Cruel Mercy

by David Mark

“Indeed.”

  “It was an unsanctioned bout . . .”

  “What is said in confession is sacred,” says Whelan. “I cannot discuss our philosophical differences. Now, may I inquire if there have been any positive developments regarding Valentine?”

  McAvoy wants to tell him the truth. But there is something a little oily, a little slick, about the man who holds his wife’s phone. He finds it hard to imagine that a respected man of the Church would go and sleep in a humble caravan to prevent bloodshed between two warring gypsy clans, and then realizes how terrible an indictment on the clergy this actually is. Of course that’s where he should be. Of course he should make a sacrifice in order to help secure peace.

  “I’m putting the pieces together,” says McAvoy cautiously. “It would be a big help to speak to Mr. Molony. We had a very brief chat at Brishen’s bedside and he seemed rather reluctant to talk to me.”

  “Peter can be querulous,” says Whelan, and it sounds like he is smiling. “He has not always been treated with kindness by the police.”

  “I’m aware that his past is intriguing,” says McAvoy.

  “Intriguing, Aector? Painful, certainly. Hard. But he is a good man who has done good things in his life.”

  “Perhaps he would have made a good priest,” says McAvoy softly.

  “Perhaps,” says Whelan, not rising to it.

  “You were seminarians together . . .”

  “This is beginning to feel like an interview, Aector. Should I tell Roisin you called?”

  “Should I give Mr. Molony your regards?” responds McAvoy. “I saw another of your friends earlier today. Paulie Pugliesca. He spoke well of you. Will you be offering long-distance counsel to Nicky Savoca? He has lost a son, you understand. Or are you focused only on Mr. Molony? I’m on my way to his apartment now, actually. I’m hoping he will be more helpful when we chat. I have some questions that trouble me.”

  “Really?” asks Father Whelan. “He has answered all such questions before, I’m sure. Are you not there to find Valentine Teague? Is that not what you are for, in this matter?”

  There is silence on the line. It stretches out, becoming uncomfortable. McAvoy feels an urge to speak, to drag something else out of the man who sits in the same quiet space as his wife and children. But it is Father Whelan who breaks the silence.

  “Is it arrogance, do you think?” His tone of voice has changed and he seems to be talking as much to himself, or to God, as he is to McAvoy.

  “Father?”

  “Arrogance to believe you can change things? Arrogance to believe your decisions are blessed? Is that how it feels for you, Aector? Do you believe yourself to be divinely chosen? Picked out to fight on the side of the angels? You trust yourself, yes? Know yourself to be a good man. You love your family and you want to do what is right. You believe that a man who feels such things must by definition be able to make decisions that please God.”

  “I don’t know what I believe,” says McAvoy, uncertain where the priest is leading him.

  “Do you know what it is to make a decision that you believe to be God’s will, only to learn that it is not His design? Nor is it the work of the devil. It is the wish of your own accursed self. Can you imagine what it is to know that your acts of decency have caused so much pain and suffering? How does one atone for such a thing? Is there a penance great enough? God forgives all, but to forgive ourselves? That is where prayer falls short.”

  McAvoy listens to the priest’s breathing. He doesn’t know whether to push or stay silent.

  “If life were a scale, I would be able to weigh my good deeds against my unforeseen consequences and not be found wanting. My life, on balance, has served God. And so I tell myself that I am still blessed. Still welcome at His side. Yet I still fear Judgment Day, Aector. I fear what I will learn at that great and terrible time. I will accept God’s decisions about my deeds.”

  Father Whelan coughs. It sounds dry and painful. It seems to put some steel back into his voice.

  “God may judge me, Aector, but I do not know any man who can say in good conscience whether my life has been one of goodness and charity or of terrible sin. I do not wish to hear either case, Aector. Could you understand that, do you think? Could you allow yourself to leave things be? To leave my fate in the hands of God? I have never prayed for myself. I long to be a good man. For the sake of all that will crumble if you kick at my foundations, I would ask you to leave things be.”

  McAvoy rubs at the bruise below his eye. The pain sings in his cheek.

  “Father, it doesn’t work like that. I’m not accusing you of anything. We all make mistakes. Talk to me. Talk to Roisin, if it’s easier. I’m not a policeman right now—just a man lost and far from home. I know you can help me. I know you want to. I can hear the conflict in you.”

  “We are all conflicted, Aector.”

  “You asked me if I thought myself a good man,” says McAvoy urgently. “The truth is, I don’t know. How do we know such a thing? Any of us? You have your religion, your God, to tell you what it is to live a good life. But what of those with different codes? What is it to be a good man when you have no notion of an afterlife or judgment? Would you stop praying if you learned there was no heaven? We all pray to our souls, our own selves—we pray to find out who we are, and that prayer can be words, or song, or the thoughts that creep up on us as we hold the ones we love. Nobody has answers. Not really. Please, Father, I can hear the weight upon your conscience. Unburden yourself.”

  Father Whelan doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, there is a tremble in his voice.

  “Bless you, my son.”

  McAvoy stares at the dead phone. It feels as though his ribs are slowly opening like wings. His face is flushed and the sweat has turned cool upon his forehead.

  “You were fucking rude,” says Valentine. “Was that Whelan? Why’s he got Ro’s phone? Why didn’t you tell them I was safe and this was nowt to do with me?”

  “We have somebody to visit,” says McAvoy, teeth clamped together. “Molony.”

  “The monk-looking bloke with the nice house? Why?”

  “He’s involved. Involved in what happened to Brishen and Shay.”

  “Nah, he was okay. Really took to Brish. Gave him a good-luck charm, for all the good it did him.”

  “A good-luck charm?”

  Valentine smiles. “Yeah, Brish was holding it like it was the crucifix when we were waiting for the fight. Said Molony had given him it.”

  “What was it?”

  “Leather pouch on a string. I don’t know what was inside it. Brish told me but I must have misheard. It didn’t make sense.”

  McAvoy looks at him. Watches the lights flicker in the jewels of water on the side of the vodka bottle. Out on the street, the snow blows in with same relentlessness with which McAvoy pursues the truth.

  “He said it was his face,” says Valentine, and he is not smiling as he says it.

  “Whose face?”

  Valentine shrugs. He seems to be running out of energy, the bravado that has sustained him draining away.

  “Let’s ask him,” says Valentine, setting his jaw. “Let’s knock on the prick’s door.”

  Both men turn to look at Rey, who has not spoken in half an hour.

  “Is it always like this with you?” he asks McAvoy, eyes wide.

  McAvoy gives a weary nod. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  1:04 A.M. A PLEASANT ROOM ON THE SIXTH FLOOR OF THE WADE-CHRISTIE PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL

  A well-built, chestnut-skinned man with dark hair and a swath of bandages where his nose used to be, split to allow the breathing tube into his lungs.

  His eyelids flicker. His fingers twitch.

  A petal falls from the roses that stand in a crystal vase on the table by the window. As it tumbles downward, it
is caught by the breeze that billows gently from the air-conditioning unit and the pinkish petal pinwheels across the air to land on the perfect white sheets that swaddle the comatose man’s body.

  Though there is no way for him to be able to smell the bloom, perhaps he senses it. Perhaps he can taste a change in the air. As the petal lands, the rapidity of his eye movements increases. His finger jerks. He can see something in the darkness behind his eyelids. In his private world between life and death, he can sense himself being tugged between two tomorrows, racked and stretched by the hands that drag him between waking up or drifting away.

  —

  . . . Come on, Brish. Think. Think! You were pissed off, you know that much. Pissed off and scared. You’d fecked up. Val had played you and you’d lost your temper with him. You went after him and it all turned to shit. You had some Russian prick in the boot of the car and nowhere to go with him. What did you do? You’d been at the fat man’s place. Swanky gaff, like something out of a magazine. He’d been welcoming. Friendly, like he had been at church. All the love in the world for Father Whelan and who could blame him. Made you welcome, didn’t he? Even when you turned up with Shay and Valentine and smacked the little prick in the mouth so hard his tooth came out. He didn’t judge. Still the same kind eyes and happy smile, even though you could see the poor bastard was suffering. Smelled like sour milk. Needed all the luck he could get and still he gave you the charm. Handed it over like it was a lock of Mother Mary’s hair. Kept this safe for you, he said. You need it back. What is it? you asked. He said it was your face, Brish. And you were too polite to ask for an explanation. Felt right, though, didn’t it? Little soft leather pouch, dangling there on your chest. Don’t look inside, he’d said, as if it was Pandora’s fecking box. And you didn’t, did you? Just held it and let it take the edge off the pain in your gut . . .

  Was different when you came back, though, wasn’t it? Different when you parked up in his garage with Chebworz in the boot. Molony had been drinking. Had taken his pills. And the way he moved, you could see he was hurting. There was blood showing through his pajamas, but he said it didn’t matter. You tried to be kind, Brish. Put him to bed and said you would be out of his hair as soon as you could. Fixed yourself a drink and watched the view while Shay slept in the armchair and you wondered if Valentine was dead or alive.

  You shouldn’t have listened, should you? Shouldn’t have snooped around in another man’s home or played with his little old tape recorder. But you did. Listened to a man with a voice like a quiet scream, talking about the people he had hurt and the lives he had taken and begging, begging, begging for forgiveness in the name of the Father, the Son . . .

  He heard, of course. Woke up. And you went mad, didn’t you, Brish? Wanted answers. Who the feck did the voice belong to? Was it real? Who was the sick feck who was talking about sacrifice? Penance? Atonement? And who was the girl, screaming and begging for water as he confessed and confessed and confessed . . .

  He showed you, didn’t he? Showed you the wounds on his skin. And you wanted to puke. You wanted to puke even before he started talking. And once he started, you wanted him to stop. So you hit him. Knocked him down and laid the boots in and all the while he looked at you with big sad eyes, so full of disappointment and confusion.

  What did he tell you, Brish? Why did you get your arse in that car and drive to those fecking woods? Where were you going? It cost Shay his life, you silly bollocks. Next thing it was all blue lights and that bumpy road and the trees getting thicker and darker and the snow beneath your knees as that bastard put his gun to your head and told you that this was what happened to people who stuck their noses in where they didn’t belong . . .

  Remember, Brish. Remember . . .

  —

  On the monitor at his bedside, the readout begins to fluctuate, beeping more swiftly, frenziedly, as a tortured soul tries to find a way back into its body, trying the locked entrances and exits like a burglar, growing more frantic in its desire to live.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It’s always like this, is it? Being a copper? I thought it would be more boring, like. More paperwork. More staring at computers and giving people speeding tickets. Not so many fights with Russians or breaking into serial killers’ houses . . .”

  Valentine is enjoying himself. He’s grinning, showing off the gap in his top row of teeth but still managing to look handsome in a bad-boy kind of way.

  “We’re not breaking in. And we don’t know what he’s done,” says McAvoy, keying in the code and pushing open the door to Molony’s apartment building. “There are unanswered questions, that’s all.”

  The door closes behind them as they enter the warm ground-floor hallway. Outside, the roads are practically deserted and the snow continues to fall. Some of the streets Rey had used to shave some time off their journey back were blocked by snowdrifts or by vehicles that had skidded and been abandoned. Rey drove most of the way in low gear but had still made good time. When he dropped them off he had refused their offer of staying in touch.

  “You think he’s home?” asks Val.

  “He didn’t answer his buzzer,” says McAvoy as they begin to climb the stairs.

  “Maybe he wears earplugs. Or he’s got company. Or he doesn’t answer the door in the middle of the night. Or maybe he’s de-limbing a prostitute with a pair of nail scissors.”

  “Don’t make jokes,” says McAvoy. He’s in a lot of pain. His ribs and face are agony and his chat with Father Whelan has left him feeling as though he is walking two inches below the surface of the road. He feels disconnected, holding on to home by a fraying rope.

  “I’ve met this bloke. He was nice. Friendly.”

  “I’m sure he is. I’m not making any assumptions. Grab the keys, they’re under that rug.”

  Valentine does as he is told and they walk in silence to the red front door. Taking a breath, McAvoy gives a policeman’s knock and starts to count down from twenty in his head. When he gets to three he knocks again.

  “Earplugs,” mutters Valentine.

  “Police,” shouts McAvoy. “Open up.”

  “Are you?” asks Val.

  “What?”

  “Police. Here, I mean.”

  “I’m doing my best, Valentine.”

  Valentine raises his hands in surrender, grinning at his brother-in-law. “Wait until I tell Roisin.”

  McAvoy ignores him, fumbling with the keys. “Here, hold this.” He hands his phone to Valentine. A red light is flashing. “I need you to record this.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “I want to show I did things properly.”

  “If nothing else it will be popular on YouTube. Especially if he’s waiting behind the door with a golf club.”

  “Shush,” says McAvoy, and turns the handle. He leads the way into Molony’s apartment and at once something feels different. He was here just a few hours ago and though it had felt anodyne and far from homely, it had at least felt as though it could be turned into a comfortable abode with a change of furniture and some drawings stuck to the fridge. It feels cold now. Empty. McAvoy knows at once that there is nobody at home. Even so, he calls out as he walks down the corridor, stating his name and rank and calling Molony’s name.

  There are no lights on in the apartment and McAvoy raises his hand to shield his eyes when Valentine blithely flicks on a light switch and floods the living room with a yellow glare. It reveals a scene of chaos. The luxurious space has been ransacked. Drawers have been pulled free and their contents spilled across the floor. Papers, some pristine white and others yellowing with age, carpet the floor. The drawers themselves have been tossed aside and the paintings pulled down from the walls. Smashed glass and ripped paper cover the floor. This place has seen violence.

  “Christ,” says Valentine.

  McAvoy spots a splatter of blood running across a stack of spilled trifold leaflets a
dvertising a Catholic retreat. He bends down and spots another, farther away, toward the kitchen. He follows the trail. Turns on the light.

  There is a mound of ash upon the floor. A discarded urn, lying on its side by the cooker.

  Blood.

  “Well, the cleaner’s taking a day off,” says Valentine behind him.

  McAvoy takes the phone and slowly films everything around him. He zooms in on the blood. Against the tiles and the ash it looks like a lot but McAvoy has seen enough murders to know that a person can lose this amount and live. He has lost twice this much himself and walked away.

  “Molony, you think?” asks Valentine.

  “It’s his house.”

  “Is there somebody after him?”

  McAvoy stops recording and closes his eyes for a moment. There is a thudding in his head. He feels Valentine’s arm on his shoulder and a moment later he is sitting down in one of the sumptuous red armchairs and Valentine is handing him a glass of water.

  “We’re contaminating the crime scene,” says McAvoy.

  “Don’t talk shite. Just drink.”

  McAvoy does as he is told and then puts his head back against the comfortable leather. He would love to sleep. He’d like to be found here by NYPD uniforms. He’d like to be told off, cautioned and told to leave the country. He’d like to take Valentine back to Galway, pick up his family, give Father Whelan a knowing look and bugger off back to Hull. He simply can’t let himself.

  “What now?” asks Valentine. “You want me to go and film the shit in the loft that you told me about? Sounds creepy as fuck. And I’m good at not leaving footprints.”

  McAvoy shakes his head. He feels inert. Clueless. He looks at his phone for a moment and wishes that the screen would light up with advice. For something to do, he calls Alto again. The policeman still isn’t picking up. He’s either interviewing Zav or has gone home to bed.

  “You want to try Ro again?” asks Valentine gently. “You’ve nowt to worry about. The Heldens are all talk. They’ll make a lot of noise but it won’t come to anything. And they won’t come in all guns blazing with Whelan there. You’re acting like she’s with another man. He’s a priest, Aector. That’s almost the same as a eunuch.”