The dial tone ceased, replaced by steady breathing.
‘Marie?’ Fegan said, fear sharpening his voice.
‘She can’t come to the phone right now.’
A man’s voice. The kind of voice Fegan knew too well. His head swam. He sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Where is she?’ he asked.
‘She’s right here,’ the voice said. ‘Her and the wee girl.’
‘Who are you?’ Fegan said.
A pause. ‘Would that be the famous Gerry Fegan?’
‘Don’t touch them.’
‘I’ve heard all about you,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve been dying to meet you in the flesh. Something tells me we’d get on like a house on fire.’
Fegan doubled over as his stomach cramped. ‘I’ll kill you if you touch them,’ he said.
‘Too late for that. I’ve got to be honest with you, Gerry. Marie’s not looking her best.’
‘I’ll kill you,’ Fegan said. ‘I’ll make it bad.’
‘It’s that cop you should go after. The kid’s father. You know what the useless shite did?’
‘I’ll kill you,’ Lennon said.
‘He left the child and her mother in a whorehouse in Carrickfergus. Just upped and left them here all on their own. Jesus, you wouldn’t do that to a dog.’
‘I’ll—’
‘Yeah, you’ll kill me, I heard you. Time’s wasting, Gerry. Gotta go.’
The phone died.
‘I’ll kill you,’ Fegan said to the lifeless plastic.
He stood and went to the window. His room took up half the first floor of a converted terraced house. The street below ached with quiet, the lights making shadows pool around the parked cars and garden walls. The occasional rumble of traffic came from Botanic Avenue, less than a hundred yards away. It had been an hour, maybe more, since the last train had passed along the track that ran behind the guesthouse. Fegan had always cherished quiet, but now it lay heavy on him, like a cold, damp blanket.
The man with the mocking voice had said Carrickfergus. Where in Carrickfergus?
A screech split the silence. It echoed along the street, touching Fegan’s heart like an icy finger. He held his breath tight in his chest. It came again, a high animal cry, the sound of suffering. Fegan looked up and down the rows of houses, searching for the source.
Then he saw it. The animal came creeping between two cars, long snout to the ground. Its large pointed ears twitched, and it raised its head. It opened its jaws wide and screeched again, the sound tearing through the street and over the rooftops.
The fox sauntered out onto the road, following some scent that had caught its interest. It froze, tensed, lifted its lean body flexing beneath the fur. It stared hard at the window and quivered.
Fegan put a hand against the glass. The fox raised its snout to the black sky and screeched once more. It bared its teeth. Fegan couldn’t hear through the glass, but he was sure the fox snarled and growled before it blossomed in flame. Fegan blinked and heard the engine of a car. Its headlights burned and reflected on the fox’s pelt as it approached. The fox looked to the light, then back at Fegan, before it dashed into the shadows.
The car passed, the driver oblivious to the watching animals.
Somewhere in the distance, across the city, sirens rose. In the dark hollows beneath the window, the fox answered.
Carrickfergus. A whorehouse, he said.
Fegan pictured the office behind the reception desk downstairs. He’d seen keys on hooks through the open door. One of them had been a car key. Fegan left his room, quiet as air.
74
The woman and that creepy kid huddled silent in the back seat as the Traveller drove. He had gone north then west from Carrickfergus, rather than cutting through Belfast, then south from Templepatrick. He would avoid the motorway until he was across the border, and stay out of the bigger towns like Banbridge or Newry. A lost hour was a price worth paying to escape notice.
He wondered if the woman would make it that far. Now and again he heard her chest rattle before she coughed. He had given her wounds a quick look before they left. She had a couple of pellets embedded in her cheekbone, and more in her right shoulder. But it was the cluster above her breast she had to worry about. The Traveller reckoned some had punctured her ribcage, and maybe even her lung. He had patched her up with a towel as best he could, but she was probably bleeding inside. A hospital could fix it, he was sure. But they weren’t going to a hospital. Maybe she’d make it to Drogheda, maybe she wouldn’t. His only worries were how the kid would react if her mother died as they held each other, and how the Bull would react when he brought the two of them to his doorstep.
Maybe he should have done them in the apartment. Probably should. But there was something about the kid, the way she looked at him, like she knew all his secrets. Even the things he kept hidden from himself. Whatever it was, it stopped him from snapping the child’s neck. He’d let the Bull deal with them.
The woman and child had served their purpose. They’d got Gerry Fegan to show himself. Let the Bull decide the next move. Maybe he’d let the cops have Fegan. He’d be easier dealt with if he was locked up. But where was the fun in that? Either way, the Bull could do what he wanted so long as he paid up.
The car was approaching the roundabout at Moira when the woman asked ‘Where are you taking us?’ Her voice was small but strong. Maybe she wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. He glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror and saw her reading a road sign.
‘To see a man,’ he said.
‘What man?’
‘You’ll see when we get there,’ he said. He steered onto the long straight section of the roundabout. ‘Now be quiet, love, there’s a good girl.’
‘Is it O’Kane?’
‘I said be quiet.’
‘The last man who brought us to him is dead now.’
As he exited the roundabout, the Traveller switched his attention between the village of Moira ahead and Marie McKenna’s reflection in the mirror. ‘That right?’
‘Gerry Fegan killed him.’
The Traveller’s tongue slicked his upper lip. ‘Did he, now?’
‘He’ll kill you too.’
He watched the mirror as the little girl covered her ears and buried her face in her mother’s bosom. Marie winced at the pain but did not push the child away.
‘You think so?’ the Traveller asked.
‘I know so.’
The Traveller smiled at the mirror. He would have winked if he could’ve managed it. ‘Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’
The lights of the main street slipped past for a minute or two and then faded behind them.
Marie laughed, then coughed, then laughed again.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.
She produced a tissue and coughed into it. Her face went blank. ‘What’s so funny? Earlier today I told someone I didn’t want to wind up a fucking damsel in distress again.’
The little girl took a hand away from her ear and placed it over her mother’s mouth. You said a bad word,’ she whispered.
‘I know, darling,’ Marie said against the child’s fingers. ‘I’m sorry.’
The girl, placated, covered her ears and buried her face again.
‘Tell me about Gerry Fegan,’ the Traveller said as they approached another village, smaller this time. Magheralin, he thought it was called, but he couldn’t be sure seeing as he couldn’t read the sign.
‘He’s a good man,’ Marie said, ‘despite what he’s done.’
‘A good man,’ the Traveller repeated, turning the words in his mouth, testing their weight. ‘And I’m not?’