Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Somewhere, on the street above, a lorry went past, rumbling its way across the bridge as Mary Brennan chewed at her ragged nails. Then a train — rattling the rails above us, sending down a smear of grit and dust to clatter against the church roof. The five carriages taking forever to pass as it made its way south towards the station.

I pulled out the wodge of LIRU business cards from my pocket and slipped one free. ‘If you remember anything else, anything at all, give me a call.’

She took the small rectangle of card and nodded. Biting her bottom lip. Blinking. Breath shuddering.

‘I’m so, so sorry.’ Alice put her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘I know you think nobody cares, but we understand, we really do.’

She shook the hand off. Scrubbed away the tears. ‘Don’t patronise me.’

‘Well, maybe I don’t understand, I mean, how could I... I can empathise, but no one can understand unless they’ve been through something as horrific as that, but Ash has .’ Alice pointed at me. ‘He knows what it’s like.’

‘Alice, don’t .’ Not this. Not now. And certainly not today.

‘His daughter was taken by a man who tortured and killed her. It might feel like the police don’t care, but I promise you, he really, really does.’

The old fire ignited behind my eyes, reached its burning talons deep into my guts. ‘I said, that’s enough!’

Mary stared at me with hungry eyes. ‘Your daughter?’

My Rebecca...

And I’m standing in the kitchen, in my crappy dilapidated council house in Kingsmeath, opening those homemade birthday cards with her photograph on them. One every year. The blood and the pain and the horror in her eyes.

I curled my hands into fists, the knuckles white and aching. ‘This isn’t—’

‘So, you see, Ash and I want to help you find out who did this. We want to make sure they’re punished for what happened to Andrew.’

‘Someone killed your daughter?’

‘Enough.’ I backed away from the memorial, into the rain again. Forcing the words through clenched teeth. Jaw throbbing with the pressure. ‘I don’t want to talk about—’

‘Mary?’ It was a man’s voice, slightly high-pitched. A generic Scottish accent that went up at the end. ‘I brought you a cup of tea. Thought you might...’ He couldn’t have been much over five four, with a beer belly that paunched out over the belt of his brown corduroy trousers. A combover that wouldn’t have fooled Stevie Wonder on a dark night. A podgy face having difficulty holding onto the wispy beard he’d inflicted upon it. His eyes went wide behind his glasses as he saw me. ‘I...’ A mug with, ‘PRAISE THE LORD FOR TEA & BICCIES!’ on it trembled in his hand, steaming beige liquid slopping out to splash against the leg of his cords — darkening the fabric, as if he’d wet himself.

Why did he look so familiar...?

Of course: Steven Kirk.

The same Steven Kirk that swore blind he’d been taking care of his dying mother when all those wee boys were abducted and killed. And he just happened to be at the same church as Andrew Brennan’s mother?

Aye, right.

‘Well, well, well.’ I stepped closer, letting all that pain and anger sizzle in the words: ‘If it isn’t the man we were off to see next. Hello, Steven.’

‘This isn’t... I wasn’t...’ More tea slopped down his front.

‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do.’

But Kirk was off, the mug flying away to crash against a headstone as he sprinted across the graveyard. Wouldn’t have thought a wee fat man would’ve been able to go that fast.

I lumbered after him, brolly bobbing and weaving — more trouble than it was worth, so I let it fly free. ‘COME BACK HERE, YOU GREASY LITTLE GIT!’ Not so easy, running through the thick grass with a buggered foot. Gritting my teeth. Pushing through the stabbing jerk every time my right shoe touched down.

But worth it, because Steven Kirk deserved everything that was about to happen to him.

He scrambled over the rear wall of the graveyard and out into the chunk of waste ground beneath the railway lines. I bent into it, sped up, slapped one hand down on top of the wall and swung my legs up and over. Landing awkwardly on my right foot — a red-hot crowbar slamming through the flesh to lever the bones apart.

Kirk wasn’t slowing — if anything he was getting faster, accelerating down the slight slope. Increasing the distance between us.

‘COME BACK HERE!’ Finding it harder and harder to run now, every other step a screaming ball of agony.

He was going to get away.

And after this, it was pretty damned unlikely he’d head home and wait for us to show, like a good boy. He’d disappear. Properly this time.

MOVE FASTER!

Push.

Bite down on the pain and sodding run .

A jagged huff-huff-huff noise grew louder behind me, then Alice went past, arms and legs pumping, red feet flashing their white soles as she chased after Steven Kirk. Hood thrown back, curly brown hair streaming out behind her in the rain.

Kirk glanced back over his shoulder — face an unhealthy shade of sweaty puce — then put his head down and his elbows up, really going for it. But Alice was fitter. And faster. Getting closer and closer.

Then she was airborne: a flying tackle that slammed into the middle of Kirk’s back, sending them both crashing to the wet grass at the base of one of the railway pilings. Rolling over and over, limbs sticking out, then curling up as they struggled.

Only when they stopped, it was Kirk who came out on top, straddling Alice, rearing up, one fist curled back and ready to smash down into her face.

Which is when I finally arrived. ‘NO YOU DON’T!’

He barely had time to turn and stare at me before I battered into him, tearing him off her and into the grass again. Cracked the bony ridge of my forearm into his nose. Once. Twice. And three time’s the charm. Putting my weight behind it. Bouncing his head off the ground as blood spattered out into the gloom. Doing it for every little boy and girl he’d hurt. For the people’s children he’d brutalised, and tortured, and killed .

He screamed, so I smashed my elbow into his mouth as well. Did that again too.

Because let’s face it, you have to take the tiny moments of joy when you can get them.

Should castrate the bastard, right here. Stamp on his balls till they burst. See if he still feels like interfering with children after they had to surgically amputate whatever ragged scraps of flesh I left him with down there.

His face got another elbowing, my teeth bared as I broke his. Not even bothering to hold back the laughter. Hard and sharp and loud and—

‘God’s sake, you’ll kill him!’ Alice’s hands grabbed at my arm and collar, hauling me backwards. Off Steven Kirk. Pushing me away. Her face all pinched, eyes shining, nose red, tears on her cheeks. ‘Stop it!’ Then she was on her knees beside him, wiping the blood from his cheeks and chin with a handkerchief. Holding him as he sobbed.

I stepped back, a dull throbbing spreading down my right arm, making the fingers tingle, breath heaving in my chest. ‘I did it... for... He was... trying... to hurt... you.’

Alice glared up at me. ‘We’re meant to help people!’ Then she closed her eyes and turned away. ‘I can’t even look at you.’

Raised voices carried from the church’s front doors, down the nave and over the crossing, but by the time they reached the chancel, Saint Damon’s gothic pillars and grimy tapestries had reduced it to nothing more than angry noises, stripped clean of actual words, leaving only trouble behind.

I leaned forward in my pew, arms resting on the row in front, and nodded at Mary Brennan. ‘Are you OK?’