clunk of the lock opening. He listened hard, pictured Patsy Toner entering and closing the door behind him.
The little lawyer breathed hard as he crossed the room, his feet dragging on the cheap carpet. The Traveller heard the rustling of fabric as he removed clothing, probably his jacket, then the thumps of his shoes being kicked off. The mattress groaned. A lighter sparked, air was sucked in and blown out. A few moments later, the Traveller caught the bitter stink of a cigarette. Then sobbing, dry and pitiful, the sound of the wounded and dying. The Traveller knew it well. A deep, wet sniff, and then a cough. The creak of weight lifting from the mattress, the padding of socked feet on carpet.
The bathroom light clicked on, and the Traveller squinted. From behind the open door, he heard the toilet lid lift, and Toner’s fly opening. He’d let the poor shite finish pissing before he moved, let him get his cock put away.
‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,’ Toner whispered to himself before he was rewarded with the thunder of water on water. He sighed, the sound of it hollow against the bathroom’s tiles. The Traveller smelled a sour blend of alcohol and tobacco. He listened to the last drops, then the rustling of fabric, the fly closing, and the toilet flush.
Then a pause, followed by, ‘What the fuck?’
The Traveller gently, quietly pushed the door back.
Patsy Toner stared down at the bathtub full of water, his drunken eyes blinking as if it would make sense if he only tried a little harder. He turned his head and he saw the Traveller watching.
‘No,’ Patsy Toner said, his voice so small it was almost lost beneath the noise of the cistern filling.
The Traveller let the anger and hate take control, let it push him forward, took his speed from it. Toner barely had time to raise his hands and grab the breath for a scream that never came. It died in his throat as the Traveller slammed his forehead into the mirror above the bath, leaving a bloody star on the cracked surface. Pieces of reflective glass dropped into the water, turning through the swirls of red.
Toner’s legs left him, and the Traveller let the lawyer’s weight pull him head first into the water. He gripped the back of Toner’s neck with one hand, his wrist with the other.
Nothing happened for a while, just spidery threads of crimson spreading out and dissolving among the bubbles.
Then Toner jerked.
Then Toner bucked.
Then Toner screamed beneath the water.
37
‘Bonjou, Gerry,’ Pye said.
Fegan put his half-eaten slice of toast back on the plate. Pye slid into the booth beside him. The Doyles’ driver took a stool at the counter. It was early; only two others ate in the diner. A waitress dozed at a table.
‘You a bad man.’ Pye wagged a finger at Fegan. ‘Real bad man. Ou moun fou, a crazy motherfucker. Doyles, they tell me all evil shit you do. You malad, in head.’ Pye tapped his temple with his forefinger.
Fegan wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘So what now?’
You come with mwen,’ Pye said. ‘Go see Doyles. They waiting in machin la.’ He jerked his thumb at the car idling outside, its windows darkened.
Pye slid out of the booth and put his hand on Fegan’s shoulder. ‘Come, Gerry.’
Fegan put the napkin on his plate and pushed it away. ‘I’ll kill you all if I have to,’ he said.
Pye smiled. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe not. Come.’
Fegan followed him out to the car, the driver coming behind. Pye stopped and put a hand on Fegan’s chest. He slipped his hands around Fegan’s torso, feeling under his arms and behind his back.
‘I’m not armed,’ Fegan said. He’d left the gun he’d seized in the alleyway back at the motel.
‘Mwen look anyways,’ Pye said.
He crouched and ran his hands up and down Fegan’s legs before dipping into his pockets. He found a wallet first, and then the mobile phone.
‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.
‘Don’t what?’
‘My phone,’ Fegan said. ‘I need it.’
Pye laughed. ‘You need anyen, Gerry.’
‘What?’
‘You need nothing.’ Pye dropped the phone to the ground. It bounced and rattled. Its screen fractured.
‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.
Pye raised his foot, ready to bring it down on the phone. Fegan formed his knuckles into a sharp line and stabbed at his Adam’s apple. Pye fell against the car and crumpled to the ground, coughing, his eyes wide.
‘I said don’t.’
Pye blinked and gasped as he tried to get his feet under him. A thick-fingered hand grabbed Fegan’s shoulder, tried to turn him around. Fegan grabbed the wrist with his left hand, turned inside the big man’s reach, felt the nose crunch against his elbow, a warm spatter on his face as the blood came. Two more blows and the driver went down, cracked the back of his head on the ground.
Fegan turned back to Pye. The Haitian gasped as his trachea swelled from the blow, his feet scrambling for purchase.
‘Stay down,’ Fegan said.
Pye reached behind his back, grasping for something. He got one foot under him, began to rise. Fegan’s foot connected with his jaw, and Pye sprawled in the gutter between the car and the pavement, a pistol clattering at his side.
Fegan picked up his phone, turned it in his hands, looked at the cracked screen, put it in his pocket along with his wallet. He reached for the gun, a semi-automatic. He aimed at the darkened rear window. ‘Open it,’ he said.
Nothing.
Fegan stepped closer and tapped the glass with the pistol’s muzzle. ‘Open it,’ he said.
The vague forms of two men sat still inside.
Fegan struck the glass with the butt of the gun. It held. Two more blows and it shattered, fragments peppering the two men inside.
Frankie and Packie Doyle stared back at Fegan, their hands raised.
‘Leave me alone,’ Fegan said. ‘If you come after me again, I’ll kill you both. Do you understand?’
The Doyles sat frozen.
Fegan pressed the muzzle against Packie Doyle’s cheek. ‘Do you understand?’
Packie nodded. Frankie said, ‘Yes.’
‘Get Pye to a hospital,’ Fegan said. ‘He might die. Do you understand?’
Frankie nodded. Packie said, ‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ Fegan said. He tucked the pistol into his pocket alongside the phone as he walked away.
38
‘Get out of here,’ DCI Gordon said.
‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘I want to examine the scene.’
‘Scene?’ Gordon said, blocking the doorway. ‘There’s no scene. It was an accident. He was drunk, he slipped and cracked his head open.’
Hotel guests hovered in the corridor, watching the comings and goings of paramedics and police.
‘Someone tried to kill him two days ago,’ Lennon said.
‘Rubbish,’ Gordon said. ‘A woman was assaulted in his building. It had nothing to do with him. A coincidence.’
‘Someone came to get him. He told me,’ Lennon said. ‘He saw them.’
‘He told you?’
‘Yesterday.’
