Read The Anniversary Man Online
Authors: R.J. Ellory
The Anniversary Man (3 page)
They made love for the first time.
She said it did not hurt, but the sound she made when he pushed himself inside her told him something different.
And then they found the rhythm, and though it seemed to last no time at all it didn′t matter.
They did it again later, and it lasted so much longer, and then they slept while her parents stayed overnight in Long Island City and were none the wiser.
John Costello woke in the early hours of the morning. He woke Nadia McGowan just so they could talk. Just so they could appreciate the time they had together.
She told him she wanted to sleep, and he let her.
Had she known she would be dead before the month was out . . . if she had known, she perhaps would have stayed awake.
He is an index.
He is an encyclopedia.
He is a dictionary.
He is a map of the human heart and what can be done to punish it.
He was sixteen when she died. She was his first love. The only one he really, really loved. He convinced himself of that. It didn′t take much effort.
He has been through everything a thousand times and he knows it was not his fault.
It happened on the same bench, the one at the end of Carlisle Street near the park.
He could go right back there now, in his mind or in person, and he could feel something, or he could feel nothing at all.
It changed him. Of course it did. It made him curious about the nature of things, about why things happened. Why people love and hate and kill and lie and hurt and bleed, and why they betray one another, and why they steal one another′s husbands and wives and children.
The world had changed.
When he was a kid it was like this: A child′s trike on the corner of the street. Mom must have called the kid for supper. A passer-by would pick it up, set it to the edge of the sidewalk for later collection, so as no-one would fall over it and hurt themselves. A simple, nostalgic smile. A memory of their own childhood perhaps. Never a second thought.
And now, the first thought would be abduction. The child snatched inside a single heartbeat, bundled wholesale into the back of a car. The trike was all that would remain of them. The child would be found in three weeks′ time - beaten, abused, strangled.
The neighborhood had changed. The world had changed.
John Costello believed that they were the ones who′d changed it.
After the death of Nadia McGowan the community fell apart. Her death seemed to mark the end of all they held important. People no longer brought their children to The Connemara. They stayed home.
His father watched it come to pieces, and though he tried to reach John it didn′t really work. Perhaps his mother would have found him, hiding within whatever world he had created for himself.
But she was gone.
Gone for good.
Like Nadia, which was Russian for hope.
It was not easy, finding enough time to be together. John Costello worked and Nadia McGowan studied, and there were parents to consider. She would run errands to The Connemara as often as she could, and sometimes Erskine Costello would be there, and John was nowhere to be seen, and Erskine saw something in her anticipation, the way she hung back at the door before leaving, something that told him that soda bread was not the only reason she came.
′She′s a pretty girl that one,′ he told his son.
John hesitated, didn′t look up from his plate. ′Which one?′
′You know which one, lad. The redheaded one.′
′The McGowan girl?′
Erskine laughed. ′That′s not what you call her to her face now is it?′
They did not make eye contact, and neither of them said another thing.
Saturday November 17th, the McGowans out to see Nadia′s grand-mother once more. Anniversary of her grandfather′s death, Nadia staying back saying she had work to do. As soon as the parents′ car pulled into the street she walked to The Connemara, found John, told him that her folks were away for the night, would be gone until the following evening.
John left his room a little before eleven. He crept downstairs, feet to the edges of the treads, for the treads were old and they strained and creaked with his weight.
Erskine was waiting for him at the back door. ′Away are you?′ he said.
John didn′t speak.
′To see the girl,′ Erskine added matter-of-factly, his voice monotone, his expression saying nothing. Smell of good whiskey about him, a familiar ghost.
John couldn′t lie to his father. Had never been able to, and would never learn.
′She′s a sweet girl she is. A studious one, no doubt.′
John smiled.
′You and your books and your writing things down . . . wouldn′t be right for you to get a wild one with no sense for reading and things.′
′Dad—′
′Away with you, boy, away with you. You′ll only be doing what I wished I′d been doing at your age.′
John made to step by him.
′Remember your mother, eh?′ Erskine added. ′And don′t do anything you′d be ashamed to tell her.′
John looked up at his father. ′I won′t.′
′I know that, boy. I trust you. That′s why I′m letting you go.′
Erskine watched as his only child, now a man, went down the back steps and hurried across the street. He had more of his mother in him, and she′d have been proud, but he was not one to be staying in Jersey City, at least not for long. He was a reader, a literary one, forever thinking of smart ways to say things that didn′t need to be said.
Erskine Costello closed the door of The Connemara and walked back to the kitchen. The smell of good whiskey followed him, the familiar ghost.
I am the Hammer of God, he said.
John remembers the voice, that more than anything, though he never saw the face, and for years later wished that he had. So he would know.
He saw photographs of the man, of course, but there is no substitute for seeing the person themselves. There is something about a human being that a picture can never capture, not even a film, and that is their personality, the feeling around them, their smell, their thoughts, all those things that can be sensed.
If he had only seen him . . .
By the time John Costello spoke she was already buried.
Erskine had believed his boy might never speak again.
For the first days - four, perhaps five - he came every day and sat beside John′s bed. And then it seemed Erskine Costello could not face the silence, the waiting, the fear, so he went home, and he drank, and he stayed drunk until New Year.
John could not blame him. To see his only son, his only child, lying there in a hospital bed, his head bandaged, nothing visible but his eyes, and those eyes closed, and tubes and pipes and lines of glucose, and saline drips, and the sound of monitors beeping, the constant hum of a room filled with electricity . . .
John could not blame him.
John Costello woke on the sixth day, the 29th of November, and the first person he saw was a nurse called Geraldine Joyce.
′Like the writer,′ she said. ′James Joyce. Mad bastard that he was.′
He asked her where he was, and when he heard his own voice it was like listening to someone else.
′You′ll sound like yourself after a while,′ Nurse Geraldine told him. ′Or maybe you′ll just get used to it and start thinking that that′s the way you′ve always sounded.′
She told him there was a police detective outside who wanted to talk to him.
By then John Costello knew that Nadia was dead.
She was waiting on the stoop. The front door was open and upstairs there was a light in the window of her room. The rest of the house was in darkness.
She held out her hand, and the last few yards he ran toward her, as if they were meeting at the train station. He′d been away to the war. His letters had never arrived. For a long while she thought he might have been killed, but had never dared to believe it.
′Come in,′ she said quickly. ′Before someone sees you.′ The Irish lilt in her voice, gentle yet distinct.
They′d made love twice before. Now they were professionals. Now they were no longer shy or embarrassed, and she left her clothes along the upstairs hallway as they hurried to her room.
Outside it started raining.
′Do you know what love is?′ she asked him when light started to find a way between the drapes.
′If this is it, then yes,′ he said. ′I know what love is.′
Later, they sat beside one another at the window, naked beneath a blanket, and they watched the world as it rained. Saw an old man in slow-motion, his angular gait distorted through the rivulets of water on the glass. Come daylight there would be a gaggle of children in slickers and galoshes, the excitement of puddles, hand-in-hand on the way to church.
′Do you need to get back?′ she asked.
He shook his head. ′It′s okay.′
′Your dad—′
′He knows where I am.′
A sudden intake of breath. ′He . . . oh my God, he′ll tell my parents . . .′
John laughed. ′No he won′t.′
′God, John, if they find out they′ll kill me.′
′No they won′t,′ he said, meaning that they wouldn′t find out, never thinking to mean that they wouldn′t kill her.
Because they wouldn′t.
That, it seemed, was to be someone else′s job.
The man who said that to John Costello was a Jersey City homicide detective called Frank Gorman.
′My name is Frank,′ he said. He held out his hand. He told John that the girl was dead. Nadia McGowan. The funeral had already taken place the day before. Apparently it was a small affair, primarily a family thing, but the wake was held in The Connemara and it filled the place to bursting, and out along Lupus and Delancey, all the way down Carlisle Street near the park, there were people crowding to make themselves known to the grieving parents. More friends in death than ever in life. Wasn′t that always the way of things? And they left flowers near the bench where she′d died. So many flowers it wasn′t long before the bench disappeared beneath them. Lilies. White roses. A wreath of something yellow.
So Frank shook John′s hand, and asked if he was okay, if he wanted a drink of water or something. He was the first one to ask questions, and he would come the most times, and he would ask more questions than anyone else, and there was something in his face, in his eyes, that told John that he was persistent and determined and unforgiving of failure. He was also Irish, which helped when it came down to it.
′A serial,′ he said. ′This guy . . . the one that attacked you.′ He looked away toward the hospital room window as if something silent demanded attention.
′We know of four victims . . . two couples. Perhaps there′s more, we don′t know. You′re the only one—′ He smiled understandingly. ′You′re the only one who′s survived.′
′That you know of,′ John said.
Frank Gorman took a notebook from his jacket pocket, a pen also, and he leafed through page after page to find some space in which to write.
′He attacks couples . . . we presume couples who are out together, you know . . . doing things that couples do when they′re together . . .′ His voice trailed away into silence.
′I feel like I can′t remember anything.′
′I know, John, I know, but I′m here to help you try.′
′First loves are the most important,′ Erskine Costello told his son.
Seated in the back kitchen, there across a table, a meal finished, a glass of beer on the side.
′Have to tell you, your mother was not my first love.′
′You sound like you′re apologizing for something.′
′Wouldn′t want you to be disappointed.′
′Disappointed? Why would I be disappointed?′
Erskine shrugged his broad shoulders. Raised his hand and ran it through coal-black hair.
′That Nadia McGowan . . . she′s a beautiful girl.′
′She is.′
′Her parents know you′re courting?′
′Courting?′ John said. ′Who says courting? It′s 1984. I think people stopped courting in 1945.′
′Okay, John, okay, so let′s be blunt like a fist, eh? Do her good Catholic God-fearing parents know their daughter is having sex with a sixteen-year-old whose father is a drunk who hasn′t stepped inside a church for thirty years or more? That blunt enough for you, lad?′
John nodded. ′It is. And no, they don′t know.′
′And if they found out?′
′There′d be trouble I′m sure.′ He looked up at his father, expected the Riot Act, but Erskine Costello, the sharp edges of his mind and tongue worn smooth by the gentle insistence of good Irish whiskey, merely said, ′So be careful you don′t get caught, eh?′
′I′ll be careful,′ John Costello said, and knew that if his mother were alive there′d be a storm.
′How can I remember what I don′t remember?′
Frank Gorman, Jersey City homicide detective, didn′t answer the question. He merely smiled as if he knew something of which the world remained ignorant, and once again looked away toward the window.
′Can you go back through it for me?′ he said.
John opened his mouth to speak, to tell him that he′d gone over this time and again in his mind, but whenever he looked there was nothing.
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