Cross (15 page)

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 up to college age, so maybe he'll keep it for him, or perhaps just as a little place in town for overnight stays. You can't go wrong with property in the centre of town.'

That bothered me a lot.

He sensed my unease.

'You do want to sell, Mr Taylor?'

I said, 'Yeah, sure.'

And got rid of him.

I was imbued with a sadness, a melancholy as heavy as the stones I'd laden Sean with.

My passport was renewed and the photo in it made me look like a furtive ghost. I'd nothing to get rid of. Gail had burned my books and I'd long ago burned most of my boats. My goodbyes . . . yeah, they'd take all of two minutes. I was restless, got out of the flat, walked down the town, asking myself, 'Will you miss it?'

I didn't know.

I went into a coffee shop. Knew if I went into a pub, I'd definitely drink and that would solve all my travel problems. I ordered a latte
and blocked all thoughts of recent events from my mind. As my coffee arrived, so did Stewart.
He asked if he could join me, and I got the waitress to bring him a herbal tea. He was wearing a business suit, expensive shirt and tie. When you've bought cheap all your life, you know what's quality. He seemed completely at ease.

He said, 'So, Jack, you find Sean?'

A small smile was playing around his lips.

I said, 'No, no luck there.'

He thanked the waitress for his tea, then said, 'Must have gone back to London, you think?'

'I've no idea.'

To get him off this track, I told him about the sale of the flat and my emigration plans.
He asked who was buying my place.

When I told him, he frowned.

'What?' I asked.

'I'm just a little surprised at you, Jack, you being an advocate of old Galway, the keeper of the Celtic flame, all that good stuff. This guy, this Flanagan, he's a speculator. He'll turn your place into bedsits, shove three non-national families in there.'

I felt raw, he'd touched a nerve. I knew it was not what Mrs Bailey would have wanted.
She hated greed and ruthlessness, and here I
was, part of the new deal.

I tried, 'Three bedsits? You couldn't swing a cat in my home.'

He smiled. 'I doubt pets will be allowed.'

Then he said, 'I've been keeping an eye on you. I notice you've stopped your nightly walk.'

I felt my heart accelerate.

'Following me? Why?'

'I owe you, Jack, have to ensure you're safe.'

I kept my voice low, said, 'Don't follow me, OK?'

I stood, put a few notes on the table.

He asked, 'Was the water cold?'

I froze. A moment of that utter stillness again, then Ridge passed through my mind and, yeah, my heart.

I walked out.

Muttered, Don't think, just walk.

There was a busker outside The Body Shop, doing a real fine version of 'Crazy'. I waited till he finished, took what coins I had and put them in the cap he'd before him.

He looked at it, counted it, went, 'The fuck is that?'

I said, 'It's all I've got.'

He was angry. 'You get a live version of my act and that's what you think it's worth?'

I had to rein myself in. Arguing with a busker, it was a no-win situation. I said, 'Have a good one.'

He shouted, 'Yeah, with that fortune, maybe I'll buy a new car.'

It wasn't helped by the fact he had a Brit accent.

It answered my earlier query about missing Galway.

The next few days, I put the finishing touches to my travel arrangements. I had to see my solicitor, sign the deeds of sale, I'd arranged for the money to be transferred to America when it came through. I packed one suitcase.
Looking at it, sitting in the hall, ready to roll, it seemed forlorn, the remnants of a life of waste.

I went to the cemetery to say goodbye to my dead. It was too late to say sorry. The rain had stopped and a furtive sun was teasing the sky.
I walked among the headstones, and after I'd said my pathetic words to the ones I loved, I
decided to visit the graves of Maria and her brother, asking myself, 'Did I get justice for them?'

A young man was standing near the freshly turned clay and his resemblance to Maria was uncanny.

I approached, said, 'Rory?'

He wasn't startled. I suppose after what had happened to his family, he was beyond shock. He looked at me, his eyes wet, tears on his cheeks. He sighed, asked, 'Are you the Guards?'

More's the Irish pity, not any more.

I said, 'I was a friend of your sister's.'

He was only a young man, but his whole body had the suggestion of age that has nothing to do with time and everything to do with horror.

I asked, 'What took you so long?'

He had no answer, went with, 'Did Maria tell you the full story?'

I wasn't sure how to answer so said, 'I'd like to hear it from you.'

He nodded, as if that was fair. 'The car that killed Mrs Mitchell?'

He was talking about the hit and run that set all of this in motion.

I said, 'Be a man. After all that's happened, at least take responsibility.'

He lowered his head. 'I did. My girlfriend was driving and she had two strikes against
her, so I told them I was driving. And then I
ran.'

Jesus Christ.

I debated telling him that his lie had cost the lives of all his family and others. Then I
thought, fuck it, and began to walk away.

He shouted, 'Are you going to tell on me?'

I didn't answer.

The morning of my departure, I was about to disconnect the phone when it rang. I had a short time to kill before my cab was due to take me to the airport, so I picked it up.

'Jack?'

Ridge.

I hadn't said goodbye to her.

I said, 'Yeah?'

She took a deep breath. I could tell she'd been crying. 'Jack, I need your help.'

I was thinking of
Terms of Endearment
. Jack Nicholson at the airport, smiling in that way only he can and saying he's almost made a clean getaway.

I sat on my suitcase, my heart pounding, and for the first time ever I used an endearment with her.

'What's up, hon?'

'The biopsy, it's malignant.'

Must have been the sunlight coming through the window. I wiped at my eyes, my cheeks wet.

THE END

by Ken Bruen

Coming in June 2008

The new Jack Taylor Mystery

When a letter containing a list of victims arrives in
the post, PI Jack Taylor is sickened, but tells himself
the list has nothing to do with him.

He has enough to do just staying sane. His close
friend Ridge is recovering from surgery and
alcohol's siren song is calling to him ever
more insistently.

A guard and then a judge die in
mysterious circumstances.

But it is not until a child is added to the list that
Taylor determines to find the identity of the killer,
and stop him at any cost.

Spiked with dark humour and fuelled by rage at
man's inhumanity to man, this is crime-writing
at its darkest and most original.

9781848270176

by Ken Bruen

Featuring an exclusive interview with
bestselling author Tess Gerritsen

Fresh out of hospital, a new life beckons for
troubled PI Jack Taylor.

Then Father Joyce is decapitated in a Galway church,
and Taylor is asked to find his killer.

Soon he is drawn into a dark web of
murderous conspiracies.

What he cannot know is that the real danger is
much closer and far more personal than
he can imagine . . .

'Grimy, brooding, pawkily funny and
wholly original. Great'
Observer

'Hardboiled in the best way, unforgiving
and unforgettable'
Sunday Tribune

9780552153430