Cross

'Sorry, hadn't realized I had to report in to you. And where have I been? I've been on retreat.'

I wanted to tell him how worried I'd been, but like Ridge, words stuck in my throat when it came to these moments of vulnerability, and for the thousandth time I asked myself, What is wrong with you?

'Retreat? What the fuck does that mean?'

His voice never changed, kept that low pitch. He said, 'Meditating, with a Zen Master, learning to be still. Wouldn't do you any harm, it seems.'

I was so relieved he was alive that I wanted to kill him. Does it get any more Irish than that? I tried to bring down the bile. 'We need to meet.'

He let a silence build.

'Need? That's what has the world so screwed, Jack. We actually don't need anything.'

I realized if he kept up this shite, he might well hang up on me, decide to be more still, or stiller?

I took a deep breath. 'May we meet?'

I could hear the amusement in his tone. He said, 'See, you're calmer already. Doesn't that feel better? I'm at home, come round at your leisure.'

The fuckhead.

I said, 'See you in twenty minutes.'

'I'll be here.'

I considered bringing the Glock, putting a bullet in his knee, seeing how still that left him.

A freezing wind was blowing across the city and sleet was promised. I shivered, though I'm not entirely sure it was due to the weather. I was at his place in ten minutes, resolved to keep cool. Rang the bell.

He took his sweet time in answering, then opened the door, said, 'Jack, good to see you.'

Waved me in. He was dressed in some kind of white judo outfit, his feet bare. His home looked even more vacant than before. He asked if I'd like some tea and I said no. He indicated I should sit and he sat on the floor, assumed the lotus position, his features betraying nothing.

Still wanting to kick him in the head, I got straight to it.

'What happened?'

He regarded me with mild curiosity, as if he was seeing me for the first time.

'You mean in the global sense, on the world stage? I can't help you there. My view . . .'

He paused, as if searching for the right word.

'. . . has become more . . . neutral.'

He was nuts, just plain crazy. All his previous experiences – his sister's death, jail – had finally got to him and he'd lost it.

I counted to ten, said, 'Gail, the date you had with her, she turned up . . . drowned.'

He nodded, as if he knew but it had slipped from his mind.

He said, 'She had nowhere left to go. The water was cleansing really, took her away from all the torment.'

If he'd said she was now still, I'd have battered him senseless.

'Did you help her along?'

He considered this as if it was vaguely interesting, not riveting but maybe deserving an answer.

'Oh Jack, you jump to conclusions, you decide something is the way you want it to be and you make everything else fit into that.'

My patience was real low. I reached into my reserves, tried to find some patch of tolerance.

Nope.

Didn't have it.

And I was up, grabbed him by his judo shirt, hauled him to his feet, then slammed him into the wall.

Hard.

Said, 'Enough with the Zen horseshite. Did you kill her?'

He let his body stay loose, didn't react to my violence, said slowly, 'I was with her on Friday night, remember?'

My fist was clenched, ready to pound him. I wanted to so badly, gritted, 'Yeah. So fucking what?'

His voice was even, measured, the way you talk to an unruly child.

'Jack, she drowned on Sunday night.'

I let him go, moved back, said, 'What?'

He smoothed his outfit, leaned against the wall.

'You really ought to check your facts, Jack. Sunday night, I was on retreat in Limerick with fifty other people.'

I didn't know what to think.

'She committed suicide? Or someone helped her?'

He moved away from the wall, took up his frigging lotus stance again.

'You're the investigator, so . . . investigate.'

I was completely lost.

'I'm totally in the dark.'

He smiled, said, 'For many, that is the true beginning.'

I stormed out before I did serious damage to him.

26

'Mysterium iniquitatis.'

'The mystery of evil.'

St Paul

I needed to talk to somebody, to try and get some idea of what was going down.

Gina had experience of psychology, so I gave her a call. She seemed delighted to hear from me. That anyone would be pleased to hear my voice was stunning. I fumbled a bit, finally got round to asking her out to dinner, and arranged to meet her at a new Mexican restaurant she was anxious to try.

What did I know about Mexican food? Then reprimanded me own self. Fuck's sake, this was not about food.

An hour before I met her, I was nervous, my heart hammering. Was this like . . . a date?

How the hell did you behave, and, worse, sober? It had been so long, I no longer knew the ritual. And in the days when I did date, I'd slam home a few Jamesons and not give a toss whether the woman showed or not. By the time the evening was through, most of the women were sorry they'd showed.

I wore a blazer, tan slacks, comfortable shoes. For comfortable, read old. I debated a tie and then went with the open-neck gig, casual but cool. Checked my reflection. I looked like a dodgy geezer selling property in Spain.

The restaurant was in Kirwan's Lane, just a pint away from Quay Street. My hands were sweating. Gina was waiting outside, wearing a dark suit jacket, skirt and heels, and looked terrific. Her hair was tied back, showing her strong features. I felt woefully inadequate. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and said I looked marvellous. I wanted to run.

A maître d' told us we'd have to wait ten minutes and might he bring us a cocktail? Bring me a bucket, buddy.

We sat in the lounge. Gina had a Vermouth and soda and, yeah, I had a Pepsi. Rock 'n' roll. Gina looked round at the white stucco walls, the cacti, the paintings of old Mexico and said it was very authentic. A couple next to us were lashing back tequila, the whole salt-and-lemon vibe, and having a whale of a time. I felt like a priest and that's about as bad as it gets.

The drinks came and we clinked glasses.

Gina said, 'I'm glad to see you, Jack.'

I wanted to cut to the chase, go, 'Look, I want to pick your brains, can we just do that? Forget all this politeness crap, and then I can go home, alone.'

Very worrying was the fact that I was more attracted to her than I expected. And to handle that without a shot of something, I hadn't a clue. Desperate for time, I asked about her work and she effortlessly talked on that. I tried to show interest. The sound ringing in my ears was the tequila bottle and a rage was building in me. How many fucking drinks were those bastards going to have? Didn't they have dinner to eat yet?

Then I registered Gina asking, 'Is it very difficult for you?'

What?

I gave a smile of tolerance, as if I was resigned to whatever fate had been dealt out to me.

She said, 'A social evening without alcohol, is it awful for you?'

Sympathy, just what I needed, fucking wonderful.

I lied, 'No, it's not so bad.'

The waiter came, said our table was ready and she was prevented from replying.

I let Gina order the food and she chose enchiladas, fritos, tapas, and lots of dips with very spicy origins. She said she'd have a glass of wine, and, me, mineral water.

We ate and stayed on neutral topics. I'm sure the food was good. Gina said it was first rate, but it all tasted like loss to me.

When the plates were cleared away and we settled to a coffee, she asked, 'What's on your mind, Jack?'