Mr. Flood's Last Resort(52)

Sam puts ketchup in his sandwich. “Not for a bit. I thought I’d stick around and see how things pan out here.”

I take a sip: it’s far too sweet. I add more sugar. “What things?”

“The investigation for a start; I want to see if any more clues surface.”

I measure in another spoonful. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sam shrugs. “Renata tells me you are starting to gain the old man’s trust.”

I wonder what else Renata tells him. I glance at St. Valentine but he has his toothpick out and is deep in thought, going after his few teeth.

“Maybe Mr. Flood will enlighten you one of these days,” says Sam. “And unravel the mysteries of Bridlemere.”

“I doubt it.”

“And then there’s the envelope. The one you found at the house. Another message from Mary Flood?”

“Renata told you what was inside it?”

Sam pushes his plate away, glancing up at me, perhaps catching a note of censure in my voice. “No.” He smiles. “Renata said you were waiting until I came round to open it—when the gang was all together again.”

Of course she did.

Sam picks up his coffee, swirls it a little, eyes lowered. “You know you can call me if you ever need to. If things get out of hand.”

St. Valentine glances up, then he stops picking his teeth and stares at Sam. A look of wonder dawns on the saint’s dim raddled face.

He points at Sam with a trembling finger. “Look—”

“If you’re ever in trouble.”

“Mother of God,” whispers St. Valentine. “Would you look at his ears?” He turns to the other saints. “The tips of them: reddening. Do you see them?”

St. George gets up and lurches over to Sam. Leaning down, his armor grinding, he pushes open his visor and studies Sam intently. Then St. George straightens up, his face red with effort, and gives a curt nod.

“I bloody knew it,” mutters St. Valentine. “Son of a gun.”

Sam shifts in his chair. “Anytime you need me—”

“Ears lit up like two little beacons,” sighs St. Valentine.

“Anytime at all—”

“Like two little flags.”

“I’d be there for you.”

St. Valentine gazes at Sam with an expression of rapture. “It’s working down to his cheeks.”

“I mean it, Maud.”

“He’s going scarlet!”

“That’s kind, Sam,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“He can’t help himself.” St. Valentine turns to me. “Can you believe that? Jumping Jack Flash is blushing.”

“So if anything kicks off, anything at all, in that house . . .”

“Yes, Sam?”

Sam gives me a smile that appears to be located somewhere between apology and confusion. “Then I’m your man.”

“He is!” roars St. Valentine. “By God, Maud, he’s your man!”

St. Valentine clears the table with a cry of joy and runs a circuit of the café with his red cloak flapping. St. George laughs and shakes St. Valentine’s hand and they pat each other on the back. St. Rita throws me a congratulatory smile and St. Monica purses the thin line of her mouth.

I give my coffee one last stir and gently put down the spoon.





CHAPTER 24




There’s no dance when I return home and open Renata’s gate. No dress-ring knuckles at the kitchen window and no bobbing headscarf. I am puzzled; this is not a day that Lillian usually visits. As I round the house I see that the front door is open and the chain has been broken. Renata’s shoes lie scattered across the hall and Johnny Cash looks up from the doormat, his frame buckled and his face properly pissed off. Jesus Christ is nowhere to be seen.

I walk into chaos: kitchen cupboards open, smashed crockery, the fondue set in the sink. In the living room the bookcase is toppled and novels are ripped in half; pages confetti the room. The display cabinet is smashed; twinkling gemstones stud the carpet. The moon rock has landed in the fireplace.

The string cockerels in the picture are no longer fighting; someone has put a foot through them. The drinks cabinet is empty; liquid runs down the wall behind the television: Advocaat congealing in yellow drips, splattered veins of blue cura?ao.

What have I done?

I think of the shattered shot glass in Cathal’s kitchen.

Did I raise this? Did I call up angry spirits?

I run past the wreckage, shouting for Renata.

*

THE BATHROOM door opens. Under the mess of tears and makeup is a frightened man I’ve never seen before.

“Are you hurt, Renata?” I force an even tone. “Did they hurt you?”

She puts her hands up to her poor head, as if to hide it from me. It is hairless, pale, with a few fine gray strands at the sides.

I put my arms around my friend.

There are no saints for this.

*

THERE WERE these three young guys: one had a crowbar, one had a hammer, and one had an adjustable wrench.

It sounds like the start of a joke.

They had pushed their way in, filling the hallway and shutting the door behind them.