“What?” Fegan asked.
The boy bared his teeth, and his skinny arm jerked towards the door.
“All right,” Fegan said. He walked to his bedroom, glancing back over his shoulder.
The boy followed him into the darkness and kneeled at the foot of the bed. He pointed underneath.
Fegan got to his hands and knees and peered under the bedstead. Thin light leaking in from the landing showed the old shoebox hidden there.
He raised his head, questioning. The boy nodded.
Fegan could just reach it if he stretched. He pulled it towards himself. Something heavy shifted inside as it moved, and Fegan’s heart quickened. He removed the lid and was met by the greasy smell of money. Rolls of banknotes were bundled in here, twenties, fifties, hundreds. Fegan didn’t know how much. He’d never counted it.
But there was something else, something cold and black lying half-concealed in the paper. Something Fegan didn’t want in his hand. In the semi-darkness his eyes found the boy’s.
“No,” Fegan said.
The boy stabbed at the object with his finger.
“No.” The word felt watery on Fegan’s tongue.
The boy’s mouth gaped, his hands grabbing clumps of hair. Before the scream could come, Fegan reached in and lifted the Walther P99 from its nest.
A grin blossomed on the boy’s face, his teeth glinting. He mimed the act of pulling back the slide assembly to chamber the first round.
Fegan looked from the boy to the pistol and back again. The boy nodded. Fegan drew back the slide, released it, hearing the snick-snick of oiled parts moving together. The gun was solid in his grasp, like the shake of an old friend’s hand.
The boy smiled, stood, and walked towards the landing.
Fegan stared down at the Walther. He had bought it a few weeks after leaving the Maze, just for protection, and it only came out of the box for cleaning. His fingertip found the trigger curled inside the guard.
The boy waited in the doorway.
Fegan got to his feet and followed him to the stairs. The boy descended, the lean grace of his body seemingly untouched by the light below.
Fegan began the slow climb downward. An adrenal surge stirred dark memories, voices long silenced, faces like bloodstains. The others came behind, sharing glances with one another. As he reached the bottom, he saw McKenna’s back. The politician studied the old photograph of Fegan’s mother, the one that showed her young and pretty in a doorway.
The boy crossed the room and again played out the execution of the man who had taken him apart with a claw hammer more than twenty years ago.
Fegan’s heart thundered, his lungs heaved. Surely McKenna would hear.
The boy looked to Fegan and smiled.
Fegan asked, “If I do it, will you leave me alone?”
The boy nodded.
“What?” McKenna put the framed picture down. He turned to the voice and froze when he saw the gun aimed at his forehead.
“I can’t do it here.”
The boy’s smile faltered.
“Not in my house. Somewhere else.”
The smile returned.
“Jesus, Gerry.” McKenna gave a short, nervous laugh as he held his hands up. “What’re you at?”
“I’m sorry, Michael. I have to.”
McKenna’s smile fell away. “I don’t get it, Gerry. We’re friends.”
“We’re going to get into your car.” The clarity crackled in Fegan’s head. For the first time in months his hand did not shake.
McKenna’s mouth twisted. “Like fuck we are.”
“We’re going to get into your car,” Fegan repeated. “You in the front, me in the back.”
“Gerry, your head’s away. Put the gun down before you do something you’ll regret.”
Fegan stepped closer. “The car.”
McKenna reached out. “Now, come on, Gerry. Let’s just calm down a second, here, all right? Why don’t you give that to me, and I’ll put it away. Then we’ll have a drink.”
“I won’t say it again.”
“No messing, Gerry, let me have it.”
