Ronan said, ‘Smell what?’
‘Smoke,’ O’Driscoll said. ‘Something burning.’
O’Kane lowered the pistol. ‘A fire?’
The image burst in Fegan’s mind, the dream that had haunted first his sleeping hours, then his waking: the child eaten by flames.
His instincts aligned, a perfect sequence of movements and pressures and weights plotted in his mind before he was even aware of them, telling him now was the moment to act.
95
The Traveller clambered up the steps, choking on the smoke. He couldn’t quite believe how the fire had taken hold, how it had eaten everything around him in seconds. He had kept low, a handkerchief to his nose and mouth as he fought his way back to the steps. One side of his face glowed with a heat of its own where the initial bloom of fire had licked at him. He had been burned before, he knew this time wasn’t bad, but it had been close.
The cop was lost among the flames. The Traveller glanced behind him as he reached the top step. Smoke, black and thick, under-lit in orange and red, curled up the stairwell. No way the cop could get through that. He fell against the door and dropped to the floor, gulping at the air, as a rush of heat came behind him.
The Traveller coughed and retched as he crawled, his eyes streaming, his spit streaked with black when he ejected it from his mouth. He hauled himself to his feet and ran for the door leading back to the entrance hall. His sides ached with the coughing, and his head spun. The air out in the hall tasted sweet and clean. He closed the door tight behind him and leaned his back against it for a moment as he caught his breath. One last hacking cough to clear his chest, one last spit to clear his mouth, then he’d go to O’Kane, warn him to get out.
He pushed himself away from the door and towards the staircase. His chest heaved as he climbed to the gallery and the room where he’d left O’Kane and the bleeding Fegan. As he reached the summit, the first gunshot came, and the first cry of panic and pain.
96
Fegan had never found it difficult, and he’d never wondered why. He simply did, and usually that was all it took. When O’Kane’s attention was off him, the Walther aimed somewhere over his shoulder, and O’Driscoll’s grip had loosened, Fegan moved.
He got his hands under the wheelchair’s leg-rests, and pulled up hard. O’Kane managed a shot as he pitched backwards, but it caught Ronan’s upper chest. O’Driscoll tried to stop O’Kane’s fall, sacrificing his own balance, and Fegan had his legs from under him with a sweep at his ankles, the slippery plastic sheeting denying him purchase.
O’Kane landed hard on his back and rolled with the chair as it yawed to the side. He cried out when his injured leg hit the floor, tangled in the blanket.
Fegan got to his feet before O’Driscoll could recover. O’Kane tried to haul himself across the floor to where the Walther had fallen. Fegan stepped around him and claimed the pistol for his own. A shot rang out and he felt the heat of the bullet scorching the air by his ear. He turned, slow and calm, aimed at Ronan’s raised head as the other tried to lift his own gun again. The Walther bucked in Fegan’s hand, and Ronan’s head jerked back.
O’Driscoll scurried across the floor, making for the pistol in Ronan’s dead hand. Fegan put two in his back. O’Driscoll collapsed on top of Ronan’s legs, his shoulders shuddering. Fegan took the gun from Ronan’s hand and pushed it into his waistband. He went back to O’Kane.
The Bull stared up at him, bubbling spit running from the corner of his mouth. ‘Bastard,’ he said.
‘Where are they?’ Fegan asked.
‘Fuck you.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Fuck you, go ahead and kill me.’
‘No,’ Fegan said. ‘Not until you tell me where they are.’
‘Fuck you.’
O’Kane’s left leg, the one that had taken the bullet months before, lay outstretched on the floor, no bend at the knee. Fegan put his foot just above the joint, where the bullet had hit. He settled his weight on it.
O’Kane screamed.
‘Where are they?’
‘Fuck you,’ O’Kane said.
As Fegan put his weight on O’Kane’s knee once more, the sound of the double doors behind spun him around. The Walther was up and aimed before Fegan was conscious of the movement, his finger tight on the trigger before the Traveller could raise his own gun. Fegan had just enough time to register the scorched skin and singed hair before the Walther barked, the shot going wide as the Traveller ducked.
Fegan backed towards the door at the rear corner of the room as the Traveller recovered and took aim. A hard grip on Fegan’s ankle took his balance and he stumbled as the Traveller fired. Fegan let his body fall, the bullet passing over him. He landed on his back, O’Kane still clinging to his ankle. Fegan kicked out, his foot connected with O’Kane’s forehead, and the grip fell away.
The upended wheelchair lay between Fegan and the far door where the Traveller crouched. Fegan scurried on his back towards the corner, one hand raised, keeping the Walther trained on the door. The Traveller straightened for a moment, and Fegan fired. It went wide once more, Fegan was no good at more than a few feet, but the Traveller dropped low again.
Fegan kept pushing with his feet until his back hit the wall. He shifted to his side and reached up for the door handle. It swung away from him. He fired once more at the other door to keep the Traveller down, and the pistol’s slide locked in place, its magazine empty. Fegan dropped it and scrambled to his feet and through to the room on the other side. He closed the door behind him and backed into the empty room, a small kitchen with a sink, giant kettles by a cooker, a fridge humming in the stillness. He took Ronan’s pistol, a chrome-finished revolver, from his waistband and fixed its sight on the door.
Would the Traveller come after him that way, or would he circle around? Another door stood to his right. Fegan struggled to picture the building’s layout in his mind. That door must lead to another room that would open further along the corridor. He crossed to it and tried the handle. The door opened into a smaller space with comfortable looking chairs arranged in circles, coffee tables between them in the darkness, wooden shutters sealing out all but a hint of daylight. Two more doors matched the placement in the room he’d just left, one leading to the corridor, the other to another room like this one. He had no choice but to try it, stay out of the corridor.
Fegan headed for the door, but something stopped him. He froze, his senses picking at the air. Smoke, not far away, heat on the breeze that somehow swept through the room, and a crackling and sighing. Thin black fingers reached out from above the door leading into the corridor.
‘Ellen,’ Fegan said.
97
The Traveller crossed the room to the wheelchair and set it upright, kicked the brake to lock the wheels. He crouched down by O’Kane and got his hands under the old man’s arms. Christ, he was heavy, frail and wasted as he was. The Traveller got O’Kane to the chair, hoisted him up and into the seat.
‘Go finish him,’ the Bull said between gasps of air, sweat thick on his face, spit hanging from his lip.
‘I’m getting you out of here first,’ the Traveller said. ‘There’s a fire in the cellar. Won’t be long till it spreads up here.’
O’Kane grabbed the Traveller’s arm. ‘I’m not going anywhere till Fegan’s dead.’ Spit prickled the Traveller’s cheek. ‘Now for Christ’s sake do what I tell you and go and get the fucker.’
The Traveller pulled his arm away and grabbed the handles at the back of the chair. He released the brake and pushed it towards the door, but O’Kane twisted in the seat and swung a big fist at him.
‘I told you to go after Fegan, for Christ’s sake, now do it or I’ll fucking kill you.’ O’Kane’s eyes brimmed. ‘I can look after myself. There’s a lift out there. I can get out if I need to. Just do what I paid you for.’
