Cruel Mercy

by David Mark

  “. . . I know what I do is wrong. You are more innocent than I am. You have committed fewer sins and broken no covenants. But my soul will burn forevermore if I do not empty myself of sin, and through these acts I am washed clean. You will find glory for your part in this atonement. You will be praised for your sacrifice and exalted among the angels for helping this sinner through the gates of heaven . . .”

  The Penitent closes the book and caresses the soft leather as if it were flesh.

  It has not always been thus. The Penitent was once a sinner. He desired flesh other than his own. Such desires cost him his dreams but brought him the peace and absolution he dared not think he deserved. Through his crimes, he met the priest. And the priest became his friend. He guided him. Gave him a chance to become a good man. Absolved him of all sin, past and future, and allowed him to pass on such blessings to others.

  Only when the thudding dizziness ceases does he sink to his knees, and from there he slithers forward until his naked body is touching the carpet of dirt and ash, water and blood.

  He presses his face into the ground.

  He only stops digging when his lips touch the familiar cold kiss of fragmented bone.

  SIX

  7:06 A.M., GRAND STREET,

  Lower East Side

  McAvoy is feeling that peculiar pride enjoyed by all visitors to a foreign land when they have achieved some minor success, like buying a stamp in a shop where the owner speaks no English. In the hour since he woke up, he has managed to draw money from an ATM and secure directions to Thomas Street, off West Broadway, from the Latina maid who was depositing a dispiriting breakfast outside his room when he emerged. She told him it was complimentary, though it had looked quite the opposite. He now sits in a diner eating blueberry pancakes and syrup, with a separate plate of sausage and home fries. As a nod to Roisin’s efforts to improve his diet, he is drinking green tea and a glass of fresh orange juice, though there was a malted milkshake on the menu that caught his eye. He has secured a spot by the window and is watching the city come to life. A procession of schoolchildren, younger than Fin, pass by the glass two by two, led by a figure wearing so many layers they could survive a collision with a bus. The children’s smiles are hidden beneath colorful parkas but their pink cheeks and bright eyes seem oddly pleasing when contrasted with the gray and yellow sky hanging low over the city and obscuring the tops of the tall buildings across the street. There was no more snow during the night, but slush and dirt still form small mountain ranges on either side of the sidewalk and he has seen several people slip and fall while walking too quickly across the wide road. As he cleans his second plate, he finds himself admiring the sensible wardrobes of the New Yorkers. They are dressed for the conditions, buttoned up inside large coats, hats, and scarves. At home, in such weather, probably half of the commuters hurrying through Hull would be coatless and any man wearing a hat would find his masculinity sorely questioned.

  “Can I ask you what that’s all about?” asks McAvoy as the Hispanic waiter takes his plates and gives him the nod of a professional who likes his food to be appreciated.

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  McAvoy points in the direction of a man in Lycra and fleece jogging down the opposite side of the road beside a husky who appears to be wearing matching running shoes. “The slippers that the dogs wear. That’s the third one I’ve seen.”

  The waiter smiles. “The city puts down salt to melt the ice. It’s not good for the paws. Some people love their animals too much, yes?”

  McAvoy finds himself laughing. “My kids would love to see that. They’ll never believe me.”

  “You have many children, sir?”

  “Two. A boy and a girl.”

  “Beautiful, my friend. I have six children. All under ten years old. My wife, she gets pregnant if we share bathwater.”

  McAvoy coughs, feeling like a Victorian English gentleman, unsure of the etiquette of the conversation.

  “You could try showers,” he says, hoping this is appropriate. The waiter roars a laugh, throwing back his head to display bright white teeth. The other patrons in the small, gaudily colored diner turn to look, and McAvoy catches the eye of a student-looking girl with purple hair and glasses and a ring through her nose. She smiles at him in a way that makes him feel instantly guilty, and he lowers his head. The waiter moves away, still laughing, and McAvoy busies himself with his phone. Last night he took photographs of the pages in the report that Alto had given him. As he considers them, his vision blurs. His chest feels tight and he has to fight to control his breathing. Below the table, his hands become fists. These moments have been coming more frequently, these sudden attacks of clarity. For an instant he is aware of himself. Sees the huge, blundering fool who sits in a tiny diner pretending to be something other than a coward and a fraud. He wants to bite down on something to stop his teeth from chattering. Just as quickly, the tremor in his soul subsides, and he is forcing out his breath through pursed lips, his hair damp at the temples.

  “Concentrate,” he whispers to himself. “Do the job. Focus. Work.”

  He is scrolling through the witness statements given by staff members at Dezzie’s Boxing Gym when his phone rings and startles him. The number on the display screen has unfamiliar digits at the start, and every sensation of unworthiness evaporates. She has come to his rescue in response to his unspoken prayer.

  “Good afternoon, my love,” he says quietly into the phone.

  “It’s morning for you, isn’t it, babe? Have I done the maths wrong?”

  “Just before eight a.m.,” says McAvoy, smiling at the sound of Roisin’s voice. “And you have to say ‘math,’ not ‘maths,’ if we’re going to be all American.”

  “So I suppose you’re drinking coffee?” asks Roisin, and her Irish accent transforms into a New York drawl as she says the word.

  “Green tea and orange juice, I swear.”

  “With donuts,” says Roisin. “You’re a cop in New York. There has to be donuts involved.”

  “Do you think we’re running the risk of getting all of our information on America from the movies?”

  “When you get home you can tell us the truth about the place,” says Roisin. “I’m sure it’s half the size it pretends to be and the skyscrapers are no taller than a bus. Have you seen anybody famous?”

  “Not yet,” says McAvoy, disappointed not to be able to impress her. “But the dogs wear little slippers over here. It’s to keep their paws safe.”

  “That’s sweet,” says Roisin, and McAvoy hears the soft crackle of her cigarette as she sucks on the filter with lips that he knows will be covered in pink lip gloss that tastes of strawberries.

  “I thought we were going to try and keep the calls to a minimum,” says McAvoy, trying not to sound reproachful. In truth, he would sell his shoes and walk barefoot through the snow in order to speak to his wife.

  “I know,” she says. “But I was missing you. We all are.”

  “Are they there?”

  “Fin’s playing. He says to tell you that in New York, a sandwich is called a submarine.”

  “I didn’t know that,” says McAvoy, grinning.

  “He might have meant ‘subway.’ I prefer it his way.”

  “Anything from Lilah?”

  “She threw a ball at a picture of you last night,” says Roisin. “I think she wanted to play catch. That, or she’s pissed off at you for leaving.”

  “Did you tell her I’m only here for her mammy?”

  “Time and again. I think she forgives you. I do, too.”

  “Forgive me for what?”

  “For not being clever enough to build a machine that will split you in two. That way you could leave yourself with me and still go and find Valentine.”

  “I’m sorry, my love. I’ll get working on that once I get home.”

  “I’ll pimp it for y
ou once it’s finished. Diamanté crystals and a leopard-print seat.”

  “You’re a visionary,” says McAvoy, glancing up. The girl with the purple hair is smiling at him again as she stirs her coffee. He looks away.

  “You caught anybody’s eye yet?” asks Roisin playfully. “Made anybody fall desperately in love with you? Got some little New York tart hanging off your arm?”

  “The cleaning lady was nice,” says McAvoy, coloring. “I think she was in her sixties but you could tell she was game.”

  “I hate her,” says Roisin, with an audible pout.

  “And there’s a girl looking at me now,” he whispers. “She keeps smiling.”

  Roisin says nothing for a moment. “Hand her the phone,” she finally says, in a voice he knows to be only mockingly cross.

  “You’re maple syrup and she’s a glass of water, my love,” says McAvoy, and hopes it sounds romantic rather than lame.

  “Thank you. You realize she’s only looking at you because you’re a big sexy galoot, don’t you? She just wants your body.”

  “She can’t have it. It’s broken.”

  “Flight was a killer, was it?”

  “I needed a massage when I got here. I don’t think Detective Alto was quite ready for that kind of hello.”

  “You said in your text he was Scandinavian. They’re into that over there.”

  “I think we run the risk of cultural stereotyping.”

  Roisin gives a little laugh and then her voice grows more serious. “You’ll be careful, yes? I know you’re only there for me and I know you’ll be okay, but just promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I’ve promised before. I’ll promise again.”

  “Mammy and Daddy have put a lot of faith in us, babe. I swore you’d find Valentine. I don’t want to think about what will happen if you can’t.”

  “It will be okay,” says McAvoy, and he suddenly feels as cold inside himself as the air beyond the glass. “I’m going to speak to the owner of the gym where they spent some time. I’ve got calls in. There are irons in the fire. I’ll do all I can.”

  “I love you, Aector,” she says, and there is a mixture of pride and sadness in her voice. “You can have sex with the girl who’s looking at you, if you like. I won’t make a fuss.”

  McAvoy laughs, wanting to reach into the phone and wrap his arms around his wife. “If she makes the offer I’ll politely decline. I’ll tell her I’m married to the woman of my dreams.”

  “Lorraine Kelly?”

  “You make me laugh, my love.”

  “You make me whole. Stay safe.”

  “And you.”

  McAvoy ends the call and looks at the photo that serves as the wallpaper on his cell phone. He strokes Roisin’s face with his thumb. He wishes he could have told her how unlikely it is that he will have anything resembling success. Wishes she had told him that, deep down, she knows that his best will not be good enough this time. When he raises his head from the phone, the girl with the purple hair is gone.

  —

  Dezzie’s Boxing Gym is in the basement of a five-story building on a quiet tree-lined street running between the bustle of West Broadway and Church Street. The building is an ornate affair, with an elaborate frontage, all big, church-size windows and intricately carved, ornamented sills. While the majority of the building is given over to offices, the basement is a place of pain and triumph, and McAvoy feels very much at home as he leans against the counter by the door and waits for Dezzie Estrada to come and give him five minutes of his time. For all that McAvoy is uncomfortable in the macho world of banter and boasting, he has always felt at home in a boxing gym. He learned the art of pugilism at boarding school while in his teens and would have received a scholarship to university on his boxing prowess alone had he not also achieved straight A’s in his exams. He boxed throughout his two years at university and briefly considered a career in the fight game, before his coach pointed out that to be a true champion, McAvoy would have to hurt his opponents so badly that they risked never getting up again. McAvoy, who had never thrown a punch without worrying about the consequences, did not have the killer instinct necessary. He turned his attentions to rugby instead, and when he quit university, a year shy of his degree, it was rugby that offered him the best chance of a career. He spent two years coaching fitness at a succession of small clubs and academies before he gave in to the inner voice telling him to become a policeman. Though he has not worn boxing gloves for almost fifteen years, McAvoy still feels at ease here. He likes the smell. It’s a place of perspiration and liniment, leather and metal. Were Trish Pharaoh beside him, she would doubtless say that it reminded her of her bedroom. The walls are lined with old boxing posters and photographs of Dezzie with his arms around a succession of champions, some household names and others only recognizable to true fans. A boxing ring with a blue floor and white ropes takes up a large space on the pitted wooden floor and patched-up heavy bags hang from metal chains. Gunmetal-gray lockers run along one wall, some bearing dents and creases that show Dezzie’s charges possess no shortage of killer instinct.

  “Here he is,” says Marcel, who mans the front desk of the gym and is so enormous that McAvoy presumed he was standing on a raised platform. His shoulders are broad enough to impair the view of the merchandise cabinet to his rear, with its collection of hoodies, T-shirts, and sweatbands bearing the legend FIGHTING BEATS CRYING.

  McAvoy turns and follows Marcel’s gaze. Dezzie Estrada is making his way across his gym, nimbly sidestepping a large, red-faced man who is pounding a heavy bag with powerful, if avoidable, shots. The other two men availing themselves of the gym’s facilities at this hour are lithe, olive-skinned, and dark-haired lightweights shadowboxing near the free weights, beneath a large cutout poster of Sugar Ray Leonard. McAvoy has not had a chance to examine all of the posters but he has already identified an image of Dezzie with his arm around the shoulders of a Hollywood star who was getting in training for a film role and looks mildly intimidated by his mentor.

  Dezzie Estrada is in his late forties and McAvoy knows from the magazine articles he read online that he is of Cuban heritage. He grew up in Brooklyn and had a decent enough amateur boxing record but lacked the punching power to get far in the professional game. Despite his lack of an explosive right hand, Dezzie was a student of the sport and showed himself to have a coach’s eye for detail when he began offering heartfelt tips to friends and opponents alike. Spotting an opportunity to do something vaguely useful with his life, he went to night school and trained in sports physical therapy while studying for various coaching certificates. After a spell in Brooklyn, he opened this Thomas Street Boxing Gym in 1994. His star rose when he coached a young Costa Rican to the WBO lightweight title, and by the turn of the millennium, he had a stable of quality fighters. His star has shone brightly ever since.

  McAvoy considers him. He’s probably about 180 pounds and his hair is shaved down to a gray stubble. His nose and left ear show signs of having taken too many blows, but he is still a good-looking if battle-scarred individual, and he walks with the catlike gait of a fighter who knows how to slip and jab. He’s dressed in a T-shirt that shows off well-defined arms, and sweatpants that taper into white socks and battered sneakers.

  “I’m Dezzie,” he says, in an accent that is all attitude and street. “You’re the English cop?”

  McAvoy extends a hand and squeezes Estrada’s palm in his. He is unable to resist putting a little power into the shake and he senses Estrada doing the same. If each man were holding a walnut, there would be pieces of shell all over the floor.

  “Scottish, actually,” says McAvoy, releasing his grip. “But I help solve crimes in England.”

  “You sound like a movie star,” says Estrada, smiling widely to show Hollywood teeth. “Maybe Sean Connery. Maybe Shrek.”

  “I can live with that,” says McAvoy, busy thanking h
is lucky stars that Pharaoh is not here to tell Estrada he sounds like Scarface. “Fabulous place. I’ve read a lot about it. About you, too. Incredible to be standing here.”

  “Thanks,” says Estrada, and seems to mean it. “You fight?”

  “Used to. Lacked the cutting edge.”

  Estrada nods. “You don’t have to fight angry, but you have to know how to access your hate.”

  “That was my problem,” says McAvoy with a smile. “Not enough hate.”

  “We could train that out of you,” says Estrada, bringing Marcel into the conversation. “I’ve got fighters who only beat their opponent because they’re imagining they’re beating the crap out of me. I can make people hate.”

  “Is that another T-shirt slogan?”

  “I’ll keep that one for my autobiography,” Estrada says, giving another smile. “Now, you said you had some questions about Brishen and Shay? Shit, it shook me up to hear what happened. Can’t help feeling guilty, y’know?”

  McAvoy angles his head, indicating that Estrada could probably elaborate.

  “They were here at my request,” says Estrada, and rubs his palms together as if trying to start a fire. The gleam in his bright brown eyes seems to fade along with his smile. “I’ve spoken with Brish a hundred times on the phone and Skype, man. He’s a good guy. The best. We had a mutual-respect thing going, if you follow me. There ain’t many coaches who I’d give a dime for, but Brish knows the game.”

  McAvoy makes a show of consulting the notes in his phone. “Their flight arrived on the Tuesday night. Can you tell me when you met them in the flesh for the first time?”

  “Sure,” says Estrada, his eyes unwavering. “They were here at seven, Wednesday morning. Brish wanted to keep Shay to his routine, despite the flight and the beers they sunk the night before. They wanted to train.”

  “Am I right in thinking that if things went well, there was a chance you would take over from Brishen as Shay’s trainer?”