He turned the bedside clock so he could see it better. Coming seven forty-five. Traffic noise rose up from University Street. He would have preferred a better class of hotel, maybe a nice little boutique place, or that new Hilton over by the Waterfront theatre, but this one offered more privacy. It was a cheap chain hotel, the kind of place sales reps and those too drunk to drive themselves home would stay in. Normally he would have slept deep and well, but the hole in his arm put an end to that. The Traveller wondered for a moment what he’d do with the early morning. It didn’t take long to decide, even if he knew it would cause some annoyance. He picked up the mobile, thumbed in the password, and dialled.
‘What?’ Orla O’Kane answered.
‘It’s me,’ the Traveller said.
‘What the fuck do you want this time of the morning?’ she asked. ‘I’m not even out of bed yet.’
‘Were you asleep?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t sleep too well.’
The Traveller twisted his back, trying to find somewhere for his left arm that didn’t hurt like a bastard. ‘I know the feeling,’ he said.
After a short pause, Orla asked, ‘So what do you want?’
‘Tell me about Gerry Fegan,’ the Traveller said.
‘My father told you about him already,’ she said. ‘You’d find out some more if you could read the fucking files he gave you.’
‘Tell me about him,’ the Traveller repeated.
‘Why?’
‘Quigley talked about him last night,’ the Traveller said. ‘He talked about him like he was something …’
‘Something what?’
‘I don’t know.’ The Traveller thought hard about his words. ‘He talked about him the way my ma used to talk about charms, and spirits, and seventh sons of seventh sons. The old stuff, you know? Quigley had this look on his face when he talked about this Fegan fella. Like he was something else. Something … other.’
Orla sounded very tired. ‘Listen, if you don’t think you’re up to the job, tell me now. We’ll pay you for what you’ve done so far and call it quits. We need a solid man on this, not someone who gets the fear because he hears some stories.’
‘No,’ the Traveller said. ‘I’m sound. I just want to know who I’m going after. When we draw him out, when I take him on, I want some notion what he’s made of.’
‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘Gerry Fegan is the only man ever struck my father and lived, and he did that when he was a teenager. He’s a killer, just like you. I’ll tell you the truth, if you can take it.’
The Traveller stopped picking at the wad of tissue over the wound in his arm. ‘Yeah, I can take it.’
‘If I tell you this, there’s no going back. It’s final. You either see this job through or there’s a price on
‘I understand,’ the Traveller said.
Orla O’Kane sighed. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you can kill Gerry Fegan. I don’t know if any man can. You’re right, from what my father says, he’s something
The Traveller said, ‘Yes.’
‘Gerry Fegan is the only man alive my father is afraid of.’
For a moment the Traveller thought of some glib response, that he wasn’t afraid of anyone, even if the Bull was. He thought better of it. Yeah?’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ Orla said. ‘My father made a bargain with him that day. He said he’d leave Fegan and Marie McKenna in peace if Fegan let him live. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
‘What?’
‘My father is Bull O’Kane, for Christ’s sake. The Bull. The cops, the British Army, the SAS, MI5, the fucking UVF, the UDA, every fucker out there that ever stood against him. He never bowed to any of them. But he begged Gerry Fegan for his life. Like a fucking whining dog, he begged Fegan not to kill him.’
The Traveller sat silent, unsure how to respond to Orla’s confession.
‘Do you hear me?’ she asked.
Yes,’ the Traveller said.
‘Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
‘No,’ the Traveller said, honestly.
‘I can’t allow a man my father is afraid of to live. It’s as simple as that. Now listen to me carefully. I’ve made a confession to you I’ve never made to another living soul. I’ve made that confession because I think you’re the only man who stands a chance against Fegan. Your life comes down to a couple of choices. You kill Fegan, or Fegan kills you. That’s all that’s left for you now. There’s no walking away. Not any more.’
The Traveller swallowed and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll—’ He stopped talking when he realised the phone was dead.
22
Fegan needed the passport. He wasn’t going to flee the country yet, but he had to get out of New York. No question, Pye would have run straight to the Doyles, and they’d have sent their boys to Fegan’s building. But would they be here yet? He had to assume as much.
He clung to the steel slats, his shoulder pressed to the closed shop-front, as he peeked around the corner to Ludlow Street where the building’s reinforced door waited for his key. Nothing stirred. The Chinese catering supply businesses stood silent beneath their awnings, graffiti-scarred shutters closed tight. Fegan examined the cars parked nose to tail along the street, looking for silhouetted heads and shoulders, a reflection in a wing mirror, anything. The dark hollows of the doorways revealed nothing. But they could be there, waiting, whether he saw them or not.
Wait, there. What looked like an old BMW, its passenger window cracked open. A wisp of cigarette smoke puffed out. Or was it a trick of his fatigued imagination?
There, a movement, and more smoke.
Fegan cursed. The building had a back entrance, but it was heavily fortified and only opened from the inside. If the Doyles’ boys were smart, they’d have it guarded. But unless they were very smart, it would be only one or two men. If Fegan could take them, he might be able to use the fire escape to reach his apartment.
He retreated along Hester Street, past the store and the coffee shop, until he found the alley that cut back to the rear of his building. Corrugated iron gates sealed it shut. The super, Mr Lo, kept his decrepit old Ford Taurus parked behind them. Fegan had never seen it move.
The gates were decorated with a crudely painted Stars and Stripes, with NO PARKING sprayed across the white and red. A metal frame surrounded them with a bar running across the top. Fegan jumped, but he couldn’t reach the bar.
A garbage bin stood outside the coffee shop. A chain tied the lid to the shop’s shutter frame, so he lifted it off and lowered it to the sidewalk as slow and easy as he could. He tipped the bin over, careful of any rubbish that might clatter as he emptied it onto the ground, then carried it back to the gates. Fegan climbed on top and reached up for the bar. He hauled himself up, threw a leg over the top, and let his weight carry him over. The smell of motor oil reached him as he dropped to the ground.
The car’s windscreen reflected the dim orange light that crept in from the street. Fegan squeezed past, wondering how Mr Lo ever opened the doors to get inside. He worked his way towards the back corner and rounded it as darkness swallowed him. His feet picked through litter as he skirted the dumpsters. He moved slow, seeking human forms in the black, breathing shallow to stay—
Fegan gasped and fell against the damp wall. The pain burst behind his eyes and swept to the back of his skull before streaming down his spine. His legs quivered with the effort of keeping him upright. He sucked air in, forced himself to breathe, let his heart find its rhythm again.
