Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  ‘Da!’ A high shrieking came between the gunshots, Orla O’Kane’s voice cutting through the clamour. ‘Da! Da!’

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ Bull O’Kane asked.

  The Traveller released Fegan’s ear, the lobe still attached despite the half-inch incision. He spoke to O’Driscoll and Ronan. ‘Keep hold of him,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take a look.’

  ‘Wait,’ Bull O’Kane said.

  The Traveller ignored him and went to the double doors that led to the corridor and the stairs beyond, drawing the Glock from his waistband. He opened one a few inches and put his eye to the gap. Nothing.

  ‘I said wait.’ Fear edged the Bull’s voice.

  The Traveller leaned out into the corridor. He pictured the layout of the entrance hall below. A grand staircase rose up along the right-hand wall before turning back on itself to form the gallery that lay ahead of him. Three doors stood beneath that. The left led to a series of rooms that had been converted into offices and treatment bays. The middle concealed a lift that had been built into the house’s structure, its sliding door cut neatly into the wood panelling. The right opened onto a corridor off which branched patient and staff dining rooms, and the kitchen. The voice and the gunshots came from somewhere down there. The Traveller turned back to O’Kane.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said.

  ‘Jesus, don’t leave me here,’ O’Kane said, his face paling. ‘Not with him.’ The Bull’s sagging cheeks reddened at the admission of his fear. He couldn’t hold the Traveller’s gaze. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.

  ‘I wasn’t waiting for permission,’ the Traveller said.

  He stepped out into the corridor and let the door swing closed behind him. A dozen light footsteps brought him to the top of the stairs. He clung to the wall as he descended and turned at the bottom. A dozen more paces took him to the door on the right, the one that led to the kitchen and dining rooms. Two splintered holes had been torn in the wood. He flattened himself against the wall.

  One, two, three more barks of gunfire, close to the door. Then a squeal and a cry, followed by a man’s hoarse shout. Two more shots, this time echoing from deep in the corridor, then something heavy thrown hard against the door. It opened outwards as a man’s body spilled through. He landed on his back, two holes in his camouflage jacket radiating dark stains. He groaned and gasped and coughed and writhed.

  Somewhere beyond the Traveller’s vision, Orla O’Kane screamed, ‘Jesus Christ! Don’t, don’t, don’t—’

  The Traveller brought his pistol up and swung into the open doorway, searching for a target. Shapes moved against the glaring light from the kitchen, one clambering to its feet, the other already upright. They melded together as the Traveller strained to separate one shadow from the other in the bitter smoke. The larger of them moved towards him, fast. He couldn’t tell which arm belonged to which silhouetted body, or where the screams came from in the corridor’s echoes. When he saw a gun amongst the blurring shapes the reptile part of his mind took over, steadied his own Glock, and tightened his finger on the trigger.

  The corridor amplified the boom and smoke burned his stinging eye. The shape still came at him and his finger closed on the trigger again. The muzzle flash illuminated Orla O’Kane’s terrified face for an instant as the bullet ripped a piece of her skull away.

  Her body’s momentum carried her forward, and the Traveller stepped aside to let it tumble on top of the dying man, her weight crushing the last of the fight out of him.

  ‘Stupid fucking bitch,’ the Traveller said.

  He edged back to the doorway and peered into the darkness and light. The other figure had gone, either retreated into the kitchen, or into one of the other rooms leading off the corridor. He replayed the scene in his mind, saw the width of the man, his height. Instinct and logic combined to tell him it was the cop Lennon.

  ‘Bastard cunt fucker,’ the Traveller said.

  He stepped into the gloom, the Glock up and ready. If anything moved he would shoot first and worry about who he shot later. Two doors to his right, one to the left at the end, and the kitchen next to it. He moved slow and easy, his breath even and steady, listening hard.

  The Traveller tried the first door on his right. The handle didn’t move. Locked tight. No way Lennon could have locked it from inside. He would have heard the footsteps in the corridor, the fumbling of the key in the lock. The Traveller kept moving. The second door’s handle loosened at the pressure of his fingers. He leaned tight to the wall and depressed the handle as far as it would go. The world slowed as he inhaled, then accelerated as he let the air out of his lungs and kicked the door open.

  He ducked, his bandaged left hand coming up to support the pistol in his right. The door swung inward, struck the wall, and juddered with the shock of it. Nothing moved inside as the Traveller stopped the door swinging back with his foot. Chairs stacked on tables, clusters of them in the darkness as shutters blocked out all but the thinnest blades of daylight. Old odours of fried meat and overcooked vegetables drifted on the air along with the dust motes. He hunkered down and studied the forest of table legs. No one lurked among them. A pair of swinging doors in the far corner presumably led back to the kitchen, but the Traveller felt in his gut that the room’s stillness had not been disturbed for weeks. He straightened and backed out.

  The door at the end of the corridor stood open, the kitchen beyond, its steely brightness dulled by grime. He walked towards it, ready to fire at any movement, but a new smell stopped him before he got that far. A sickly, chemical smell that tingled in his nostrils. He took three more steps and the smell deepened. But it did not come from the kitchen. The door to his left stood slightly ajar. He pushed it with the Glock’s muzzle, and the smell of fuel, petrol or something like it, washed up from the narrow staircase on the other side.

  The Traveller spied a box of matches on a work surface just inside the kitchen. He smiled as he reached for them.

  93

  Lennon holstered his pistol as he picked his way through the semidarkness, avoiding the debris on the uneven floor. A few small windows up at ground level allowed thin light through their dirt-caked panes, but not enough for him to be sure of his footing. He’d already stumbled over a stack of cans, spilling something that smelled like petrol or white spirits. It had soaked into his trousers and begun to sting the skin on his shin and calf.

  Arches led further into the cellar in all directions. Lennon had to hope there were more ways in and out. There, up ahead, he could make out a haze of light. He advanced towards it, ducking his head beneath an arch. Old furniture, cardboard boxes, papers and fabrics were stacked against every wall. The musty smell mingled with that of whatever he had spilled at the bottom of the stairs. Something wrapped around his ankle as he struggled through the gloom. He kicked it away, losing his balance in the process. The stacked chairs he grabbed collapsed under his weight, and he fell to the floor as they clattered around him.

  Lennon lay still and listened. Small things scurried amongst the boxes, disturbed by his intrusion. Tiny clawed feet dashed across the back of his hand, a tail brushing his fingers, but he did not slap the creature away. Slowly, his breath held tight in his chest, he rolled over onto his back. He froze and watched a shape come closer, framed by the weak light from the windows. Lennon wondered if the other man could see him lying there amid the upended chairs. The noise would surely have drawn his attention.

  The petrol smell grew stronger as the form dipped beneath the arch and closed in to where Lennon lay.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ the shape said.

  Lennon recognised the voice. His heart lurched.

  ‘You should’ve shot me when you had the chance,’ the shape said. ‘They’ve got your woman and your girl upstairs. When I’m done with you, I’ll have a go on them. The mother’s not bad looking, even hurt as bad as she is. Tell you the truth, I don’t know if she’ll still be breathing by now.’

  The silhouette swelled in Lennon’s vi
sion. ‘Well, if she’s not, it’ll be a pity. I’ll just have to content myself with the wee girl. I’ll do her quick, though. No sense in stringing it out for a little ’un. Not her fault she’s got a useless shite like you for a father. No, I’ll go easy on her. But I won’t go easy on you.’

  An arm swept out. Liquid splashed around Lennon. The petrol smell invaded his nose and mouth, made his throat tighten. He pushed himself back, his elbows and heels fighting against curtain fabric.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ the silhouette said. He tossed the can in Lennon’s direction.

  It clattered on the floor, throwing a streak of pungent liquid across his lower legs. Lennon scrabbled back, no longer caring about the noise, until his head and shoulders pressed against the cold brick wall. He pushed himself up on his feet and drew his Glock.

  The silhouette dissolved into the darkness. ‘I’m going to burn you, Jack. I’ll watch you dance for a while. If you’re lucky, I might put you out of your misery before it gets too bad. If you’re lucky.’

  Lennon aimed at the voice, trying to fix its position among the cellar’s reverberations.

  There, a spark in the black, the killer’s face illuminated for an instant. Lennon’s finger tightened on the trigger. The spark again, but this time the match caught, throwing its yellowy glow just far enough for the killer to see the pistol aimed at his forehead.

  Lennon’s Glock boomed as the killer ducked, the noise filling every corner and crack of the cellar. Lennon followed the match’s fall with his eyes. The flame sputtered before it caught the vapours from the can. Lennon threw his body to the ground as the heat surged around him and the killer screamed.

  94

  O’Driscoll said, ‘We should get you out of here.’

  Fegan watched O’Kane chew his lip, possibilities flickering across the old man’s face, his eyes darting around the room. The heat in Fegan’s ear pulsed as warmth spread down his neck and over his shoulder. A hard line of pain ran along his cheek. He tasted the blood at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Maybe we should get you to your room,’ O’Driscoll said. ‘Out of harm’s way, like. Just till yer man’s sorted things out.’

  O’Kane glowered. ‘Don’t talk tome like I’m a child, for fuck’s sake. This is the one thing I want. This is all I want. Don’t fucking chicken out on me now. Don’t turn tail like every other bastard.’

  O’Driscoll stepped away from Fegan, but kept a grip on his arm. ‘But, Christ, anything could be happening. You pay me to watch out for you and that’s what I’m doing. Now come on, we need to get you out of here and locked in your—’

  ‘Every one of you fuckers is the same,’ the Bull said, his voice cracking between high and low. ‘Them bastards in the North, they left me hanging. Everyone else abandoned me. Now you’re going to do the same?’

  O’Driscoll held onto Fegan’s sleeve as he took another step towards O’Kane. ‘Jesus, no, Bull, I just want to make sure you’re safe, that’s all. I’m not going anywhere.’

  Fegan’s instincts flew, measuring the strength of O’Driscoll’s grip, the distance between the men, the angles of their bodies, their centres of balance. He registered these calculations only as impulses, flashes in his brain before the act. But the act did not come. He suppressed it, a deeper and more trusted instinct telling him it wasn’t yet time to move.

  O’Kane jabbed his thick forefinger at Fegan. ‘I’m not going anywhere till that fucker’s dead.’

  ‘You want me to do him?’ O’Driscoll asked.

  ‘No.’ O’Kane shook his head and met Fegan’s stare. ‘Bring him here.’

  ‘There isn’t time,’ O’Driscoll said. ‘We need to—’

  O’Kane’s face reddened. ‘I said bring him here.’

  The men led Fegan forward. He did not resist.

  ‘On his knees,’ O’Kane said.

  O’Driscoll placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder and pushed down. When Fegan didn’t submit, he kicked the back of his knee. Fegan went down hard, his kneecap cracking on the parquet flooring. The plastic sheeting rustled as the other knee followed.

  O’Kane leaned forward in his wheelchair. ‘You could’ve killed me back there in that barn near Middletown. You had me at your feet. I was helpless as a pup, and you had a gun in your hand. Why didn’t you do it?’

  ‘Because I had no reason,’ Fegan said. ‘I was merciful.’

  ‘Merciful?’ O’Kane shook his head. You’re not making any more sense than you did back then, Gerry. Are the people still in your head? Are they still telling you what to do?’

  ‘I left them back there,’ Fegan said. ‘When I killed McGinty.’

  ‘McGinty was a cunt.’ O’Kane stretched a hand towards O’Driscoll. O’Driscoll placed a small semi-automatic pistol in it. It looked like a Walther PPK to Fegan. ‘Not too many missed that bastard after he died. I sure as fuck didn’t. You know, the politicians wanted me to let it go. They wanted the mess cleaned up, fair enough, but they didn’t see the sense in going after you. They said I should let it lie. But they don’t know you. They don’t know what you did to me. They don’t know how I haven’t slept a single night since then. I won’t live another fucking day with you in the world.’ He breathed hard as he pulled back the slide assembly to chamber a round. ‘So I told them, I says, I’m going after Gerry Fegan and that’s all there is to it.’

  O’Kane pressed the Walther’s muzzle against Fegan’s forehead.

  O’Driscoll shifted his feet, loosened his grip on Fegan’s shoulder. ‘Jesus, what’s that? Do you smell that?’

  Ronan said, ‘Smell what?’

  ‘Smoke,’ O’Driscoll said. ‘Something burning.’

  O’Kane lowered the pistol. ‘A fire?’

  The image burst in Fegan’s mind, the dream that had haunted first his sleeping hours, then his waking: the child eaten by flames.

  His instincts aligned, a perfect sequence of movements and pressures and weights plotted in his mind before he was even aware of them, telling him now was the moment to act.

  95

  The Traveller clambered up the steps, choking on the smoke. He couldn’t quite believe how the fire had taken hold, how it had eaten everything around him in seconds. He had kept low, a handkerchief to his nose and mouth as he fought his way back to the steps. One side of his face glowed with a heat of its own where the initial bloom of fire had licked at him. He had been burned before, he knew this time wasn’t bad, but it had been close.

  The cop was lost among the flames. The Traveller glanced behind him as he reached the top step. Smoke, black and thick, under-lit in orange and red, curled up the stairwell. No way the cop could get through that. He fell against the door and dropped to the floor, gulping at the air, as a rush of heat came behind him.

  The Traveller coughed and retched as he crawled, his eyes streaming, his spit streaked with black when he ejected it from his mouth. He hauled himself to his feet and ran for the door leading back to the entrance hall. His sides ached with the coughing, and his head spun. The air out in the hall tasted sweet and clean. He closed the door tight behind him and leaned his back against it for a moment as he caught his breath. One last hacking cough to clear his chest, one last spit to clear his mouth, then he’d go to O’Kane, warn him to get out.

  He pushed himself away from the door and towards the staircase. His chest heaved as he climbed to the gallery and the room where he’d left O’Kane and the bleeding Fegan. As he reached the summit, the first gunshot came, and the first cry of panic and pain.

  96

  Fegan had never found it difficult, and he’d never wondered why. He simply did, and usually that was all it took. When O’Kane’s attention was off him, the Walther aimed somewhere over his shoulder, and O’Driscoll’s grip had loosened, Fegan moved.

  He got his hands under the wheelchair’s leg-rests, and pulled up hard. O’Kane managed a shot as he pitched backwards, but it caught Ronan’s upper chest. O’Driscoll tried to stop O’Kane’s fall, sacrificing his own
balance, and Fegan had his legs from under him with a sweep at his ankles, the slippery plastic sheeting denying him purchase.

  O’Kane landed hard on his back and rolled with the chair as it yawed to the side. He cried out when his injured leg hit the floor, tangled in the blanket.

  Fegan got to his feet before O’Driscoll could recover. O’Kane tried to haul himself across the floor to where the Walther had fallen. Fegan stepped around him and claimed the pistol for his own. A shot rang out and he felt the heat of the bullet scorching the air by his ear. He turned, slow and calm, aimed at Ronan’s raised head as the other tried to lift his own gun again. The Walther bucked in Fegan’s hand, and Ronan’s head jerked back.

  O’Driscoll scurried across the floor, making for the pistol in Ronan’s dead hand. Fegan put two in his back. O’Driscoll collapsed on top of Ronan’s legs, his shoulders shuddering. Fegan took the gun from Ronan’s hand and pushed it into his waistband. He went back to O’Kane.

  The Bull stared up at him, bubbling spit running from the corner of his mouth. ‘Bastard,’ he said.

  ‘Where are they?’ Fegan asked.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Fuck you, go ahead and kill me.’

  ‘No,’ Fegan said. ‘Not until you tell me where they are.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  O’Kane’s left leg, the one that had taken the bullet months before, lay outstretched on the floor, no bend at the knee. Fegan put his foot just above the joint, where the bullet had hit. He settled his weight on it.

  O’Kane screamed.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ O’Kane said.

  As Fegan put his weight on O’Kane’s knee once more, the sound of the double doors behind spun him around. The Walther was up and aimed before Fegan was conscious of the movement, his finger tight on the trigger before the Traveller could raise his own gun. Fegan had just enough time to register the scorched skin and singed hair before the Walther barked, the shot going wide as the Traveller ducked.