Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  Marie McKenna sprawled on a bed, her sweater soaked red, her skin grey. Ellen lay on the floor beside Fegan, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted.

  ‘Christ,’ Lennon said. ‘Christ, no.’

  He crawled towards Marie and took her hand. The chill went to his core, the skin of her fingers dry and papery. Lennon’s stomach turned on itself. He swallowed and forced his mind to focus, then reached over to Ellen, running the backs of his fingers across her cheek.

  Still warm.

  He pressed his ear to her chest. He tuned out everything, the crackling of the fire, the distant wailing of the smoke alarms, and listened. There, maybe, perhaps, a faint hint of a heartbeat.

  He looked up at Fegan. ‘I think—’

  Fegan sat forward.

  Lennon leaned down so his cheek was an inch from her mouth. The softest movement of air brushed his skin, sweet and warm.

  ‘She’s alive,’ he said.

  Fegan smiled. ‘Take her. Get out.’

  Lennon took Marie’s hand one more time, squeezed the cold fingers between his, and whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Go,’ Fegan said.

  Lennon gathered the child in his arms and stood up. ‘You can make it out. It’s only a few feet.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Fegan said. ‘I’m tired. I want to sleep. That was all I ever wanted. To sleep.’

  Lennon supported Ellen in one arm, and grabbed Fegan’s collar with his free hand. Fegan brushed it away.

  ‘No.’ He coughed and gasped. ‘For Christ’s sake, get out and let me sleep.’

  Lennon nodded and cradled Ellen. He turned and left Fegan in the room. The smoke in the corridor formed a solid wall now, and only a faint haze of light showed where the exit lay. He crouched as low as he could and made for it.

  The floor rushed at him before he was aware of the grip on his ankle. He broke the fall with his forearms, pain shooting up from his elbows, and barely avoided crushing Ellen.

  Big, hard hands grabbed at his legs, and Lennon couldn’t tell if they were clawing to escape, or trying to drag him back. He kicked out, his foot connecting with something huge and immovable before the hands seized him again.

  Lennon looked back as he struggled to free himself from their grip and saw Bull O’Kane’s blackened face, his eyes wide and wild, his teeth bared.

  The Bull screamed something as Lennon’s foot slammed into his jaw.

  101

  Fegan couldn’t be sure what got him moving. Had something shifted inside, telling him he wanted to live? Perhaps it was the fear of burning, though he knew the smoke would get him long before the flames. Whatever it was, it came with a burst of clarity, but something had preceded it. A shape in the swirling darkness, a woman with a baby in her arms, a woman with a soft, sad smile who had once shown him mercy. For a moment, he had thought she had come to welcome him to her place, wherever that was, but then she was gone and he wanted to move, tired as he was.

  His legs carried him out to the corridor as his hands sought the walls for support. He went for the light, but stumbled over something hard and angular. The Bull’s upended wheelchair, he realised as he untangled himself from it. As he crawled, he found a pair of legs, one stiff and unmoving, the other pushing at the floor.

  Fegan saw the broad back and heavy shoulders, the meaty hands clasping at something. He threw himself on Bull O’Kane’s back, snaked his arms around his huge chest, and pulled.

  The old man screamed as Fegan dragged him deeper into the black. The smoke tore at Fegan’s eyes and throat, but he kept pulling as O’Kane struggled. The clarity and strength that had come upon him in Marie’s dying room began to slip away, and he pulled harder again, O’Kane’s weight wrenching at his arms.

  O’Kane reached up, tried to find Fegan’s eyes. Instead, Fegan closed his teeth on the thick fingers and bit down. O’Kane squealed like a pig in an abattoir as the blood in Fegan’s mouth mixed with his.

  The heat grew until Fegan smelled burning hair and felt the skin on the back of his neck blister. Through the blackness he saw flames rise up from the stairwell behind him. He hauled O’Kane closer, fighting the rolling waves of fatigue and nausea, until he found the lip of the top step under his foot.

  O’Kane cried out as he saw the fire below piercing the smoke to illuminate them both. He reached up, trying to get hold of the railing, but Fegan turned his weight towards the drop. With one last push, he threw O’Kane down towards the flames, but the Bull’s fingers clasped at Fegan’s clothes. The world turned and tumbled, wooden steps rushing up to batter Fegan’s shoulders and ribs. His hand found the railing as O’Kane’s bulk carried him on through the smoke to the burning pit below. The fire swallowed the Bull along with his screams until the only sound was its own roar.

  Fegan willed his legs to move, his arms to drag him up the steps. He tried to breathe, but his ribs howled as they flexed, and he knew they were broken. Up above, through the smoke, there was light. He crawled towards it, pushing back against the pain until it evaporated. The light brightened as he climbed. How many steps had he fallen down? Surely not this many. The steps seemed to go on and on until he stopped counting them.

  Still he climbed until the light was everywhere, and he had forgotten everything he’d ever known except a golden day in Belfast, not so long ago, when Ellen McKenna held his hand.

  Fegan fell, hard wooden steps pressing against his cheek and his chest, soft as air. Sleep beckoned like warm arms. He listened, the whole wide world rushing past his ears.

  In a strange and simple realisation, he knew his heart had stopped. The whistling in his ears swelled and lightning flashed across his vision. Faces formed in the black river that raged about him, some kind and loving, others frightened and hateful. His mother passed among them, and he remembered the rocks by the Portaferry shore, her spinning in circles while his hands clung to hers, lighter than air, his feet free of the earth as they both giggled, and he grew dizzy and frightened, but the laughter was bigger, and they spun and spun and spun for so long he thought they would spin for ever, but then the lightning came again and that was all.

  Gerry Fegan met eternity with sun and salt air on his skin.

  102

  Lennon laid Ellen out on the grass, her pale face turned skyward. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed. He pinched her nose and covered her mouth with his. Her chest rose as he blew gently then fell as he took his mouth away. As he blew again he scrambled for the prayers his mother used to recite. This time Ellen coughed as the air escaped her. She gasped as she pulled more in, her back arching for a moment, then coughed again. Her eyelids fluttered but did not open. Her chest rose and fell of its own accord.

  He put his ear to her heart and heard it beat, pressed his cheek to hers, let her warmth meld with his. The last of his strength faded, and he collapsed to the grass beside her. He rolled onto his back and took her hand. Her fingers twitched between his. Fire leapt from the mansion’s upper windows. He knew grief lurked beneath the surface of his consciousness, but fatigue kept it submerged. It would have to wait.

  Smoke curled up into the blue. Crows circled through it, cawing their alarm to one another. The sirens came closer, but he never heard them arrive.

  103

  He crawled, pain driving him on. Light ahead, just feet away. His lungs screamed. Heat everywhere. Just the will to live.

  And the hate.

  He reached forward, grabbed floor, pulled.

  Hate.

  Hate can carry a man far.

  Far past the pain.

  Even when the mind has gone, hate can carry the body forward.

  Forward to the light.

  The light is cool, clear.

  Like a pool of clean water, waiting to soothe.

  One more foot.

  Six inches.

  One more inch.

  Air. Dear Christ, the air, so cool, so clean.

  Falling now.

  Oh God, the pain.

  Pain, pain, go away, come a
gain another day.

  The Traveller screamed.

  The Traveller breathed.

  The Traveller laughed.

  The Traveller crawled.

  EPILOGUE

  Ellen stared ahead, her hands wrapped together in her lap. She seemed so small on Lennon’s big leather couch. He’d paid a stupid amount for it. No, he’d borrowed a stupid amount for it. Now it looked ridiculous, along with all the rest of the crap he had spent years gathering around himself.

  He sat down opposite her.

  ‘Susan will be here soon,’ he said.

  Ellen did not respond.

  ‘She’ll bring Lucy with her. You like Lucy.’

  Ellen looked down at her hands. She made patterns with her fingers, as if communicating in some kind of sign language.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said. ‘Just a couple of hours. Then when I come back, we can watch a film. What’s that one you like? The one with the fish.’

  She folded her fingers together again and stared at a point behind Lennon. Her eyes followed something, as if tracking a person’s movement across the room.

  Today would be the last closed session of the inquiry. Dan Hewitt would take the stand and endorse Lennon’s record. Lennon had felt not the slightest shred of guilt in blackmailing him. No one need ever know that the wound to Hewitt’s leg had not been the result of an accidental discharge that occurred while cleaning his own personal protection weapon.

  Uprichard had taken Lennon aside a few days back and assured him the discipline would be light. He would likely drop a rank, but they might let him keep his pay grade. Anything to avoid a fuss, the Chief Inspector had said, unable to keep eye contact.

  The doorbell rang, pulling Lennon’s attention back to the present. He went to the door and opened it for Susan, the divorcee from the floor above, and her daughter Lucy. Lucy carried a bag full of toys. As on other occasions when she’d visited, she would leave without some of them, even though Lennon had bought Ellen plenty of her own. She seemed to favour toys that had been played with, the more worn the better, as if old laughter clung to them, waiting for her to share.

  ‘How is she?’ Susan asked.

  ‘Better,’ Lennon said. ‘Quiet, but better. She slept right through last night.’

  Susan smiled. ‘Good,’ she said as Lennon led them back to the living room.

  He stopped in the doorway, as did Susan. Lucy squeezed between them.

  Ellen stood in the middle of the room, her hands reaching up to touch something, her voice low and soft as she spoke to the air. She dropped her hands to her sides and fell silent when she realised she was not alone.

  Lennon went to her and crouched down. ‘Who were you talking to, love?’

  Ellen smiled for a second, mischief in her eyes, before her face went blank again. ‘No one,’ she said.

  ‘Lucy’s here,’ Lennon said. ‘Go and say hello, there’s a good girl.’

  She walked to her friend, her steps slow and deliberate. Lucy held the bag open for Ellen to inspect the contents, as if they were offerings.

  Lennon bent down to kiss the top of Ellen’s head. He had taken two steps away when she caught up with him and hugged his thigh, her head against his hip. She let go and returned to her friend Lucy. The two girls huddled together and whispered.

  It saddened him to be away from her, but he had to leave, trust Ellen to his neighbour’s keeping.

  She was safe.

  That was the most important fact in his world now, the one thing that made tomorrow better than yesterday, and he clung to it like a pillow in his sleep. His hand brushed Susan’s as he left, and her fingers flexed against his, warm and firm.

  Ellen was safe.

  Lennon entered the lift, hit the button for the ground floor. It would be a hard day, questions upon questions, even if they skirted the hardest truths. But he’d get through it because he knew this one thing.

  She was safe.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Once again, many people have helped in bringing this book to publication, and I’d like to thank just a few of them:

  Nat Sobel, Judith Weber and all at Sobel Weber Associates for being the best agency a writer could hope for.

  Caspian Dennis and all at Abner Stein Ltd for all their work on the home front.

  Geoff Mulligan, Briony Everroad, Alison Hennessey, Kate Bland and all at CCV for their hard work and support.

  Bronwen Hruska, Justin Hargett and Ailen Lujo at Soho Press for going many, many extra miles for me. And to the memory of Laura Hruska, who will be sadly missed.

  Betsy Dornbusch, who continues to be a far better friend than I deserve, as well as Carlin, Alex and Gracie for welcoming me into their home.

  Shona Snowden, whose insight always helps.

  Juliet Grames for her excellent advice, and showing me a different side of New York, complete with karaoke.

  David Torrans and all at No Alibis, Botanic Avenue, Belfast, for being the best bookshop on the face of the planet.

  James Ellroy for dispelling the notion that you shouldn’t meet your heroes, as well as all the other great authors I’ve met over the last couple of years. They are far too numerous to mention.

  Craig Ferguson for giving me such a boost in the US, and for being very sweary.

  Hilary Knight for her wonderful PR services.

  Gerard Brennan, Declan Burke, and all the bloggers and online reviewers who have shown tremendous support since the very start. Again, they are far too numerous to mention by name, but you know who you are.

  Ruth Dudley Edwards for being generally excellent.

  Jo, for making everything better.

  Finally, two books have helped enormously in writing this one. They are Policing the Peace in Northern Ireland: Politics, Crime and Security after the Belfast Agreement by Jon Moran (Manchester University Press) and More Questions than Answers: Reflections on a Life in the RUC by Kevin Sheehy (Gill & Macmillan).

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  Stuart Neville

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