Cross - Ken Bruen [63]
Hard.
I saw stars. Not the spangled variety, but the ones that tell you you are in deep shit and it's not going to get any better.
He asked, as if he actually cared, 'Did that hurt, Jack?'
Then two more swift kicks to my side and chest, and I felt something give – a rib, perhaps. My breathing tightened.
He said, still in that pleasant conversational tone, 'I've often wondered what it's like to kick the living daylights out of a person. All my life, I've been the one getting kicked, and you know what? You know what, Jack-o? It's kinda neat, as the Americans might say.'
And that galvanized me. America . . . my new life, Ridge's tests, not being there for her, all because of this – pup?
I groaned, 'Sean, one thing.'
He hesitated, and I kept my voice low so he had to bend over. He still couldn't hear me and bent real low. His face was in mine, I could smell garlic off his breath. I clamped my teeth on his nose, bit down with all the ferocity I've ever known, and swear to Christ, I bit clean through.
He staggered back, blood pumping down his face, going, 'What the fuck did you do? You bit me!'
I managed to get up on one knee, saw a clump of driftwood, hoped the water hadn't softened it.
It hadn't.
And I blasted it across his skull, saying, 'Don't call me Jack-o.'
A few more wallops of pure, unadulterated rage and his face and head were mush.
I muttered, 'We don't want you in our town, we have enough garbage as it is. How do you think we're going to win the tidy-towns competition?'
Had I gone insane? I can only hope so.
I gathered some stones, a lot of very heavy ones, piled them into the pockets of his new smart coat and dragged him to the water. Then, to my horror, he groaned, and I don't know for sure but it sounded like, 'Please, Dad, don't.'
It took a while but eventually he was struggling no more. I took him way out, as far as I could manage without going under my own self. It was cold. With the amount of rocks in his pockets, it was hard work and I nearly abandoned it, but I had to be sure he wouldn't surface. When I was sure he would stay down, I took a deep breath and went under with him, his eyes staring at me like a mild reproach, and added more stones from the bottom of the sea bed. My teeth were doing a fandango of fear and shock. I felt that seeping numbness that whispers to you, 'Rest, let the water soothe you.'
The temptation was massive, but with a supreme effort I put the last of the rocks on him and broke the surface, gasping for air. I looked at how far I'd come and wasn't even sure I'd make it back to shore, then muttered, 'Just do it, stop whining.'
I came out of the water and the inclination to lie down was overpowering, but I managed to keep going. The pain in my head, chest and side was beyond belief. I swallowed a whole shitpile of Stewart's pills, kept moving.
I was nearly home when I realized something from Sean had snagged on my jacket: the rosary beads he'd worn as a bracelet. It had that tiny cross on it.
I was passing a litter bin, put it in there.
I was all through with crosses.
28
Almost a clean getaway.
The following Monday, a man in his twenties came to inspect the flat and finalize the deal. He did a thorough walk around, even pounded the walls. He was representing a businessman named Flanagan.
He said, 'Mr Taylor, I don't see any problems. We'll get our engineer to examine it, of course, but I think we're set. I'm prepared to write you a cheque now for the deposit.'
Here it was, the actual moment, and I baulked. Did I really want to do this? My tickets for America had arrived a few days before and I'd shoved them in a drawer. The money to be paid for the apartment stunned me, but it also meant I'd be homeless.
I asked the guy, 'What will Mr Flanagan do with this?'
He seemed to find that an odd question.
'What do you care?'
I cared.
Mrs Bailey, my one-time landlady, constant friend and supporter, had left it to me.
I gave the guy a look and he said, 'Well, he has a son coming