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, taking huge gulps of air, 'Dad was clutching at his chest, then he staggered upstairs, and I've been afraid to go up.'
'How long ago was that?'
Sean tried to think, his mind obviously in ribbons. 'Three hours? More?'
I listened: no sound.
I said, 'Wait here, I'll go up.'
'It's the big bedroom, on the right.'
I went up slowly, debating whether I should have the gun drawn, decided to risk not doing so. I went into the bedroom.
It had flock wallpaper, that awful stuff that lined the homes of the poor so long, and on the wall three flying ducks – the middle one was missing its head. The bed was a single and that made me sad, I don't know why, what the fuck difference did it make? But it did. Single beds for adults are symbols of failure. The sheets were dirty and I didn't think they'd be washed now. Laundry, I was fretting about laundry? I thought about what this man, this father was responsible for, the warped children he'd reared, created, and the deeds he'd not only condoned but supervised. I believed he'd orchestrated acts so vile and stomach-churning that it was nigh impossible to imagine what he thought when he lay his head on the pillow at night. Did he think of Nora, his beloved wife? No matter how twisted by grief he'd become, surely he knew that she'd have been horrified at what he'd done in her name, and, worse, caused her adored children to carry out.
I whispered, 'You bad bastard, you unleashed the wrath of hell. Did you think you could control it? Well, mate, I hope it's hot enough where you surely are now. And you know what? I hope if there's that afterlife, you never . . . never get to see Nora. Rest in fucking ribbons.'
Sean called up, 'Dad, are you OK?'
I came down, and Sean was staring at me, terror writ on his face.
I said, 'Call an ambulance.'
He didn't move.
'Is he going to be all right?'
'No, he's dead.'
Massive heart attack. He'd been sprawled across the bed, his mouth opened in a silent scream. Sean began to howl. I went to the phone, called 911 then went back to Sean and slapped his face hard.
'Get a grip. I have to go, I can't be here. Just tell them he went to bed and you went to check, found him as he is.'
He nodded, asked, 'What about Gail, what will I tell her?'
I had no idea. I said, 'It will be OK, just wait and do what I told you.'
I got out of there. I could hear a siren. I was halfway down the street when I realized I was still gripping the Glock. I said to myself, 'One down, two to go.'
I passed five pubs, two off-licences on the way home. They sang to me like rarely before.
I kept moving.
25
'The true religion would have to teach
greatness and wretchedness, inspire
self-esteem and self-contempt, love and hate.'
I was listening to the morning news a few days after and the death of an English national was reported. It said he'd suffered a coronary but had been dead on arrival at the hospital. The Guards were anxious to get in touch with his son and daughter, who were believed to have been staying with him.
What the fuck?
Sean legged it?
Gail didn't come home?
What the hell?
I tried ringing Stewart, but his mobile was switched off. A terrible thought crossed my mind. What if Stewart had been too smug and Gail took him off the board?
Jesus.
She certainly had the experience. And like a true predator, she could sense danger. I'd made up my mind to go round to Stewart's house when a loud rapping hit my door. I hesitated, then got the Glock, put it in my waistband. Opened the door.
Ridge.
A very agitated Ridge, who launched, 'What is going on?'
And she pushed past me, stood in the middle of my apartment, hands on her hips, accusation writ large.
I closed the door, moved to face her, asked, 'You want to keep your voice down?'
She didn't.
She said, 'Mitchell suffers a fatal heart attack, and then a young woman in her twenties is washed up on the beach, an apparent suicide.'
I had to sit down.
Gail?
The gun dug into my ribs and I took it out, laid it on the table.
She stared at it with disbelief. Took her a few moments, then she went, 'You answer the door armed? Who were you expecting?'
I was trying to get it into perspective.
'Jehovah's Witnesses or Mormons, I'm never sure which is which.'
She looked like she might strike me.
'You think you can joke your way out of this? You're up to your arse here. I know you, it has all the hallmarks of a Taylor fiasco.'
I was suddenly very tired, could already see how it might be read: the father has a massive heart attack and the daughter, grief stricken, drowns herself. Could fly.
I said, 'You told me yourself nothing could be proved against the family, so I backed off.'
She was beyond anger, didn't quite know what to do with me, said, 'You never backed off in your life.'
I wanted her to go so I could think.