Cross by Ken Bruen

Police Procedurals

By Ken Bruen

Jack Taylor brings demise and ache to every body he loves. His simply wish of redemption - his surrogate son, Cody - is mendacity in a health center in a coma. not less than he nonetheless has Ridge, his outdated pal from the Guards, although theirs is an unorthodox dating. whilst she tells him boy has been crucified in Galway urban, he is of the same opinion to assist her look for the killer. Jack's investigations take him to lots of his outdated haunts the place he encounters ghosts, lifeless and residing. every person desires anything from him, yet Jack isn't yes he has whatever left to offer. perhaps he may still promote up, pocket his Euros and get the hell out of Galway like all people else seems doing. Then the sister of the murdered boy is burned to loss of life, and Jack comes to a decision he needs to search out the killer, if purely to manage his personal model of tough justice.

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She never told anyone of this, hugged it to herself like the softest fabric, like the piece of Irish linen her mother had put so much value on. ' Alannah – my child – the first Irish word that held any real significance for her. The girl's eyes moved around the room: cheap wallpaper was peeling from the top, a thin strip of carpet barely covered the floor and the windows badly needed to be cleaned. Her mother would never have allowed that, those windows would have been sparkling. Near the door was the cross, a heavy hand-carved piece, the features of the Christ outlining the torment, the nails clearly visible in the hands and feet.

After he'd left, she'd curled up in a warm posture of total renewal, smiling at how happy he'd been that she hadn't died. Her smile had grown in malevolence as she wondered how he'd feel if he knew precisely who it was that had returned. A soothing weariness began to claim her, and before sleep took her she recalled her mother's description of the Church that was such a vital part of her life. She'd said, 'Alannah, our Church is all we have. Our Lord Jesus Christ will not be mocked. ' The words were like black communion in her mouth.

Nature no longer held any merit. Heard my name called and there was Father Malachy, the bane of my life. When I ended up trying to help him, was he grateful? Was he fuck. He had the most addictive personality I'd ever met, be it nicotine, cakes, tea or simply aggression, and addictive personalities are my forte. I've always wanted to say my forte – gives a hint of learning, but not showy with it. In truth, my forte was booze. He was looking grumpy, shabby and priestly. That is, furtive. He had greeted me with that crack about being bloody dead and seemed downright angry.

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