A frightened whisper from within, the child crying briefly, the patters of socked feet on carpet. The Traveller shoved hard against the door with his uninjured shoulder. He might as well have pushed the wall. It was a good security chain, a proper locksmith’s job, not the crap you’d buy in some discount DIY warehouse. Doors slammed inside, followed by more whispering feet. He put his good eye to the narrow opening. Now the shadows moved.
‘I’ve got a gun,’ a woman’s voice called.
‘So have I,’ he said. ‘I bet mine’s bigger.’
‘I’ve called the police,’ she said.
‘That was quick.’
‘I’m doing it now.’
‘Can you work the gun and the phone at the same time?’
The Traveller lifted the Browning and stepped back. He pumped a shell into the chamber, steadied himself, and blew a chunk out of the door where he reckoned the chain was. He chambered another shell and blasted the same place again. Once the smoke cleared, he saw he hadn’t done as much damage as he thought. He stepped closer and examined the hole. A good amount of wood had been torn away, but twisted steel bordered the small tear the shotgun had opened. He looked through.
A shaking hand held a pistol, the same kind of Glock that Hewitt had given him, pointing back from a doorway. He could just make out her shape slumped against the door frame and heard a hiss, a moan, a gasp. The pistol’s muzzle flashed and he ducked away from the gap. No matter. The bullet hit the steel reinforcement at least a foot away from where his eye had been.
‘Jesus, you should practise with that thing,’ the Traveller said. ‘You’re a fucking terrible shot. Still, no need to call the cops now. I’m sure some of the neighbours has done the honours.’
‘Go, then,’ she said, her voice cracking.
‘Don’t think I will,’ he said. ‘Listen, open this thing up and I’ll go easy on the wee girl. Can’t say fairer than that.’
Another bang from inside, another slam like a fist against the door. Then he heard ragged weeping. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You had your chance.’
He examined the door frame, found where the chain was attached. He raised the shotgun, pumped a shell, and blasted the door twice, leaving mangled craters and twisted metal. He reloaded the shotgun, straining through the ringing in his ears for approaching sirens. Nothing but the child’s squealing from deeper inside the apartment, though even that was mixed with the high whine the shotgun blast had left behind. The bastards at the cop shop had taken his good Vater earplugs.
A mobile phone rang somewhere inside, its high chime cutting through the whine.
The Traveller took a step back, then forward, raising his right leg so his foot carried his body’s weight as it slammed against the door. It burst inwards and hit the wall. The Traveller peered through the smoke as he pumped the shotgun. The phone stopped ringing. He raised the shotgun when he saw the woman cowering in the living room’s doorway.
She did not move as he entered. He drew nearer and saw the red pocks on her cheek. A brighter bloom of red above her right breast. She inhaled and coughed as she stared up at him, her eyes full of fear and hate.
Beyond her, in the living room, the mobile phone rang again. Its screen doused the room in a dull blue glow. It inched across the coffee table as it vibrated.
‘Let me get that for you,’ the Traveller said.
72
Lennon kept the phone pressed to his ear as the Audi’s engine roared. He squeezed it tight with his shoulder as he changed gear, then brought his hand back to catch the phone just as it fell. The answering service again. He changed up, the car hitting sixty as he neared the junction of York Street and the Westlink. Lennon leaned on the horn as the lights turned red, barely slowing as the few late-night drivers braked hard to avoid his path. The Audi’s traction control indicators blinked on the dashboard, the car struggling for grip as it made the turn onto the M2. The wheels hit the kerb on the far side hard, and Lennon heard a screech as the rear quarter grazed a lamp post before the car bounced back onto the road.
He redialled for the third time, whispering, ‘Come on, come on, come on …’
No dial tone this time. Instead, it went straight to the answering service. Who was she talking to? Was she calling him back?
‘Marie, if you get this, call me right now. Right now, you hear me?’
Lennon hung up. His eyes flitted between the phone and the road ahead as he looked up his station’s number. The dial tone clicked and switched three times as the call was bounced around. The drama in the custody suite had left the phone unmanned. He would be routed to the nearest station. When he got an answer, he said, ‘Put me through to Carrickfergus.’
73
Fegan paced the small guesthouse bedroom listening to the dial tone. His fear fed on itself, remade itself again and again, stronger with each reincarnation. He had tried to sleep, but a vision of fire, the smell of burning flesh and hair, and a child’s screams had shaken him awake minutes ago. Sweat soaked the clothes he lay in. He had gone straight for the phone.
The dial tone ceased, replaced by steady breathing.
‘Marie?’ Fegan said, fear sharpening his voice.
‘She can’t come to the phone right now.’
A man’s voice. The kind of voice Fegan knew too well. His head swam. He sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Where is she?’ he asked.
‘She’s right here,’ the voice said. ‘Her and the wee girl.’
‘Who are you?’ Fegan said.
A pause. ‘Would that be the famous Gerry Fegan?’
‘Don’t touch them.’
‘I’ve heard all about you,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve been dying to meet you in the flesh. Something tells me we’d get on like a house on fire.’
Fegan doubled over as his stomach cramped. ‘I’ll kill you if you touch them,’ he said.
‘Too late for that. I’ve got to be honest with you, Gerry. Marie’s not looking her best.’
‘I’ll kill you,’ Fegan said. ‘I’ll make it bad.’
‘It’s that cop you should go after. The kid’s father. You know what the useless shite did?’
‘I’ll kill you,’ Lennon said.
‘He left the child and her mother in a whorehouse in Carrickfergus. Just upped and left them here all on their own. Jesus, you wouldn’t do that to a dog.’
‘I’ll—’
‘Yeah, you’ll kill me, I heard you. Time’s wasting, Gerry. Gotta go.’
The phone died.
‘I’ll kill you,’ Fegan said to the lifeless plastic.
He stood and went to the window. His room took up half the first floor of a converted terraced house. The street below ached with quiet, the lights making shadows pool around the parked cars and garden walls. The occasional rumble of traffic came from Botanic Avenue, less than a hundred yards away. It had been an hour, maybe more, since the last train had passed along the track that ran behind the guesthouse. Fegan had always cherished quiet, but now it lay heavy on him, like a cold, damp blanket.
The man with the mocking voice had said Carrickfergus. Where in Carrickfergus?
A screech split the silence. It echoed along the street, touching Fegan’s heart like an icy finger. He held his breath tight in his chest. It came again, a high animal cry, the sound of suffering. Fegan looked up and down the rows of houses, searching for the source.
Then he saw it. The animal came creeping between two cars, long snout to the ground. Its large pointed ears
