As he straightened, the pistol cold in his hand, a weariness came over him. He leaned on the car’s roof and breathed deep. New pains signalled from all over his body. He wished he’d never entered the bar in Finglas. He wished he’d never taken the note from Davy Haughey, the one with Orla O’Kane’s phone number on it. He wished he’d never accepted her invitation to that fucking convalescent home near Drogheda, the one where Bull O’Kane wallowed in his own hate and shit-smelling stink.
An insane notion flitted through his mind, one so ludicrous he couldn’t help but examine it as it passed. Just get in the car, reverse out of the hedge, and drive away. Leave the woman and her kid to their fate out here. Whoever was in that house would take them in, see them right. The Traveller could go to one of the flats he kept in Dublin, Drogheda or Cork, gather up his passports, and disappear. He had money stashed in accounts in Ireland, Brazil, the Philippines and more places besides, enough to see him to his dying day if he was careful with it.
But what kind of life would that be, hiding under stones like a woodlouse? And then another thought came to him.
Gerry Fegan.
The Traveller wanted to know if he could take Gerry Fegan. He considered his condition, the injured shoulder, the sprained wrist, the stinging eye. He inhaled, igniting a fresh pain in his chest. Maybe add a cracked rib to that list. He’d be at a disadvantage, and that gave Fegan a fighting chance.
If the cops didn’t get to Fegan first, the Traveller could have a go at him. May the best man win, and all that.
Alone, in the dark by the side of the road, the Traveller smiled to himself as he made his mind up. He turned towards the sound he was now sure he had heard and started walking. When the crunch of country road under his feet turned to the soft squelch of damp grass he thumbed the mobile and let its glow reach into the dark. He watched and listened.
Another rattling inhalation. He trained the light on its source. Eyes glittered there. He marched forward, and he heard, ‘Go, go, go!’
A small shape sprang from the hedge and disappeared into the black. The woman tried to raise herself from the tangle of greenery, but stumbled. He was on her before she could move. She didn’t have the strength to struggle, just lay limp beneath him, her breath shallow and stuttering.
‘Easy now,’ he said, letting her feel the cold of the Glock against her neck.
The Traveller put the phone into his pocket, then eased back and slipped an arm around her waist. He got to his feet, taking her with him. She shivered against his body as he held her close, the pistol’s muzzle beneath her chin.
‘Call the wee girl,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘No.’
‘Call her.’ He jabbed her chin with the muzzle and she whimpered.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t.’
‘All right then, I’ll do it.’
‘She won’t come to you,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Oh, she will.’ He pulled Marie tight to him. ‘A wee girl like that won’t leave her mammy. Watch this.’
She inhaled to call out, but he sealed her mouth with his strapped-up hand.
‘Ellen!’ the Traveller called.
Marie tried to prise his hand away. He pressed it harder against her lips and her teeth nipped at the skin of his fingers, trying to get a hold. He twisted her neck around.
‘Quit it,’ he said, his mouth buried deep in her hair. ‘Quit it or I’ll break your neck.’ He looked back out to the darkness. ‘Ellen!’
The Traveller slipped the Glock into his waistband and took out his phone. It lit up in his hand, and he held it out in front of the struggling mother.
‘Your mammy needs you, Ellen. Come on back, now. You don’t want to be out there in the dark, all on your own. There’s bad things in the dark. Things that’ll get you. Things with teeth. Things that sting.’
He stopped, listened. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Your mammy needs you.’
A shadow moved out there in the layers of black. He saw a glint. Then she came running from the darkness, fell, picked herself up again, and threw herself at her mother. Ellen wrapped her arms around Marie’s thighs, pressed her face to the warmth.
The Traveller said, ‘Good girl.’
77
The door of the Red Fox Bar, off the Shankill, was locked, but lights shone inside. Lennon hammered with his fist until the pane of frosted glass rattled in its frame.
‘We’re closed,’ a hoarse voice called from inside. A silhouette formed against the glass. ‘Fuck off.’
The silhouette faded.
Lennon kicked the door.
The silhouette returned. ‘I told you to fuck off, we’re closed. Away to fuck or I’ll come out there and kick your shite in.’
Lennon kicked the door again and again until the glass cracked.
‘Right, you fucker,’ the voice said.
The bolts sounded like two rifle shots as they opened at the top and bottom of the door. It swung inward, and a heavy-set man with a shaven head and tattoos on his neck filled the doorway. He wore spectacles that sat at an odd angle. Before he could take a step, Lennon drove a fist into the valley beneath his belly and shattered his nose with the other. The man stumbled into the bar, blood erupting from between his fingers as he clasped his hands to his face. His spectacles fell away, cracked and bent. He tripped over his own feet and landed on his back.
Lennon stepped over him and into the bar. Three men were gathered around a table strewn with cards and cash, bottles and glasses. Two were on their feet, their hands out and ready for action.
Lennon drew his Glock and aimed at Roscoe Patterson’s forehead, one hand supporting the other in a combat stance. Roscoe sat at the far side of the table, his face blank, staring back at Lennon. The two standing men drew pistols, both small-calibre toys, the kind of weapons jumped-up thugs would carry to make themselves look big.
‘Put ’em away, boys,’ Roscoe said. ‘No need for playing silly buggers, is there, Jack?’
The two men obeyed.
‘Get rid of them,’ Lennon said.
‘Jesus, you got Slant a good ’un,’ Roscoe said. He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Fucking stove his face in.’ He smiled at Lennon. ‘Know why we call him Slant?’
‘I don’t care, just get them out of here.’
Roscoe continued, ‘We call him Slant ’cause when he gets pissed, his glasses sit at a slant. Fucking comical. The way you just pasted his nose all over his face, he’ll never get them glasses to sit straight again.’
Lennon took a step closer and steadied his aim. ‘Get rid of them. Now.’
Roscoe’s smile broadened. His eyes dimmed. ‘You heard the fella,’ he said to his companions. ‘Fuck off and take Slant with you.’
‘You sure?’ one of Roscoe’s thugs asked.
‘I’m sure,’ Roscoe said. ‘Jack’s a smart fella. He’ll not do anything stupid. Will you, Jack?’
‘Just get them out of here,’ Lennon said.
‘Go on, boys.’ Roscoe dismissed them with a wave.
They sauntered past Lennon, rolling their shoulders, keeping eye contact with him, trying to show they weren’t intimidated by a stranger with a gun.
Lennon kept his eyes on Roscoe. He heard Slant moan and curse as his friends gathered him up. The door closed, and all was quiet save for Lennon’s breathing. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows.
Roscoe said, ‘That was bad form, Jack.’
Lennon didn’t answer. He took a step closer, kept the pistol trained on Roscoe’s forehead.
‘Making a cunt of me like that,’ Roscoe said, his hand beginning to shake on the tabletop. His lips thinned across his teeth. ‘Any other fucker tried that, I’d break the bastard’s neck. I’d take that gun and shove it so far up their arse they’d frigging choke on it. I’d put my fucking boot in their—’