‘All right,’ the Traveller said.
‘Besides, you’ve got Patsy Toner to take care of yet.’
‘True,’ the Traveller said.
Orla hung up and dropped the phone on her single bed. She stubbed the cigarette out and checked her watch. Her father’s colostomy pouch needed changing, and he didn’t like either of the nurses to do it. Instead, Orla had to undo the pouch of faecal matter from the stoma, the surgical opening in her father’s belly. Then she would dispose of it and attach a fresh pouch. She’d wept the first few times she’d had to do it. Now she simply ignored the smell and got on with it.
Two flights of narrow stairs took her down to the first floor. She crossed the gallery overlooking the entrance hall and knocked on her father’s door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me,’ she answered.
‘Come in.’
His voice carried an urgency she didn’t like. She opened the door and entered, then stopped between the door and the bed.
‘Don’t just fucking stand there staring,’ Bull O’Kane said. ‘Come and help me.’
He sat on the edge of the bed, sheets and blankets tangled around his legs. They were stained orange and red. An upturned plastic bowl lay on the floor, a tumbler beside it. The tray rested against the bedside locker.
Orla approached him. ‘Jesus, Da, why didn’t you call one of the nurses?’
‘Because I don’t want them fussing round me. Just help me, all right?’
She knelt down, retrieved the tray, and placed the bowl and tumbler upon it. The smell was bad down here, so close to him. She plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the bedside locker and dabbed at the puddles of soup and orange juice on the floor.
‘You have to let the nurses help you sometimes,’ she said. ‘That’s what we pay them for. I can’t always be here to pick up after you.’
‘I don’t want them near me,’ the Bull said. ‘If I can’t depend on my own daughter, then Jesus, who can I depend on?’
Anger broke free of her, hot and pure, before she could catch it. ‘Then be more fucking careful, you—’
The slap knocked her sideways, and she landed on her shoulder. Her ear burned, a high whine sounding somewhere deep inside it. She lay there until her breathing came under control.
The old man gazed into the distance. ‘My own daughter, for Christ’s sake.’
Orla got to her knees, balled up the tissues, and placed them on the tray. She stood, carried the tray to the door, and left the room. Her ear whined as the tears burned her eyes. She threw the tray at the wall, and watched the last drops of soup and orange juice streak the wallpaper before the plastic clattered to the floor.
25
The Doyles’ men had scattered as soon as they heard the sirens coming. Fegan had everything he needed in a sports bag and was walking west along Hester Street when the blue and red lights flickered on the buildings behind him. He’d turned south on Forsyth Street and kept walking until he reached the ferry terminal. He and the commuters making their way home from their night shifts ignored one another as the boat slipped across the bay to Staten Island. He disembarked and kept walking. He collapsed once with visions of child-eating fire and smoke. He screamed at the dawn before picking himself up and moving on, sweat coursing over his body.
Fegan wasn’t sure enough to admit it to himself, but somewhere deep in his gut he knew he was going home. The phone in his pocket had dried blood between the keys, its screen was cracked, but it still worked. He often dreamed of it ringing. He was never sure if he felt terror or relief at its clamour, but he had a notion the answer wasn’t far off.
26
Lennon parked his Audi on the side street by McKenna’s bar. Traffic passed along the Springfield Road just a few yards ahead. He wondered if he dared do this. His hand rested on the door handle for thirty long seconds before he decided. The decision made, he got out, locked the car, and walked to the pub’s entrance. The handful of afternoon drinkers fell silent when he entered. This was not the kind of place that welcomed strangers. He returned their stares in turn and walked to the bar.
‘Pint of Stella,’ he said.
The barman took a glass and filled it with foam. He set it in front of Lennon.
‘Big head on that,’ Lennon said.
The barman brought the glass back to the tap and topped it up.
Lennon took out his wallet and put a five-pound note on the bar. The beer was cold enough to sting his throat. The barman put the change in front of him.
‘You’re Tom Mooney,’ Lennon said.
‘That’s right,’ Mooney said. ‘Who are you?’
Lennon opened his wallet, subtle, shielded by his hands.
Mooney’s shoulders slumped. ‘What do you want?’
Lennon stowed the wallet away. ‘You know Marie McKenna?’
‘Of course I do,’ Mooney said. ‘Her father used to own this place.’
‘No he didn’t,’ Lennon said. ‘Her uncle owned it. Her father’s name was on the licence, but Michael McKenna owned this place.’
‘Not any more,’ Mooney said.
No,’ Lennon said. ‘Funny thing, that, what happened to Michael. Then that business with Paul McGinty on that farm in Middletown.’
‘It was a bad doing,’ Mooney said.
‘Yeah,’ Lennon said. ‘You ever hear anything of Marie these days?’
‘She moved away,’ Mooney said. ‘That’s all I heard.’
‘Any idea where she went?’
‘Haven’t a baldy notion,’ Mooney said.
‘None at all?’ Lennon asked. ‘No rumours? No whispers?’
Mooney leaned close. ‘I’m hard of hearing,’ he said. ‘I can’t hear whispers.’
Lennon gave Mooney a smile. ‘It’s personal business,’ he said. Nothing official. She’s not in trouble. I just need to talk to her about something. Did she leave any word where she was going?’
Not a peep,’ Mooney said, his face softening. Not even her ma knows where she is. Marie just phoned her up one morning, said she was away, and that was that. You know her father had a stroke a couple of weeks back?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yep. He’s in the Royal now. I went over to see him. Paralysed down one side, his mouth’s hanging open, can’t talk. Fucking pitiful. Some of Marie’s ones were giving off ’cause she didn’t come back to see him. If you want my opinion, she got scared over that feud and just packed up and got out. Can’t blame her, really.’
‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘Can’t blame her.’
‘Anything else?’ Mooney asked.
‘One thing. You were one of the last people saw Michael McKenna alive,’ Lennon said. ‘He left here with some drunk, dropped him home, and went to the docks to get his brains blown out. The reports say he phoned you from there just before it happened.’
‘I cooperated,’ Mooney said. ‘I gave my statements. It’s all on record. If you want to know anything, just look it up. Now drink up and get out.’
Lennon took a swig of gassy beer. ‘I want another Stella,’ he said.
‘You haven’t finished that one yet,’ Mooney said.
‘I’m planning ahead,’ Lennon said. ‘The inquiry said the Lithuanians got McKenna and that sparked it off. Is that what you think happened?’
