91
‘Who are you?’ the woman asked.
‘I’m the fella with the gun,’ Lennon said. ‘Now who the fuck are you?’
Her eyes flitted between his and the door and back again. ‘I’m Orla O’Kane.’
‘Bull O’Kane’s daughter?’
She nodded.
‘You own this place?’
She nodded.
‘Where are they?’
‘Who?’
‘Marie and Ellen,’ Lennon said. He took one step closer, squared his aim on her forehead. ‘Don’t fuck me about. I’ll blow your brains out, you understand? Tell me where they are.’
Her eyes brimmed. She pointed one trembling finger towards the door. ‘Inside,’ she said. ‘Upstairs.’
‘Take me to them.’ He took another step. ‘Now.’
A tear dripped from her eyelash. ‘Don’t kill me. Please.’
‘Just take me to them,’ Lennon said. ‘I won’t hurt you if you take me to them now.’
‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ Orla said, her words spilling out faster as she spoke, her nose running, her face creasing. ‘It’s my da, the stuff he gets up to, I know nothing about it, I never knew he wanted to hurt anybody, I wouldn’t have let him use my place if I knew—’
‘Shut up,’ Lennon said. Another step, and the Glock’s muzzle quivered inches from her forehead. ‘Just shut your mouth and take me to them.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But don’t do anything stupid.’
‘Move,’ he said. ‘You go first.’
Orla walked towards the door, keeping her gaze on Lennon as he came behind. She tripped on the step and turned her head to look where she was going. The door stood open. She slipped through into the shadows.
Lennon followed her into some sort of entrance hall-cum-laundry room. A bank of industrial washing machines and dryers stood against the far wall. Mildew coated the ceiling above them, and the air had a damp, cloying smell. Water pooled on the floor around the equipment.
Orla headed for a door to the left. It led them to a room cast in aluminium and stainless steel. What had once been a traditional country house kitchen was now a catering business, deep-fryers, bath-sized sinks surrounded by mould, grimy hotplates and ovens big enough to fit a person in. That thought spurred Lennon on.
‘Hurry up,’ he said, jamming the pistol between her shoulder blades.
Orla moaned and quickened her pace around the grease-coated islands as she approached a swing door with grubby glass at its centre. When she was ten feet from it, her shuffling steps became a brisk stride, then a jog.
‘Don’t,’ Lennon said, hurrying to catch her, reaching out to grab the fabric of her jacket, his balance lost to the chase.
She slapped his hand away and sprinted across the few feet to the door. He followed inches behind, the pistol an idle threat in his hand. She grabbed the door’s edge, threw it back behind her, slamming it into Lennon’s outstretched hands as he tried to take aim.
‘Da!’ she screamed again and again as Lennon pushed through the door to see her trip and land sprawling on the floor. ‘Da!’ again, ‘Da!’
Lennon saw only the silhouette of the gunman, barely registering the shape in the corridor’s dimness before he raised the Glock and fired.
92
The cracking of gunfire halted the Traveller’s hand. He would never admit it, but he was relieved to have an excuse to break away from Fegan’s stare. The madman hardly winced when the Traveller started cutting into his earlobe, the bulging of his jaw muscles and a film of sweat on his forehead the only outward sign of pain. The blood ran in a deep red rivulet down Fegan’s neck to be soaked up by his clothing.
‘Da!’ A high shrieking came between the gunshots, Orla O’Kane’s voice cutting through the clamour. ‘Da! Da!’
‘What the fuck is that?’ Bull O’Kane asked.
The Traveller released Fegan’s ear, the lobe still attached despite the half-inch incision. He spoke to O’Driscoll and Ronan. ‘Keep hold of him,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take a look.’
‘Wait,’ Bull O’Kane said.
The Traveller ignored him and went to the double doors that led to the corridor and the stairs beyond, drawing the Glock from his waistband. He opened one a few inches and put his eye to the gap. Nothing.
‘I said wait.’ Fear edged the Bull’s voice.
The Traveller leaned out into the corridor. He pictured the layout of the entrance hall below. A grand staircase rose up along the right-hand wall before turning back on itself to form the gallery that lay ahead of him. Three doors stood beneath that. The left led to a series of rooms that had been converted into offices and treatment bays. The middle concealed a lift that had been built into the house’s structure, its sliding door cut neatly into the wood panelling. The right opened onto a corridor off which branched patient and staff dining rooms, and the kitchen. The voice and the gunshots came from somewhere down there. The Traveller turned back to O’Kane.
‘I won’t be long,’ he said.
‘Jesus, don’t leave me here,’ O’Kane said, his face paling. ‘Not with him.’ The Bull’s sagging cheeks reddened at the admission of his fear. He couldn’t hold the Traveller’s gaze. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.
‘I wasn’t waiting for permission,’ the Traveller said.
He stepped out into the corridor and let the door swing closed behind him. A dozen light footsteps brought him to the top of the stairs. He clung to the wall as he descended and turned at the bottom. A dozen more paces took him to the door on the right, the one that led to the kitchen and dining rooms. Two splintered holes had been torn in the wood. He flattened himself against the wall.
One, two, three more barks of gunfire, close to the door. Then a squeal and a cry, followed by a man’s hoarse shout. Two more shots, this time echoing from deep in the corridor, then something heavy thrown hard against the door. It opened outwards as a man’s body spilled through. He landed on his back, two holes in his camouflage jacket radiating dark stains. He groaned and gasped and coughed and writhed.
Somewhere beyond the Traveller’s vision, Orla O’Kane screamed, ‘Jesus Christ! Don’t, don’t, don’t—’
The Traveller brought his pistol up and swung into the open doorway, searching for a target. Shapes moved against the glaring light from the kitchen, one clambering to its feet, the other already upright. They melded together as the Traveller strained to separate one shadow from the other in the bitter smoke. The larger of them moved towards him, fast. He couldn’t tell which arm belonged to which silhouetted body, or where the screams came from in the corridor’s echoes. When he saw a gun amongst the blurring shapes the reptile part of his mind took over, steadied his own Glock, and tightened his finger on the trigger.
The corridor amplified the boom and smoke burned his stinging eye. The shape still came at him and his finger closed on the trigger again. The muzzle flash illuminated Orla O’Kane’s terrified face for an instant as the bullet ripped a piece of her skull away.
Her body’s momentum carried her forward, and the Traveller stepped aside to let it tumble on top of the dying man, her weight crushing the last of the fight out of him.
‘Stupid fucking bitch,’ the Traveller said.
He edged back to the doorway and peered into the darkness and light. The other figure had gone, either retreated into the kitchen, or into one of the other rooms leading off the corridor. He replayed the scene in his mind, saw the width of the man, his height. Instinct and logic combined to tell him it was the cop Lennon.
‘Bastard cunt fucker,’ the Traveller said.
He stepped into the gloom, the Glock up and ready. If anything moved he would shoot first and worry about who he shot later. Two doors to his right, one to the left at the end, and the kitchen next to it. He moved slow and easy, his breath even and steady, listening hard.
The Traveller tried the first door on his right. The handle didn’t move. Locked tight. No way Lennon could have locked it from inside. He would have heard the footsteps in the corridor, the fumbling of the key in the lock. The Traveller kept moving. The second door’s handle loosened at the pressure of his fingers. He leaned tight to the wall and depressed the handle as far as it would go. The world slowed as he inhaled, then accelerated as he let the air out of his lungs and kicked the door open.
He ducked, his bandaged left hand coming up to support the pistol in his right. The door swung inward, struck the wall, and juddered with the shock of it. Nothing moved inside as the Traveller stopped the door swinging back with his foot. Chairs stacked on tables, clusters of them in the darkness as shutters blocked out all but the thinnest blades of daylight. Old odours of fried meat and overcooked vegetables drifted on the air along with the dust motes. He hunkered down and studied the forest of table legs. No one lurked among them. A pair of swinging doors in the far corner presumably led back to the kitchen, but the Traveller felt in his gut that the room’s stillness had not been disturbed for weeks. He straightened and backed out.
The door at the end of the corridor stood open, the kitchen beyond, its steely brightness dulled by grime. He walked towards it, ready to fire at any movement, but a new smell stopped him before he got that far. A sickly, chemical smell that tingled in his nostrils. He took three more steps and the smell deepened. But it did not come from the kitchen. The door to his left stood slightly ajar. He pushed it with the Glock’s muzzle, and the smell of fuel, petrol or something like it, washed up from the narrow staircase on the other side.
The Traveller spied a box of matches on a work surface just inside the kitchen. He smiled as he reached for them.
93
Lennon holstered his pistol as he picked his way through the semidarkness, avoiding the debris on the uneven floor. A few small windows up at ground level allowed thin light through their dirt-caked panes, but not enough for him to be sure of his footing. He’d already stumbled over a stack of cans, spilling something that smelled like petrol or white spirits. It had soaked into his trousers and begun to sting the skin on his shin and calf.
Arches led further into the cellar in all directions. Lennon had to hope there were more ways in and out. There, up ahead, he could make out a haze of light. He advanced towards it, ducking his head beneath an arch. Old furniture, cardboard boxes, papers and fabrics were stacked against every wall. The musty smell mingled with that of whatever he had spilled at the bottom of the stairs. Something wrapped around his ankle as he struggled through the gloom. He kicked it away, losing his balance in the process. The stacked chairs he grabbed collapsed under his weight, and he fell to the floor as they clattered around him.
Lennon lay still and listened. Small things scurried amongst the boxes, disturbed by his intrusion. Tiny clawed feet dashed across the back of his hand, a tail brushing his fingers, but he did not slap the creature away. Slowly, his breath held tight in his chest, he rolled over onto his back. He froze and watched a shape come closer, framed by the weak light from the windows. Lennon wondered if the other man could see him lying there amid the upended chairs. The noise would surely have drawn his attention.
The petrol smell grew stronger as the form dipped beneath the arch and closed in to where Lennon lay.
‘I know you’re there,’ the shape said.
Lennon recognised the voice. His heart lurched.
‘You should’ve shot me when you had the chance,’ the shape said. ‘They’ve got your woman and your girl upstairs. When I’m done with you, I’ll have a go on them. The mother’s not bad looking, even hurt as bad as she is. Tell you the truth, I don’t know if she’ll still be breathing by now.’
The silhouette swelled in Lennon’s vision. ‘Well, if she’s not, it’ll be a pity. I’ll just have to content myself with the wee girl. I’ll do her quick, though. No sense in stringing it out for a little ’un. Not her fault she’s got a useless shite like you for a father. No, I’ll go easy on her. But I won’t go easy on you.’
An arm swept out. Liquid splashed around Lennon. The petrol smell invaded his nose and mouth, made his throat tighten. He pushed himself back, his elbows and heels fighting against curtain fabric.
‘Ah, there you are,’ the silhouette said. He tossed the can in Lennon’s direction.
It clattered on the floor, throwing a streak of pungent liquid across his lower legs. Lennon scrabbled back, no longer caring about the noise, until his head and shoulders pressed against the cold brick wall. He pushed himself up on his feet and drew his Glock.
The silhouette dissolved into the darkness. ‘I’m going to burn you, Jack. I’ll watch you dance for a while. If you’re lucky, I might put you out of your misery before it gets too bad. If you’re lucky.’
Lennon aimed at the voice, trying to fix its position among the cellar’s reverberations.
There, a spark in the black, the killer’s face illuminated for an instant. Lennon’s finger tightened on the trigger. The spark again, but this time the match caught, throwing its yellowy glow just far enough for the killer to see the pistol aimed at his forehead.
Lennon’s Glock boomed as the killer ducked, the noise filling every corner and crack of the cellar. Lennon followed the match’s fall with his eyes. The flame sputtered before it caught the vapours from the can. Lennon threw his body to the ground as the heat surged around him and the killer screamed.
94
O’Driscoll said, ‘We should get you out of here.’
Fegan watched O’Kane chew his lip, possibilities flickering across the old man’s face, his eyes darting around the room. The heat in Fegan’s ear pulsed as warmth spread down his neck and over his shoulder. A hard line of pain ran along his cheek. He tasted the blood at the corner of his mouth.
‘Maybe we should get you to your room,’ O’Driscoll said. ‘Out of harm’s way, like. Just till yer man’s sorted things out.’
O’Kane glowered. ‘Don’t talk tome like I’m a child, for fuck’s sake. This is the one thing I want. This is all I want. Don’t fucking chicken out on me now. Don’t turn tail like every other bastard.’
O’Driscoll stepped away from Fegan, but kept a grip on his arm. ‘But, Christ, anything could be happening. You pay me to watch out for you and that’s what I’m doing. Now come on, we need to get you out of here and locked in your—’
‘Every one of you fuckers is the same,’ the Bull said, his voice cracking between high and low. ‘Them bastards in the North, they left me hanging. Everyone else abandoned me. Now you’re going to do the same?’
O’Driscoll held onto Fegan’s sleeve as he took another step towards O’Kane. ‘Jesus, no, Bull, I just want to make sure you’re safe, that’s all. I’m not going anywhere.’
Fegan’s instincts flew, measuring the strength of O’Driscoll’s grip, the distance between the men, the angles of their bodies, their centres of balance. He registered these calculations only as impulses, flashes in his brain before the act. But the act did not come. He suppressed it, a deeper and more trusted instinct telling him it wasn’t yet time to move.
O’Kane jabbed his thick forefinger at Fegan. ‘I’m not going anywhere till that fucker’s dead.’
‘You want me to do him?’ O’Driscoll asked.
‘No.’ O’Kane shook his head and met Fegan’s stare. ‘Bring him here.’
‘There isn’t time,’ O’Driscoll said. ‘We need to—’
O’Kane’s face reddened. ‘I said bring him here.’
The men led Fegan forward. He did not resist.
‘On his knees,’ O’Kane said.
O’Driscoll placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder and pushed down. When Fegan didn’t submit, he kicked the back of his knee. Fegan went down hard, his kneecap cracking on the parquet flooring. The plastic sheeting rustled as the other knee followed.
O’Kane leaned forward in his wheelchair. ‘You could’ve killed me back there in that barn near Middletown. You had me at your feet. I was helpless as a pup, and you had a gun in your hand. Why didn’t you do it?’
‘Because I had no reason,’ Fegan said. ‘I was merciful.’
‘Merciful?’ O’Kane shook his head. You’re not making any more sense than you did back then, Gerry. Are the people still in your head? Are they still telling you what to do?’
‘I left them back there,’ Fegan said. ‘When I killed McGinty.’
‘McGinty was a cunt.’ O’Kane stretched a hand towards O’Driscoll. O’Driscoll placed a small semi-automatic pistol in it. It looked like a Walther PPK to Fegan. ‘Not too many missed that bastard after he died. I sure as fuck didn’t. You know, the politicians wanted me to let it go. They wanted the mess cleaned up, fair enough, but they didn’t see the sense in going after you. They said I should let it lie. But they don’t know you. They don’t know what you did to me. They don’t know how I haven’t slept a single night since then. I won’t live another fucking day with you in the world.’ He breathed hard as he pulled back the slide assembly to chamber a round. ‘So I told them, I says, I’m going after Gerry Fegan and that’s all there is to it.’
O’Kane pressed the Walther’s muzzle against Fegan’s forehead.
O’Driscoll shifted his feet, loosened his grip on Fegan’s shoulder. ‘Jesus, what’s that? Do you smell that?’
Ronan said, ‘Smell what?’
‘Smoke,’ O’Driscoll said. ‘Something burning.’
O’Kane lowered the pistol. ‘A fire?’
The image burst in Fegan’s mind, the dream that had haunted first his sleeping hours, then his waking: the child eaten by flames.
His instincts aligned, a perfect sequence of movements and pressures and weights plotted in his mind before he was even aware of them, telling him now was the moment to act.