Cross - Ken Bruen [54]
The funeral of Father Griffin in 1920 had left Mill Street and crossed O'Brien's Bridge, and there were still old people who swore that as the hearse hit the middle of the bridge, three salmon leaped from the water, hung suspended in mid air for a moment and then slipped gracefully back down. You don't see the salmon leap any more, the poison in the water has them lacklustre, much like the population. My dad, telling me this, his eyes wet, said the driver of the hearse, a guy of rare courage and spirit, wore a top hat and sash in defiance of the ruling edicts. Then and now, I see that man, a hero to his own fierce belief. The following week, he was shot dead.
You ask the young people who Father Griffin was and they give you the look that goes, 'Like, dude, I dunno priests.'
I found the house in Father Griffin Road without any trouble. It's a narrow street and used to be real old Galway. Not any more, but then, what was?
For Sale signs were the main feature now. I had to be real careful. If any of the family spotted me, I was fucked. The house was near the middle, seemed quiet, no movement.
I jumped when a man spoke, asked, 'You looking for someone?'
I turned to face a man in his seventies, with a dog on a leash – I was going to suggest he stay away from Newcastle. He had a bright, alert expression and his accent was local.
I said, 'I was thinking of buying a house.'
He looked at the house, said, 'That one is rented to an English family, but the others, down a bit, they're for sale. You'll need a few bob.'
'What are the English crowd like?'
His face suggested this was a really dumb question.
'They're polite . . . but friendly? They're Brits, they don't know how to do that.'
And he had no more to say on the subject. I thanked him, began to move off.
He added, 'Used to be a real nice street. Didn't everywhere?'
Back home, the man who'd driven Father Griffin's hearse was vivid in my mind and I swear I could see him as I dry-fired the Glock a few times, trying to picture myself using it on Gail. Stewart was right – prison was not the answer for her. But this?
My phone went. Gina, the doctor, inquiring as to how my hands were recovering. I said they were healing well, and then there was silence. I suppose it was the space where I should have asked her if she'd like to maybe get a meal or go out. I wanted to, but couldn't do it. I said I'd give her a call real soon, as soon as I got a few details sorted. Yeah, like kill a young woman. I could tell from her voice she didn't think I was going to call. I thanked her for her concern, sounding like an ungrateful asshole.
I checked my watch. Stewart would be meeting Gail soon and it was time to go call on Mitch and Sean. I put on my Garda all-weather coat, loaded the weapon and put the gun in my right-hand pocket, hoping to hell I wouldn't have to use it on Sean. It's not that I had a liking for that kid, but he was definitely caught up in events he had no control over.
It was dark when I got to Father Griffin Road, lights were blazing all over the house. I debated trying to break in the back way and then thought, the hell with it, I'd take them head on.
I rang the doorbell, my right hand in my coat pocket, gripping the Glock. It was three minutes before the door was pulled open.
Sean stood there, his face ashen, his eyes wide. He gasped, 'My dad, something's wrong with him.'
I thought there was a lot wrong with them all, but went in, asked, 'What do you mean?'
Sean was near hysterical.
'Gail had a huge fight with him. We're running out of money, and she said she'd found a new source. Dad was saying that it might be time to call it quits and she went ballistic, called him a coward and stormed out.'
I was looking to see where Mitch was. I didn't want him coming at me from my blind side.
Sean continued,