Some brown stuff and some purple stuff and some bread. Two beers. Vodka. Leave the bottle.”
McAvoy lolls in the wooden chair and listens as Valentine places his food order with the waitress. She’s middle-aged with dark hair and poor skin and is wearing the kind of earrings that grandchildren buy for special occasions. If she is disturbed by McAvoy’s bruised appearance, she doesn’t show it.
“You want me to hang your coats up above the radiator?” she asks.
Valentine grins and looks at McAvoy. “You want to take your coat off, Aector?”
“I’m fine,” manages McAvoy, who is bare-chested beneath his jacket.
“I’ll bring you solyanka. Ukha. Maybe some vareniki? Your friend enjoyed his.”
Valentine and McAvoy shoot a glance at Rey, who has his back to the wall and looks like somebody who is feeling rattled but is damned if he’ll show it in front of strangers.
“Did you?” asks Valentine.
“It was great,” says Rey, the taxi driver whose gesture of generosity has backfired spectacularly. He has positioned himself in a way that allows him easy access to the cutlery if the two crazy Celts suddenly decide to start trouble.
“That’s great,” says Valentine, and he shrugs out of his coat and hands it to the waitress. She disappears through a set of saloon doors into the kitchen.
McAvoy looks around him. His left eye is swelling and he can see the risen flesh, squatting like a sand dune at the bottom of his vision. His head hurts and his arms feel heavy. He only remembers brief snatches of the journey here. He came to as they entered the pleasant restaurant on Brighton Beach Avenue. Two waiters were playing cards at a table, but they hustled out the back when McAvoy and Valentine entered. Rey was the only other customer but he had not reacted with much alarm at the sight of his most recent fare appearing so badly bruised. He has been a cabdriver in New York City for nine years. He has seen it all before.
“So you found your friend,” says Rey. “Did he not want to come along?”
Valentine slaps McAvoy on the shoulder. He has his feet on one of the other chairs and is pushing himself back, rocking his seat on two legs. He looks at ease with the world, all testosterone and loose-limbed assurance. He reminds McAvoy of the sort of teen who would terrify teachers with their cocksure certainty that none of this shit matters.
“Came to my rescue, so he did,” says Valentine, and he removes an electronic cigarette from his coat pocket and takes three quick puffs. “Fought a bear for me. Now that’s family, my friend, that’s family. I’m Valentine Teague, by the way. Val, if you know me, which you do now.”
“I’m Rey,” he says, extending a hand.
“We’re not doing anything complicated with the handshake, are we?” asks Valentine, smiling. “I’m not good at all that crap.”
“Just a handshake.”
“I can do that,” says Valentine, and does so. “You’ll be Mexican, then.”
Rey cocks his head. “Honduran,” he says.
“Don’t know that one,” says Valentine, shrugging. “It’s like Mexican, though, yeah?”
Rey looks to McAvoy. He is unaccustomed to being insulted by somebody who does not seem to realize they are doing it.
“Leave it, Valentine,” says McAvoy, pressing the back of his hand to his face and wincing.
“I’m just asking . . .”
“Well, stop it.”
Valentine puts his hands up in surrender, grinning widely. “I tried Da again,” he says. “Used your phone. No answer.”
McAvoy notices that his cell phone is not in his pocket. “Can I have it back?”
Val hands it over. “Try her again,” he suggests. “No answer from Ma neither.”
McAvoy pulls himself upright in his chair, hot and sore. It’s too warm in the pleasant little restaurant with its red and black tiles and flickering, battery-operated imitation candles.
“Why haven’t you been in touch with anybody?” asks McAvoy, looking hard at his brother-in-law. “A phone call. Just a call.”
“Why do you fucking think?” asks Valentine, rolling his eyes. “Brishen in hospital? Shay dead? Bullets flying everywhere and me trying to make the best of it with those Russian lads who would have chopped my face off soon as look at it if there was anything to be gained? I only stayed alive by bullshitting and making them think I might be important. It wasn’t like I was free to go send an e-mail.”
“You’re suddenly telling me you were a prisoner?” asks McAvoy angrily. “You just walked out with me! There’s not a mark on you.”
“It’s sorted, Aector. Just relax. I don’t even think they believed me when I said you were a big deal. They just sorted other stuff out first and waited for everything to play out.”
McAvoy wipes his nose. There is a smear of blood on the napkin. The sight of it angers him and he turns on the younger man.
“Do you know what I’ve been through trying to find you? Do you know what’s going on at home? The Heldens are gunning for your whole family. They think you’re the one who killed Shay. If you don’t show your face and smooth things over, there’ll be blood.”
Valentine has the good grace to look away. When he turns back to McAvoy, his features are pink.
“It was a good fucking plan,” he says angrily. “If Shay hadn’t got killed . . .”
“What happened, Valentine?”
The tension is broken by the return of the waitress. She places three tall bottles of beer on the table and a frosted bottle of vodka with three glasses.
“Put your feet down,” she says flatly to Valentine, who does as he is told. She smiles and returns to the kitchen.
“They’re okay, the Russians,” says Valentine, watching her go. “Easy to deal with. They’re not all that different from us. Just want a few home comforts, a bit of respect, and the chance to be left alone.”
“I saw what you put on the YouTube video,” says McAvoy. “You started all this.”
“Just be quiet a second,” says Valentine, taking another puff on his cigarette. He looks at Rey. “You a trustworthy guy?”
Rey shrugs. “I’m not even here.”
Valentine accepts this. He pours himself a shot of vodka and follows it up with another. He pours one for McAvoy and slides it across the table. For once, McAvoy does not say no. He downs it in a pleasing, burning swallow and immediately feels the pain in his face begin to lift.
“Brishen’s struggling,” says Valentine, shaking his head. “Back home, I mean. Money troubles. He’s made some bad decisions. Put money into things he didn’t have the money for. He’s had a hard few months. He’s a proud man and it was hard for him to admit it, but he opened up after a night on the beer and told Shay and me how bad things had got. He needed money. Needed it quickly. First thing we did was offer to get it for him. A couple of armed robberies and he’d be home free. But that went against his principles. So Shay said he would take a few unsanctioned fights. Again Brish said no. Didn’t want Shay straying from the path. Those were his words, man. ‘The path.’”
Valentine shakes his head and starts looking at the condensation as it turns to dribbles on the side of the vodka bottle. He watches as the flickering light is refracted into a broken rainbow in the tiny droplet.
“It was Shay and me who came up with the idea to do it abroad,” says Valentine, clearing his throat. “We’d heard about the bare-knuckle fighters in the U.S. Big business. Some of the lads who win in the backyard matches get UFC contracts off the back of them. Shay had no interest in that, but he knew there was money to be made. So we spoke to the lads who organize the bare-knuckle matches in Belfast and they hooked us up with Marcel, and he hooked us up with Chebworz. He fancies himself as a trainer. Reckoned his boy Byki was the real thing. He’d heard of Shay. We sent him some videos and he liked what he saw. Reckoned he could make money out of a scrap between Shay and his man.”
McAvoy pours himself another vodka. Downs it and wishes he hadn’t. He starts to shiver beneath his coat but forces himself not to show it.
“Chebworz is a good salesman. He needed an angle for the fight to be a moneymaker. So we came up with this idea of making it a grudge match. My people versus his people. It was piss-easy to provoke it. A couple of comments on YouTube and the thing took on a life of its own. All the marketing was underground—posters in boxing clubs, whispers on closed Internet groups. It became a big thing. A prizefight. Cheb was good as his word. Got the news out on all these weird Russian sites, and we got the lads at home to tell their kin in America, and soon there were people paying good money for a fight that hadn’t even been agreed on.”
“Brishen . . .” says McAvoy woozily.
“We felt shit for having to play him the way we did, but it was for his own good. We told him all about the shit on YouTube and the things people were saying about Shay. Got his patriotism riled up. But he wasn’t about to agree to let it happen without a push. But Marcel, the big fucker at the boxing club—he knew how to play things. Had a word in his boss’s ear and we did the same with Brish, and soon Dezzie and Brish thought it was all their idea for Shay to go over for a tryout. It wasn’t a total lie. Shay was in with a chance. Brishen was so excited, it was like Shay was his son or something. And then I told him how easy it would be to kill two birds with one stone if he would just look the other way and let Shay fight Byki. The purse for the fight was going to be enough to cover Brishen’s debts. He was tempted. Prayed for guidance, spoke to his priest. We sold him on it when Chebworz spoke to him direct. He promised it would be a proper bout, properly refereed, cornermen, twelve rounds. Gloves and wraps. Brishen agreed.”
McAvoy reaches for the beer. Presses the bottle to his forehead and puts it down again.
“Your passports and paperwork . . .”
Valentine mimes slapping himself in the head. “Hadn’t fucking occurred to us. Brish had a passport but mine and Shay’s were years out of date. And there was no fucking way I was being left behind. Brish is friends with Father Whelan. They’ve done charity stuff together. Go way back. So the bishop did him a favor and wrote a letter on my behalf. It was good of Whelan to sort it, considering he didn’t think we should be going. He’d advised Brishen against it and it pained Brishen not to listen. But being a good Catholic doesn’t always pay the bills.”
“You flew out separately . . .”
“I was shitting myself,” laughs Valentine, taking another shot. “Never flown before, and those bastards were a day ahead of me. I was on my own. Drank half a bottle of Jameson before I even got on board. Was all I could do not to scream when it took off. Woke up at JFK. My phone wouldn’t let me make calls because I was in a new time zone, and every time I tried to call Brish on a pay phone it wouldn’t connect. I was hungover as shit. All I could remember was the address of Dezzie Estrada’s gym, so I got a taxi there. I was feeling awful, so the driver dropped me at a bar and I had a few drinks to get myself in the mood for the fight. I went to Dezzie’s place, thinking that was where the bout was gonna be. I thought Shay would be there. Dezzie was there—the man himself. Told me Shay had already had his tryout and they’d gone to look at some church. I was getting pissed off. Thought it was going to happen without me. Then Marcel came and found me on the street and told me where I needed to be. We got a cab together, out to this shithole.”
The waitress emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with soups, breads, and little dishes of spiced cabbage and potato dumplings. She frowns at Valentine.
“What did you say about my restaurant?”
“Sorry, love,” says Valentine, looking at her with eyes that put McAvoy in mind of a baby spaniel who is sincerely sorry to have eaten its owner’s favorite shoes. “Not this place. This place shines, love. This is somewhere that’s first-date material. I love your place. No, I mean some crappy area a few blocks over. You wouldn’t like it. You’ve got class.”
The waitress knows she is being charmed but it does not stop her smiling at the young man and forgiving him his slander.
A waft of spiced meat engulfs McAvoy and it is all he can do not to let his mouth begin to water. He sits forward in his chair and rips a piece of bread from the pie-sliced hunk in the center of the table.
“My sister’s married somebody who doesn’t pray?” asks Valentine, shaking his head disapprovingly. “We’ll be having words.”
Valentine mutters a quick blessing under his breath and McAvoy, red-faced, mumbles an amen. When he dips the bread in the solyanka he feels an overwhelming urge to text Roisin and inquire whether she knows how to make it. He tastes lamb, tomatoes, onions, and a dozen different herbs and spices. The dish is so addictive that if the waitress revealed it contained a mild trace of cocaine, he would not be in the least surprised.
“We got to Cheb’s gym and there was a good crowd,” says Valentine between mouthfuls. “You wouldn’t know it from the street because there was barely a car parked there, but that was because all these massive great four-by-fours and limos were dropping off so many rich Russians, you’d think it was a pay-per-view in Vegas. All these blond women with diamonds and furs and pearls. All these men with tailored suits and shiny shoes and red faces, like they were trying not to fart. Place was packed. Cheb had these gorgeous lasses in cocktail dresses waltzing about with trays of champagne and caviar. Place looked awesome. Had a real big-fight feel. I found Shay and Brish, and it was clear something was wrong.”
“Brishen didn’t want the fight to go ahead?” asks McAvoy.
“The plan had changed,” says Valentine, more quietly than before. “Cheb had suddenly offered Shay twice the money to fall in the tenth.”
“And Shay refused?”
“Shay was fine about it. It was Brishen who wasn’t going to let his man take a dive.”
“Pride?” asks McAvoy.
Valentine waves his arms dismissively, splattering the tablecloth with gravy from his spoon. “He wasn’t himself. He and Shay had been out seeing churches all day, making new friends. He’d got himself all confused. Didn’t know what was right and what wasn’t. Either way, he wasn’t agreeing to take the fall. And that pissed Cheb off. He said that if Shay put his man down, there was likely to be a fucking riot. Brish didn’t budge. I tried to talk sense into him and he just kept saying that he was a Rom, a traveler, and that’s the only thing that mattered. So the fight went on. Good bout, too. Evenly matched. It got to the tenth and Shay kept looking at Brishen, hoping he’d let him go down, but Brish was having none of it. The crowd got nasty. So Cheb got in the ring and said the rules were changing.”
“Bare-knuckle . . .”
“Too right. Brish looked like he was going to pass out and Shay was getting frightened. I did what I had to.”
“You started a riot, Valentine.”
“It was going to happen anyways, and the way the crowd turned I don’t think we’d have got out of there without somebody getting hurt.”
“You made a run for it?”
“Sure did. One of those Russian bitches had a gun in her handbag. Pretty little thing. I smacked a couple of lads and we got the fuck out of there.”
“All three of you?”
“Yeah, man. The rules had changed. We ran like there was no tomorrow—Shay still in his shorts. Brishen was a state. Never seen him like that. We jumped in a taxi and headed back for the city. Brishen had an address in his pocket for some old bloke that he and Shay had met earlier in the day. Cab dropped us off at the apartment block. Old bloke buzzed us up. No bugger else lived there and he had this swanky apartment on the top floor. Gorgeous, it was.”
“Molony,” says McAvoy, closing his eyes and pushing away the last of his meal.
“Yeah. Creepy-looking fuck. Looked like Friar Tuck, or a mole or something. Fat. Round glasses. Baldy head. But he was okay, man. Invited us in like we were family. Soon as we got in, Brishen went for me. Hit me so hard I was seeing stars. Knocked out my fucking goldie.” Valentine pulls up his lip to show the hole in his smile. “Told me it was all my fault and I’d let him down. Said Shay had been cheated and now they were going home for nothing. He cheapened his soul for nothing, that was what he said. Starts banging on about the honor of the gypsies, about being part of a noble people who were above things like this. Said he knew that I’d set him up and manipulated him. He’d gone against the wishes of a priest. Said I was a devil, tempting him. I’ve got to be honest, he hurt my feelings. I love Brish, man. I’d never do that to him.”
“So you decided to make things right.”
“I had tears in my eyes,” says Valentine, and doesn’t look ashamed to say it. “I wanted to make it up to him. I still had the gun and I figured Cheb would see sense once it had all calmed down. I told Brish and Shay to go fuck themselves, and headed straight back to Brooklyn.”
“But Cheb didn’t see sense?”
Valentine shrugs. “I played it wrong. I went in there angry. There were still a load of them there, drinking and joking and cleaning up. I went in with the gun in my hand. They laughed at me, man. Made me feel like a kid. I was already bleeding from the smack Brish had given me and Cheb said I would be lucky if he paid a cent after what I’d done. So I stuck a gun in his face. I wasn’t thinking. Da says I never do.”
“What happened?”
Valentine finishes eating and takes another hit of vodka. “I didn’t have much of a plan. Just grabbed Cheb and headed for the door. Gave him a couple of slaps to show I wasn’t kidding.”
“And?”
“Brish and Shay showed up like the cavalry,” says Valentine, letting a warm smile flash across his face. Just as quickly, it fades. “It all kicked off. It was like something from a cowboy movie. People shooting and shouting and making a break for it. Somehow, Brishen and Shay grabbed Cheb.”
“And you?”
“Nearly made it. Then I got nicked.” Valentine rolls up the leg of his track pants to show an ugly scab surrounded by purple-yellow bruising. “Went down like a sack of shit.”
McAvoy drops his head to his hand. He can see it all.
“They took you? The Russians?”
“Yeah. Put a few kicks in. Slapped me about. Tied me to the fucking wall and said they were going to cut my head off if I didn’t tell them where Brish had taken Cheb.”
“And did you?”
“I had no fucking idea,” says Valentine. “I didn’t know the fat bloke’s address and Brishen didn’t know anybody else in the city. They kept me there for ages. Pissed my pants,” he adds ruefully, and it sounds like he is making a confession for a grave sin.
“But when I got there tonight—”
“Things all changed the next day,” says Valentine, and he reaches for his e-cig. “They moved me to an apartment. Stunk of cigs and meat and women. Not a very nice place. Left me in a room with the door locked. Only a mattress and a chest of drawers full of condoms and lube. It was grim.”
“How long were you there?”
“Day or so. Somebody brought me some food. Some vodka. This thing,” he says, indicating the e-cig. “Next day Cheb walks in, bold as brass. He’s had a few slaps and he’s pissed off but he’s gentle in the way he tells me what happened. About Brish. About Shay. I appreciated that.”
“He told you what had gone on?”
Valentine nods. “They’d tied him up and thrown him in the boot. It had all got out of hand. Brish wanted me back and was willing to make a swap for Cheb. That was the plan. They parked this car they’d stolen in some garage underground. Left Cheb in the boot with a bottle of water. He was there for hours.” Valentine gives a quick smile. “Bet he pissed himself.”
“Valentine, what happened?”
“Next thing, they were driving like the devil was on their tail. Cheb says he was in there for an age. Then they stopped, he heard voices and, to use his words, some greasy wop motherfucker was pulling him out and slapping him around. They were in the woods, somewhere dark and full of snow. Brish and Shay were on their knees beside him. Brish’s face was all blood. There were two Italians with guns pointing at their heads. The young one was a nasty motherfucker. Enjoying himself, putting the boots in.”
“Chebworz ran,” says McAvoy.
“The way he told it he was the hero of the hour, but you could see in his eyes he’d got lucky. He took the older one down with a branch and shoved the young one out of his way. Shoved him harder than he intended. Skewered him like a pencil through a muffin. Ran like fuck. His boys came to pick him up. They’ve got contacts everywhere, and they got the news almost as soon as the cops did. Shay was dead. They reckoned Brish was, too. They were crossing themselves like proper Catholics when they heard he’d risen from the ground.”
Valentine looks like he wants to hit something. His eyes fill with tears. “Cheb was okay about it all. Gave me a drink. Said it was going to be hot for me for a few days. Invited me to stay with him.”
“Invited?”
“He didn’t look like he was going to take no for an answer. And I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I was in a different country and my only two friends were either dead or dying. I didn’t even know who to wish bloody death on.”
McAvoy sees genuine pain in the young man’s eyes. He wants to reach over and put a hand on his shoulder, but is in too much pain to risk moving. As he looks in his tear-filled eyes, he sees something of Roisin in her brother’s features. While she is dark and tanned, Val is red-haired and pale, but they share the same gray-blue eyes, and they are both capable of looking at him in a way that suggests their problems should become his.
“You stayed at the gym?”
“Brought me there from the apartment yesterday. They told me some English cop had arrived, asking questions and looking for me. They described you. I told them you weren’t English. They didn’t seem to care. They had a lot of discussions about what to do with me. With you. I don’t doubt there were people saying it would be easier if I was out of the picture. Last night they had a little chat with you. Two of the big lads and some pretty lass with purple hair. I saw them leave from the gym. Byki and me were doing some pad work. Sounds mental, doesn’t it? But they thought they may as well make use of me. And besides, I’d told a fib or two. Said the Teagues had the money to make their lives wonderful or terrible. They were sending over their problem solver. They didn’t exactly seem scared. But when I came up with the idea of a grudge rematch, they could see the value to it. I said I could set that up. Bring over a fucking terror of a man from Ireland. I think they still hadn’t decided whether or not to kill me about an hour ago, but then Sergey took a call from one of his connections and suddenly it was all smiles. Suddenly I wasn’t really important so they said I could go. Then you turned up.”
“Did you hear what happened?” asks McAvoy. “After they let me go last night?”
“This same greasy wop bastard blew up their car and took two of Cheb’s men. You’ve been busy, eh?”
McAvoy looks away. His gaze takes in Rey, whose knuckles are now white around the Coke bottle. He looks undecided about whether he is enjoying this or wishing to God he’d never picked up tonight’s fare.
“Is it bad?” asks Valentine without bravado. “At home? Is Ro there? The little ones? The Heldens don’t really think I’d kill Shay, do they? He’s my friend. He was, I mean. Here, pass the phone, I’ll try again.”
McAvoy looks at his brother-in-law and suddenly feels bone-tired. He wants to ring Alto and tell him that he has Valentine. He wants Alto to accept the lad’s story and let them go. Then he wants to fly home, hug his wife and children, and pull the familiarity of Hull over his head like a blanket. But even as he sits here, he knows that there is still work to be done. He has been here for two days and has unearthed something that smells of blood and earth and secrets. He cannot forget the names on Molony’s wall or the link between Father Whelan and this city. His head swims with names and connections. Tony Blank. Sal Pugliesca. Luca Savoca. Paulie Pugliesca. Peter Molony. He scrunches up his eyes and hopes that when he opens them, the answers will be written on the wall. When he does, all he sees is Rey, looking at him with concern. McAvoy feels dampness on his face and wipes the blood from his top lip as it dribbles from his nose. He picks up his phone and tries Roisin again, praying under his breath that this time, she will answer. He fears the call will go straight to her voicemail and then suddenly, the call is answered by a male voice.
“Hello, Ro’s phone,” says the quiet, Irish-tinged voice.
“Hello?” says McAvoy, startled. “I’m looking for Roisin. My wife . . .”
“You must be Aector,” whispers the man pleasantly. He pronounces his name perfectly. “I’m sorry, Roisin’s snoring her wee head off with her little girl right now. Away with the fairies, so she is. Slept right through every time the phone rang and when I saw it was yourself I thought it was less of a crime to answer it than to leave you worrying. I’m not much of a sleeper, so it’s no drama to me.”
McAvoy’s face burns. He cannot feel his heart. Who is answering his wife’s phone?
“Who is this?” he asks, trying not to let his voice betray him.
“I’m sorry, this is Father Jimmy Whelan. If you’re worried I’m a threat on the romance front, even if I weren’t a man of the cloth, I’d be too old for that carry-on now.”
“Father Whelan,” says McAvoy wheezily. He tries to get ahold of his thoughts. “What’s happening? The Heldens. The Teagues . . .”
“Temporary cease-fire,” says Whelan brightly. “I’m staying with the Teagues for a couple of days. The hope is that the Heldens won’t risk any sort of nastiness while I’m here. Roisin has been a diamond, God bless her. Talking you up. Reckons you’ll be bringing Valentine home any day now, poor lass. She fought her eyelids for hours but she dropped where she sat, poor love. I’ll wake her if you insist but if you’ll take an old man’s advice, sometimes it’s as well to let people be.”
McAvoy is about to blurt out the truth when something makes him pause. He reaches out and takes the shot of vodka from Val’s hand. He downs it and enjoys the burn.
“Father Whelan, where precisely is Roisin?”
“In her mother’s caravan, my son.”
“And where are you?”
“Same caravan. Her da’s on the step, holding a jug and a shotgun, but she won’t do as I’ve asked and go into the village where she’s safe. All I can do is stay here—put a bit of holy fire between the innocents and the danger.”
“My colleagues at Humberside Police have been in touch with your office, I think,” says McAvoy. His voice becomes more official. “It’s regarding your association with Paulie Pugliesca. Also with Peter Molony.”
“Peter’s an old friend,” says Father Whelan in the same soft but cheery tone. “As for Paulie, I do wish the various authorities would accept that all men deserve spiritual counsel. I visit him because I believe him to be a man whose soul is worth saving.”
“You’re a priest,” says McAvoy.
“And I’m a New Yorker who does not give up on his friends or his flock. Might I ask why you want to know?”
“Brishen,” says McAvoy. “I understand he met up with Mr. Molony at your old church the day before he died. He also visited him at his home. Has Mr. Molony informed you of this, or the fact he has been a regular visitor at Brishen’s hospital bedside?”
There is a pause. At the other end of the line, McAvoy hears the other man take a sip of something and then give a polite cough.
“When Brishen told me of the trip he was planning with Shay and Valentine, I was happy to help,” says Whelan. “He knows about my link to Saint Colman’s. I asked him to light a candle there for me. Peter was aware that somebody dear to me was coming to Manhattan. They met at the church. No doubt they shared stories about me, though I would not wish to have been a fly on the wall during that conversation. Peter told me they had hit it off, as it were. I am sure he has been great consolation to Brishen as he lies in his hospital bed. It pains me that I cannot be there myself and I pray that this situation can be resolved. For now, he is in my prayers. He is my friend, Aector, and I feel responsible in some way for what has occurred.”
“You asked the bishop to write a letter for Valentine,” says McAvoy.
“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.”