A torturous Christmas passed, the meals taken in near silence. By March, the final hurdle loomed: the security checks. Lennon was sure they’d eliminate him because of his brother, and began to quietly wish for the rejection letter to arrive. A part of his mind that was both hopeful and fearful told him that perhaps, just maybe, his brother hadn’t been involved long or deeply enough for his name to be associated with any crime. Or perhaps supplying the Belfast address as part of his application would distance him from his family. When the letter arrived instructing him to report to Garnerville Police Training College for induction, he spent an age staring at the words, knowing he meant to attend, knowing his old life would be gone.
He went home one last weekend, chatted to some old school friends over a pint in the local, did messages for his mother, walked the length and breadth of the village. After Sunday Mass, he told his sisters and his mother over the roast dinner Bronagh had prepared. Claire and Noreen said nothing, just gathered their plates from the table, put them in the sink, and left the room while Bronagh sat still.
His mother gazed at the tablecloth, her body trembling. ‘You’ll be killed,’ she said. ‘Just like Liam. You’ll be killed. I can’t lose two sons. I can’t. Don’t go. You don’t have to go. You can change your mind. Stay at university, finish your Master’s, get a good job. Don’t do this. Don’t.’
‘It’s what I want to do,’ he said. ‘I need to do it. For Liam.’
Bronagh shook her head, her lip curled in disgust. ‘Don’t you dare use him to justify this. You know what this’ll do to your family. Ma won’t be able to show her face. We’ll be lucky if we’re not burnt out.’
‘But it’ll never change,’ Lennon said. ‘How can we complain about the RUC being a Protestant force when we refuse to join? How can we condemn them for not protecting this community when we won’t allow them to? I’m doing this for—’
‘Just get out,’ Bronagh said. She slipped her arm around her mother’s shoulders. ‘Look what you’re doing to her. Get your stuff and get out.’
That evening, Lennon left the home he’d grown up in. With a tattered suitcase and a sports bag carrying his few possessions, he drove back to Belfast. He heard through an old friend that Phelim Quinn once again called on his mother a few weeks later. This time, Quinn told her if her son ever returned to Middletown, he’d be shot. For the second time in a year she told the councillor to get out of her house.
Lennon bent down and kissed his mother’s forehead. She reached up and stroked his cheek. A crease appeared on her brow.
‘Where’d all those lines come from?’ she asked. ‘You look more like your father every time I see you.’
Lennon doubted she remembered the last time she’d seen him. ‘So you keep telling me.’
‘He’ll be back soon,’ she said.
‘Who? Our da?’
‘Aye, who do you think? The Pope? He’ll be back soon, and he’ll take us all to America with him.’
Lennon could barely recall his father’s face. Almost thirty years had passed since he’d seen it. No one had heard tell of him since, but it would do no good to remind Lennon’s mother of that. Let her cling to her delusions if they brought her a glimmer of happiness.
‘He’ll take us all to some fancy place in New York. Me, you, Liam and the girls. All of us together.’
‘That’s right, Ma,’ Lennon said. He kissed her again and left her there.
The exit to the car park opened as he approached it. Bronagh stepped through and froze when she saw him. She stood there for a few seconds, still as a cold morning, before putting her head down and walking past him.
‘Bronagh?’ he called.
She stopped, her back to him, her gaze fixed on the floor. Her hands formed fists, opening and closing. She wore a smart jacket and skirt. She’d probably come straight from the hotel she managed in the centre of Newry.
‘How’s she been?’ he asked. ‘Are they looking after her?’
‘I didn’t know you’d be here,’ she said.
‘Sorry, I forgot to text you.’
‘Don’t do it again,’ she said. She walked away without looking at him.
29
The Traveller was sick of waiting. Two and a half hours now, coming three, and no sign of Toner. The little runt of a lawyer had left his wife and kids and moved into a grotty flat off the Springfield Road. The Bull said he was drinking himself to death. The Traveller would be doing Toner a favour, really. Put him out of his misery.
He shifted in the driver’s seat. The wound in his arm wouldn’t let him settle, and his eye itched and stung. He’d put a dollop of antibiotic ointment in it twenty minutes ago. For conjunctivitis, the chemist had told him. The stuff found its way down to the back of his throat and turned his stomach. He’d opened the window an inch to let the night air at it, but it did little good. Everything was a blur in that eye. The Traveller knew he wasn’t at his best. It wouldn’t matter with a speck of fly shit like Toner, but anyone harder, he’d have to hold back.
A fresh flutter of stings and itches made the Traveller’s eyelid twitch, and a warm drop of something ran down his cheek. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
He pulled a wad of tissues from the door pocket and mopped his face and eye. The soft paper stuck to something on his eyelid and tore. He blinked, shreds of tissue flapping against his cheek. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Shite bastard fucking whore.’
The Traveller screwed his eyes shut and put his head back. He picked at bits of tissue, feeling them tug at the stickiness on his eyelid. He felt in the door pocket for the bottle of water. He found it with his fingertips, unscrewed the cap. Blinded, he poured some into his palm and splashed it across his eyes. He wiped them with the heel of his hand, then his sleeve. His vision came and went as he blinked. He reached for the interior light switch and flicked it on. His reflection in the rear-view mirror blurred and focused. Jesus, that eye looked bad enough. The lid was red and swollen, the eyeball was streaked red. Maybe he needed more of that ointment. He looked around him to see where he’d dropped it.
He saw Patsy Toner standing on the footpath across the road, outside his building, staring back.
‘Fuck,’ the Traveller said. He reached between his legs, under the seat, where he’d stowed the Desert Eagle, found only rubbish and damp carpet.
Toner stood frozen for just a second before he turned and ran for his front door. The Traveller explored the darkness beneath him, grazed his knuckles on the metal rails that supported the seat. As his hand flailed in the narrow space, he spared Toner a glance. The lawyer’s panicked whines didn’t mask the sound of his key scraping at his lock.
The Traveller twisted his torso as he shoved his hand further back. His injured shoulder screamed at the effort, but he was rewarded by the feel of cold pistol in his fingers. He pulled the Eagle free, leapt out of the car, on his feet, chambered a round, aimed.
Toner’s door slammed shut.
‘Fuck,’ the Traveller said. He ran for the door, kicked once, twice. It wouldn’t budge. Toner lived on the top floor. The Traveller hit the buzzer for the first floor flat. He hit it again. He stayed close to the door in case the flat’s occupant looked down from the window above. He heard footsteps on the stairs inside.
A woman of young middle-age opened it, her face sharpened with anger. ‘What do—’
The Traveller crushed her nose with the butt of the gun. She fell back and her head bounced on the polished floorboards. She sighed, coughed blood, and stilled. Her chest rose and fell. The Traveller thought about finishing her, but there was no time. He stepped over her and made for the stairs. He took them two at a time until he reached the top floor.
Toner’s door would give with one kick, the Traveller was sure of it. He paused, breathed deep, wiped his sleeve across his eyes. The right blurred, and he blinked until it cleared. He formed a good combat grip on the Eagle, one hand supporting the other, and booted the door below the handle. It slammed back against the wall. A ragged couch faced him in the dimness. Dishes, bottles and the detritus of takeaways littered a coffee table. The Traveller edged into the room. A breeze licked at the dampness on his face.
‘Fucking cock-pulling arsehole,’ he said.
A door in the corner of the kitchenette stood ajar. It opened onto a metal staircase that descended into the yard two floors down. A fucking fire escape.
The Traveller’s eye flickered and blurred and burned. Something warm trickled down his cheek. His left
