All the pink ribbons, pink freaking badges, made her so furious. Now at last, here was a writer who could say that those who preached cancer sufferers could be cured by developing the right attitude, as they peddled shitloads of pink garbage, books, DVDs, T-shirts, added insult to life-threatening injury.
She fingered her gold miraculous medal round her neck, given to her by her late mother. God, she had adored her mother. A strong woman who, as she lay dying, said,
“Alanna, don’t put me in a hospice.”
She didn’t.
Allowed her the dignity of dying at home. Her mother had fought alcoholism and every other battle in a poor family’s life.
She had, as they say,
“A hard death.”
Near the end, she had gripped Ridge’s hand, whispered,
“Be beholden to no man.”
In light of Ridge’s sexual orientation, this seemed unlikely but, working as a Ban Garda, she had to eat a shit sandwich every day from men. Despite Jack’s numerous flaws, faults, Ridge felt her mother would have liked him, would have said perhaps,
“He has a good heart.”
As for Ridge’s marriage, she didn’t want to think what her mother would make of that.
Not much.
And Ridge knew for certain she would have described Anthony as “A poor excuse of a man.”
She read on. Stewart was upstairs, doing Zen exercises, no doubt. He was just finishing up his regimen as it happened. Took a moment to dwell on Ridge. He was quite stunned at how well they lived together. He’d been so long on his own, he was, as the old people say,
“Set in his ways.”
But she blended right in. Was fine company, knew when to talk and when silence was the best communication. He finally had an eager student of Zen and, in return, she was demonstrating her kickboxing routines to him. He admired her litheness and her ferocious passion to heal her body and make it strong again. He didn’t ask how long she intended to stay as he really didn’t care. He’d miss her if she suddenly left, that he knew.
He’d met her husband a few times and found him to be an empty vessel. Stewart, like Jack, didn’t really do friends, but he would put his life on the line for either one and had. He was selecting some casual gear. His casual gear was all top of the range. He opted for Japanese jeans-read, small fortune-his Ked trainers, and a silk T-shirt. He heard the post come through the letter box. Ridge shouted,
“I got it.”
He was dressed, ready to move, when he heard her scream. He rushed down the stairs. Ridge, sitting on the couch, was ashen. The remnants of an open parcel before her. A small wooden box in the center of the package. He picked it up and recoiled.
Two severed fingers.
Ridge stared at him, her eyes wide from shock. Then she indicated a pristine white card. He picked it up, read, Garda Ni Iomaire A touch of Taylor for you so you can, dare we say, finger yourself. Nice display of the martial arts the other evening. Perhaps we can sever your legs when we take you next time. Send a leg to your husband, let him have a piece of meat, too. Oh, what a gay delight. xxxxxxxxxxx Headstone.
Ridge buried her head in her hands.
Stewart, for the first time since the awful day he’d been sent to prison, wanted to bury his head in the sand.
He’d been about as ill prepared for jail as is possible. Who is prepared?
But some adapt fast and learn the basic rule of survival.
Eat or be eaten.
That day in the prison van, the paddy wagon they called it, manacled to some thug who’d raped a young girl, the judge’s sentence ringing in his ears:
“Six years.”
Stewart had been a designer dope dealer, believing, well, kind of believing, that he was a different sort of entrepreneur.
Yeah.
Had bought his own scummy act, just supplying what the people wanted and had his rules.
Jesus.
Like that made it different.
He didn’t deal in heroin. As if all the other shite he peddled wasn’t lethal. How he met Jack Taylor, one of his regulars. He knew he was in deep and deepest shit when during process, the guard said,
“Pretty boy, I give you a week before you top yourself.”
And the thug he’d been manacled to, giggling,
“They’ll run the train on you, nancy boy.”
He learnt fast that the train was serial rape and the train ran all the long day. He took some severe beatings, which in a bizarre way stopped him from suicide.
Who had the time?
They’re kicking the living hell out of you at every moment, who had the energy to kill themselves? He’d have gone under, no doubt, just wrapped his neck in those wet sheets and let it swing. Then, his sister was murdered.
And everything changed.
Stewart didn’t know then about love but he did know he adored his sister. It was like a click in his head, the warden telling him,
“Your sister killed herself, probably so ashamed of you.”
He didn’t go after the warden. He went to the yard, walked up to the train head honcho, said,
“Any last words?”
The guy and his crew laughed, laughed a lot. Here was this yuppie, wannabe player, giving them cheek. The guy spat on Stewart’s prison-issue sneakers, said,
“You going to off me, that it, yah little queer?”
Stewart wondered why they not only aped American gangsters but spoke like them, too. Stewart glanced around at this guy’s crew, said in a calm level voice,
“I’m going to kill him now, then, day by day, I’m going to kill each and every one of you.”
The laughter had eased a bit, this wasn’t your everyday occurrence, a nerd not only called out the most dangerous guy on the yard but threatened his whole team.
The guy, his smirk less smirksome, asked,
“What you got homie, beside your head up your arse?”
Stewart used the palm of his right hand to slam the guy’s nose all the way to his brain. Killed him stone dead, turned, said,
“One down…”
No recriminations, no payback. The warden figured if the worst guy in the prison got taken care of, good.
Then he waited in his cell for hell or Armageddon. He was the most lethal kind of man now. He just didn’t care, and that vibe leaked its way to the crew who were clamoring for his head.
Day One….threats.
Day Two…silence.
The third day, a guy appeared in his cell, said,
“Enough.”
Stewart, working on marine exercises he’d found on the Internet, paused, asked,
“Is it?”
The guy was nervous, they’d never come across such a case. How do you deal with a man who truly doesn’t care? He tried,
“We want to call a truce, nobody will bother you and, if you like, we’d be glad to have your back.”
Stewart wanted to shout,
“Stop with the pseudo-American. You fucks tried to have my back all right.”
He said,
“I’ll give it some thought.”
And so began his Zen education.
He devoured everything he could on the subject and then got in touch with Jack Taylor. The broken-down PI solved his sister’s murder. For that, Stewart would always be in his debt. In a hugely overpopulated prison system, Stewart remained solo. No one, not one con, would cell with him. He got a makeshift desk, hung above it the following:
“….In the hour of adversity be not afraid for
Crystal Rain falls from
Black Clouds.”
He worked out every day.
Hard.
Till his body screamed,
“Enough.”
Then he worked it some more.
Devouring Zen like a famished peasant, he no longer thought in terms of the six years he’d serve. He thought only of discipline.