He looked over his shoulder at Barr who shrugged and nodded.
‘Now, I’ve to go back to Glasgow. Richard is coming with me. We can leave you in Glasgow.’
‘I want to go home,’ Tony said.
‘He can run you both back to the ferry first,’ Mullan offered, glancing at his watch. ‘If we’re quick out of here, you could still make the last crossing.’
Barr took out his phone and looked at it. ‘I dropped a pin at the car park too, he said. ‘There’s a more direct way back; it’ll take about 25 minutes.’
‘I’m visiting family in Glasgow,’ Karen said. ‘I’ll go on in with you.’
‘He’ll drop you off, sure,’ Mullan said, then turned to Tony. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m taking the ferry back,’ Tony said. ‘But I can take the train if you can drop me at the nearest stop.’
‘The late crossing doesn’t take foot passengers. But I can phone ahead, get it sorted for you.’
Tony felt drained, his chest heavy and dull, his arms hanging like pendula by his sides, aching. ‘What about Hugh?’
‘We’ll take care of it,’ Mullan said, moving across and kicking a scattering of leaves over the spot where Tony had sat. He turned, ushering Barr ahead of him. ‘Lead on, Macduff,’ he said, mimicking a Scottish lilt.
And so they set off, back through the woods. Tony turned, as he had done before, and regarded the scene: Duggan’s body lying above the ground, Kelly’s lying somewhere below, a strange marriage consummated with blood. But this time, he felt no urge to apologize. He’d told the truth, made his confession, and done his penance, he decided.
He turned his back on that place for a final time, and set off behind the others, the woods ahead of him full of colour and sound, though seemingly separate from him, as if perceived through a pane of glass, or by one who dreams.
The Last Crossing
Chapter Fifty-Seven
He dreamt of Martin Kelly that night, woke gratefully the following morning only to find the bed already empty. For a moment, he thought Karen had left, but then he heard rattling coming from the bathroom, the clatter of her toothbrush falling back into the cracked ceramic mug she used to hold it.
He climbed out of her bed and padded his way across to where she stood, putting on her make-up, her work shirt already on, hanging loose over her pants, her skirt still hanging on the radiator.
He moved behind her, placed his hands on her hips, moved them up beneath her shirt, cupping her breasts as he ground himself against her behind.
‘Do you have to leave?’ he asked, nuzzling into her.
But she shifted from him, wriggling her body to indicate she wanted him to move away. ‘I’m getting ready for work,’ she said.
Tony regarded her in the mirror, but she would not hold his eye, glancing fleetingly at him, then back to the mirror, rolling her eyes upwards as she applied her mascara.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, moving to the other eye. ‘I have to go. Can you let yourself out?’
Tony nodded, hurt by her coldness to him. His stomach ached from the day before, his leg and back causing him to wince whenever he moved. He did not want to face the reality of the new day, the reality of what they had done. In Karen’s arms, in Karen’s bed, he’d been able to escape that, pretend that what had happened in the woods was just a bad dream. Her indifference now brought reality, that they had watched someone be killed, crushing back to him. ‘Are you annoyed at me?’ he asked.
She shook her head, finishing her make-up and squeezing past him to retrieve her skirt. She pulled it on, balancing herself by placed one hand against the wall, despite his outstretched offer of his hand, then moved past him again and out into the bedroom.
‘There’s tea and stuff in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘If you need breakfast.’
Tony followed her out to the room.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing!’ she snapped. ‘Just leave it, OK?’
Tony sat heavily at the edge of the bed. Had he said something he shouldn’t? Done something? Or was he unnecessarily personalizing it? Surely it must be her reaction to what had happened the previous night. Perhaps reality had crashed down on her? She was pragmatic, business-like. Maybe this was how she was dealing with what had happened.
She went into the living area of her flat and appeared a moment later, her coat across her arm.
‘I’m away,’ she said.
Tony moved over towards the door and leaned down to kiss her. She turned her head a little, her lips pursed, and pecked the side of his mouth.
‘Goodbye, Tony,’ she said.
He watched her as she left, pulling the door behind her, not looking back at him, watched through the window showing nothing but empty streets until the echoing of her footfalls along the pavement had died away.
Rubbing at the bruises on his stomach, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume, which misted the room where he stood, he could not dispel the feeling that he would never see her again.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
‘We’ll see you again,’ Mullan said, as Tony climbed out of the car.
They’d driven him back to Ayr to get the final train there that would take him onwards to the ferry. Mullan had left his car parked in Howwood, knowing that they would have to come back that way anyway and he could pick it up then. In truth, Tony suspected he was keeping an eye on them, controlling the narrative, until they all went their separate ways.
Tony had sat in the back with Karen, in silence, while Barr and Mullan sat up front. The older man had spent most of the time on his phone while his nephew drove. Only one call had held Tony’s interest.
‘Richard’s sent you on the map link,’ he’d said. ‘Duggan’s there… Suicide… He’s not been well, to be honest. Maybe he just couldn’t live with the guilt anymore and went back to find the grave for the family, then took the easy way out… The guy was riddled with cancer. He… he told me himself… he told me himself that he couldn’t face the treatment, the pain… Well, that’s how you frame it… If you want to recover any of the others, you’d best not look too much into it… He brought his flag and gloves… Well, that’s the story you’re getting…That’s not my job… Bye.’
He hung up the phone and glanced in the mirror of the sun visor, catching Tony’s eye a moment, then turning his attention back to the road again.
‘Who is J.B. Books?’ Tony asked.
‘Who?’ Mullan said, looking back at him.
‘J.B. Books?’ Tony repeated. ‘Hugh said his name before he… before we left him.’
He looked at Karen who shook her head. Mullan shrugged, then took up his phone and started typing on it.
‘John Bernard Books,’ he read from the screen. ‘He was played by John Wayne in The Shootist. It was his final film.’
Mullan looked back at Tony again to see if this provided sufficient information, his face a pantomime of confusion.
Tony nodded. ‘That makes sense,’ he said, lapsing once more into silence. Karen sat next to him, took his hand in hers, held it for the rest of their journey together.
They dropped him at the railway station in Ayr.
‘See you,’ Mullan said, offering his hand, as Tony was getting out of the car. He took it and shook once, briefly, because he had no reason not to.
Barr got out of the car with him and, opening the boot, lifted out Tony’s bag and handed it to him. ‘I’ve searched it, so you’re good to go,’ the youth said, and laughed, though Tony could not be sure whether it was a joke or not.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said, feeling a little absurd in so doing.
He moved towards the station as the passenger door opened and Karen got out. She moved across to him and they stood, waiting for Barr to get back into the car.
‘It was good to see you, Tony,’ she said, her hand on his arm.
He looked at her, the softness of her face, the clarity of her eyes, their two diff
ering colours still bright, the invitation of her mouth and, in that moment, he loved her as intensely as he ever had.
‘I’m sorry how things worked out,’ she said. ‘How…’
‘How life worked out?’
She nodded, smiled sadly. She hugged him then, embraced him tightly. He returned the gesture, felt instantly the comfort of her familiar shape and smell and touch.
‘I still love you,’ he whispered to her.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘And I still love you, too.’ she said. ‘But I have a different life now. And so do you.’
They parted, and she stood in front of him, her eyes, like his, glistening with tears, both hands on his shoulders as if she was studying him, wanting to remember every detail of his face.
‘And so do you,’ she repeated, trying to laugh, her voice cracking a little. ‘And so you should. Go. Live. Be happy.’
She moved forward and kissed him on the side of the mouth, their lips touching for the briefest moment, and he felt her tears against his cheek, his mouth and nose filling with her scent.
But she wore a different perfume now, her old scent at once as familiar and irrecoverable as the past.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
As they passed Lady Bay, Tony watched Scotland slip away from him.
It was three weeks since he’d last seen Karen, that morning she had gone to work. She had not answered his calls, did not answer the door when he’d called. At first he’d been hurt, then angry. Now he was resigned. The place had changed for him after Martin Kelly. The country held his bones and, to Tony’s mind, that infected everything that Scotland might hold for him.
He’d phoned his father and explained that he wanted to come home. He wasn’t going to get involved in anything, he promised him. Nothing could bring Danny back, but he missed home and was ready to return.
His landlord had allowed him to leave a week early on his lease on condition he forfeited his deposit. The school hadn’t been pleased about his leaving at such short notice, but he’d lied, said his father was sick and he needed to go back to look after him. They’d accepted the excuse, albeit reluctantly. After all, if he left the country, what else could they do?
He stood on deck, the wind whipping his coat, his hands gripping the rail, his face feeling stiff with the wash of salt spray and looked forward, towards where home lay. He felt in his breast an undercurrent of dread, but above that, the small still voice of Hope that said everything would work out OK.
He realized now, as he watched the same coastline recede from view, that perhaps the voice had been true. He’d gone home and, indeed, his father had become sick and he’d been there with him until the end. His mother had followed not long after. He’d met Ann in school one day when she was in as a visiting speaker. She might not have had the passion of Karen, but then, by that stage, his own passion had waned.
They’d been happy, he decided; happier than he deserved to be. And she’d been loyal to him, and funny, and silly at times, and balanced, and calm and insightful. And he missed her, he realized. Karen had been right; they had their own lives now and they owed it to the dead to live them as best they could.
He took a deep breath, holding the sea air in his lungs. His chest hurt, a heaviness sitting on his breastbone and with the inhalation, a sharpness ran up his neckline and across his jaw. He felt a cold sweat break on his brow and decided he’d best move indoors again.
It was quiet inside, most people content to sit on their phones, or dozing before the final drive home. The lounge at the front was busy, but subdued, save for the raucousness of that same group of old women in the corner he’d seen earlier on the morning crossing over. They’d been there all day, laughing, drinking, living as they crossed between Ireland and Scotland over and over. This was the last crossing of the day, and they seemed determined to make the most of it. Even the man behind the bar was laughing at their abandon.
Tony thought for a moment of Duggan, sitting here this morning, drinking his whiskey. And then in the pub in Howwood, his savouring of each mouthful. Duggan had never intended leaving those woods. He’d known all along that he would not be returning, had chosen that ending to his story, had known even this morning that that early ferry was his last crossing.
Tony went to the bar and ordered a Southern Comfort and Coke. Handing over a £10 note to pay, he waited for the change as he emptied the cola into the spirit and returned the bottle to the bar man. He picked a coin from his change and palmed it to the man, who took it with a quizzical ‘Thank you.’
‘Just paying the ferryman,’ Tony joked.
He moved back down through the ship again, taking a seat at one of the tables, on the starboard side. He rested his head against the window, staring out into the gloom. Somewhere, a lighthouse flashed, guiding the ferry past the ragged coastline.
He took a sip of the drink, the first time he’d tasted it since that last night with Karen and, with that, felt, once more, her mouth on his, the ache, the longing for the touch of her skin, the heat of her.
A sudden tiredness washed through him.
He yawned, felt again the pain in his neck that accompanied the deep inhalation, considered that he should see the doctor when he got home. Perhaps it was a muscle pain, he decided, sitting up, craning his neck from side to side to relieve the ache.
The table next to him was empty, but the one beyond that seated a family of a mother, father and two children. They’d brought sandwiches and bottles of juice with them, which they now shared in a late supper. The younger child, a girl, was obviously tired and lay across the seat, her head resting on her father’s lap, the man sitting with his back to Tony. Opposite them, her face obscured by her partner, sat the mother. Next to her, a son, older than his sister, was begging to be taken to the shop, unhappy with the food on the table in front of him.
Tony thought of his own mother, then. They’d gone to Scotland several times when he was young, to visit his relatives. They’d taken the ferry together; Danny would sit with his mother, he beside his father, as they’d play cards, eating their packed lunch of ham and tomato sandwiches, the bread made soggy and stained pink from the tomato. The flask of tea always had a distinctive flavour and he could taste it now, stronger almost than the taste of the drink he’d just been sipping.
Of a sudden, as they reached deeper waters, Tony felt the surge of the ship moving forward and, with it, a commensurate feeling, as if he were floating, as if he had been freed, himself, from the shallow waters through which he had been navigating.
The pain in his chest bloomed once more, sharp and sudden, and then was gone.
Beyond him, the mother finally gave in and stood, taking her son’s hand to bring him to the shop. Tony studied her features and, in that moment, imagined that he recognized her. She was slim, slight, her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Despite the demands of her child, she smiled at her husband as he spoke, asking her to bring him something nice.
Tony felt his eyes droop, leaden, felt a tiredness born of the day’s exertions lie heavily on him. He rested his head against the window as he watched the girl come closer, her son’s hand in hers, both their faces alight with some joke they shared.
She was happy. And with that, he believed he knew her now.
‘Alice?’ he whispered.
As she drew level with him, she glanced at him, quizzically.
‘Are you OK, sir?’ she asked, leaning over and touching his shoulder.
Tony smiled as he felt the ferry move further out. He knew he should be afraid, this far from shore, but the crossing was warm and gentle and brought with it, not silence and darkness, but the sweet taste of flasked tea, the smell of Karen’s perfume, the sound of Ann’s laugh, the tenderness of Alice’s hand on his shoulder, and the sight, not of Martin Kelly as he’d feared, but of his father and mother and Danny, and Ann and his son, all somehow together at the table with him.
Joining him on this last crossing.
‘Sir?’ the girl repeated.<
br />
Beside her, the child called to his mother.
Acknowledgements
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to many people who helped me bring this book to fruition. Since I first wrote Borderlands, in 2003, I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have been supported by two Davids. Dave Torrans has always been such a champion of my writing and this book simply would not have been finished without his advice and encouragement; likewise, Dave Headley has been such an advocate for my work from day one and continues to be a source of huge encouragement and guidance now as my agent. I’m very grateful to them both.
The book also benefited from the insight and encouragement of Adrian McKinty, Steve Cavanagh, Ann Cleeves, Claire Allan and Gerard Brennan. I’m grateful to them, and to so many other members of the crime-writing community for their friendship and collegial support.
I’m immensely grateful to the team at The Dome Press – in particular, my editor Rebecca Lloyd – for taking a chance on The Last Crossing.
Thanks also to my many teaching colleagues and students who have been so supportive of my writing over the past decade or more. Special thanks to the members of The Magic Conch for their insights: Jamie, Niamh, Franki, Maya, Michelle, Shonagh, Megan, Tara, Sara, Alannah, and Saoirse.
Thanks to Emily Hickman for her continued support and good advice and to Jenny Hewson, Emma Warnock, Susan McGilloway and Patricia Devine for their help with various aspects of this book.
Special thanks to the McGilloways, Dohertys, O’Neills and Kerlins for their support, and most especially Carmel, Joe, Dermot and my mum, Katrina.
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