‘Call the wee girl,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘No.’
‘Call her.’ He jabbed her chin with the muzzle and she whimpered.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t.’
‘All right then, I’ll do it.’
‘She won’t come to you,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Oh, she will.’ He pulled Marie tight to him. ‘A wee girl like that won’t leave her mammy. Watch this.’
She inhaled to call out, but he sealed her mouth with his strapped-up hand.
‘Ellen!’ the Traveller called.
Marie tried to prise his hand away. He pressed it harder against her lips and her teeth nipped at the skin of his fingers, trying to get a hold. He twisted her neck around.
‘Quit it,’ he said, his mouth buried deep in her hair. ‘Quit it or I’ll break your neck.’ He looked back out to the darkness. ‘Ellen!’
The Traveller slipped the Glock into his waistband and took out his phone. It lit up in his hand, and he held it out in front of the struggling mother.
‘Your mammy needs you, Ellen. Come on back, now. You don’t want to be out there in the dark, all on your own. There’s bad things in the dark. Things that’ll get you. Things with teeth. Things that sting.’
He stopped, listened. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Your mammy needs you.’
A shadow moved out there in the layers of black. He saw a glint. Then she came running from the darkness, fell, picked herself up again, and threw herself at her mother. Ellen wrapped her arms around Marie’s thighs, pressed her face to the warmth.
The Traveller said, ‘Good girl.’
77
The door of the Red Fox Bar, off the Shankill, was locked, but lights shone inside. Lennon hammered with his fist until the pane of frosted glass rattled in its frame.
‘We’re closed,’ a hoarse voice called from inside. A silhouette formed against the glass. ‘Fuck off.’
The silhouette faded.
Lennon kicked the door.
The silhouette returned. ‘I told you to fuck off, we’re closed. Away to fuck or I’ll come out there and kick your shite in.’
Lennon kicked the door again and again until the glass cracked.
‘Right, you fucker,’ the voice said.
The bolts sounded like two rifle shots as they opened at the top and bottom of the door. It swung inward, and a heavy-set man with a shaven head and tattoos on his neck filled the doorway. He wore spectacles that sat at an odd angle. Before he could take a step, Lennon drove a fist into the valley beneath his belly and shattered his nose with the other. The man stumbled into the bar, blood erupting from between his fingers as he clasped his hands to his face. His spectacles fell away, cracked and bent. He tripped over his own feet and landed on his back.
Lennon stepped over him and into the bar. Three men were gathered around a table strewn with cards and cash, bottles and glasses. Two were on their feet, their hands out and ready for action.
Lennon drew his Glock and aimed at Roscoe Patterson’s forehead, one hand supporting the other in a combat stance. Roscoe sat at the far side of the table, his face blank, staring back at Lennon. The two standing men drew pistols, both small-calibre toys, the kind of weapons jumped-up thugs would carry to make themselves look big.
‘Put ’em away, boys,’ Roscoe said. ‘No need for playing silly buggers, is there, Jack?’
The two men obeyed.
‘Get rid of them,’ Lennon said.
‘Jesus, you got Slant a good ’un,’ Roscoe said. He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Fucking stove his face in.’ He smiled at Lennon. ‘Know why we call him Slant?’
‘I don’t care, just get them out of here.’
Roscoe continued, ‘We call him Slant ’cause when he gets pissed, his glasses sit at a slant. Fucking comical. The way you just pasted his nose all over his face, he’ll never get them glasses to sit straight again.’
Lennon took a step closer and steadied his aim. ‘Get rid of them. Now.’
Roscoe’s smile broadened. His eyes dimmed. ‘You heard the fella,’ he said to his companions. ‘Fuck off and take Slant with you.’
‘You sure?’ one of Roscoe’s thugs asked.
‘I’m sure,’ Roscoe said. ‘Jack’s a smart fella. He’ll not do anything stupid. Will you, Jack?’
‘Just get them out of here,’ Lennon said.
‘Go on, boys.’ Roscoe dismissed them with a wave.
They sauntered past Lennon, rolling their shoulders, keeping eye contact with him, trying to show they weren’t intimidated by a stranger with a gun.
Lennon kept his eyes on Roscoe. He heard Slant moan and curse as his friends gathered him up. The door closed, and all was quiet save for Lennon’s breathing. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows.
Roscoe said, ‘That was bad form, Jack.’
Lennon didn’t answer. He took a step closer, kept the pistol trained on Roscoe’s forehead.
‘Making a cunt of me like that,’ Roscoe said, his hand beginning to shake on the tabletop. His lips thinned across his teeth. ‘Any other fucker tried that, I’d break the bastard’s neck. I’d take that gun and shove it so far up their arse they’d frigging choke on it. I’d put my fucking boot in their—’
‘I’m not here to play games, Roscoe,’ Lennon said. ‘I know what you did. I’ll put a bullet in your bigoted little brain and I won’t give it a thought. You understand? No threats, no fucking around. I’ll shoot you dead.’
Roscoe stood up. He leaned forward, his knuckles on the tabletop, the cards spreading beneath his weight. ‘Watch your mouth, Jack. I’ve been good to you, you’ve been good to me. I wouldn’t call us friends, like, but as taigs go, you’ve been a decent sort of a fella. But no one threatens me. No one makes a cunt of me in front of my boys. You’re playing with your life, here, Jack. Don’t go making—’
Lennon focused on the heart-shaped tattoo on the back of Roscoe’s left hand. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet split the tabletop an inch from Roscoe’s fingers. Roscoe pulled his hands away, but didn’t make a sound. He stepped back from the table, shaking his head.
‘Who did you go to?’ Lennon asked. ‘Who did you tell?’
Roscoe held his hands up and backed away. ‘What are you talking about, Jack? I told no one about nothing. You’re making a serious mistake here, mate.’
Lennon followed. He pushed the table aside, ignoring the crashing of bottles as it tipped over. Paper money and broken glass crunched beneath his feet. He holstered his pistol. He flexed his fingers. ‘You told someone where Marie and Ellen were. You told someone where my daughter was. Now they’ve got them.’
Roscoe backed towards the bar. ‘Fuck’s sake, Jack, you’re talking out your arse. I told you before, I’m no tout. I said nothing to no—’
Lennon caught Roscoe with an elbow to the jaw. Roscoe dropped like a sack of loose flesh. He rolled on his side, hands to his chin.
‘He has my daughter,’ Lennon said.
Roscoe squirmed on the floor. He spat blood on the grime-caked tiles.
‘He has my daughter,’ Lennon repeated. ‘Do you understand?’
‘My tongue,’ Roscoe said, his words blunt. ‘I bit my fucking tongue, you Fenian bastard.’
Lennon stood over Roscoe, one hand on the bar. ‘Talk to me now or I’ll kill you, I fucking swear.’
‘Shove it up your taig arse, you cunt,’ Roscoe hissed. He spat again, spattering the floor with crimson.
Lennon kicked him in the gut. Roscoe doubled up, curled into a ball, rolled so his back was to Lennon. Lennon aimed his foot at Roscoe’s kidney, felt the flesh give under the force of it.
When the squealing was done, Lennon hunkered down and said, ‘You passed on the information. You tell me now who you talked to. See, I don’t give a fuck. Ellen is the only good thing I ever gave to the world. I talked to her
