Cross - Ken Bruen [10]
It hadn't.
The Republican Convention was taking place in New York. Christopher Hitchens had written that it was going to be a tight race and I believed him. Chechen rebels had seized a school and were threatening to kill three hundred kids if their fighters weren't released. One of the little girls was dragged to safety and, I swear, she was the spit of Serena May. Part of the whole mountain of guilt, remorse, was that every little girl reminded me of her. How could they not?
I switched off fast, swallowed the medication and waited for it to meld into the blood, muttering, 'God, I know you've fucked me good and probably for all time, but hey, cut me a bit of slack – no dreams of the child, or you know what? I'll drink again.'
Yeah, threatening God, real smart idea, like He gave a toss in the first place. But what the hell.
I added as a rider, 'Didn't I help a priest, doesn't that count?'
Probably not.
A knock on the door.
'Fuck.'
Could I risk ignoring it? Sleep was already creeping along my nerves. More knocking and I sighed, opened it.
Ridge.
She was in uniform, looking serious, intimidating.
I said, 'I paid my television licence, officer.'
She was not amused, but then, she rarely was. Our relationship was usually combative, aggressive, and however much we tried, we never could get free of each other. Before Cody had been shot, we'd reached a sort of warmth. She was in a relationship and it appeared we might establish some sort of friendship.
I'd saved her from a very vicious stalker and I knew how much she appreciated it, but she reacted with hostility to being indebted, and, God knows, no one understood this better than me. You help me out, I feel like I owe you, and till the sheet is clean I'm uneasy, jumpy, and what I know best is antagonism. The terrible truth, and we both knew it, was we needed to be linked, were linked, and somewhere in all that mess we were both scared we'd lose each other.
Is this fucked up? Sure. Or maybe it's just pure Irish.
I often thought, if only she weren't gay, would there be something?
If I wasn't an alcoholic. If . . . if . . . if.
Back through the years, we'd helped each other more than anyone else. Then we'd reach a plateau of near intimacy and one or both of us would scuttle for cover. Wouldn't it break your heart. It certainly broke mine, and as for Ridge, a smashed heart was written on her face if you could get past the front.
But the shooting had changed everything. My bitterness was not going to bring back the vague thread of closeness we'd been near.
She accused, 'You're only getting up?'
Her face was devoid of make-up and she looked strained.
'Actually, I was going to bed.'
She made a show of checking her watch. 'It's one thirty in the afternoon.'
I was tempted to slam the door in her face, shout, Aw, fuck off, but went with 'You came round to tell me the time? I have a watch.'
She brushed past me and marched into the sitting room.
I closed the door, said, 'It's not going to endear me to the neighbours, having Guards at the door.'
She looked round, not seeing anything to improve her mood, so I asked, 'You want something? A beer, a large whiskey?'
Needling her.
She said, 'I'd have thought jokes about alcoholism were hardly appropriate.'
We stood, hostility swirling round us till I asked, 'What, you came round, figured you'd just bust my balls? Things a bit slow on the traffic front?'
The wind seemed to go out of her. She slumped in a chair, asked, 'You know how hard it is, being a Guard?'
I wanted to shout, Hello, I used to be one, but said nothing.
She continued, 'And being a woman – a gay woman – they love that. You just know you're not on any promotion list. Last year they issued us with skirts to soften our image, like a thug is going to appreciate the difference, drop his knife and say, "Sorry, didn't realize you were wearing a skirt." None of the other women wear them. I have my baton, a utility belt that takes the handcuffs,