He was halfway to the door when she sang, ‘Gerry’s going to get you.’
The Traveller stopped, turned on his heel. He considered calling her a liar, but the certainty on her face caused a ripple of doubt in his mind.
A cool draught licked the back of his neck.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ a voice asked.
Slow, easy, he swivelled to see a middle-aged woman wearing a sweater and a minister’s collar closing the door behind her. She smiled the tepid, condescending smile of the clergy. He put his palm to the side of her head and shoved. She staggered shoulder-first into the wall, the shock on her face the last thing he saw before he wrenched the door open and bolted outside, her scream the last thing he heard before it all went to shit.
54
Lennon heard the scream first, saw the pistol second. People scattered, falling over each other, limbs outstretched. He grabbed for his Glock, tried to keep the thin man’s blurred shape in his vision as it wove through the panicked crowd.
‘Stop!’ he shouted as he levelled the Glock.
The security guard dropped the telephone and clambered over the reception desk. He tried to grab the fleeing form, but it turned. A boom, and the guard dropped, a hole torn in his shoulder.
Some threw themselves down, some huddled against any solid surface they could find, and others ran. The thin man found a path through them before Lennon could aim.
‘Get down!’ he shouted, knowing the terrified herd would not heed him. He caught the thin man’s silhouette against the glass of the exit doors. ‘Stop! Police!’ he shouted.
Lennon took two steps towards the glass, then stopped, his fear coming back to him. ‘Ellen?’ he called to the confusion of bodies. Then he saw her in the arms of a woman, a chaplain, by the Quiet Room. He ran to them, pulled Ellen close and kissed her forehead.
‘Don’t move from here,’ Lennon said to the chaplain. ‘Keep her safe till I come back.’
He ran for the exit.
55
The Traveller slammed into the side of the ambulance and staggered back, dazed. The Desert Eagle slipped from his fingers and clattered across pavement and tarmac. He almost lost the gun beneath the ambulance, grabbed it before it went under the wheel, and threw his body towards the covered walkway.
The barrier that had risen to let the ambulance through dropped back into position. He hit it gut first, and his momentum carried his torso over, the earth spinning around him until the ground hit his back hard enough to drive every bit of breath from his lungs.
He rolled to his side, got back to his knees, then pushed away again. His lungs screamed for oxygen as he hauled the air in with desperate gulps, but he kept moving even as the black sparks danced across his vision.
Hard, quick footsteps slapping against concrete somewhere behind. A voice ordering him to stop. He spun, fired blind at whoever followed, kept running. Where to? He didn’t know. His mind lurched as it tried to function amid the adrenalin’s phosphorescent burn.
The car park.
If he could get there, lose himself among the rows upon rows of vehicles, maybe in the shadows of the lower level …
The footsteps faster now, closer. ‘Stop!’ the voice called.
A gunshot cracked, aimed overhead. A warning. The Traveller ignored it, willed his legs to move faster as he ducked under the shelter of the walkway, pedestrians leaping from his path as he tried to use them for cover. Up ahead, the steps down to the lower level with a pay station at the top of them. If he could get that far, he’d be safe.
He ran from the shelter of the walkway, dodged a car, kept his eyes on the stairway as it came closer. An old man was studying the pay station, coins in his hand, confusion on his face. He turned to see the Traveller barrelling towards him.
The Traveller pushed him out of the way, scattering coins across the concrete, a curse taking the last of his breath. He didn’t see the nurse until there was no avoiding her. His chin connected with her forehead and the ground disappeared from under him.
56
Lennon saw them go down, the thin man and the nurse tumbling from the top step. He crossed the road from the walkway to the pay station, Glock up and ready.
The old man glanced up as he retrieved coins from the concrete. ‘Bloody lunatic,’ he muttered.
Lennon went to the lip of the top step. The nurse sprawled on her back, half a dozen steps down the upper flight. She blinked at the sky and moaned, a trickle of blood drawing a bright red line across her forehead.
A sputtering curse came from the landing below where the steps doubled back on themselves. The thin man sat with his back propped against the railings, the big gun almost within his reach. He pulled his feet back, trying to get them under him. He pitched forward, his hand falling close to the pistol’s grip.
Lennon charged, taking two steps at a time, until he hit the landing. He let his weight carry him forward, slamming the thin man against the railing. A wounded cry and he slumped on the concrete.
Lennon rolled him onto his back and straddled his chest. He grabbed the big pistol with his left hand, keeping the Glock pressed against the thin man’s cheek with the other. He eased back and stood, his aim still on the man’s head.
‘Sit up,’ he said.
The man obeyed and cradled his left hand in his right. ‘Jesus, I think you broke my wrist, you dirty fucker.’
Against the railing,’ Lennon said. ‘Now.’
The man struggled into position, keeping his left hand tight to his stomach, and rested his back against the blue metal. Lennon studied his face, the swelling on his eyelid, the stiffness in his movement.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ Lennon said.
‘Maybe,’ the man said.
The big pistol was heavy in Lennon’s left hand. A Desert Eagle, the sort of thing American gun nuts loved for its size and noise. He shoved it into his waistband. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
The man laughed and wiped his eye on his sleeve. ‘Many a fella’s wanted to know that.’
‘Who are you?’ Lennon repeated. He took a step closer and steadied his Glock with both hands.
‘Barry Murphy,’ the man said.
‘Is that your real name?’
‘No, but it’ll do for you.’
The accent was southern, more country than city. His left wrist had begun to swell in his lap. A bloodied tear ran from his right eye.
‘You’re a fucking mess,’ Lennon said.
The man, Murphy, snorted. ‘Yeah, well, it’s been a rough few days. Lucky for you I’m not at my best.’
‘What are you doing here?’
Murphy sniffed hard and spat on the concrete. Blood streaked the saliva and phlegm. ‘Just doing a job,’ he said.
‘What was the job?’
‘Look, shouldn’t you arrest me or something? We’re drawing a crowd here.’
In his peripheral vision, Lennon could see people gathering. He heard someone tend to the nurse behind him on the steps. He blocked it all out and kept his attention on the man before him.
‘I’ll arrest you all right,’ he said. ‘But not until you tell me what you’re doing here.’
Murphy held his hands out, wrists together. ‘Fucking arrest me,’ he said.
