Cross - Ken Bruen [33]
She took a decent wallop of the vodka and continued.
'I got to join the most exclusive club in the world – the family of victims. No one wants to belong, we share the pain that never goes away and we can recognize each other, even without words. To outlive your child, this is the greatest torment the world can send. And when I saw you, saw the expression in your eyes, I knew you had joined.'
I wanted to say, 'Bollocks, peddle your therapy in some other neighbourhood.' Not even the pills could still the anger I felt.
I said, 'I sure do appreciate your help, but don't make any assumptions about me and loss.'
It sounded as fierce as I intended.
She gave a tiny smile and nodded her head. 'I understand rage.'
I wanted to shake her, scream, 'Do you? Do you fuck.'
She said in a quiet tone, 'It's one of the five stages of grief.'
I was on me feet. 'Me? I've narrowed it down to two – anger and drinking.'
She stood up, said, 'I must go. I would like to spend some time with you, Mr Jack Taylor.' And touched my face with one finger. It burned more than the spit of Cody's father.
I faltered, 'You mean like a date?'
She was at the door.
'No, I meant like consolation.'
'I don't need consolation.'
As she headed down the stairs she threw back, 'I wasn't talking about you.'
I was restless after she left, not knowing what to think. I picked up a book, opened it at random, read:
. . . if once a man indulges in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing, and from robbing, he next comes to drinking and Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination . . .
The hell was this? Looked at the author: Thomas de Quincey.
Vinny, from Charly Byrnes's bookshop, had recently dropped me off a pile of books. A lot of them looked old and Vinny had said, 'Some of those volumes, the same age as yerself.'
I put the volume aside and figured the only one of that list remaining for me was procrastination. But if you factored in my total lack of dealing with whoever had shot Cody, I guess I had that pretty well covered too. I knew I should really be out there, giving my full attention to finding the shooter, but I was afraid. What if it was Cathy, Jeff's wife? I'd destroyed her daughter and husband, her whole life.
I took one of Gina's pills and waited, my mind in the dead place, and thought, 'These aren't worth a shite.'
Decided to lie down anyway, and slept for eighteen hours. If I had any dreams I don't recall them, but you can be sure they weren't the skip and jig variety. They never were.
The soaked-in-sweat sheets on my awakening testified to that. Business as usual.
As I'd slept, they were fishing Eoin Heaton's body out of the canal. His days of dog investigations were over.
16
'If you carry a cross in your pocket,
no harm will come to you.'
Irish priest in his sermon.
A local commented, 'It's not the cross in his
pocket we have to watch out for!'
When I came to, the first feeling I had was relief that I hadn't drunk. Then I checked the clock and realized with alarm I'd been out for nigh on eighteen hours, and . . . I was hungry.
My right hand was throbbing, but not as bad as I'd expected. The guy in the alley, how would he be doing? I showered, made some kick-arse coffee and dressed in a white shirt, clean jeans and a tweed jacket I'd bought in the charity shop. It had leather patches on the sleeves, and if I had a pipe I could pass for a character out of a John Cheever novel or a professor on the skids. While I'd been shaving, I'd risked looking at my eyes in the mirror. They didn't reflect a killer, but then they rarely do. Murderous bastards I'd met – and I've met more than my share – had real nice eyes.
I briefly listened to the news and they mentioned a man found in an alley, victim of a mugging, who was in intensive care. Did I give a sigh of relief?
No.
Headed out, taking my by now usual walk up to the top of the Square, to have a look