Cross - Ken Bruen [26]
'Are you all right?'
I looked up to see a woman in her late forties, with a good solid face, long dark hair, huge eyes and – odd how the mind can work on some level – a slight accent. English was not her first tongue.
I almost accused, 'You're not Irish?'
She gave a small smile. 'You need someone Irish?'
What the fuck was this?
I said, 'I don't need anyone.'
For a moment, it seemed like she might touch my hand and that would have been a huge mistake. Instead, she said, 'You are in pain. Did you lose someone?'
My oldest ally, rage, was waiting to strike. I let the dog loose and snapped, 'Who the fuck are you? Leave me alone.'
She stood up, said, 'My name is Gina. I sense you are a good man and I can help you,' and pushed a business card towards me.
I said, 'Sense this – I want you to fuck off.'
She did.
I dunno why – madness, perhaps – I put the card in my jacket.
Then I was outside and it was raining heavily. I muttered, 'Good, hope I catch me death.'
Just outside the main door of the hospital, a veritable cloud of smoke near obscured the entrance. Not from the weather, no . . . the smokers, huddled like frightened lepers. The smoking ban was a year old now and these groups of social outcasts were a familiar sight, frozen in winter, laughing in summer – if you can ever call a summer in Ireland such.
A new term had been coined as nicotine romances had sprung up. People got talking; in their allied addiction, social barriers that might have taken much longer to overcome were now literally so much smoke. The flirting thus was termed Slirting . . . Flirting with the smoke.
I reached for me cigs and remembered I didn't smoke any more, didn't drink either. No, I was too busy killing all I cared for.
If one of the smokers had noticed my gesture and offered me one, I probably would have taken it. My eyes were locked on the River Inn, clearly visible from where I stood. I began to move.
I was at the hospital gate when I heard,
'Jack?'
And now fucking what?
A man in his early thirties, well dressed if casual, a good-looking guy but with a wary air about him. It was that that triggered my memory.
'Stewart?'
My former drug-dealer. He'd been busted, got six years and then hired me to investigate the supposed accidental death of his sister. That case had been among the worst I'd ever been involved with and led to the death of Serena May, the Down's Syndrome child of Jeff and Cathy.
He smiled, a smile of no warmth. I suppose if you do hard time in prison, warmth isn't going to be one of your characteristics. The time I'd gone to see him in jail, his front tooth had been knocked out and that was just what was visible. I noticed the tooth had been replaced. And his eyes – when I'd first met him, his eyes had been full of energy, and now they were pools of granite.
He asked, 'Are you OK? You look like someone died.'
How to answer that? Fall at his feet and bawl like a baby? Go hard ass and say, 'No biggie'?
I said, 'People are dying all the time.'
He considered that, then said, 'I have a new flat, just down the road. You want to come have a drink . . . ?'
He paused, added, 'Or a coffee?'
My drink history was known to all and sundry. I said, 'Why not?' and we began to walk towards St Joseph's Church. Before we got a chance to speak, a Guard's car passed, the cops giving us the cold scan.
Stewart watched them cruise slowly by and after they'd passed he said, 'They never let you move on.'
Amen.
His flat was near Cook's Corner. The pub there, almost a Galway landmark, had a FOR SALE sign, but then what hadn't?
Cook's Corner is literally the centre where three roads cross. You can walk down Henry Street, the canal murmuring to you on both sides, or turn and head north to Shantalla, literal translation being 'old ground' and still home to some of the best and most genuine people you could ever hope to meet. Or you could retrace my path, back to the hospital. There was a fourth option, but no one ever mentioned it; a fourth road that was there, but never alluded to: the route to Salthill. Years ago, it led to Taylor's