‘That lawyer, Patsy Toner,’ Roscoe said. ‘They said he lent that bent cop his car, and the cop wound up getting his head took off. They said it was mistaken identity, said the dissidents meant to get Toner. But then the dissidents blew themselves up, problem solved, everything gets back to normal.’
Lennon walked back to Roscoe. ‘And?’
‘Patsy Toner’s a regular with one of my girls. She says he’s in pieces. He still comes to see her, but he can’t manage anything. She’s tried handjobs, blowjobs, stuck her finger up his arse, everything she can think of. Not a fucking thing.’
‘I could’ve done without that image,’ Lennon said.
‘Me too,’ Roscoe said, his lip curling. ‘But you hear worse in my line of work.’
Lennon leaned on the back of Roscoe’s chair. ‘I’m sure you do, but what’s your point?’
Roscoe shrugged. ‘Might be nothing, but she told me he turned up pissed off his face one night. He was blathering about how it wasn’t over, they wouldn’t let it go, it was only a matter of time before they came for him.’
Lennon stood upright. ‘Is that right?’
Roscoe smiled. ‘Is what right? I didn’t tell you nothing.’ He turned back to his game. ‘I’m not touting for you. Now go and see that wee thing before she gets lonely.’
Lennon patted the other man’s muscled shoulder. ‘Thanks, Roscoe.’
He went back to the entrance hall. A thin streak of light reached across the carpet from the bedroom door. He rapped the wood with his knuckles, and the door opened. She had shoulder-length brown hair and smelled of strong soap.
‘Put a hundred on the dressing table, love,’ she said, her Scottish accent easing through her smile. ‘Then we’ll talk about the options. All right, sweetheart?’
Lennon forced himself to maintain eye contact. ‘Roscoe and me have an arrangement.’
She stood on tiptoe and called over his shoulder. ‘Roscoe?’
Roscoe’s voice came back from the living room. ‘Whatever he wants. I’ll sort you, don’t worry.’
Her face slackened for a moment, whether with contempt or sadness he couldn’t tell. Then it brightened, as if a light behind her eyes had switched on, and her lips parted in a smile that could cut glass. ‘Whatever you want, darling,’ she said.
17
Just a few months ago, Declan Quigley had saved Bull O’Kane’s life by dragging his huge bulk into a car and speeding to a hospital in Dundalk. Even so, O’Kane wanted Quigley gone. It wasn’t the Traveller’s place to question the Bull.
Quigley lived with his mother in a red-brick two-up-two-down off the Lower Ormeau. The Traveller circled the area around the house. He couldn’t park up and hope no one noticed him as he did at Marie McKenna’s place on Eglantine Avenue. This was a close-knit community. Any stranger would draw attention if they stayed in one place too long.
A gang of fifteen or so youths wandered from street to street, making their way towards the interface with the Loyalist-dominated Donegall Pass. Looking for a fight, the Traveller thought. They’d probably get it. He circled back towards Quigley’s street.
The mother was doting, the Bull said, didn’t know night from day. There was no need to touch her, even if she saw everything. The Bull had been quite clear on that point, and the Traveller intended to honour his promise.
He tucked the old Merc into a parking bay on the Ormeau Road, next to a fenced-off housing development where the sports ground used to be. It’d be a trek to Quigley’s house, but it was the most secluded place he could find to leave the car. He kept his head down as he walked along the main road, avoiding eye contact with the few people he passed.
The Traveller walked as far as the Ormeau Bridge before looping back along the river. He counted side streets as he made his way north. The Bull had told him how many. A police siren wailed somewhere towards Donegall Pass, followed by cheers. The youths had got their fight by the sound of it.
He ducked into the narrow alleyway that cut along the back of Quigley’s terrace. Seven houses along from the river end, the Bull had said. The Traveller kept tight to the wall and counted gates. He worked his way through the alley’s blackness, careful of his footing. Litter snagged his heels, old plastic bags and cigarette packets. He kicked an empty can and froze. Inside one of the houses, a dog barked at the clatter. When it settled, he started moving again.
A siren screamed along Ormeau Avenue. The Traveller saw a cop car flash past the far end of the alley. A moment later he heard the screeching of tyres and the whoops and laughter of breathless boys. He moved faster, reached Quigley’s back gate, pressed against the painted wood and found it open. As he slipped into the yard he kept his eyes on the far end of the alley. Two youths appeared there, their trainers skidding as they rounded the corner.
The Traveller eased back into the yard and pushed the gate closed. It stood as high as the wall, would keep him hidden, but it had no latch. He listened to the hammering of feet as the boys sprinted along the alley.
‘Quick, they’re coming!’ a voice said.
‘Fuck’s sake, hide!’ another said.
The Traveller heard hands slapping on wood as the boys tried the gates. Too late, he went to block Quigley’s, and the boys burst through.
He put the first one down with a blow to the temple, and the sound of skull meeting brickwork cut the boy’s cry short. The other slipped as he tried to halt his momentum and landed at the Traveller’s feet.
The Traveller swooped, threw him on his belly. Before the boy could scream, the Traveller had his throat in the crook of his elbow. The boy didn’t struggle long.
The Traveller got to his feet and pressed his back against the gate. Heavy footsteps trudged along the alley, accompanied by deeper voices and radio static.
‘No, they’re gone,’ one of the voices said.
A burst of static replied as the footsteps drew closer.
‘Christ knows,’ the voice said. ‘Balfour Avenue, probably.’
Wood rattled as the cops tried the gates. The Traveller leaned against the flaked paint, braced himself.
‘No chance,’ the voice said. ‘I’m not doing any more running tonight. I’m too old for this shit.’
The gate pushed against the Traveller’s back. Static crackled.
‘Up your arse,’ the voice on the other side of the wall said. ‘I’m going back to the car.’
The footsteps receded towards the Ormeau Road. The Traveller stooped down and checked if the boys were breathing. They both were, but the first one he’d hit was slick with blood. The other would wake before too long with a crushing headache. The Traveller had to get this done. He went to the back door and peered through the glass into the kitchen. An old woman in a dressing gown stood gazing at a biscuit tin, her lips moving as if she were trying to remember the words of a song.
He tried the handle, but the door was locked. The old woman looked up at the sound. She approached the door and turned the key. She opened it and stared at the Traveller for a moment. ‘Bobby, love, where’ve you been?’ she asked.
‘Away,’ the Traveller said.
‘Away where?’
‘Just away,’ the Traveller said. ‘Can I come in?’
The old woman stepped back to let him enter. She stroked his arm as he passed. ‘You missed your tea, love.’
‘I had something when I was out,’ the Traveller said.
‘What did you have, love?’
‘Fish and chips,’ the Traveller said. He heard a television in the next room.
She slapped his arm. ‘You could’ve brought some back with you,’ she scolded.
‘They’d be cold,’ the Traveller said. ‘Where’s Declan?’
‘He’s watching the telly,’ the old woman said.
‘Ma?’ a slurred voiced called from the next room. ‘Ma! Who’re you talking to?’