The Magdalen Martyrs by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

lot of car!”
    I went into the hotel, moving quickly to avoid reception. Not quite fast enough, as Mrs Bailey called,
    “Mr Taylor.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You have a visitor.”
    “Oh.”
    I went into the lobby. Kirsten was sitting in a chair by the open fire. Dressed in black jeans, black sweater and long dark coat, she looked like trouble. Seeing me, she said,
    “Surprise.”
    The heat reflected on her cheeks gave her a high colour, as if she was excited. Maybe she was. She saw the bottle in my hand, said,
    “Party for one?”
    “Yeah.”
    She stood up, and I hadn’t realised how tall she was. A smile as she said,
    “Not a good idea to drink alone.”
    “How would you know?”
    “Oh, I know.”
    The smart thing would have been to say,
    “Hop it.”
    When did I ever get to do the smart thing? I said,
    “My room’s not much.”
    Again the smile with,
    “What makes you think I was expecting much?”
    The elevators at Bailey’s have a life of their own. The only thing reliable about them is their unreliability. I pushed the button, said,
    “This could take a while.”
    “Stop bragging.”
    Mrs Bailey smiled at us from the desk. I nodded and Kirsten said,
    “She likes me.”
    I turned to look at her, said,
    “Don’t be so sure.”
    “Oh, I am sure. I worked at it.”
    “Is that what you do, you get people to like you?”
    “Only some people.”
    I couldn’t resist, asked,
    “What about me?”
    “That doesn’t need any work. You like me already.”
    “Don’t count on it.”
    “I have.”
    The elevator arrived with a grinding of metal. I pulled the door open, asked,
    “Want to risk it?”
    “I insist on it.”
    Naturally the space was cramped, and we were jammed together. I could smell her perfume, asked,
    “Is that patchouli?”
    “Yes.”
    “Old hippies never die.”
    She looked into my eyes, said,
    “I guess that’s the bottle against me or else you’re happier to see me than you’re saying.”
    There’s probably a reply to this. I didn’t have it.

 
    “It is not an arbitrary decree of God but in the nature of man, that a veil
shuts down on the facts of tomorrow; for the soul will not have us read
any other cipher but that of cause and effect.”
    Ralph Waldo Emerson,
Essays,
“Heroism”
    I
flicked on the television, one of those moments, if not God- given, at least God-inspired. Henry, in the eighty-second minute, scored a magnificent header against Spartak. Almost simultaneously with me switching on, he walloped it home. I said, awestruck,
    “Fuck.”
    She sat on the bed, said,
    “Which means you’re pleased?”
    “Oh yeah.”
    She took a moment, looked at the screen, said,
    “Too bad about Leeds.”
    “They lost?”
    “Yes.”
    “You follow football?”
    “I follow men.”
    Gave me a smile that was unreadable. She looked round the room, said,
    “Somewhat sparse.”
    “I’m a simple guy.”
    “No, Jack, whatever else, you’re not simple. Drunks never are.”
    I still had the bottle in my hand. Her remark stung, all the more for its bitter truth. She caught on, asked,
    “Ah, did I hit a nerve?”
    I got two glasses from the bathroom, rinsed them, handed one over, asked,
    “What do you want?”
    “Pour.”
    I did.
    She patted the bed, said,
    “Don’t be shy.”
    I took a chair on the opposite side of the room, raised my glass, said,
    “Slainte.”
    “Whatever.”
    No doubt she was one attractive woman.
    I took a sip of the whiskey. Ah, it was if I’d never been away. Kirsten asked,
    “Been a while, has it?”
    “Yeah.”
    I knocked back the rest, wanting that warmth to hit my stomach. She reached in her bag, produced a small clear cellophane bag, said,
    “I brought you a present, in case you weren’t drinking or even if you were.”
    Tossed the cocaine to me. I didn’t make any attempt to catch, let it fall short and to the floor. She didn’t seem, to care, said,
    “Tell me about coke.”
    I could do that, said,
    “Charlie and the Music Factory, except it