Cross - Ken Bruen [50]
She lived in Bohermore, in one of the few remaining original houses that hadn't been converted to a townhouse. The original one-up, one-down model, in a terrace. It had a tiny garden that was well tended and the front had been freshly painted.
I knocked at the door and it was opened by a tiny woman, bent in half by age and poverty. Her clothes were spotless, clean as anything to emerge from the Magdalen Laundry. The memory of that place gave me a shudder.
'Mrs Heaton, I am so sorry to bother you, I was a friend of Eoin's.'
She lifted her head with obvious effort, looked at me, said, 'Come in, amac (son).'
Jeez, I hadn't heard that term in twenty years. She led the way into a small sitting room, again clean as redemption. The wall had three framed pictures: the Pope, the Sacred Heart, and Eoin in his Guard uniform. He looked impossibly young, fresh-faced and with an eagerness that tore at my heart.
Mrs Heaton asked, 'Can I get you a drop of tea, loveen?'
Jesus.
Loveen.
Time was, this term of endearment was as common as muggings. You never heard it any more. It conveyed effortless warmth and an intimacy that was reassuring without being intrusive. For one insane moment, I thought I was going to weep. I said I'd love a cup of tea. The old ritual, also dying out. Nowadays you went to a house, you got offered designer coffee and no warmth, maybe a stock option to put on the tray with the flash caffeine. You'd never refuse tea from such a lady, it would be like spitting in her face. And no matter how old or fragile she was, you never – ever – offered to help.
On the mantelpiece – which was covered with Irish lace, all hand embroidered – were trophies for hurling and Gaelic football, and a small bottle of Lourdes holy water. I took out one of Stewart's pills and swallowed it. I was more shaken than I wanted to admit.
Five minutes later, she returned with a tray. A pot of tea, her best china and a slab of fruitcake.
She raised her head, asked, 'Would you like a drop of the creature?'
Whiskey.
Only if I could never leave and finish the whole bottle.
'No, the tea will be grand.'
Slipping into the old way of talking as if I'd never left.
She said, 'We'll let the tea draw.'
She lowered herself with deliberate movement into an armchair, and used a spoon to stir the pot. Around her neck was a Miraculous Medal, held by blue string.
She said, 'Isn't it fierce cold?'
It wasn't.
I said, 'It's bitter.'
Tea and the weather, does it get more Irish?
I said, 'I'm so sorry about Eoin.'
Fuck, I tried to come up with some convincing lie about him, but she was his mother, she was going to believe any crumb I could dredge up.
I tried, 'He was a good man.'
Brilliant, just fucking inspired.
She began to sob. Not loudly – worse, those silent ones that rack the frame. A tear ran down her cheek, hit the china cup, made a soft plink, and I knew, knew with every fabric of my being, it would join the phantom orchestra of nightmarish melodies that tormented my sleep.
She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, said, 'I'm sorry, Mr Taylor, it's . . .'
I rushed in with, 'Please, Mrs Heaton, call me Jack.'
She wouldn't, but it bought me some time. I asked, 'Is there anything I can do? Get you?'
She shook her head. 'Eoin was . . . very troubled, and the drink, that is a fierce curse, he couldn't get free of it.'
I was trying to think of a way to get out when she said, 'I didn't think he'd bring Blackie.'
Like a complete moron, I echoed, 'Blackie?'
As if she was talking to herself, she continued, 'Of course, he loved that dog, and I should have known he'd never leave without him.'
I felt my mind whirl, dance and reel as I attempted to put this into perspective.
'Blackie was his dog?'
The shrewd detective, not missing a beat, right on top of the data.
She gave a small smile, it lit up her whole lovely face, took thirty years straight off her.
'He lived for that animal, and when he . . . he . . . went into the river, I wasn't surprised he