The apartment door opened and closed.
‘Give her a minute to clean up,’ Roscoe said.
You boys talk amongst yourselves,’ Lennon said. ‘About what’s going on. Who’s doing what to who, that sort of thing.’
Aye,’ Roscoe said. ‘But like I said, I’m not touting for you. You’re a good friend to have, Jack, but don’t push your luck.’
‘Michael McKenna,’ Lennon said. ‘Paul McGinty, too. What do you reckon to all that? The inquiry said it was a feud, all internal stuff. You ever hear anything different?’
Roscoe smiled. ‘That was a good week,’ he said. ‘My auld da used to say the only good taig was a dead taig. Lot of good taigs that week. No offence, like.’
‘None taken,’ Lennon said.
Roscoe’s mobile phone beeped. He picked it up and thumbed a button. ‘She’s ready for you,’ he said.
Lennon got to his feet and walked to the door.
‘There was one weird thing came of it all,’ Roscoe said.
Lennon stopped in the doorway. ‘What was that?’
‘That lawyer, Patsy Toner,’ Roscoe said. ‘They said he lent that bent cop his car, and the cop wound up getting his head took off. They said it was mistaken identity, said the dissidents meant to get Toner. But then the dissidents blew themselves up, problem solved, everything gets back to normal.’
Lennon walked back to Roscoe. ‘And?’
‘Patsy Toner’s a regular with one of my girls. She says he’s in pieces. He still comes to see her, but he can’t manage anything. She’s tried handjobs, blowjobs, stuck her finger up his arse, everything she can think of. Not a fucking thing.’
‘I could’ve done without that image,’ Lennon said.
‘Me too,’ Roscoe said, his lip curling. ‘But you hear worse in my line of work.’
Lennon leaned on the back of Roscoe’s chair. ‘I’m sure you do, but what’s your point?’
Roscoe shrugged. ‘Might be nothing, but she told me he turned up pissed off his face one night. He was blathering about how it wasn’t over, they wouldn’t let it go, it was only a matter of time before they came for him.’
Lennon stood upright. ‘Is that right?’
Roscoe smiled. ‘Is what right? I didn’t tell you nothing.’ He turned back to his game. ‘I’m not touting for you. Now go and see that wee thing before she gets lonely.’
Lennon patted the other man’s muscled shoulder. ‘Thanks, Roscoe.’
He went back to the entrance hall. A thin streak of light reached across the carpet from the bedroom door. He rapped the wood with his knuckles, and the door opened. She had shoulder-length brown hair and smelled of strong soap.
‘Put a hundred on the dressing table, love,’ she said, her Scottish accent easing through her smile. ‘Then we’ll talk about the options. All right, sweetheart?’
Lennon forced himself to maintain eye contact. ‘Roscoe and me have an arrangement.’
She stood on tiptoe and called over his shoulder. ‘Roscoe?’
Roscoe’s voice came back from the living room. ‘Whatever he wants. I’ll sort you, don’t worry.’
Her face slackened for a moment, whether with contempt or sadness he couldn’t tell. Then it brightened, as if a light behind her eyes had switched on, and her lips parted in a smile that could cut glass. ‘Whatever you want, darling,’ she said.
17
Just a few months ago, Declan Quigley had saved Bull O’Kane’s life by dragging his huge bulk into a car and speeding to a hospital in Dundalk. Even so, O’Kane wanted Quigley gone. It wasn’t the Traveller’s place to question the Bull.
Quigley lived with his mother in a red-brick two-up-two-down off the Lower Ormeau. The Traveller circled the area around the house. He couldn’t park up and hope no one noticed him as he did at Marie McKenna’s place on Eglantine Avenue. This was a close-knit community. Any stranger would draw attention if they stayed in one place too long.
A gang of fifteen or so youths wandered from street to street, making their way towards the interface with the Loyalist-dominated Donegall Pass. Looking for a fight, the Traveller thought. They’d probably get it. He circled back towards Quigley’s street.
The mother was doting, the Bull said, didn’t know night from day. There was no need to touch her, even if she saw everything. The Bull had been quite clear on that point, and the Traveller intended to honour his promise.
He tucked the old Merc into a parking bay on the Ormeau Road, next to a fenced-off housing development where the sports ground used to be. It’d be a trek to Quigley’s house, but it was the most secluded place he could find to leave the car. He kept his head down as he walked along the main road, avoiding eye contact with the few people he passed.
The Traveller walked as far as the Ormeau Bridge before looping back along the river. He counted side streets as he made his way north. The Bull had told him how many. A police siren wailed somewhere towards Donegall Pass, followed by cheers. The youths had got their fight by the sound of it.
He ducked into the narrow alleyway that cut along the back of Quigley’s terrace. Seven houses along from the river end, the Bull had said. The Traveller kept tight to the wall and counted gates. He worked his way through the alley’s blackness, careful of his footing. Litter snagged his heels, old plastic bags and cigarette packets. He kicked an empty can and froze. Inside one of the houses, a dog barked at the clatter. When it settled, he started moving again.
A siren screamed along Ormeau Avenue. The Traveller saw a cop car flash past the far end of the alley. A moment later he heard the screeching of tyres and the whoops and laughter of breathless boys. He moved faster, reached Quigley’s back gate, pressed against the painted wood and found it open. As he slipped into the yard he kept his eyes on the far end of the alley. Two youths appeared there, their trainers skidding as they rounded the corner.
The Traveller eased back into the yard and pushed the gate closed. It stood as high as the wall, would keep him hidden, but it had no latch. He listened to the hammering of feet as the boys sprinted along the alley.
‘Quick, they’re coming!’ a voice said.
‘Fuck’s sake, hide!’ another said.
The Traveller heard hands slapping on wood as the boys tried the gates. Too late, he went to block Quigley’s, and the boys burst through.
He put the first one down with a blow to the temple, and the sound of skull meeting brickwork cut the boy’s cry short. The other slipped as he tried to halt his momentum and landed at the Traveller’s feet.
The Traveller swooped, threw him on his belly. Before the boy could scream, the Traveller had his throat in the crook of his elbow. The boy didn’t struggle long.
The Traveller got to his feet and pressed his back against the gate. Heavy footsteps trudged along the alley, accompanied by deeper voices and radio static.
‘No, they’re gone,’ one of the voices said.
A burst of static replied as the footsteps drew closer.
‘Christ knows,’ the voice said. ‘Balfour Avenue, probably.’
Wood rattled as the cops tried the gates. The Traveller leaned against the flaked paint, braced himself.
‘No chance,’ the voice said. ‘I’m not doing any more running tonight. I’m too old for this shit.’
The gate pushed against the Traveller’s back. Static crackled.
‘Up your arse,’ the voice on the other side of the wall said. ‘I’m going back to the car.’
The footsteps receded towards the Ormeau Road. The Traveller stooped down and checked if the boys were breathing. They both were, but the first one he’d hit was slick with blood. The other would wake before too long with a crushing headache. The Traveller had to get this done. He went to the back door and peered through the glass into the kitchen. An old woman in a dressing gown stood gazing at a biscuit tin, her lips moving as if she were trying to remember the words of a song.
He tried the handle, but the door was locked. The old woman looked up at the sound
. She approached the door and turned the key. She opened it and stared at the Traveller for a moment. ‘Bobby, love, where’ve you been?’ she asked.
‘Away,’ the Traveller said.
‘Away where?’
‘Just away,’ the Traveller said. ‘Can I come in?’
The old woman stepped back to let him enter. She stroked his arm as he passed. ‘You missed your tea, love.’
‘I had something when I was out,’ the Traveller said.
‘What did you have, love?’
‘Fish and chips,’ the Traveller said. He heard a television in the next room.
She slapped his arm. ‘You could’ve brought some back with you,’ she scolded.
‘They’d be cold,’ the Traveller said. ‘Where’s Declan?’
‘He’s watching the telly,’ the old woman said.
‘Ma?’ a slurred voiced called from the next room. ‘Ma! Who’re you talking to?’
‘It’s Bobby,’ the old woman said. ‘He’s home. He got fish and chips, but he never brought us any back.’
The Traveller went to the door and stepped through. Declan Quigley froze half out of the armchair facing the television.
‘How’re ya, Declan,’ the Traveller said. ‘Better sit down, there’s a good fella.’
The old woman followed behind. He turned to her and asked, ‘Any danger of a cup of tea?’
‘Surely, Bobby, love.’
‘Ta very much,’ the Traveller said. He watched her shuffle to the kitchen before he turned back to Quigley. ‘Who’s Bobby?’
Quigley sagged back into the chair. ‘My brother,’ he said, his voice shaking. A half-empty bottle of vodka and a glass sat on a side table next to him. ‘The Brits shot him twenty years ago. She thinks every man she meets is Bobby. Except me. Who are you?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ the Traveller said, taking a step towards him.
‘Jesus, I knew it wasn’t over,’ Quigley said. ‘When them three blew themselves up, then Kevin Malloy the other night. The news said it was a robbery, but I knew it was lies.’
The Traveller reached into his pocket.
Wait!’ Quigley held his hands up. ‘Wait a minute. I haven’t said a word to anyone. I know what happened, I saw the whole thing, I know all that stuff about a feud was bullshit. I could’ve gone to the papers and told them the truth. I could’ve made a fortune. I could’ve made enough to look after my mother. But I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut. There’s no call for this.’
The Traveller thought about arguing, explaining the nature of things to this man, but what was the point? He sighed and took the knife from his pocket. The blade opened with barely a sound. Best to do it quiet.
Quigley took a swig of neat vodka from the bottle and coughed. ‘There’s no call for it,’ he said, putting the bottle back on the table. ‘It’s not fair.’
The old woman’s voice shrilled from the kitchen. ‘Do you want a biscuit, Bobby, love?’
‘You have any Jaffa Cakes?’ the Traveller called back.
‘No, love. But I’ve got Penguins.’
‘Aye, that’ll do.’
Quigley seemed to shrink in the chair. ‘Christ, I’m tired,’ he said. ‘So tired. Maybe I should’ve run, but who’d look after my mother? So I’ve been sitting here waiting. I haven’t slept in months. I can’t eat. I’ve lost a stone and a half. I should’ve killed Gerry Fegan, you know. Or tried, anyway.’
The Traveller stopped. ‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I couldn’t,’ Quigley said. He started to cry. ‘I was too scared. He was too … big.’
‘Big?’
Quigley looked down at his shaking hands. ‘Like nothing could hurt him. Like nothing could stop him. Like if he set his mind to killing someone, then they were already dead. I’d never seen anything like it in my life.’ He looked up at the Traveller. ‘Until now. Promise me you won’t touch her.’
‘I won’t,’ the Traveller said.
Quigley stared hard at him. ‘Promise me.’
‘I won’t touch her,’ the Traveller said. ‘I swear to God.’
Quigley unbuttoned his shirt collar, pulled the fabric away from his throat, and laid his head back. ‘Make it quick,’ he said.
‘No, not the throat,’ the Traveller said. ‘You’ll piss blood everywhere. All over your ma’s carpet, up the walls, fucking everywhere. Just close your eyes. I’ll make it easy.’
Quigley’s head dropped, and he wept. Tears blotched his shirt. ‘What a fucking waste,’ he said.
‘Quiet, now,’ the Traveller said. ‘It’ll be quick, I promise. Close your eyes.’
Quigley squeezed the armrests and closed his eyes. His breath quickened. He whined. The Traveller switched his grip on the knife to underhand and leaned on the chair. Quigley inhaled, held his breath. The Traveller made one, two, three thrusts, burying the blade to the hilt each time before drawing it out again.
Quigley breathed out, his exhalation bubbling as it thinned. He coughed. A small red bloom, about the size of a rose, spread on his chest.
The old woman screamed ‘Bobby!’ and drove a knitting needle into the Traveller’s upper arm.
18
Lennon showered, the water hot as he could stand. He scrubbed himself pink and buried that hard little ball of filth so deep down inside himself he could barely feel it. It was always the same. He’d do it knowing he’d hate himself for it, and afterwards swear he’d never do it again. The burning guilt would last a day or so before he could wash it away and forgive himself.
He turned his mind from the Scottish law student, her sighs and moans and affection as transparent as her underwear. Instead, he thought about Roscoe Patterson’s words. Lennon knew Patsy Toner all too well. He’d interviewed many a thug with Patsy Toner in attendance. The slimy little shit called himself a human rights lawyer. The only human right Patsy Toner cared about was the right to get paid.
Lennon hadn’t seen Toner around the interview rooms and court hearings for quite some time. Logically, he could put it down to the killing of Brian Anderson. When the bent cop was found dead in Toner’s borrowed car, followed by the bloodbath near Middletown, the party moved swiftly to distance itself from the lawyer and the rest of Paul McGinty’s lackeys. Toner’s human rights work would naturally have dried up, but there were still plenty of petty hoods and lowlifes who needed representation. Party backing or not, Patsy Toner was a seasoned defence solicitor, well used to dealing with the PPS and the courts.
But no, Lennon couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the little lawyer and that stupid moustache of his. He’d make a point of looking him up.
Lennon shut the shower off and stepped out into the steamy bathroom. He towelled himself down and wrapped himself in a dressing gown. The en suite bathroom was small but beautifully appointed. It was one of the main features that sold him on the flat. That and the river view. He stepped into the bedroom, his head shrouded in the towel. The memory came to him as it always did: crying as a child when his mother dried his hair too roughly after bath time.
His mother.
It had been almost a month since he’d last gone to see her in the nursing home. Not that it made much difference to her. Maybe he’d go down to Newry tomorrow evening. Short notice, but the routine would work regardless. He would send a text message to his younger sister Bronagh stating the time he meant to call with their mother. He would receive no reply. If his time clashed with any other family member, they would quietly reschedule. It suited everybody to do it that way.
When Lennon’s mother had first heard a whisper that his brother Liam had joined the local boys, had volunteered for the cause, she had begged him to reconsider. She told him he’d wind up in prison, or worse, shot dead by the cops or the Brits.
Liam had smiled as she ranted, then he wrapped his arms around her, told her not to listen to rumours. He had no interest in fighting anyone. Sure, he had a job with a local mechanic, fixing farm machinery. He had a future. Why would he piss it away on such nonsen
se?
Lennon remembered Liam making eye contact with him over their mother’s quivering shoulder, and Lennon knew he was lying.
He also knew Liam was lying when he turned up with that black eye.
Lennon had been home from university a month, earning pennies in a local petrol station. The diesel the station sold was hooky stuff, stripped agricultural fuel from one of the plants that were hidden all over the countryside. Everyone knew Bull O’Kane ran them, but everyone knew to keep their mouths shut, even if their cars wound up with ruined fuel pumps from the bootleg diesel. It might cost a grand or more to fix a knackered engine, but opening your mouth to complain would cost you a lot more. It would signal you as a tout, and touts never came out of it well, if at all.
Liam had been breathless and cheery, but unscathed, when Lennon met him for a pint after the hurling match. But he didn’t argue when Liam arrived home in the early hours of the following morning with blood seeping from the welt under his eye and told their mother he’d caught a swipe from a hurling stick at the game.
Later, as birdsong began to drift into the bedroom the two brothers shared, Liamlay staring at the ceiling, his muscled forearms behind his head, his big chest rising and falling. Lennon watched him in the half-light, fear and love and resentment fighting for dominance of his heart. He jerked, startled, when Liam spoke.
‘I’m not a tout.’
‘What?’ Lennon sat up in his bed.
Liam’s voice quivered in his throat. ‘Whatever happens, whatever you hear, I’m no tout.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
Liam paused, then said, ‘Someone else is covering their tracks, laying it on me. If anything happens to me, you remember that. Tell Ma and the girls. Don’t say nothing to anyone else, though, or you’ll wind up in the shite yourself.’
‘I won’t,’ Lennon said. ‘But what’s going to happen?’
‘I don’t know,’ Liam said. ‘Maybe nothing. Probably nothing.’ He rolled over onto his side, his eyes glinting in the early light as they met Lennon’s. ‘Look, forget I said anything. I’m just blowing, all right?’
‘All right,’ Lennon said.
‘Listen, we’re all proud of you getting your degree. You stick at it, right? Get the master thing, whatever you call it, and the doctorate. You get out of this shit-hole and make something decent for yourself. You hear me?’
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