‘Nothing much,’ Lennon said.
The driver’s friends reached the Audi’s rear. One of them leaned on the boot, ran his hands along the back, looking for the release to open it.
‘Where you from?’ the driver asked.
‘Somewhere else,’ Lennon said. ‘Tell your mate to take his hands off my car or I’ll break his fucking face.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
The driver snorted. ‘Here, Darren? C’mere!’
Lennon let one hand slip inside his jacket, released the catch.
Darren lumbered around from the back of the Audi. He was tall and heavy-set, with red cheeks beneath pig- like eyes and a blond crew cut. ‘What?’
The driver pointed at Lennon. ‘He says he’s going to break your face if you don’t leave his motor alone.’
Darren put a hand on the Audi’s roof and leaned down to Lennon, his breath smelling of the cheap fortified wine all these toe-rags drank. ‘You what?’
‘Get your dirty hands off my car or I’ll kick your face in,’ Lennon said. ‘You and your mates. Now fuck off.’
‘
In one smooth motion, Lennon seized Darren’s wrist with his left hand and pressed the Glock 17 beneath his chin, the Glock 17 that had been in his right hand since the driver had first called his friend over.
‘Drop the knife, you stupid fat fucker,’ Lennon said.
Warm liquid splashed on Lennon’s ankles as a dark stain spread on Darren’s tracksuit bottoms. The knife clanked on the kerb and disappeared beneath the Audi. The driver sprinted for the Peugeot. The third youth called after him, ‘What? What’s wrong?’
The Peugeot’s overburdened engine coughed into life, and its tyres screeched as they fought to put the power down on the road. It roared away from the kerb, barely missing the Audi. Lennon followed it with his eyes until it disappeared around the corner.
Darren cried. The other youth came closer, saw the pistol, and ran like hell.
‘Just you and me, then, Darren,’ Lennon said.
Darren whimpered. He smelled of stale sweat and fresh urine.
‘You and your mates,’ Lennon said. ‘I suppose you’d call yourselves Loyalists, right?’
Darren didn’t answer. Lennon pressed the Glock’s muzzle harder into the loose flesh beneath his chin.
‘Answer me.’
‘Yeah,’ Darren said.
‘Funny, that,’ Lennon said. ‘Your mates don’t seem too loyal. Tell me, who are
Darren’s nose dripped snot on Lennon’s sleeve. Lennon pushed the muzzle deeper into his flesh until the pressure against his windpipe made the stocky kid cough.
‘Answer me.’
‘Don’t know,’ Darren said, his voice a watery croak.
‘Are you loyal to your friends? Your family? Your neighbours?’
‘Don’t know,’ Darren said.
‘Shit-bags like you,’ Lennon said. You steal off your own people, you intimidate them, you keep them quiet with your threats and all this bullyboy shit. You don’t give a fuck about anything but trying to be the big men, lining your pockets, leeching off your own community. And you can call yourselves Loyalists because the arse-wipes who should be keeping you in line haven’t got the brains or the balls to do it. And people wonder why the Republicans ran rings around your lot all these years.’
‘Please,’ Darren whined.
‘Please what?’
‘Please don’t shoot me.’
Pity and contempt and anger fought one another in Lennon’s gut. ‘Give me one good reason.’
Darren’s mouth opened and closed as he searched for something that could save his life. ‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ he said, his face contorting like a child desperate to escape punishment.
‘Sorry for what?’ Lennon asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Darren said.
Lennon’s laughter died in his mouth, dry like paper. ‘Cunts like you made sure there was no one left around here to go to the cops, to speak up. No one sees anything, no one hears anything. You know what that means?’
Darren shook his head as best he could. His trembling grew to a crescendo, his weight pressing harder against Lennon’s grip. His legs would go soon, Lennon could sense it.
‘It means I could blow what little brains you have all over that wall, and no fucker would know a thing about it. Nobody to hear it, nobody to see it. And do you think your mates would stick their necks out and go to the cops?’
Darren sniffed a line of snot back up his nose. ‘No,’ he said. His weight shifted forward, and Lennon pushed him back.
‘Get the fuck out of here.’
Darren stumbled backwards until he hit the wall. He stared at Lennon, his chest heaving, his eyes wide.
‘Go on, fuck off,’ Lennon said as he tucked the Glock away.
Darren retreated, shambling at first, then gathering speed. When he was ten feet away, he put his head down and sprinted as fast as his bulk would allow. He didn’t get far before he tripped and landed face first on the pavement. Lennon grimaced as the boy puked. Darren picked himself up and lurched off again.
Arsehole,’ Lennon whispered to himself as the boy rounded the corner. ‘Fucking stupid arsehole.’
He couldn’t be sure if he meant himself or Darren.
36
The Traveller shut off the taps when the water reached the overflow. Its surface rippled as the last drops hit. He dipped his hand below the surface. Cold. He stood up from the edge of the bathtub and turned out the light. There was just enough room behind the door for him to stand unseen.
How long could he stand in one place? The longest had been almost four hours, in the corner of an accountant’s office. He didn’t even have to touch the poor fucker; the accountant keeled over, his heart stopped dead in his chest, at the sight of the Traveller rushing at him from out of the shadow. Easy kill, but the waiting had been a bastard.
Could he wait more than four hours, standing still? He thought so. He rarely got bored. He wasn’t much of a thinker, but still, his mind could amuse itself for a long, long time. He could remember people he’d known, some he’d fucked, some he’d killed. He could think of Sofia and the baby he planned to give her.
Instead, he thought about Gerry Fegan. The Bull had shown him a photograph. Fegan was thin and wiry, like the Traveller, with a hard, pointed face. He wondered how many Fegan had killed. There were the twelve he’d been put away for, and then that spree a few months ago. How many had that been? Four in the city, then two on the farm near Middletown – a British agent and the politician Paul McGinty. That made eighteen. The Traveller had killed twice as many, and more.
Was he afraid of Fegan? Probably, but that was no bad thing. Orla O’Kane blustered about her father being scared of no man, except the great Gerry Fegan, but the Traveller knew it was just that: bluster. The man who feared nothing was the man looking to get himself killed. It was what you did with your fear that really counted. The Traveller turned his to anger and hate, things he could use to get the job done. And the job was more important than anything.
The Traveller closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and waited.
An hour, maybe a little more, passed before he heard the bleep of the keycard in the slot, followed by the
