Cross

I said, 'I think I'm finally beginning to learn.'

She moved to take the gun and I lashed out my hand. 'You don't want to do that.'

A full minute passed as we both held the gun, then she let it go and said, 'Get rid of it. Guns have never been part of your act, and if you get caught with it I won't be able to protect you.'

And I was moved, to hear her say I won't be able to protect you.

I was afraid to ask about the tests. If she had the result, would I be able to accept a bad verdict? We stood for a moment, worried about each other for different reasons, and yet a chasm of contorted stubbornness prevented us from reaching, bridging that awful gap. I tried to explain that Gail had come to my apartment a few days earlier and I'd felt I needed protection of my own.

Ridge pondered this.

'But you're not the shooting type. It's not you, Jack.'

Long as our history had been, there were some areas she didn't know about, some acts I'd committed that she'd never understand and that I certainly would never tell her.

I agreed that I'd get rid of it and then I asked, 'Any word on the results?'

Her face near crumpled but she reined it in.

'No, not yet. The waiting gets to you. Every time the post comes, you wonder if there's a letter that will change your whole life.'

I said a thing I never thought I'd ever say to her, said it in an American tone to keep it light.

'I'll protect you.'

And I swear to God, I thought she was going to weep.

But she moved to the door, said, 'I know that, Jack.'

I went to church.

You're Catholic, you're reared to believe that there is sanctuary there. With all the recent scandals, it was less a place of refuge than the belly of the beast. I went to get in from the rain. Had been walking by the cathedral when the heavens opened. Not your soft Irish rain, no, this was a full onslaught of biblical scale, drench-you-to-the-core stuff. The side door was locked, very welcoming, and by the time I got to the main one I was soaked to my skin, muttering, 'Shite and onions.'

That's literary allusion, James Joyce's favourite expression, honest to God.

I dipped me fingers in the holy water font. It was dry, wouldn't you know, and I guess that is some sort of ecumenical irony. I got in, shaking the rain from me sodden clothes, muttering like a lunatic. Told myself it was good to be there, light some candles for Cody, Serena May and the long list of my dead. I hoped they had more candles than holy water.

Time was, I took my candle business to the Augustine till they went techno. Yeah, automated buttons to light your wick. That doesn't do it for me, I need the whole ritual of the taper, the smell of the wax, to see the candle take flame. It comforts me, makes me feel like some items are not for sale.

I lit a whole mess of them, stuffed a wad of notes into the box, watched the candles burn.

Heard, 'A candle is a prayer in action.'

I turned to face a tall priest in his late sixties, with snow-white hair and a face that was not so much lined as seriously creased. He was like a clerical Clint Eastwood.

I asked, 'You believe that?'

I didn't really give a toss what he believed, I was all through with the clergy.

He said, 'It's a lovely thought, don't you agree?'

I was in no mood for being agreeable.

'Seem like just candles to me.'

He considered that, then took me from blindside by asking, 'Would you like some tea?'

'Isn't that what got you boyos in the trouble you're in, issuing invitations like that?'

He took it well, said, 'I don't think I'll be taking advantage of you.'

Good point.

Before I could say that, he added, 'It's only that I don't like to drink my tea alone, and I thought, seeing as you're soaked, you might like to join me.'

I could hear the rain still hammering down so I said, 'Why not?'

He led me to the vestry, and it had a small alcove to the side. He closed the door, began to do tea stuff. He indicated I should sit so I did, on a hard chair, even though there was a soft, well-worn armchair beside it.

He asked, 'You don't want the easier option?'

Priests, you got to watch them, they sneak up on you with loaded questions.

I said, 'I figured that was yours.'

The kettle was boiling, making a sound like friendship, a rare sound to me.

He said, 'But at a guess, you take the hard route most times.'

See, just like I said, sneaky.

He heated the cups – you don't see that any more – then used real tea, Liptons no less, and spread some Hobnob biscuits on a plate, the ones with one side covered in chocolate. I don't know, that alone made me like him. He put the lot on a small table, urged, 'Dig in.'

I asked, 'What do I call you?'

He wiped crumbs from his mouth, put out his hand, said, 'I don't see you calling me Father, so Jim is fine. And you're?'

I took his hand, strong grip.

'Jack Taylor.'

Didn't ring any bells for him, thank God. He poured my tea and I asked, 'How's business?'

He loved that, took a moment to savour it.

'We're having some problems, but I'm optimistic.'

Or an idiot.

I asked, 'Despite all the . . . problems . . . what's with the attitude? I mean, the top guys, they're still as arrogant as ever, still issuing pronouncements and what do they call them . . . edicts? What's with that?'

He sighed, admitted, 'Old habits die hard.'

Which was fair enough.

He had a question of his own.

'So what do you do, Jack, beside light a riot of candles?'

A riot, I liked it.

'Mainly, I don't mind my own business, bit like the Church.'

I tried the tea. It was strong, bitter, like the old days, but at least it was familiar. I had another question.

'Where are you on the nature of evil?'

He reconsidered me, gave me a thoughtful scan.

'Odd query.'

'That's an answer?'

He smiled, said, 'I'm playing for time.'

I waited, then he said, 'I believe in it. I've seen it, felt it, and, alas, it seems to be on the increase.'

Jesus, he had that right.

I pushed, 'If you knew someone who was truly evil, beyond so-called redemption, what would you suggest?'

He went with the script.

'We believe that no one is beyond saving.'

My turn to smile. 'You're not getting out much, I'd say.'

A bell tinkled and he said, 'The confessional, I'll have to go. Perhaps we might continue this another time.'

I stood up, said, 'What's the penance these days, three Hail Marys and a Glory Be?'

He gave my shoulder a warm grip, said, 'You haven't been for a time, I'd think?'

I said, 'I met the devil in Shop Street the other day.'

He wasn't surprised.

'He does tend to be in the commercial sector. How was he?'

'Bad teeth.'

He enjoyed that. As we headed out, I said, 'He offered to shake my hand.'

'And?'

The rain had stopped. I looked round the church – it seemed warm and I was reluctant to leave, but headed for the door, said, 'Take a wild guess.'

He said, 'Never underestimate the Antichrist.'

I told him I'd bear it in mind.

I continued to ring Stewart's mobile. I was demented with worry. What if Gail had taken him out too? I'd just lost Cody, I couldn't cope with another young guy going down.

It was nearly a week later when he finally answered. 'Yeah?'

I was so stunned to hear him, I didn't speak for a moment and he repeated, 'Yeah?'

'Where the hell have you been?'

'This can only be Jack Taylor. The warmth just seeps from you, Jack.'

I was spitting iron, translate as seriously enraged, shouted, 'What's going on? What happened with . . . you know . . . and where the hell have you been?'

If my anger was affecting him, he was hiding it real well.