for a few moments, heard her talking to Siobhan and then pulled out my mobile phone and punched the button on a speed-dial contact.

‘Is that yourself, Jack?’

I smiled. The familiar voice bringing memories flooding back.

I was nine years old and walking back from school alone. My best friend Rory had been off sick with measles and I was forbidden to visit him. That suited me just fine. I had seen kids with the measles right enough and could do without them myself, thank you very much. I’d catch up with Rory when he was well and uncontaged, or whatever it was they called it. Like me, my mate Rory was big for his age. Everyone said when he grew up he’d either be a policeman or a professional wrestler. It was their joke. What Rory wanted to do when he grew up was be a carpenter like his da. Heck, his ma always joked, sure enough he could just pick the trees out of the ground, he’d have no need for lumberjacks and saws for his raw materials. Rory took it in good humour, he knew his da bought his wood from the trade store in Bantry mainly, but he humoured his mother. You had to keep the women on your side.

Even at that age I agreed with him on that one. I didn’t know what I wanted to do when I grew up, though. They talked about it often enough but I couldn’t fix myself on anything. Plenty of time for that. Fireman one week. A soldier a few years back before the Troubles flared up in earnest again. Secretly I sometimes dreamed of being a priest. I could see myself standing up there in the pulpit, holding everybody in awe as I railed and castigated. I was not so hot at the academicals, however, as I called them back then and I minded how the black crows and the penguins knew everything about everything, and that must take a powerful lot of book studying.

I bent down to pick up a pebble form the path. Feck it, I thought, I’m only nine years old — I have my whole life ahead of me. I threw the stone, arcing it high in the air to clatter down on the salt-crusted rocks on the beach below, when I heard the cry. And I recognised the voice.

I rushed down the path and around the corner. And there, sure enough, was Liam Corrigan, my cousin. Liam was a couple of years younger than me, a few inches shorter, and was surrounded by four older boys with mischief on their faces and sticks in their hands. I could see that Liam had tears in his eyes, that he was trying to hold back, and a small trickle of blood was running down from his nose.

I knew the other boys, sure enough. All Linehans. All trouble. Like the family had always been.

‘Brave of you to be taking on the one boy,’ I said to the eldest of them.

Gerry Linehan looked at me and grinned, strolling over. ‘You want to join in, do you? Do you want some of-’

But he never finished the sentence as I smashed my fist furiously and suddenly into his nose. The boy dropped, squealing, to his knees. I snatched up the stick from his hand and turned to the three remaining Linehans.

‘Come on, then, ya gobshites.’

I waved the stick in front of me and pushed Liam towards the road. ‘Get out of here.’

And as Liam ran off up the road for help, I turned and faced the others, a fury in me as they circled me as warily as a pack of dogs would approach a wounded wolf.

Had help not arrived when it did, things might have gone a lot worse for me. But, as it was, that was the first time I ended up in hospital for Liam. On that occasion it was for a fractured wrist. On the second occasion it was for something far more serious.