‘Jesus.’ The Traveller let go of the chair and stepped back. ‘All right, you mad old bastard, whatever you want.’
A high wailing cut the air as the smoke alarms kicked in.
‘The fire’s spreading,’ the Traveller said. ‘If I can’t get back to you, then you’re on your own.’
The Bull breathed deep, seemed to gather himself. He wiped his forearm across his mouth and eyes. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘Just worry about Fegan. He’ll probably go after the woman and the kid. Go to them, then he’ll come to you.’
The Traveller drew his Glock and left the Bull in the recreation room. He headed for the old servants’ quarters at the other end of the building, using his teeth to pull at the tape that secured the strapping on his wrist. The bandage peeled away. He flexed his fingers. It triggered a spasm in his wrist, but the pain was better than the restriction when he had to fight.
Black motes floated in the hazed air as he walked along the gallery, his Glock held out ahead of him. That same air seemed to disappear for a second or two, long enough for the Traveller to feel it pull at his lungs. The floor shuddered beneath his feet, and he felt rather than heard the pressure of the blast somewhere below. He fell to his knees as the door he’d closed just a few minutes ago was blown across the entrance hall. He rolled away from a wave of heat that rose up from below and flooded over him.
The walls reflected shifting and flickering oranges and reds, and smoke leaked up between the banisters. Heat prickled his throat and chest and stung his eyes.
‘Fuck me,’ the Traveller whispered as he clambered to his feet and got moving, aiming for the door at the far end of the hallway. Beyond it lay a small staircase that led to a series of tiny hallways and rooms that would once have housed maids and valets. He took his time, mindful of the shadows. He stopped halfway to blow a mixture of snot and soot out of his nose onto the carpet. He pictured the layout of the rooms beyond the door, recalling what he’d seen of them as he carried the woman up the stairs to Orla’s room, the girl following, clinging to her mother’s loose hand. There was a fire escape at the outer wall. If he could get Fegan, then fine. If he could get back to O’Kane, then all right, he would. If he could do neither, then to hell with Bull O’Kane and his money, he’d get the fuck out and leave them to burn like the cop in the cellar.
A thin dark blanket crept along the ceiling above him and the air grew hotter. The Traveller quickened his pace until he reached the door to the servants’ quarters. He tested the brass doorknob for heat like he’d seen on television. It was cool. He took a breath, coughed, and threw the door open.
A wall of heat and black smoke knocked him to the floor. He landed on his back, blind and choking. The Glock had slipped from his fingers. He rolled onto his belly and felt the floor around him, seeking out the comfort of cold metal. He blinked hard, and his vision returned in a watery haze, but not enough to make out the pistol. His fingers brushed something solid as they swept along the floor, and he swung his hand back to find nothing. Had he knocked it away? No, he couldn’t have, he’d hardly touched it.
‘Fucking bast—’
Hard hands seized his collar, hauled him to his feet, and spun him around. He blinked again and again, trying to clear his eyes, until the stony ridges of a face came into focus, a face streaked red and black.
‘Where are they?’ Gerry Fegan said.
98
Fegan pushed him hard against the wall. A picture fell from its hook, the frame splitting as it hit the floor. The Traveller blinked back at him, tears cutting clear streaks through the black on his face.
‘Where are they?’ he asked again.
The Traveller wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He coughed and spat on the floor at Fegan’s feet.
Fegan pushed him again. ‘Where are they?’
The Traveller waved a hand at the door. ‘Up there. Next floor up. I don’t fancy their chances. The woman was half dead any—’
The heel of Fegan’s hand rocked the Traveller’s head back to smack against the wall. He staggered sideways but kept his footing. He brought a hand to his jaw. ‘Jesus, the place is burning down around us and you want a fist fight? The Bull was right. You
Fegan took the Traveller’s Glock from his waistband. He aimed at the Traveller’s forehead.
‘Jesus, just go and get them while there’s time,’ the Traveller said as he raised his hands. ‘It’s up one flight, then the end of the hall, last on the left. The fire escape’s right there. You might get the wee girl out if you go now. Christ, the stairwell’s filling up, look at it, you might not make it.’
The moment Fegan chanced a look over his shoulder towards the door he knew he’d made a mistake. The Traveller was on him with more speed than he’d ever seen, like a starved cat on its prey. He grabbed Fegan’s wrist, forcing the pistol up, his momentum carrying both of them towards the smoke-filled doorway. Their feet tangled, and Fegan fell back, the Traveller’s lean body landing on top of his.
The Glock bounced away across the carpet. The Traveller tried to scramble after it, but Fegan grabbed his shirt collar and hauled him back. A knee slammed into his groin, and Fegan convulsed, but didn’t let go. He threw his weight to the side, rolling the Traveller’s body away from his own, and followed, trying to straddle him. The Traveller bucked and twisted, not letting him take hold. He reached up and grabbed Fegan’s throat with both hands. Instead of pulling away, Fegan let his weight press down on the arms until they quivered and buckled. His torso landed flat on the Traveller’s chest, their eyes inches apart, the breath hot on Fegan’s cheek as teeth snapped at his flesh.
Fegan cried out at the pain and the tearing sensation beneath his eye. He pushed himself up onto his knees. Smoke flooded his lungs, and the world shifted its balance, taking his own with it. He steadied himself against the wall, the Traveller still writhing beneath him. Fegan shook his head, tried to dislodge the heavy fog that had settled over his mind. He focused on the other man’s face, brought his fists together to form a hammer, and smashed them down on the bridge of the Traveller’s nose. It shattered against his hands, blood hot on his skin.
His vision blurred and swayed as the smoke clawed at the back of his throat. He pitched forward, jarring his elbow on the floor by the Traveller’s head. The Traveller renewed his struggle, throwing his body from side to side. Fegan reached back to his waistband, searching for the revolver he’d stowed there. His hand closed on it, its metal chill reaching up through his arm to clear his mind. Fegan seized on that glint of clarity as he pulled the pistol free, used it to focus through the pain and black clouds. He brought the revolver around, tried to aim at the Traveller’s forehead, but another wave washed over his consciousness. His upper body rocked forward from the waist, his spine seeming to give way. He saw the Traveller’s hand too late as its heel shot upwards and connected with his jaw, slamming his teeth together, taking a piece of his tongue.
The world rotated around Fegan, first the floor and the Traveller’s blood-streaked face rushing away from him, then the door, belching smoke up from the belly of the house, followed by the ceiling’s blur as it raced past his vision. Red hung in the air as it all spun away from him, and somewhere in the fading light of his mind, he knew it was his own blood. The floor hit the back of his head, barely cushioned by the carpet.
Sparks and black dots peppered his vision, and through them, a grin surrounded by crimson, the Traveller, rising.
99
The Traveller untangled his legs from Fegan’s, kicking the madman away. The Glock lay out of either man’s reach. He raised himself up. Fegan watched from under drooping eyelids. The Traveller coughed, then doubled over, vomiting up the blood he’d swallowed. His head seemed to float, lighter than the rest of him. He knew he didn’t have long, but he had to finish it. He had to see Fegan’s life end.
The ceiling was lost now above a canopy of roiling darkness. Currents of hot air ferried black motes past his eyes. The Traveller tasted the burning through the blood and bile in his mouth. He swung his right foot into Fegan’s groin. Fegan curled into a ball, his forearms across his stomach. The Traveller edged along the wall, using it for balance. When his feet were level with Fegan’s eyes, he kicked hard. Fegan rolled away, spitting blood and a tooth.
The bright and beautiful joy of it flared in the Traveller’s heart, sending waves of giddy happiness up to his brain. He stepped over Fegan’s body, ignoring the clutching hands as he tried to rise, and drove a heel into his
