The Evil And The Pure (13 page)

They’d shared m
any troubling discussions in the months since, never in the confessional, always in the sacristy or Fr Sebastian’s personal rooms in the house behind the church. Big Sandy hid nothing from the priest. He told him about his mother’s murder, how Dave Bushinsky had taken the young Sandy Murphy under his wing, how he’d mushroomed during puberty and become a valuable tool, his path since then, the lives he’d taken. He knew it was dangerous, the priest under no obligation to keep Big Sandy’s unofficial confessions secret, a weak junkie who might one day sell out the giant for a hit. But after so many years of silence, the need to confess was overpowering. Big Sandy had unburdened himself before, to Sapphire and a few other carefully chosen hookers, but that wasn’t the same. They were good listeners but they weren’t messengers of God, privy to the sacred secrets of the church — and as corrupt as Fr Sebastian was, a tarnished priest still knew more about sin, God and redemption than anybody else Big Sandy dared raise such matters with.

“Of cour
se you’re not beyond redemption,” Fr Sebastian snorted one October evening. They were sitting in the priest’s bedroom, overlooking the shrub-lined avenue to the rear of the house. Shula was having dinner with her uncle and aunt tonight, Big Sandy surplus to requirements.

“But I’ve killed,” Big Sandy said gruffly. “I’ll kill again if I have to. I’ve no excuses. I do it of my own free will, for money. I don’t repent. I –”

“There’s the rub,” Fr Sebastian cried excitedly, half-high on coke he’d scored from Clint Smith, working himself up into a religious fervour, always closer to God when he was flying high. “You
must
repent. The doors to the kingdom of heaven are always open to those who seek forgiveness. You admit your sins, but the truly evil of this world can’t, they see themselves above the laws of God and man, accountable to no one. You know you’re doing wrong. Take strength from that knowledge, repent, and the glory of the Lord God Almighty shall be yours.”

Big Sandy smiled wryly.
He could hear the coke in the priest’s voice, see the fire twinkling in his dark green addict’s eyes. “But I can’t repent,” he said plainly. “I’m not sorry. To repent in name only, to beg God’s forgiveness without working for it… Wouldn’t that be sinful too?”

“Of cour
se,” Fr Sebastian exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “That’s not what I’m advocating. You must be truly sorry. Your plea for forgiveness must come from the heart, from the core of your being — your soul. It won’t be easy but you
can
do it. Put violence behind you. Leave this city and your circle of damned friends. Devote the rest of your life to charitable work and prayer. Nothing’s worse than hell. Redemption doesn’t come easy, not for the likes of us, but the struggle is nothing compared to the torment we’ll endure if we fail, if we don’t earn God’s love, if we wind up roasting in the flames of hell.”

“I know,” Big Sandy said lowly. “But how can I be what I’m not?
You
can’t do it, Father. What makes you think
I
can?”

“I’m different,
” Fr Sebastian said, pacing to the window, fingers twitching, an addict’s hollow honesty. “My corruption is weakness — yours is strength. I’m evil because I haven’t the strength to fight my dark desires — you’re evil because you are too strong to be genuinely afraid of yours. But it’s much easier to find weakness within yourself than it is to find strength. There’s hope for both of us – this is a world of hope – but your path to everlasting glory is simpler than mine.”

“But your sins are less
dreadful than mine,” Big Sandy disagreed. “I kill people. You just get high.”

Fr Sebastian wheeled
around to argue with him, to tell him about the girls, his terrible lusts, the monster he’d set on three of his congregation… then paused. Big Sandy didn’t know about the children or Gawl McCaskey. If Big Sandy knew that he was a paedophile, that he’d sicced Gawl McCaskey on frail old women to rob, terrorise and beat them, the priest’s collar wouldn’t protect him. The giant would show Fr Sebastian no mercy. There were limits to what even a hired killer like Sandy Murphy would accept.

“You have the blessing of a motive,” Fr Sebastian muttered. “Your mother was butchered when you were a boy. You were reared on violence, claimed by it as a
child. God understands that and will allow for it. Forsake the gangs. Renounce your evil ways. Repent. You
will
be saved.”

Big Sandy shook his head slowly.
“Repentance won’t work,” he grunted. “I can’t believe God lets sinners off the hook just for saying sorry. What about an act of pure goodness or self-sacrifice?”

Fr Sebastian sighed and returned to the bed, sitting close to Big Sandy, feeling like a real father, wishing he was stronger,
that he knew what to say to help. “You must put such thoughts behind you. We’ve discussed this before. Salvation lies in prayer, honesty, selflessness, putting God before –”

“That isn’t enough,
” Big Sandy barked, face darkening. “My hands are stained with the blood of the innocent as well as the guilty. I have to wipe the slate clean, an act of purity, a moment of…” He grimaced and slapped the mattress with a massive paw — the bed shook hard. “I don’t know what I can do, how a black-souled son-of-a-bitch like me can ever cleanse himself, but the answer isn’t prayer. It has to be something greater, something glorious.”

Fr Sebastian
shrugged helplessly. “I could refer you to my superiors. They know more than I do. Perhaps they could help.”

“No,” Big Sandy said immediately.

“You should talk with them,” Fr Sebastian persisted. “I’m a poor choice for a confessor. I know holy men, compassionate men, men who could –”

“Holy men can’t save me,” Big Sandy said, rising, downbeat. “
They couldn’t understand where I come from, how I live, the hell I’m in. You can, because you dwell there too.” Big Sandy shook the priest’s hand and gently pushed him back as he tried to get to his feet. “Stay where you are, Father. I’ll let myself out.”

“You’re sure?” Fr Sebastian asked, mind spinning.

“Yeah,” Big Sandy said and retreated, leaving the priest to his high, thinking about God, the emptiness of the world, the promise of heaven, the impossibility of redemption for one so foul.

The next day, an early phone call from the Bush. “You don’t have to worry about Shula any more.”

“She’s going home?” Big Sandy asked.

“No, she’s staying, but she’s enrolling in college, that was what she had to tell us last night. Night classes, then maybe a degree. She’s here for good, getting an apartment of her own, so let her off.”

“I can pick her up from her lessons if you want,” Big Sandy said. “Or check
in on her from time to time. Larry Drake’s still hounding her.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the Bush laughed. “She’s got the measure of that
dick. She won’t waste herself on him.”

“So what do you want me to do instead?” Big Sandy asked.

“You remember the Tynes?”

“The brother and sister.”

“They’ve been calling Clint a lot, requesting backup. I’ve had others taking care of them but now you can do it for a while. You have Clint’s number?”

“Yeah. And when I’m not looking after them?”

“Relax. Take it easy. I’ll let you know when I need you.”

The Bush hung up. Big Sandy
was uneasy, brow furrowed, figuring,
Maybe I was getting too close to Shula, developing a thing for her. Maybe I’m just pissed because I won’t see her any more.
But he wasn’t convinced. This didn’t feel that straightforward. He had a sense that something bad was going to happen. Big Sandy thought about his mother, shivered, almost crossed himself but didn’t.

TEN

Clint surf
ed the Tube. Coming up the stairs from the Bakerloo line at Embankment, heading for the District and Circle, a strong gust of wind whipping through the tunnel as he rounded a corner, most passengers grimacing and pulling their coats tight around themselves, Clint spreading his arms, embracing the wind, grinning. Up the escalator and west for the hell of it, whistling softly. Changed carriages every time the train stopped. Spotted a small group in the third carriage, four guys and three girls, late teens, dressed for grunge, talking and laughing loudly, cans of beer and cider in a big plastic bag.

“Going somewhere special?” Clint asked, pulling up beside them, wrapping an arm around a support pole. They squinted at him suspiciously until he unzipped the cardigan he
was wearing beneath his jacket to reveal a hint of brown paper. He gave the bag a soft rustle. “Want to arrive in style and take off like a comet?”

One of the girls laughed at Clint’s patte
r. Two of the boys hushed her. Another turned to Clint, faux-cool. “What have you got and how much?”

“E’s to please,” C
lint smirked. Quick calculation — what were the pills worth to the kids? Decided not to be greedy. “I could say fifteen, you could say five and we could haggle. But let’s not waste time. Ten a pop.”

The boy licked his lips and
glanced at the others. One of the girls piped up with, “How do we know they’re real?”

Clint reached into the bag, produced a small red pill, tossed it to the girl. “That one for free. The rest now twelve pounds each.”

“You said ten,” one of the boys growled as the girl popped the E and gripped the armrests of her seat.

“That was before we started talking quality control. My advice
is to snap them up at twelve — once that beauty kicks in and your friend starts spacing, the price will rise and rise.”

The five teens looked from Clint to the
girl. She shrugged. “Nothing. I think he’s trying to… Whoah!” Eyes widening, smiling feverishly, fingers digging into the arm rests.

“Thirt
een,” Clint said and hands disappeared into pockets, tens, fives and pound coins appearing like magic. One of the guys asked Clint if he wanted to come party with them — there would be lots more customers there. Clint declined. He had wanderlust and wanted to surf the trains, light up the night in a dozen different spots, not worried about making quick scores. Got off at Hammersmith, Picadilly line towards the West End, scored in the first carriage he tried.

Clint loved nights like this when he was master of his world,
no trace of a stutter, slick and cool. A dangerous game playing the Tube, you never knew who was listening, who you were selling to, what could go wrong. He usually didn’t take such risks. But excited tonight, needing the danger and thrill. One train after another, always on his feet, never pausing, north to Finsbury Park, south to Stockwell, north to King’s Cross, Circle line all the way around to Embankment, where he caught the Bakerloo line back to Elephant & Castle, coming up for air, cash-heavy, striding like a god, elated, wanting the night to continue forever.

In an ideal world he would have trailed around after Shula. He’d eased off for a while when Big Sandy had been given the job of guarding her, but had
resumed his shy pursuit when cousin Dave had pulled her guard after she’d decided to make London her home. Clint ecstatic when he heard the news. Growing bolder. He’d even approached her a few times recently and started conversations, not just about old movies but places in London that she might be interested in visiting, working up the courage to offer to be her guide one day.

But Shula had a class tonight. Finished by this time, but she always went back to her flat after
wards, to study and make a start on her homework assignments. She was surprisingly dedicated that way. Clint had followed her home a few times, trailing her from a distance, and stood across the road watching the light in her window until she turned it off and went to bed. But he couldn’t afford to waste too much time doing that. Plus he worried that someone would notice and report him. Didn’t want to have to explain to cousin Dave why he was shadowing the boss’ sweet niece.

With no Shula to trail and dream of, h
e thought about hitting a massage parlour in Soho, but brave as the night had made him, he got cold feet when he considered that. He’d been unable to maintain an erection the last few times, a recurring problem that he’d always struggled with, viagra of no benefit when he’d tried it. One of the hookers had laughed at him and he’d left red with shame. The laughter echoed inside his head every time he contemplated a return.

Clint decided not
to ruin the night by seeking the cold embrace of a whore. The pubs and clubs were another option. On a high, oozing confidence, he was certain he’d pull. Didn’t see that as a betrayal of Shula. It would be different if (
when
) they were a couple, but he’d be a fool to limit himself when he hadn’t even started to court her. The trouble was he’d failed with real women as well as hookers. Didn’t dare chance it, not wanting the night to end on a sour note.

S
o he went where he knew he’d be welcome, where a friend would surely be glad to see him, to the lab and its constant prisoner, Dr Tony Phials.

Bragging of his exploits to Phials, emptying his pockets, showing him the money, describing the night’s deals, dreaming aloud. “Enough nights like this, Dave will have to take me seriously. I’ll be given more responsibility, more respect, then… Shula and America.”