Cross - Ken Bruen [17]
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.'
9
A drunk kneeling before the cross,
dying of a hangover, says to God,
'Come down, lemme up there for a while.'
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?
'He's better off.'
'Time eases all pain.'
'Only a hundred shopping days to Christmas.'
It was easier not to call, so the house gradually became filled with silence. Maria was inconsolable. She felt especially bad as she'd always been closer to their older brother, Rory, who was in England. She was nineteen, and had her first car, a secondhand Datsun with a lot of mileage on the clock. Maria was a plain girl, and all the make-up in the world only seemed to scream, Christ, she's plain. But when she got behind the wheel, she felt like a player, like she was important. Even, sometimes, that she might be pretty. She worked for a local building firm and they'd told her to take as much time off as she wished. A Monday morning, she'd driven to Salthill, parked on the promenade and watched the ocean. She liked it when it was rough, the fierceness