Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  ‘Word from who?’ Lennon asked.

  ‘It’s always come through the Northern Ireland Office. An allowance for me and Ellen, word on my parents, that sort of thing. It was them told me about the stroke a fortnight back. Then they called two days ago, said someone would be in touch from MI5. Ten minutes later, I got another call. They said the situation was safe now. I could come home.’

  She stared hard at Lennon. ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Ellen giggled and whispered something to herself in the back seat as she moved the doll’s arms and legs into a walking pose.

  ‘So what’s going on?’ Marie asked, her face betraying no fear.

  ‘I think someone’s in Belfast cleaning up the mess. I think he killed Kevin Malloy, Declan Quigley and Patsy Toner. I think he also killed a kid called Brendan Houlihan and set it up to look like it was him who got Quigley.’

  ‘And you think they’ll come after me?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lennon said. He thought about it for a second. ‘Probably.’

  ‘Christ,’ Marie said. She looked tired. ‘I thought it was all over with.’

  ‘You should have called me,’ Lennon said. ‘When Fegan was hanging around. I could’ve done something.’

  ‘I never wanted your help,’ she said.

  Ellen laughed out loud. Lennon looked up at the rear-view mirror. Ellen turned to the empty seat beside her, brought her finger to her lips, shush.

  ‘My daughter was in danger,’ Lennon said.

  ‘She’s never been a daughter to you.’

  ‘Because you never allowed her to be.’

  Marie went to reply, but stopped herself. She covered her eyes and sighed. ‘There’s no point in arguing about that now,’ she said. ‘Are you taking me to your station? I want to see my father first.’

  ‘I’m not taking you to the station,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t trust my colleagues.’

  ‘Why not?’ Marie asked.

  ‘My bosses know what’s going on as well as I do,’ Lennon said. ‘But they’re ignoring it, trying to sweep it away. I don’t know who the orders are coming from, but I’m pretty certain you’ll be safer away from them.’

  ‘Then where do we go?’ Marie asked.

  ‘You can stay at my place till I figure this out,’ Lennon said. ‘There’s room.’

  ‘No,’ Marie said. ‘I don’t want anything from you.’

  ‘Look, this isn’t the time for holding grudges. Ellen’s safety is more important than anything that happened between you and me.’

  He looked up at the mirror again. Ellen leaned to her side, cupped her hand around her mouth, and whispered.

  ‘Who’s she talking to?’ Lennon asked.

  ‘She has imaginary friends. People only she can see. She’s been like that since . . .’

  When Marie couldn’t finish the sentence, Lennon said, ‘What did she see?’

  Marie didn’t answer the question. Instead, she said, ‘We went to a psychologist when we were in Birmingham, the NIO paid for it. Didn’t do her any good. She has nightmares. They’ve been getting worse.’

  Lennon watched her in the mirror. The thought of the child in fear made his stomach turn watery under the weight of his heart. ‘What does she dream about?’

  ‘Fire,’ Marie said. Her voice shook. Her eyes fluttered and brimmed again. ‘She dreams she’s burning in a fire. The way she screams, it kills me. I can’t sleep for fear of her screaming waking me. I thought maybe if I brought her home, to the places she knows, maybe it would help. And now this.’

  She leaned forward, her face buried in her hands, and wept in silence while Lennon watched, unable to do anything to soothe her.

  When the sobbing ebbed away, Marie straightened and sniffed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I haven’t had anyone to talk to for months. It’s been hard.’

  ‘I know,’ Lennon said. ‘Listen, I’m going to fix this. I’m going to make you safe. You and Ellen both.’

  ‘I don’t know if you can,’ Marie said. ‘But maybe …’

  Lennon waited. ‘Maybe what?’

  She shook her head, as if chasing an idea away. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Take us to the Royal first, then I’ll find somewhere to stay.’

  ‘Come to my place. Please.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to. Besides, if someone’s looking for me, they’ll know to go there, won’t they?’

  He had to concede. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Take me to the Royal to see my father. Then we’ll go to a hotel.’ She allowed him a smile, but with no kindness or warmth behind it. ‘You can stand guard at the door if you want.’

  He thought about it for a few seconds and realised she was right. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no hotel. I know a place in Carrickfergus. It belongs to a friend of mine. It’ll be safer than any hotel.’

  He fired the ignition and set off for the Royal Victoria Hospital, fifteen minutes away if the traffic was kind.

  43

  Fegan knew it was useless, but he tried again anyway. The phone refused to come to life no matter how hard or how many times he pressed the button. The screen was cracked and the casing loose.

  He brought it to his ear and shook it. Something heavy rattled inside. He could hear its movement above the rumble of traffic from the New Jersey Turnpike.

  The Doyles had bundled Pyè into the back of the car and sped off from the diner, leaving their driver lying on the sidewalk. Fegan was confident they would leave him alone for the time being. Packie and Frankie had both looked terrified. But they wouldn’t stay scared for long. Fegan needed to move.

  He placed the phone on the motel-room dressing table. The dreams had been bad during the night, fire and screaming. He had woken soaked with sweat, his heart racing, his lungs burning for oxygen. Even now, hours later, he saw the flames every time he closed his eyes.

  A jet roared overhead as it approached Newark Airport. Fegan took two items from his bag and laid them next to the broken phone: a roll of hundred-dollar bills, totalling just less than three thousand, and an Irish passport in the name of Patrick Feeney. From his window he could see the lights of an airplane as it took off.

  ‘I’m going home soon,’ Fegan said, his voice hollow in the miserable room.

  He started packing.

  44

  The place felt more like an airport than a hospital, all glass and open spaces. Even a sculpture of a snake clinging to a pillar outside the entrance, for Christ’s sake. The Traveller moved among the halt and the lame, avoiding their glances. Women in dressing gowns wandered aimlessly, coffee in hand, some clutching cigarette packets and lighters. Doctors who looked like children walked in pairs and threes.

  No matter how clean it was, no matter how new, the smell of sickness still underlay everything. The Traveller hated hospitals almost as much as he hated the medical profession. Hospitals were churches of the dead and dying, and doctors were the thieves who robbed the corpses, even those corpses that still breathed.

  One of the thieves approached.

  ‘Are you looking for A&E?’ she asked, a bright young girl with a white overcoat and pens in her pocket.

  ‘No,’ the Traveller said, turning a circle as he scanned the reception area.

  ‘Oh.’ She stepped away. ‘Sorry. It’s just your eye looks—’

  ‘My eye’s fine. Where do you keep the stroke victims?’

  ‘Depends,’ she said. ‘When was the patient admitted?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘I mean, they could be in ICU, or in Admissions, or on a ward, or—’

  ‘I’ll find him myself,’ the Traveller said.

  As he walked away, he heard, ‘Well, fuck you, then.’

  He turned back to the girl, but she was already striding away, her head down, her arms churning.

  ‘Cunt,’ he said to her back.

  45

  Lennon recognised Bernie McKenna, Marie’s aunt, hovering over the
bed, fussing about the motionless form, adjusting pillows and straightening sheets. Bernie stiffened as Marie approached, but did not look up. Ellen clung to her mother’s fingers, her doll dangling from the other hand.

  ‘So you’re back, then,’ Bernie said, her stare fixed on the bed.

  Marie faced her across the bed. ‘How is he?’

  ‘How does he look?’ Bernie smoothed the sheets and spared Marie a glance. ‘Poor cratur doesn’t know where he is. You’d have been better going to see your mother. It’d do her more good than him.’

  Bernie looked up from the grey sliver of a man once more and saw Lennon. Her eyes narrowed as she searched her memory for his face; her jaw hardened when she found it.

  ‘Jesus, you brought him here?’

  ‘He gave us a lift.’

  ‘I don’t care what he gave you. You shouldn’t have brought him here. Has he not caused you enough trouble?’

  ‘I’ll take a walk,’ Lennon said. When Marie looked to him, he said, ‘I won’t go far.’

  He backed away from the bed and looked around the bay. Old men gazed back, their eyes vacant, IV lines and oxygen masks hanging from them. Lennon shivered and went to the corridor. He leaned his back against the wall, keeping the women and the little girl in his vision.

  They would be safe here, he was sure of that.

  46

  The Traveller watched the cop through the swinging doors as nurses and visitors brushed past him. He couldn’t see the woman and the kid from here, but he could tell they held the cop’s gaze.

  Maybe this was the place to act, maybe it wasn’t. A lot of people around. Sometimes that was a good thing. People are generally cowards. They’ll keep their heads down if they can help it, not get involved.

  Either way, he had time. All the time in the world.

  47

  Ellen clutched the doll to her chest and smiled at the air above her grandfather’s bed. Lennon wondered what she saw there between the slanted shafts of light and the shadows. She opened her mouth and spoke, but Lennon couldn’t hear her from his position at the other side of the corridor.

  Marie and Bernie turned their heads to her. Bernie’s brow creased while Marie showed nothing but a kind of surrendered fatigue. She put a hand on her daughter’s cheek, said something, and her shoulders sagged at the answer. Marie’s father watched them both with watery eyes that showed no understanding.

  Ellen said something, pouted at her mother’s response, said it louder. Marie closed her eyes and breathed deep. She stood, took Ellen’s hand, and marched her over to Lennon.

  ‘Please, take her for a walk, will you?’ Marie said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Lennon asked.

  Marie looked down at their daughter. ‘She’s being a bold girl. Telling fibs. In front of Auntie Bernie, too.’ She levelled her gaze at Lennon, her eyes shadowed with weariness. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just too much. Not when I have to see my father like that. Not when I have to face Bernie.’

  Lennon straightened, lifting his shoulders from the wall. ‘Do you trust me with her?’

  ‘I don’t have much choice,’ Marie said, placing Ellen’s hand in Lennon’s. ‘She’s safer with you than anyone else. I mean, you’ve got a fucking gun, haven’t you?’

  Ellen stretched her hand up towards her mother’s mouth, but couldn’t reach. ‘You said a bad word.’

  Marie seemed to fold in on herself, a tired laugh breaking from her. ‘I know, darling. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ll take her,’ Lennon said. ‘If she’ll come with me.’

  Marie hunkered down, took a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at Ellen’s face. ‘You’ll go with Jack, won’t you, love? Maybe he’ll take you to the shop downstairs. Get you some sweeties.’

  Ellen leaned close to her mother, whispered in her ear, ‘Who is he?’

  Marie lifted her head, glanced up at Lennon, the sorrow laid naked across her face. She gathered Ellen close. ‘An old friend of Mummy’s. He’ll look after you.’

  Lennon swallowed a sour taste.

  Marie untangled herself from her daughter, looked her in the eye. ‘I’ll be right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I just need to talk to Auntie Bernie for a wee while. Jack will bring you right back up once he’s got you some sweeties, okay?’

  Ellen stared at the floor, her doll clasped tight. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay,’ Marie said. She stood upright, touched Lennon’s arm. ‘Just give me twenty minutes, all right?’

  ‘All right,’ Lennon said. ‘She’ll be fine.’

  Worry crept over Marie’s features.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Lennon said again, firm enough to almost believe it himself.

  Marie nodded, ran her fingers through Ellen’s hair, and left the two of them in the corridor. Lennon and his daughter watched her leave. Ellen’s fingers twitched against his.

  ‘Okay,’ Lennon said, moving along the corridor towing Ellen behind him. ‘What kind of sweets do you want?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Ellen said.

  ‘Chocolate?’ he asked. ‘Maltesers? Minstrels? Mars bars?’

  She followed, her tiny hand lost in his. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What about Skittles? Or Opal Fruits? No, they don’t call them Opal Fruits any more.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ she said as they reached the swinging doors.

  ‘Or ice cream?’ Lennon asked. ‘God help us if you don’t like ice cream.’

  They walked through to the elevator bank. Ellen rubbed her nose. Lennon caught an odour on the air, something lurking between the hospital’s sickness and disinfectant smells. Something goatish, a low tang of sweat, like the wards in the mental hospital Lennon had worked in when he was a student.

  He exhaled, expelled the odour, and pressed the button to call the lift. Ellen’s fingers felt small between his, cold and slippery. He looked down at her. She held her doll to her lips, whispered to it, said a word that might have been ‘Gerry.’

  48

  Fegan sat down hard on the edge of the bed, his breath abandoning him. Waves of trembling rolled through him, from his feet to his fingers, churning his stomach as they passed.

  His gut clenched and he threw himself from the bed. He staggered to the bathroom, shouldered the door open, leaned over the toilet bowl. The spasms brought him to his knees.

  Between swallows of air and bitter retches, he said, ‘Ellen.’

  49

  The Traveller watched them from the other side of the lobby, using a pillar for cover. The cop fished change from his pocket, struggling with his one free hand, the other clasping the child’s. A juice box and a tube of Smarties sat on the counter. The change handed over, the cop gathered the sweets and drink and led the girl out of the shop. He looked upstairs to the second level then leaned down to the child. The girl nodded and allowed the cop to lead her upwards.

  The Traveller eased out from behind the pillar, keeping them in his vision for as long as he could. He took a tissue from his pocket, dabbed at his eye, hissed at the pain. Passers-by looked at him, their mouths turned down in distaste. He ignored them.

  50

  Lennon chose a table by the ceiling-high windows and set down his paper cup full of tea, steam rising from hole in the lid. Ellen sat opposite him while he pierced the juice box with the little straw. He placed it in front of her then prised the plastic cap from the tube of Smarties. She watched his fingers work as he spread a napkin on the table and tipped a few brightly coloured sweets onto the paper.

  ‘There you go,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ellen said in the stiff manner of a child well instructed in politeness.

  Lennon raised the cup to his lips and sipped hot sweet tea through the lid’s mouthpiece. He did not see this new drinking technology as an advance in civilisation. It made him feel like a toddler with a sippy cup.

  Ellen moved the sweets around the napkin with her fingertips, but did not bring any to her mouth. The doll lay naked alongside the juice box like a passed-out junki
e.

  Lennon flinched at the association. Ellen reached for the doll and arranged it in a sitting position. She looked up at Lennon as if asking if that was better. He went to say yes, but caught himself. He blinked hard to dislodge the foolish notion from his mind.

  ‘So, did you like Birmingham?’ Lennon asked.

  Ellen looked down and shook her head.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too big,’ Ellen said. She put her hands over her ears. ‘Too noisy.’

  ‘You like home better?’

  Ellen dropped her hands and nodded.

  ‘Are you glad to be back?’

  Ellen shrugged.

  ‘It’s home. Do you like home?’

  ‘S’okay,’ Ellen said.

  ‘You don’t know who I am,’ Lennon said. It was a statement, not a question to test the child.

  ‘You’re Jack,’ Ellen said, her face brightening a little for remembering the detail. ‘Mummy said.’

  ‘Did your mummy ever mention me?’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Ellen said, shaking her head. She took a sip of juice, then a Smartie. She chewed with her mouth primly closed. She took another from the napkin and popped it in her mouth, again sealing her lips shut.

  ‘You have very good manners,’ Lennon said.

  Ellen nodded. ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘Your mummy taught you well.’

  Ellen smiled.

  Lennon’s throat tightened. He coughed and said, ‘Well, eat up. Then we’ll go back upstairs.’

  Ellen drew on the straw, her gaze fixed somewhere behind Lennon. He looked over his shoulder, seeing only people moving between tables, their trays clutched shakily in front of them. Curved walls screened the area off, decorated with spoons and forks arranged to resemble shoals of fish against the blue-green paint.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he asked.

  ‘People,’ Ellen said.

  ‘What people?’

  ‘All different people.’ She put the juice box back on the tabletop. ‘There’s bad people here.’

  ‘You mean sick people?’ Lennon asked. ‘There’s lots of sick people. Most of them will get better, though.’