Cross Read Online Free Page A

assault on my ears. Right beside Eason's, almost, is Garavan's, one of the old pubs, still not yet modernized. Books and booze, neighbours of our heritage.
    The barman saw the leaflets in my hand, Jesus in large red letters on the front.
    'They convert you?'
    I leaned on the counter. 'Take a wild flogging guess.'
    He began to build my pint of black, reached behind for a shot of Jameson, his movements a fluid action, no break in the sequence, all the more impressive as I hadn't asked for either.
He said, 'Believe it or not, they're good for business. People hear them, think, Christ, I
need a drink. '
    I didn't inquire as to how he knew my order. I was afraid he'd tell me.
    The smallest event can sometimes trigger a whole set of actions and as I got my hand on the glass, I saw the girl's sign of the cross and remembered the crucifixion. Ridge was on my mind, too. In the most bizarre way, I loved her
– fuck, not that I'd ever admit that, ever. She irritated me to the ninth level of hell and beyond, but what else is love but all that and still hanging in there? Her being gay only added to the conundrum. Ah, I was a mess.
And Cody, wasn't he a victim of some cold bastard? Some ruthless whore who just took him out. That girl had cursed me and opened yet again the road to devastation, but it was the road I travelled most.
    I took my drinks and moved over to the snug, a small cubbyhole designed to give you if not peace then a degree of privacy. The pint of Guinness was a work of art. Perfectly poured, the head a precise slice of cream.
Seemed almost a shame not to drink it.
Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano came unsought into my mind. If I'd only had a little foresight – the last lines of that terrifying book, they throw a dead dog into the grave, on top of the dead consul. I didn't see
any connecting lines and what an irony be there.
    You sit behind a pint like that, a pure gift, with the Jameson already weaving its dark magic on your eyes, you can believe that Iraq is indeed on the other side of the world, that winter isn't coming, that the Galway light will always hold that beautiful fascination and that priests are our protectors, not predators. You won't have the illusion for very long, but the moment is priceless.
    I didn't have any more hope in religion, so I
took worship at whatever altar provided brief solace. Of course, like the best shot at heaven, it was surrounded by hell on every border.
Then I chided my own self, muttered enough with the deep shit, it's just a bloody drink , and I'd raised the glass when a man peered round the partition.
    'Jack Taylor?'
    I might actually have drank that time. This was my Russian roulette, Irish style. Each time I ordered a drink, I never knew if I'd actually swallow it, but I was fairly sure I would do soon, and deep down I hoped so. I looked at the man who had spoken my name with familiarity.
    I was tempted to deny it. No good ever
came of these inquiries. I didn't hide my annoyance.
    'Yeah?'
    He was big – over six foot – in his early sixties, with a weather-beaten face, a bald head and nervous eyes. Wearing a very fine suit and solid heavy-duty shoes, he said, 'I'm sorry to disturb you, but I've been looking for you for quite a few days.' A slight testiness in his tone, as if he had better things to do than search for me.
    I touched the pint. It felt good, if a little soured by the interruption.
    'So you've found me. What's your problem?'
    I didn't make any attempt to disguise my irritation.
    He put his hand out. 'I'm Edward O'Brien.'
    I ignored his hand, asked, 'And that's supposed to mean something? Tell you, pal, it don't mean shit to me.'
    He gave an almost knowing smile. 'They told me you'd a sharp tongue but a good heart.'
    Before I could respond to this piece of nonsense, he said, 'I need your help.'
    More to get rid of him than out of interest, I
asked, 'For what?'
    'To find my dog.'
    I nearly laughed. Here I was, fixing to find who crucified a man, and this