The Day She Died (27 page)

Kazek came out of the living room, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Is Gary!” he whispered. “Don't open, Jessie-Pleasie. Is Gary. He kill me. No open door.”

“It's Gus,” I whispered back. “Gus?” I said in a normal voice. “Please tell me what's going on. How did you find me?”

“Why did you run away? Where are the kids?”

“They're here, of course,” I said. “Where else would they be? But Gus, you need to calm down if you want me to let you in. You're scaring me and you'll scare them too.” Ruby had sidled round the living room door with her eyes like saucers.

“Is that Daddy?” she said.

He heard her. “Ruby!” he shouted. “Daddy's here, darling. Open the door.”

Ruby sprang forward and when I held her back, she started to scream. Gus went back to pounding.

“Let me in or I'll call the cops, Jessie,” he said. “You've no right to take my kids away.”

He had a point. And how was he supposed to explain anything through a door?

“Just promise me you'll stay calm,” I said. Kazek was shaking his head. He took Ruby and lifted her up into his arms, holding her tightly. I undid the chain and had my hand on the lock to turn it before Kazek understood what I was doing.

“No, Jessie-Pleasie!” The pounding stopped. There was silence.

“Gus?” I said. “Are you still there?”

I heard a whisper and put my ear close to the door.

“What did you say?”

“Bitch.” He hissed it at me. “Who the fuck have you got in there?”

I felt my face drain. “Gus, no,” I said. Even then, even then, I was looking for reasons not to believe what was happening.

“Fucking filthy bitch.”

He was upset after the funeral.

“Fucking filthy wheedling whining bitch.”

I'd taken his kids.

“Fucking moaning stinking filthy bitch.”

He heard a man's voice in my flat.

“Gus, no,” I said again.

There was an explanation for everything else. Somehow. And I'd listen to it too. If he just passed one test. There was a bag of clothes hidden in his workshop. Either it was innocent or it wasn't. I had to know.

“Gus,” I said. “I've got something to tell you. I brought the kids here because I don't want them to see the cops at your place.”

And here was my answer. His footsteps hammering on the concrete close, and ringing on the stairs as he ran away until there was silence apart from
Shrek
and Dillon eating crisps and Ruby still softly crying.

I went to the bathroom and got cool cloths for the children's faces to wipe away the muck and the tears in one go. I was numb. Hands cold, lips blue, but still my head was fizzing. How did he know where I lived? A week ago he hadn't known a thing about me. He hadn't even known my name. And then with a click, another piece of it fell into place. He
had
known my name. He thought it was Jess. And at long last I knew why.

I was coming back from the bathroom when I heard the sound of new footsteps on the stairs. Soft as it was, Kazek heard it too. And Ruby. He had put her down but he kept his arms around her.

“Daddy?” she said.

But I'd know those crepe soles anywhere.

“Father?” I asked, loud enough for him to hear me through the door. “Before I open up, is there anyone hanging around? Did you see anyone out on the street?”

“Oh, Jessie,” he said. “What manner of mess are you in now? No, there's no one.”

I opened the door and he took in the tableau. Kazek crouching on the floor, Ruby red-faced and sniffing, me white with shock and still shaky. It was Kazek he came back to.

“Kazimierz Czarnecki,” he said. “We've all been looking for you.”

Twenty-One

“Are you a …
what's it called?” asked Ruby, looking at his purple surplice and dog collar. “A Santa?”

“Close enough for rough work,” said Father Tommy. “And who's this fine fellow?”

“Dillon King,” said Dill, who had come to the living room door.

“So what's been going on here?” Tommy said. I gave one of the cloths to Kazek for Ruby and put the other one over Dillon's hot wee face myself.

“Mum,” he said, miserably. Father Tommy raised his eyebrows.

“It's a long story,” I said. “How do you know Kazek?”

“It's another one,” said Father Tommy. “And I don't actually know him. But I'm very pleased to meet him.” He spoke like a headmaster confiscating a catapult. His next words explained why. “Since some of that money you absconded with was mine, my son. Or St. Vincent's anyway.”

“
Prosze ksiedza
… ” said Kazek.

“
Nie tak oficjalnie
,” said Father Tommy.

“You speak Polish?” I asked him. He was as Irish as a peat bog.

“I was a great fan of his late beloved Holiness,” he said. “I learned a bit in case I ever met him. And no, I never did. Not in this life anyway, plenty time later.”

“Well, thank God for it,” I said. “I'm in serious need of someone who can talk to Kazek and tell me what the—what's going on.”

“I would dearly love to know what the—what's going on myself, Jessie,” said Father Tommy. “But these children are out on their feet. Let's get them settled and then we can talk, eh?”

Which is how it came to pass that Ruby and Dill got the couch and Father Tommy, Kazek, and me sat in a row on my bed like the first line of a dirty joke.

“Absconded from where?” I said.

“JM Barrie House,” said Father Tommy.

“That's it!” I said. “That's why he kept saying
jamboree
.”

“
Nie ukradlem zadnych pieniedzy
,” said Kazek. “
Nie jestem zlodziejem
.”

“Well you might not think taking fifty thousand pounds makes you a thief, but we'll have to agree to differ.”

“He's right,” I said. “He's not a thief. Show him, Kazek.”

Kazek stretched over to my nightstand and took out the Morry's bag. He untied the handles, just as he had before, and shook out the two blocks of notes.

“Well now,” said Father Tommy. “That's excellent news. That makes things a sight more easy.”

“Don't be so sure,” I said. “The other one—Wojtek, Kazek's friend?—it's him they fished out of the Nith with his throat cut.” Father Tommy crossed himself and asked Kazek a question. Kazek nodded and wiped a tear away.

“And we know who killed him,” I said. “Or at least, I thought we did, until, maybe it was … Okay listen, Father.” I stood and went to my dressing table, got the camera that I'd left there.

“What do you know about this guy?”

“Gary Boyes,” said Father Tommy. “Hey! Is that the Project?”

“He's a gangster,” I said. “He might have killed Wojtek. Or had him killed anyway. Oh! That's it. Gary ordered it and Gus did it?”

“What are you talking about, Jessie?” said Father Tommy. “Gary Boyes isn't a gangster. He couldn't order a killing.”

“Father, he
is
.”

“He's a gang master,” said Father Tommy. “He's in charge of the boys—including this one—who're doing the roof.”

I knew my mouth had dropped open. “A gang master,” I said. “Not a master gangster. Bloody Dot!”

“Oh, Dot!” said Father Tommy. “I know about
Monsignature Whelan
, by the way.”

Kazek spoke again then, and Father Tommy sobered and nodded.

“Quite right, child,” he said. “It's no time for laughter.” But Kazek wasn't done. He opened his jacket and took out Wojtek's rosary and Bible, the broken bracelet too. I caught Ros's name in the stream and watched Father Tommy's face grow more and more solemn.

“I can't believe it,” he said, when Kazek finally stopped talking and flopped back to lie flat on the bed.

“What?” I asked him. “Tell me before I burst.”

“The steering committee were told Gary Boyes was a licensed gang master. Kazek here tells me he took their passports, paid them nothing, made them sleep on the site. So they ran away.” He turned to Kazek. “Why did you take the money?” he said. Kazek answered without opening his eyes and Tommy laughed.

“It certainly got their attention all right,” he said. He fanned the notes out from around their band. “And you haven't spent a penny of it, eh? A good Catholic boy. The blessings of the church in your early years, Jessie, never depart from you.”

“Yes, okay, okay,” I said. “A teachable moment, I know. But then what happened?”

“They had a lawyer—this Ros?—who was going to fight their case,” Father Tommy said. “But she's gone, he tells me. So they drew straws to see who would go and confront Boyes. Wojtek lost the draw and arranged to meet him.”

“At Abington services,” I said. “Of course he did. And instead of giving him the passports back in return for the money, Boyes lured him away and killed him.”

“Poor child, poor child. Another good Catholic boy too. And the lawyer? Where's she? In the Nith, are we thinking?”

“I wish I knew,” I said. “And here's another thing. Why didn't Kazek let me call the police? Ask him that.”

“I don't have to,” said Father Tommy. “Oh, it's a wicked world. You know Sergeant McDowall? His wife's name was Boyes before they were married. I married them myself. He's Gary Boyes's brother-in-law. Best man at the wedding.”

“Well, he's as bent as a boomerang,” I told him. “He told Boyes I knew something and that's when Boyes came to the shop.” I pushed my sleeve back and showed him the bruises, yellow but unmistakable. “No way past a bent copper. Close ranks, bury the bodies, business as usual. If Kazek spends a night in the cells, he'll be lucky to see morning.”

But I had underestimated the surpliced avenger. Father Tommy's eyes flared, his nostrils flared. I think maybe even his moustache flared.

“Jessie,” he said. “If there's one thing I've learned in the past decade of pure hell and damnation, it's this. Bugger the ranks, bugger the organisation. I don't care who it is—the police force, the Church that I love like my mother, the Boy Scouts—bugger them. It's not worth one hair on the head of the most miserable sinner born to save a police force or a church that's gone bad.”

“You'll go with him to the cops?”

“And stay by his side.”

“Well, thank God for you,” I said. “Only, Father? A Catholic priest shouting ‘bugger the Boy Scouts' is going to get some funny looks, you know.”

“I forgive you for that, my child,” he said. “I'm in a forgiving mood today.” I flopped back, flopped right back just like Kazek, and stared up at the ceiling. Father Tommy turned and skewered me with one of his looks. “And how did you get yourself mixed up in all of this?” he said.

“‘All of this' is actually only half the story,” I said. “Their dad,” I nodded through towards the children, “is married to the best friend of Ros the lawyer. Only she killed herself last Tuesday. And Gus had Wojtek's bracelet. I still don't see how that could be.”

“But how do you come to know them all, Jessie?” said Father Tommy. “How is it that those children are here? In the state they're in? If it's you who joins the two halves together, you must know.”

“I thought it was pure chance, Father. Until I worked it out today.” I sat up, leapt to my feet. “Can I go out for a bit? I'll take the children, if you want me to. You can't drag them round where you're going.”

“Ah, I think we can all spend a quiet hour right here, until your return,” he said. “I can practice my Polish with this fine young man, and it's been a while since I saw
Shrek
. I'll sit on the couch and eat a bag of crisps very happily. On you go, child, on you go.”

How long had it been since I was here? I'd given up coming for Christmas the year my mum told me that my blaspheming was tainting the whole day for everyone, even Penny and Allan's daughter who was fourteen months old. My blaspheming. All I had done was point out that if God had sacrificed his only son to Herod when he was a toddler instead of waiting till he was in his thirties, it would have saved a lot of other little boys.

“But look on the bright side, eh?” I'd said. “It probably never happened.”

“What do you mean ‘never happened'?” said Penny. “It's in Scripture.”

“But only according to Matthew. Not the other three. Matthew, you know, the only one that happened to mention—what was else it?—oh yeah, an earthquake on Good Friday. One out of four witnesses recalled a massacre of baby boys and an earthquake. Something wrong somewhere, if you ask me. I think if four people—or even just two should be enough, eh Mum?—if the same people were all at the same massacre and earthquake together, they should agree on what happened. Eh no?”

My mother had put her head into her hands by this time. Her paper hat fell off into her prawn cocktail.

“Sorry, Mother,” I said. “You should have stuck to waving it at me and making me swear on it that I hadn't been smoking. It was when I
read
the damn thing that it all started to go so wrong. Reading what you told me was true and trying so hard to not remember the truth that you told me was false. It was a recipe for disaster, really.”

So maybe calling their Bible a
damn thing
was a tiny little bit blasphemous, actually, I thought as I rang the doorbell. I'd really try to rein it in today. The doorbell playing “How Great Thou Art” didn't help, and the sight of my mother when she came to answer it made the little devil on my shoulder whisper things in my ear. She was wearing one of her midcalf, brown skirts and a cream shirt with a high, ruffled neck, fawn cardi, no jewelry, no makeup, modest in the sight of the Lord. But her hair was a bright copper red, not a single grey one anywhere. Some of the brightest hairs were kind of springy and coarse the way grey hair grows in, but the colour, well, the colour had to be a gift from God to reward her good life, right? Anything else would be unholy and shameful and not the Brethren way.

“Jess?” she said.

“Mum,” I answered. “I just want to check out something you said to me. What would I not have followed up on? What were you doing to try to help me?”

She stood back to let me in and ushered me towards the living room. She had been sitting knitting with the radio on, a small, pale yellow jersey in a lacy design.

“Sale of work?” I said. “That's really lovely.” I was determined to try.

“Idle hands,” said my mother. “What are you asking me?”

She sat back down and picked up her needles. There was going to be no offer of tea then. But then she'd not long had one judging by the empty cup and the crumbs in the saucer—one of those squint saucers with a bulge for the biscuit; I had bought it for her for a birthday present and I wish I could say it meant nothing to see her using it.

“On the phone,” I reminded her. “You said you supposed I wouldn't have followed up on something. Something about not keeping hold of my friends?”

“Oh yes. Someone was here looking for you,” she said. “A rough sort, but a nice enough way with him.”

“When was this?”

“Months back,” said my mother. “Hasn't he phoned you yet? Maybe he's shy.”

“Months,” I repeated.

“He came once looking for you and then he came back for some leaflets I said I'd bring him. Came back a third time to talk them over too.”

“Church leaflets?” I said, thinking I'd got it wrong after all.

“So I thought he might be a nice friend for you, appearances aside.”

“Because he's a long-haired lout,” I guessed. “And he said he knew me.”

“Of course he knows you,” my mother said. “You were at school together. I think, you know, that he liked you then. Carried a wee torch all these years. You could do worse. You could end up alone, Jess.” She heaved a sigh and looked around at her neat living room.
Alone like me
, she was hinting. But she'd ended up alone because she beat her husband out the door with her Bible. I said nothing. “And just so you know,” she went on, “he knows all about you. So you've nothing to fear on that score.”

“Right,” I said. “So. You told him everything, eh?”

“I had to, Jess,” said my mother. “Tell the truth and shame the devil.”

“You told him about the pteronophobia and why I've got it.”

“I told him you had mental troubles,” she corrected me. “What you did when you were five.”

“Yeah, that's right,” I said. It was her version he was expecting. Granny collapsed when she saw the feathers. That's what he had been waiting for me to say.

“And if God has sent you the miracle of a good-hearted boy who can stomach you after that, you shouldn't set your face against it.”

I fingered the little place on my cheek where the hole had formed in those long hours.

“There's nothing there,” my mother said, her voice cold with scorn.

“I know,” I told her. “It faded, years ago.”

“You could still offer yourself to Jesus.” She always said this, like it was good sound practical advice, and she always said it that way too. Like I was borderline even for him, but you never know—he
might
take me.

“Which one?” I replied. I was right back in my well-worn groove now, all the old favourites. My mother hissed like a serpent. She hated my multiple-Jesus theory. I hadn't meant it to be offensive. I just reckoned there was two at least. Actually, that was only because I'd had the idea first about Moses and it made a lot of sense there.