Lennon fell towards a bank of dock leaves, tatters of shirtsleeve trailing behind him. He tumbled down through the greenery and slammed against a tree trunk. He stifled a cry as pain shrieked in his ribs. A tapered streak of red blossomed on Lennon’s exposed skin, six inches long. He righted himself, his back against the tree trunk, and examined the wound. It wasn’t that bad, just a scrape, lucky it hadn’t been worse. He reached out and grabbed handfuls of the dock leaves, wiped the sheen of fresh, bright blood away with one handful, then pressed another to the cut.
His breath came in hard rasps as he listened for movement in the gardens beyond the trees. Nothing stirred, so Lennon dragged himself to his feet. He kept the wad of leaves pressed to his forearm as he advanced through the copse, far enough behind the treeline to stay hidden but close enough to the edge to see the house and the gardens beyond. The two magpies still battled over scraps in front of the kitchen door.
Lennon walked steady until he stood level with the house’s eastern edge. Fifteen, maybe twenty yards separated him from the building. He looked south and saw the lawns sweep into the distance, a long driveway cutting through them. He dropped the bloodstained leaves, took a breath, counted to ten, and sprinted across the grass and gravel.
He pressed his back tight against the sandstone, between the corner and the first window. His chest tightened as he listened. Nothing moved, no voice of warning, no footsteps on gravel. Lennon exhaled, sparks firing behind his eyes. He crouched and edged along the wall, keeping his head below the windowsills. Small stones ground together beneath his feet. The back door stood just twelve yards ahead, eleven now, nine, six—
The magpies squawked and launched themselves towards the sky, blurs of black and white, the remains of a Chinese takeaway scattered behind them.
The back door opened, and a woman stepped out onto the gravel, her broad back blocking the early sun. She took a packet of cigarettes from her jacket pocket, plucked one from the row of filter-tips with her teeth. Her lighter sparked, and the flame sputtered long enough for the tobacco to catch. She drew hard on the cigarette. A cough erupted from her deep chest, and she covered her mouth as she hacked. The fit passed, and she turned to see Lennon’s drawn Glock staring back at her. She dropped the cigarette to the gravel.
‘Take me to Ellen,’ Lennon said. ‘Take me to Marie.’
Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
‘Now,’ Lennon said.
90
The Traveller stood between the Bull and Gerry Fegan. ‘So you’re the great Gerry Fegan,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Fegan. Let’s see if you live up to your reputation, eh?’
‘Who are you?’ Fegan asked, his first words since entering the room.
‘Now that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it, Gerry? I’ve got lots of names, but none of them’s real. People call me the Traveller.’ He gave Fegan a grin. ‘Pleased to meet you, big lad.’
Fegan did not respond.
The Traveller turned to the Bull. ‘How do you want it done?’ he asked.
The Bull raised his head. ‘Hmm?’
The old bastard looked weak and confused, like a man who’d walked many miles to a place, then couldn’t remember why he’d made the journey.
‘How do you want it done?’
The Bull’s face seemed to solidify, the strength bleeding back into it. ‘Slow,’ he said.
The Traveller nodded to O’Driscoll and Ronan. ‘Get a hold of him.’
They went to Fegan’s sides and took an arm each. Fegan didn’t resist. He stared straight ahead, his face expressionless.
The Traveller kicked him hard in the groin. Fegan’s legs folded under him, and O’Kane’s men pulled him back up.
‘Slow,’ the Traveller said. He turned back to the Bull, took the knife from his pocket, and unfolded the blade. ‘I could gut him. Bad way to go.’
‘Aye, that’ll do,’ the Bull said. ‘Don’t rush it, though. Give him some time to think about it.’ His gaze fixed on Fegan and his lip curled. ‘Give him time to think about what he did to me. How he got my son killed, and my cousin.’ His voice raised in pitch, breaths forced between the words, as he leaned forward. ‘How I got shot in the gut because of him. How I’m in this fucking wheelchair because of him. How he made a cunt of me. Give him time to think about all that.’
The Bull collapsed back, his chest heaving. The Traveller thought of a wounded dog he’d seen as a child. It was a stray, hit by a car, and it had dragged itself to an alleyway behind his mother’s house. It snarled and snapped at anyone who came near until he went and got a shovel. Three blows had silenced its howling.
‘I had no fight with you,’ Fegan said to the Bull. ‘You could’ve left me alone. You brought it on yourself.’
‘Aye, I could’ve left you alone,’ the Bull said. ‘But I didn’t. I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck if you had a fight with me or not. I had a fight with you, and that’s all there is to it. You got anything else to say before our friend here goes to work on you?’
‘One thing.’
The Bull tilted his head and smiled. ‘What’s that, now?’
‘Remember this: I’m going to kill you,’ Fegan said.
The Bull threw his head back and laughed, high and grating. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he said. He nodded at the Traveller. ‘All right, finish him.’
The Traveller stepped close to Fegan, close enough to smell his sweat. He rolled his left shoulder, that stiffness continuing to nag at him, his wrist still bound in the strapping. He stared into the madman’s eyes, looking for some sign of fear. There was nothing, only a steady calm. He held the blade up to Fegan’s left eye.
‘Maybe I’ll scoop it out of your skull,’ the Traveller said. ‘How does that sound?’
Fegan didn’t react.
The Traveller pressed the blade’s edge against Fegan’s cheek, below his eye, until red beads appeared on his skin. Fegan’s eyelid flickered. The Traveller drew the knife down towards the mouth,leaving a bright crimson trail behind it. Fegan’s lips tightened.
‘I’m disappointed,’ the Traveller said as he leaned forward, his voice conspiratorial. ‘People kept telling me about the great Gerry Fegan, how he was the scariest fucker ever came out of Belfast. And look at you.’
‘Was it you who took them?’ Fegan asked, looking the Traveller in the eye for the first time. Blood pooled at the outer edge of his mouth.
‘The woman and the wee girl?’
‘Yes,’ Fegan said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you hurt them?’
‘The wee girl’s all right,’ the Traveller said. ‘The woman’s hurt, though. She wasn’t looking too good last time I saw her. I don’t fancy her chances. Sorry about that.’
Something moved behind Fegan’s eyes, a decision made, before he looked back into the distance. ‘Go ahead and do whatever you’re going to do,’ he said.
‘Fair enough,’ the Traveller said, and grabbed Fegan’s right ear.
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?’
