Lights glowed behind drawn curtains up ahead. He got out of the Merc and walked towards them. If the Traveller lived in a place like this, he’d have a dog. A big, mean one. He kept to the grass verge to silence his footsteps and listened for growling as he approached.
Kevin Malloy had a wife, the Bull had said. She might or might not be in the cottage. Malloy was still bedridden from his injuries. It was a simple job, really. Get in, do anyone inside, grab any money, wreck the place, get out. The cottage stood black against the hills behind. Just twenty yards now. The wind changed direction.
There, a low rumble as a dog caught his scent. The Traveller froze, listened, waited. The Eagle’s heft felt good. Solid, like the power of God in his hand. He started towards the house again.
The rumble turned to a growl punctuated by gasps. He could hear the animal’s excitement and fear. No sign of it in the shadows yet. He listened for another sound: the high jangle of a chain. No one would leave a big dog loose out here, but he wanted to be sure.
It launched into a clamour of barking, then, the low bass vowels of a deep-chested animal. The Bull said Malloy was an arsehole. If he was an arsehole he’d have a dog he thought made him look hard. Something stupid and brutal, maybe a Rottweiler or some kind of mastiff, rather than a smart guardian like a German shepherd or a Dobermann.
The braying grew louder and the Traveller heard heavy paws crunching on gravel. Then a gallop, the jangle of chain, and a yelp as it snapped taut. That was all he needed to know.
He reached into his pocket and took out the Vater earplugs. Drummers used them to protect their hearing. The little beehive-shaped pieces of rubber blocked out the dangerous frequencies but let through the detail of the environment. They blocked out the worst of a gunshot, but you could still hear a mouse fart. He pressed the two earpieces, joined by a twelve-inch plastic string, into place. He worked his jaw open and closed, swallowed, and walked.
There it was, some sort of mastiff cross. A low wall surrounded the cottage. The dog stood just inside the open gate. It stopped its barking and watched the Traveller approach. There was enough light yet to see the glow of its eyes. He pulled back the Eagle’s slide to chamber a round and thumbed the safety off. The dog’s legs quivered and its chest rumbled.
The Traveller raised the Eagle in a two-handed grip, his wrists firm so his shoulders would take the brunt of the recoil, and squeezed the trigger until he felt resistance. Sometimes he forgot which was his right hand, and which was his left. Something else that came out of his brain along with that piece of Kevlar. Not that it mattered much; he had trained one hand to be about as strong as the other.
He lined the sights between the dog’s eyes. It lunged. He blew its skull apart.
The boom rolled across the hills. The Traveller watched the house for movement. No surprises now, just get in and do it. He marched to the old wooden door and booted it below the handle. He kicked it again, and it swung inward. He went in gun first, ready to take down anything that moved.
The tiny open-plan kitchen and living room was empty. Old bottles and beer cans crowded around the sink. The remains of a Chinese takeaway littered the dining table. The place reeked of stale cigarettes and alcohol, damp and rotten food. Only two doors led from this room. One of them stood open, revealing a dirty bathtub and toilet. He went to the other, the Eagle at shoulder level.
The Traveller threw it open, and the door frame exploded around him. He fired blind into the room three times, the recoil throwing him backwards against the table. His wrist shrieked; splinters and plaster dust stung his face.
‘Bastard,’ he said. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes. Hot pain seared the right. He shook his head, tried to dislodge whatever burned there.
‘Jesus,’ he said. He rubbed the heel of his left hand against the eye. It came away wet and red. ‘Dirty fucker.’
He calmed his breathing and listened. Moaning and sobbing came from the room. The Traveller crossed to it, both hands supporting the Eagle.
Kevin Malloy lay on the floor between the bed and an open wardrobe, his legs tangled in sheets, a shotgun by his side. A ragged hole was torn in his shoulder.
The Traveller lifted the shotgun and admired the polished wooden stock and steel barrel. ‘Fuck, that’s a beauty,’ he said, putting it on the bed. He recognised the stag’s head logo. ‘Browning. Very nice. Think I’ll have that. You got more shells?’
Malloy lay there shaking. His blood soaked the carpet. It squelched under the Traveller’s feet. He kicked Malloy’s shoulder. Malloy screamed.
‘I asked you a question,’ the Traveller said. ‘You got more shells for that?’
Malloy turned his head. ‘In… in there.’
The Traveller stepped over him and found three boxes of 20-gauge cartridges in the bottom of the wardrobe. He threw them on the bed beside the Browning.
‘Anyone else here?’ he asked.
Malloy shook his head.
‘Where’s your missus?’
Malloy cried.
The Traveller kicked him again. When Malloy’s screaming died down, the Traveller said, ‘Where is she?’
‘In town,’ Malloy said. ‘Please don’t kill me.’
‘When’ll she be back?’
‘I don’t know. Please don’t kill me. I’ve money. You can have my cash card and my PIN. There, in my wallet.’
The Traveller went to the dressing table and put the wallet in his pocket. It would help make it look like a robbery, but he’d dump it somewhere on the road. No way he’d use the card.
He rubbed his right eye on his sleeve, hissed at the sting. ‘You might’ve fucking blinded me, you know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Malloy said. ‘Please don’t kill me.’
The Traveller flicked the Eagle’s safety on and tucked it into his waistband. He went to the bed and lifted the Browning. He turned it in his hands, tested its heft. It was compact and light. ‘Fucking lovely,’ he said. He pulled back the slide to eject the spent cartridge and pushed it forward to load the next. The action was smooth and easy. ‘That’s a beauty,’ he said, running his fingers over the smooth walnut stock. He wedged the butt against his shoulder and lined up Malloy’s head.
‘Jesus,’ Malloy said.
The Traveller took three steps back. He didn’t want to get covered in the splatter.
Malloy wept and prayed.
The Traveller blinked blood away from his right eye. He sniffed and swallowed. He shifted his weight onto his leading foot, braced for the recoil, and pulled the trigger.
It didn’t make too bad a mess of Malloy, considering. The recoil gave the Traveller a solid kick to the shoulder, but it was a controllable piece. He held the Browning out to admire it again. ‘Nice,’ he said.
He pulled the earplugs out by the plastic string and put them in his pocket. He opened and closed his jaw to clear the pressure. His eye stung pretty bad, now. He walked back to the kitchen and turned on the tap. A scoop of cold water eased the burning a little.
He wondered if there were any old plastic bags under the sink in which to carry the boxes of cartridges back to the car. He opened the cupboard doors.
A woman lay trembling on her side in there, squeezed beneath the plumbing. She covered her head with her hands, her knees drawn up to her chin. She smelled of gin.
‘Ah, fuck,’ the Traveller said.
He reached for the earplugs.
9
Fegan knew he was being followed. The tall, broad man had been ten paces behind him when he entered Grand Street station. It was almost six, still dark above ground, when Fegan boarded the D Train. He watched the other man pass the car. Fegan guessed the follower would choose the next car along, probably glancing out at every stop to see if his quarry left the train.