Sanctuary (5 page)

I gazed at them in total admiration, whistled, ‘Wow.'

He gave that enigmatic smile, like
wow
was as
much as he could expect from me, explained, ‘Kabuki knives. You'll notice there are seven, for each stage of my life.'

The Xanax had kicked in big time and I could listen to whatever Zen bullshit he wanted to pedal. I muttered, ‘And which number are you on now?'

He lifted one out gently, with more care than if it was a baby. ‘The sixth, I term it . . . I'll explain when you are a little further along the road to enlightenment.'

I was cool, or indeed
chill
enough to ask, ‘So, these knives, they tell you what?'

He leaned right into my face, said in a stone tone, ‘What do they tell you, Jack?'

Even with the pill, I was ready to rumble,
You know, they tell me fuck all. And mainly they tell me, you need to get out more
.

I said, ‘They're impressive. What are they meant to be – the Seven Samurai?'

He stared at them. ‘They are for the seven levels of evil. Each one removes another layer of the ills that bedevil our world.'

I should have paid more attention to what he was telling me, and later I'd learn exactly what the levels of evil were, but then they were just knives – impressive but, you know, just fucking blades. I'd seen enough of them and was tempted to say,
A Stanley knife is just as useful
. But the Xanax whispered,
Who cares?

He stood back, considered me, then said, ‘Stand up.'

Was he kidding? I'd eat him for breakfast. But what the hell, he wanted to take a shot at me. I was up for it. He moved right into me, his arms hanging by his sides, palms outwards in the classic show of non aggression, said, ‘Hit me.'

I laughed. Long time since I'd had cause and I don't suppose the medication hindered my mood either. I scoffed, ‘You're fucking kidding.'

He didn't move, his face set in a serious mode. ‘I mean it, Jack. Hit me with all you've got.'

I shook my head. ‘Stewart, I like you. You piss me off with all the Zen bollocks. But hit you? I don't think so.'

He never moved, said, ‘You've got a limp, a hearing aid, and a dead child to your credit.'

I swung with all my might and . . . where'd he go? I hit air.

He was standing to my right, smiled, asked, ‘That your best, Jack? Losing your sight too?'

I lashed out with me foot and missed again. Where was he getting this speed from? For five more minutes, I tried in vain. Zip, nada, couldn't touch him.

He said, ‘With Zen and a few other Eastern disciplines, I've learned how to be at one.'

I was breathing hard and seriously pissed. ‘Yeah, did you learn how to hit, though?'

And I was flat on my back, a throbbing in my throat where he'd taken me with the side of his left hand.

Guess that answered that.

When I got my wind back, I said, ‘You're good. What's your point?'

He did a flexing routine, said, ‘As well as Zen, I can teach you some moves that will make you less vulnerable.'

I said I'd think about it. When I was leaving, he was standing at the door. I said, ‘Oh shit, forgot me jacket.' He turned and I rabbit-punched him. As he went down hard I said, ‘It ain't Zen but it sure is effective.'

I'd swear, though he had to be hurting, he was smiling. Mad bastard.

I wasn't sure why I was replaying this unless somewhere in my mind I expected Ridge to attack me. One way or another, she always did.

I'd reached her house. Took a deep breath and rang the bell.

 

 

 

 

Ridge surprised me all right. She was sober, dressed in clean clothes, her eyes clear, and was holding a book. I nearly smiled. Books had brought me through so many hangovers, not that I could read them then, but they were a lifeline to some semblance of sanity.

I said, ‘You look good.'

She waved me in, asked if I'd like some coffee. While she went to make it, I took a look at the book she'd put aside.
Something to Hide
.

Got that right, I thought.

It was by Penny Perrick, an account of the life of Sheila Wingfield, Viscountess Powerscourt. Talk about perfect timing. I was about to ask her to investigate a case involving the West Brits or Anglo-Irish or
whatever the fuck you called them and here she was, reading about them. Sometimes you get lucky. I don't, but this was definitely a help.

She came back with two mugs of coffee. ‘Biscuits?'

I said, ‘I don't do sweet.'

She nodded, knowing the truth of that.

‘Interesting reading,' I said.

Ridge sat, sipped at her coffee, her usual antagonism not on display. Least not yet. She said, ‘It's odd, I'm as Irish as it gets, reared in the Irish language and everything nationalistic, and not exactly in the lap of luxury, and yet I find a resonance with her.'

I didn't know zip about the woman so I asked, ‘Why?'

I really wanted to say I'd never seen Ridge with a book in all the time I'd known her and she had been more than dismissive of my reading. She put her coffee aside.

‘She was an Anglo-Jewish heiress, a poet, and the wife of the very last of the Powerscourts. She was racked by drink, drugs and illness, in conflict with the tradition she was supposed to maintain. She never really fitted into any of the worlds she tried to live in.'

I could see the parallels. Ridge was a female guard in a force that worshipped macho bullshit, and worse, she was gay. A young woman, now she was threatened by cancer and could do little but wait.

I nodded in what I hoped was sympathetic understanding. ‘Maybe I'll read it.'

She said, ‘I doubt it.'

I wanted to ask her how she'd pulled herself together but she got there before me.

‘You're wondering how come I'm still not sucking on a bottle?'

Jesus. Not the way I'd have phrased it, but yeah, the content was right.

‘I'm just glad to see you, OK.'

She laughed. ‘Good old Jack, evasive as ever.'

Old
?

She added, ‘Actually, it was you who helped me stop whining and drinking.'

‘What did I do?'

She looked right at me. ‘I've seen you stupefied by drink so many times, drowning in selfpity, hitting out at everyone, and I asked myself, do I really want to be like that?'

The lash was back. I should have known it wouldn't last. I wanted to say,
So happy to have provided you with the motivation
.

Instead I tried to bite down my anger, asked, ‘Would you like a job? You know, till you get back on the force?'

I told her about the phone call from Anthony Bradford-Hemple, the young girl's missing pony and the threats. Instead of ridiculing me, she seemed
delighted. She got her notebook, took down the details, said she'd go out there today.

I was surprised. I'd expected her to be insulted, offended, and to tell me to stick it. I asked, ‘You don't mind working for me?'

She stood, all energy now, said, ‘I'm not working for you, I'm helping you out. Or were you going to put me on a salary?'

Christ, she was right back to her old self.

‘The guy is loaded and will pay well,' I told her.

She was already grabbing a coat, anxious to get going. ‘I'm not doing it for money,' she said.

I couldn't resist the crack, said, ‘Very noble of you.'

As she opened the door to send me on my way she added, ‘And I'm certainly not doing it for you.'

 

 

 

 

Benedictus was naked, staring in a full-length mirror, and with the left hand traced the tattoo along the stomach.

Then, taking a very sharp knife, began to remove the tattoo. The pain was almost unbearable, and yet exquisite agony.

Benedictus began to envision how the killing of the nun would play out – lure her into a trap, then very slowly strangle the wretch to all damnation.

 

 

 

 

I was in Busker Brown's, a pub just off Quay Street. They have a jazz morning on Sundays and it is always packed. Today, though, a weekday, it was quiet. They do a very fine Colombian roast – no, not dope, coffee – and I savoured the sheer bite of it as I opened the paper, the taste in my mouth moving from bitter to acrid.

A nun had been killed. She'd been found strangled in the Claddagh church where she'd been saying her morning devotion. The papers put it down to some drug-crazed youth and lamented the state of the nation. I read the account with an icy chill in my gut. This was victim three.

When I finally got home, I was wired. I rang the
Guards, got through to Clancy, shouted, ‘Now will you pay attention?'

He waited a moment, then said, ‘Ah, Taylor, conspiracies everywhere. We've already arrested a deranged person found with her rosary beads in his possession. Gold ones – he liked the shine on them. I think.'

I argued, ‘It can't be him. There is a list – I showed you – already three from it are dead and the person who wrote that wasn't attracted by – ' I could barely contain myself, ‘ – something fucking shiny.'

He sniggered. ‘Language, Taylor. What have you be drinking? The water? Tell you what – if your letter-writer puts your name on the list, we'll definitely pay attention. Might even buy him a few pints.'

I threw my mobile across the room.

I was beyond anger. I wanted to inflict serious damage on somebody. I was pacing up and down my small apartment, thinking,
Fuck 'em all. What do I care?

Then the post arrived.

Lots of offers to join video clubs, one letter informing me I'd won a million euro and all I had to do was ring the following number, a voucher for a free pizza . . . and then a white envelope. I recognized the writing, tore it open, saw the one single page and the typed message that read:

 

Three

But who's counting?

Benedictus

 

I pulled open my door and ran smack into my gay neighbour, who was trying to fit his key into his lock. He was hampered by a broken arm and a crutch, his face a riot of bruises and cuts.

I stammered, ‘Jesus, what happened?'

He gave me a look of withering contempt. ‘The gaybashers. You said not to worry about them. But guess what? You were wrong.'

I felt dreadful. He had asked for help and what had I done but ignore him?

‘Let me help you with that.' I pointed to the key.

He near spat, ‘Help? I think I've had as much of your assistance as I'd ever want.'

‘I'm so sorry.' I meant it.

He gave me his full attention. ‘Indeed, you are – a sorry excuse for a human being.' Got his door open and slammed it in my face.

 

I went to The Quays on, yeah, Quay Street. I'd never had a drink there me whole life as it's regarded as a tourist haunt. I stepped up to the counter, ordered a large Jameson and a pint of stout. The barman – non-national, of course – poured the pint too fast and didn't let it settle, but I was in a hurry. Afraid
I'd change my mind. I gave him a twenty, got fuck all back, and moved to a corner with a long wooden table – thought,
Good, I'll line it with empties
.

My hands had a slight tremble, but nothing too noticeable. I lifted the Jay, downed half, said, ‘Welcome home.' Then I downed half the poor pint in one gulp and sat back. Let the magic begin, dark as it wished.

That first drink, you hear various responses. Most say the terrible guilt, the loss of sobriety, followed by the
if only
– if only they hadn't taken it. I felt like I'd finally let out my breath. For years, I'd been holding it and now . . . exhale . . . glorious. This was followed by false moments of exhilaration; I understood them for what they were and knew too that the reckoning would be ferocious, worse perhaps than before, but those first few minutes as the whiskey began to light a fire in my stomach felt worth it.

Ride the whirlwind, reap the wrath.

There is a certain peace – of the satanic variety, sure – but having given up the battle, it was done. No more aching, the struggle was over.

A guy approached, looked at me, went, ‘Jack?'

It was Caz, a Romanian who'd been in Galway for nigh on a decade. He spoke English with an Irish lilt and knew more about the goings on in the city than any cop. Information was his ace and the more lurid, the better. We had a give-and-take relationship. I
gave – usually twenty euro – and he took whatever he deemed the freight to be.

When the government deportations were at their most extreme, he always managed to evade the net, and now with the economy in threatened meltdown more non-nationals were due for the boot But he was dressed in a flash leather jacket and crisp new jeans, and smelt of expensive cologne. Maybe he could give me twenty euro.

He said, ‘Jesus, you're drinking.'

He'd managed to adopt the Irish habit of swearing without sounding as if he meant it – no mean achievement. I gave him my granite look, which translates as
So?

Caz was way too wary to get into a confrontation with me. It was how he'd survived Galway for ten years. He shrugged. ‘I just heard you'd been off it . . . a while.'

I finished the pint, said, ‘And now I amn't off it.' I took out two twenties, handed them over, said, ‘Get us a round.'

One twenty went into his pocket as he headed for the counter. He didn't need to ask for my order. I heard him call the barman a bollix and figured we'd get decent-drawn pints.

We did.

He didn't offer any change, raised his pint, touched mine, said, ‘
Slainte
.'

‘
Slainte amach
.'

The added
amach
is reserved for close friends, implying warmth, and the Jay had given me the warmth.