Similia similibus curantur.
Like cures like. As good a reason as any for an early-morning stroll down gin alley. While admittedly a contemptible act, it did cure the malady. In fact, he’d just unscrewed the cap from the bottle when he’d heard the fateful knock at the door. An inopportune moment for Kate Bauer to pay her overdue respects.
Empty teacups and plates neatly stacked, Cædmon set them on the ridiculously ornate serving tray, an eighteenth-century relic he’d picked up at a Paris flea market. He’d yet to purchase a bottle of silver polish so the tray, like everything else in his life, was badly tarnished.
He finished tidying up and carried the tray to the small flat at the rear of the bookstore. Stepping through the door that separated retail space from residence, he entered the ‘drawing room’ – a cramped space that barely accommodated a sagging but comfortable tufted leather sofa. In front of the sofa, a scarred Edwardian coffee table was burdened with old issues of The Times, a half-full carton of takeaway, classical music LPs, a dog-eared copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations and a messy pile of clean laundry.
Hard to believe that at Oxford he’d been considered something of a neat nick.
Oh, sweet Kate. What must you think of me?
From the onset, he’d been attracted to Kate because, unlike so many of his one-dimensional classmates at Oxford who were experts in their chosen academic field but unable to converse on any other subject, Kate was interesting. Not only could she speak fluidly on any number of topics, she had an innate curiosity about the world that he found compelling.
Which is why it pained him that she’d severed the relationship, claiming he loved his studies more than he loved her. ‘Still climbing after knowledge infinite.’ Another plagiarized line from her ‘classy Dear John’ letter. While the accusation stung, he couldn’t deny that he’d been totally obsessed with the Knights Templar, the medieval order of warrior monks that was his chosen research niche. In the end, the Templars spelled his doom; the head of the history department at Queen’s College refused to confer his doctoral degree because of unfounded claims he’d made in his dissertation regarding the Templars’ exposure to the Egyptian mystery cults.
Hail and well met, Brother Knight. How the mighty have fallen.
Certainly, he didn’t want to dwell on the maudlin. Didn’t want to admit that Kate Bauer was little changed from Oxford, while he’d become the proverbial pale shadow. And he certainly didn’t want to conjure from his memory that single sheet of watermarked stationery neatly inserted into the tissue-lined envelope. He wouldn’t contest the Marlowe, but the line from Yeats still rankled.
Heading towards the kitchen, Cædmon sidestepped a pile of books stacked next to the sofa. As he did, the nestled teacups on the tray rattled, inciting a migrainous thunder.
‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘Sod all Irishmen.’ Or Irish-Americans as the case may be.
Was there even a difference?
He had his doubts, the English and the Irish locked in mortal combat. It had been that way for eight hundred years. If the bastards in the Real Irish Republican Army got their way, it would be that way for another eight hundred.
So who the bloody hell was the morbidly named Finnegan McGuire?
Certainly no would-be writer. On that Cædmon would wager the entire bookstore.
Suddenly curious, he walked back to the cluttered Edwardian coffee table. Shoving the laundry on to the carpet, he set the tray down. He then strode over to the mahogany corner cabinet where he kept his laptop computer.
When he left Oxford, he’d promptly been recruited into service in Her Majesty’s government. It was an interesting venture, his duties extending beyond the typical paper-pushing. Having recently severed his ties with his former employer, he still maintained a few valuable contacts with individuals who had access to every computer database in the United Kingdom. And a goodly portion of the rest of the world, for that matter.
He quickly typed in the request and hit the SEND button. Soon enough he would know if there was more to Finnegan McGuire than an impolite fellow who didn’t speak German. Also desirous to know why Kate had attached herself to such a brute, he typed a second request for Katsumi Bauer.
‘I apologize, dear Kate, but needs must.’
Retrieving the tray, he carried it into the kitchen. As usual, he braced himself for the onslaught – the sink full of dirty dishes, the countertop inundated with empty food containers. He set the tray on the counter, inadvertently knocking over a tonic bottle. Its evil twin, a green bottle of Tanqueray, remained upright. He could see that there were two fingers of gin left. Enough for a double.
He reached for an empty glass, unconcerned that it had a dirty smudge on the rim.
By his own admission, he’d succumbed to a pitiful paralysis of mind and spirit, having experienced grief in all its myriad forms over the course of the last two years. Indeed, there were many times when he’d been unable to utter the words ‘Juliana is dead’ without tearing up. And having to hear the ‘I’m so sorry’ speech was pure torture. While the condolences were well-intended, they couldn’t resuscitate the dead.
At least Kate had spared him that torment. Clearly, she had no idea that he’d met Juliana Howe, an investigative reporter for the BBC who, one humid August evening, happened to be standing at a London tube station when a RIRA bomb detonated. He’d just ‘celebrated’ the two-year anniversary of that horrific event; the reason for the drunken binge.
He raised his glass in mock salute. ‘To Ars Moriendi, the art of dying.’
A contrarian, he was clearly determined to end his own life in the most craven way imaginable, nothing quite as reprehensible as an unrepentant inebriate. Unless it was a cold-blooded killer. He had the dubious distinction of being both, having killed the man responsible for Juliana’s death. Moreover, he’d stood by and watched as a nine-millimetre bullet ploughed through his enemy’s skull. Rendering the bastard a graceless heap, arms and legs splayed like spokes on a blood-stained wheel.
Certainly, he’d had just cause.
Juliana Howe had been brilliant. And beautiful. And she did not deserve to die because a rebellious Irishman wanted to terrorize London. Christ. It’d been a scene right out of the Apocalypse, the bomb blast having turned the tube station into a fiery death trap. A maelstrom of twisted metal, chunks of concrete and deadly steel rods. In a frantic state, he’d shouldered his way past the dazed survivors, screaming her name. When his gaze landed on a familiar black high-heel shoe still attached to a foot, he’d lurched, heaved, then promptly vomited. His gut painfully turned inside out at the realization that Juliana had literally been blown to bits. Nothing to recover but that bloody stump.
Having vowed to find the perpetrators, he used his government contacts to track down the RIRA mastermind. In the days preceding the execution, he’d been so consumed with bloodlust that he had no recollection of the trip from London to Belfast.
How is it possible to forget the road from Gethsemane to Calgary?
Once he’d arrived in Belfast, he’d tracked Timothy O’Halloran to a raucous pub on the Catholic side of the peace wall. No surprise there, the Irish being fine ones for drinking and blathering ad nauseam. Committed, he waited in a darkened doorway for three hours and seventeen minutes. Legs cramped. Neck pinched. Finger poised over the trigger. And then the pub door swung open and O’Halloran, jolly smile plastered on his drunken face, blithely stepped across the threshold. Cædmon followed him down the rain-slicked pavement, until O’Halloran ducked into an alleyway to relieve himself. That’s when he pulled the black balaclava mask over his face and removed the Ruger pistol from his pocket.