“I can smell you. I know you can hear me.”
She retreated further into the corner, behind an old freezer that hummed low and steady.
“There’s no need to be afraid,” he said. His footsteps creaked along the hallway. “I only want to help you. That’s all.”
Galya felt around the linoleum flooring for anything heavy, anything sharp, anything that could be used as a weapon. She found only ridges and dips in the surface, as if the concrete beneath had cracked and been filled in.
“I know you found some … things.” The footsteps stopped at the door above. “I know it seems strange. To keep those things. But I don’t want you to worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Galya inched along the wall, moving away from the freezer. She felt something hard, wooden, blocking her way. A cabinet. Doors, unlocked. They swung open.
“Those people I told you about,” he said, his voice at the top of the stairway, only a door between him and her. “I spoke to them when I was out. I went to see them, that’s why I was away. They’re coming for you.”
She explored the cabinet’s innards, reaching into the corners, up into its roof, her fingers clasping at nothing but dust and paint flecks.
“But not today. It’s Christmas Eve. They don’t have any staff. It’ll be the day after tomorrow. But they’re coming. Then you can go home. I promise.”
A thin slash of light cut across the floor as the door above opened.
“I promise,” he said.
42
LENNON SENT THE image to Connolly’s phone as soon as he was back in his car, along with instructions on what to do with it.
While he waited, he thought about his next act. Logically, he should have gone straight to Maxie’s Taxis to see what he could find out there, but he couldn’t help but think about Ellen. Less than ten minutes would get him over to Susan’s flat, with traffic thinning away from the city center. Then he could cut across the river toward the Holywood Road.
His phone rang. The display said “Number Blocked,” just as it would from the station.
Lennon thumbed the button and asked, “Did you get the picture?”
“How’re ya, Jack?”
Lennon stopped breathing.
“You there, Jack?”
The voice, its thick southern accent a mockery of sweetness.
“I’m here,” Lennon said.
“You get my card?”
Lennon’s fingers still felt dirty where he’d touched it.
“Yes.” “What’d you think? Did you put it up?”
“No,” Lennon said. “I tore it up and threw it away.”
“That’s not nice, Jack. There’s me all thoughtful, and you just throw it away. I’m sure your mother raised you better.”
“I don’t—”
“Is that how you’re raising that wee girl?”
“Shut your mouth.”
“She’s a pretty wee thing. Pity her ma didn’t get out like you and me did.”
“Stay away from my daughter.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll kill you.”
“You killed me already, Jack. Remember? In that big house near Drogheda. You put a bullet in me and left me to burn. You don’t get a second go. Not with me, you don’t.”
“Stay away from—”
“Next time you see me, Jack, it’ll be too late for anything. All you can do is pray I make it easier for you and your wee girl than you made it for me.”
“You fucking—”
“Or maybe I’ll burn that child, leave her all scarred and twisted like me. Then I’ll give you a year or two to watch her suffer before I put you out of your misery. How’s that sound, Jack?”
“I’ll kill you.”
“So you said. Merry Christmas, Jack.”
The phone died.
Lennon dropped it on the passenger seat, wiped the heat from his eyes, and started the engine. He ignored the blaring of horns as he accelerated into the traffic, visions of Ellen in flame behind his tearful eyes.
43
BILLY CRAWFORD REACHED for the light switch at the top of the stairs. The cellar stayed dark.
Smart girl, he thought.
Was there a torch out in the van? He was almost sure he had stashed one under the driver’s seat in case of emergencies, but the batteries had run out. There was another down there in the dark, sitting in or near his toolbox. So he could go down there and get it, but then he might as well just take care of her in the dark.
He held his breath and listened, heard nothing but his own heartbeat. Hard in his chest, like when he lay down to sleep at night, and he was all alone in the world. Even God couldn’t see him then, when he was at the mercy of the beasts that roamed his mind.
“Are you hungry?” he asked the darkness.
It did not answer. He took two steps inside.
“I can make us something to eat,” he said. “I have bread and soup. Or maybe a baked potato. And coffee. What do you think?”
The stairs creaked as he descended until he felt the hard floor beneath his feet. He stood still and silent as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, the light from above allowing vague shapes to emerge from the black. Glass crunched under his boot as he took a step toward the workbench. The lightbulb.
He ran his hands over the smooth wooden surface, felt nothing but the dust and swarf from the tasks performed there. To his right, the cabinet. He could see in the dimness that its doors had been closed, even though he was sure he had left them open.
His tongue toured the inside of his mouth as he thought. Yes, he had left it open. He crossed to it, gripped the handles.
“I only want to help you,” he said.
He jerked the doors open. No waft of girl smell rose from its innards. He reached inside, not trusting his eyes. Empty.
“Will you let me help you?” he asked, turning to face the dark space around him. “Will you, ple—”
A sun exploded in his vision, then died again, leaving bright green contrails in its wake. He raised his hands, trying to swat the glare’s residue away.
Another light exploded, but not in front of his eyes. He had a moment to wonder at its source, before another blow rocked his head sideways and the floor slammed into his shoulder.
44
GALYA REACHED THE stairs, the torch still in her right hand, the force of the blow still ringing in her elbow and wrist, lightbulb fragments embedded in her feet. She mounted them, took two at a time, the open door above her, the light falling through.
