Collusion

by Stuart Neville

  ‘That not enough, Murphy.’

  ‘Please, Pyè, I don’t got it. Please, no more.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Pyè said. He grabbed Murphy’s hair, forced his head back to expose the throat. He drew back the knife, ready to open Murphy’s jugular.

  Murphy said, ‘Please don’t.’

  Pyè put his shoulder behind the blade.

  Fegan leaned across the back of the chair and grabbed Pyè’s wrist. ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  Pyè stared at Fegan. ‘What you do, Gerry?’

  ‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè tried to pull his wrist free, but Fegan held firm. Murphy shrunk away from the blade. Pyè tried to prise Fegan’s fingers from his wrist. ‘Let go,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Fegan said. He pushed down and to the side, taking Pyè’s balance.

  Murphy slid to the floor and crawled away, blood trailing behind him. He craned his neck to watch Pyè and Fegan struggle.

  Pyè grabbed Fegan’s throat with his free hand, the chair still between them. Fegan kneed the back of it, taking Pyè’s feet from under him. The Haitian fell forward and lost his grip on Fegan’s throat. Fegan smashed his forearm across Pyè’s jaw. Pyè’s head rocked to the side, and he blinked. Fegan shifted his weight, taking Pyè’s body with him, and the Haitian slumped to the floor, his eyes blank. Fegan took the knife from his fingers.

  ‘Stick him, Gerry,’ Murphy hissed. ‘Fucking stick him.’

  Fegan looked up from the blade.

  Murphy lay in his own blood, hate and fear on his face as it dripped out of him. ‘Go on, stick that motherfucker.’

  ‘No,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè moaned and blinked. His eyes focused on Fegan and the knife. He gasped and scrambled backwards.

  ‘Get out of here,’ Fegan said. ‘Tell the Doyles I won’t do their dirty work.’

  ‘They kill you, Gerry.’ Pyè wiped blood from his lip.

  ‘Maybe,’ Fegan said. ‘Go on, get out.’

  Pyè got to his feet. He opened and closed his mouth, worked his jaw from side to side. ‘For him?’ he asked, looking at Murphy. He shook his head. ‘Doyles right. You a crazy motherfucker.’

  ‘Go,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè walked towards the door. He paused at Murphy’s side. ‘Soon,’ he said.

  Murphy crawled away from him.

  Pyè turned in the doorway. ‘See you round, Gerry.’

  Fegan stayed silent and watched him leave. In the quiet, he became aware of Murphy’s ragged breathing.

  ‘Thank you, Gerry,’ Murphy said as he struggled towards the telephone.

  ‘That’s not my name,’ Fegan said. He crossed to the telephone, lifted it, and placed it on the floor by Murphy’s bloodstained hand. ‘Call an ambulance,’ he said.

  He left Murphy alone and bleeding.

  20

  Lennon stood waiting in the hallway of the terraced house when the forensics team arrived from Carrickfergus at first light. They picked over Quigley’s corpse first while the photographer took daylight shots of the boy in the yard. Lennon’s eyes were dry and hot as he watched from the kitchen window. He’d gone home for a couple of hours, but sleep had eluded him.

  He looked at the boy’s body, his face turned up to the sky, the tarpaulin that covered the yard overnight pulled back to let the light in. The acute angle of his neck suggested the blow to his head hadn’t killed him. Seventeen or eighteen, nineteen at most. He wore a tracksuit and Nike trainers, most likely fakes bought at a market stall somewhere. Chances were he was from the neighbourhood. He probably made a point of carrying no identification, but they’d know who he was before long. Some mother would find her son’s bed had not been slept in, and when the talk of a youth’s dead body lying in a yard nearby reached her, she would know. When she came running to Quigley’s door, he would deal with her.

  The photographer came back into the kitchen. He brought the camera to Lennon and showed him the little screen. ‘Look,’ he said, scrolling through the images. ‘Here.’

  The image showed a knife in the boy’s hand, tucked beneath him. Lennon looked out the window again. The body obscured the weapon.

  ‘The killer didn’t get far,’ the photographer said. ‘Looks like he slipped and fell bad.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lennon said. ‘He’s lying on his left side, but his back and his right’s dirty too. Look where his head is. He didn’t break his neck and roll over.’

  ‘Who’s to say where that dirt came from?’ the photographer said.

  ‘We’ll let forensics have a look before we jump to any conclusions. Have printouts of those on DCI Gordon’s desk as soon as you can.’

  ‘Will do,’ the photographer said as he headed for the living room.

  Lennon went to the back door and scanned the yard, taking in every piece of litter, every puddle. A layer of scummy green algae covered the concrete, a muddle of footprints just visible on the surface. They could be anybody’s from the old woman’s to her dead son’s, from the boy to the doctor who confirmed him dead. The rain that had fallen before the tarpaulin could be raised dulled them all the more. Useless.

  ‘It’s too perfect,’ Lennon said to himself.

  His mobile rang. He answered it.

  ‘Something interesting just turned up,’ DCI Gordon said.

  ‘Same here,’ Lennon said.

  ‘You go first,’ Gordon said.

  Lennon told him about the knife the photographer had spotted.

  ‘Well that’s that, then,’ Gordon said. ‘Almost.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘The duty officer at North Queen Street logged a report that two officers broke up a fight between rival gangs at the interface between the Lower Ormeau and Donegall Pass. They chased some of the youths along the Lower Ormeau. The kids split up, and the officers followed two of them into the alley behind Quigley’s house. That’s where they lost them.’

  ‘Did they get descriptions?’ Lennon asked, stepping aside to let one of the forensics team past.

  ‘Vague, but probably enough. Both males, mid-to-late teens, short dark hair, both slender, both wearing tracksuits and trainers. One of them, the taller of the two, wore an Adidas tracksuit and Nike trainers. Sound familiar?’

  Lennon looked at the boy’s body. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Mind you,’ Gordon said, ‘there are plenty of Adidas and Nike fans in this part of the world. It’d be quite a coincidence, though.’

  A fucking huge one,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Language,’ Gordon scolded. ‘But of course that means—’

  Lennon finished the thought. ‘There was another kid here.’

  ‘As soon as the body’s identified, I want every single person that lad ever knew interviewed. Clear?’

  ‘Clear,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Good,’ Gordon said. He hung up.

  ‘Inspector?’ a voice called from behind.

  Lennon turned.

  A constable leaned in from the living room. ‘You’d better come out front.’

  Lennon followed him through the living room where most of the forensics team still examined Quigley’s body, and out to the hall. It was early yet, and the air outside had an autumn chill. A thin crowd gathered on the street, children and women hoping for a glance at a body.

  One woman stood apart, her path blocked by a policeman. She was barefoot with a dressing gown held loose around her. Her hands shook as she stared at Lennon, her mouth open, her eyes full of dread and hope.

  Lennon went to her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said as she collapsed in his arms.

  21

  The Traveller lay on his stomach, the sheets bunched at his feet. He couldn’t get comfortable. His left hand tingled; his fingers felt distant, like they were attached to someone else’s hand. The old bitch had missed any big veins, but the Traveller feared she’d done something to his nerves. He’d heard about that sort of thing, how all the nerves were joined together, and injury to one part of the body could have repercussions for
another.

  Same thing with that lump of Kevlar they’d taken out of his brain. The Traveller remembered little of the moments leading up to the explosion, only fragments of images, the wires coming into view as he’d pulled the sheets of rusted corrugated iron aside, the idea that he might die. After that, waking up in some dirty foreign hospital, unable to remember his name, unable to speak. He’d spent months there being poked and prodded. They showed him the piece of his helmet that had wound up inside his head. Who would think a little piece of plastic could take so many things away from him? Everything was connected. So, the tingling in his fingers bothered him.

  If he’d been able to read, he’d have looked it up on the hotel room’s Internet connection. The foreign girl at reception told him he could get the Internet through the telly when he checked in yesterday. That had been before he headed out to see Quigley. She’d watched him when he came back in, doing his best to hide the stiffness in his arm. The Traveller smiled at her as he passed. When he got to the lift, he turned and studied the floor in case he’d left any blood in his trail. None, thank Christ.

  He stared at the shaft of light at the centre of the drawn curtains. How come hotel room curtains never closed properly? The light hurt his head, so he screwed his eyes shut. He rolled onto his right side, and the movement caused his left upper arm to flare in distress.

  ‘Fucking old bitch cunt bastard fucking shite-licking arse-fucker,’ the Traveller said. He’d thought Mrs Quigley was too soft in the head to be a problem. A fucking knitting needle, for Christ’s sake.

  The wound hadn’t bled that much, really, but it hurt like holy fuck. He wondered for a crazy moment if he should go to another hospital, let them look at it, see if she’d done any real damage. He could give another false name. He’d done it before. But those had been emergencies where one risk outweighed the other. This just hurt.

  The Traveller threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. No use in lying there, wallowing in the pain and tingling and anger. He twisted his arm to see the wad of toilet paper he’d taped to the small pinhole of a wound. A blotch of dark red was all the paper showed for the pain, but a fucker of a bruise had begun to spread out from it. He’d seen it before, just the once. A stupid bastard called Morgan had got stabbed by his wife with a knitting needle. A peculiar thing, it was. The shape of the needle meant the wound sealed shut almost completely, letting little blood seep out. But the damage was done, the bleeding hidden beneath the skin. Morgan had almost died. The Traveller had finished the job with a screwdriver a week later. The wife’s father had paid him well for the job.

  He turned the bedside clock so he could see it better. Coming seven forty-five. Traffic noise rose up from University Street. He would have preferred a better class of hotel, maybe a nice little boutique place, or that new Hilton over by the Waterfront theatre, but this one offered more privacy. It was a cheap chain hotel, the kind of place sales reps and those too drunk to drive themselves home would stay in. Normally he would have slept deep and well, but the hole in his arm put an end to that. The Traveller wondered for a moment what he’d do with the early morning. It didn’t take long to decide, even if he knew it would cause some annoyance. He picked up the mobile, thumbed in the password, and dialled.

  ‘What?’ Orla O’Kane answered.

  ‘It’s me,’ the Traveller said.

  ‘What the fuck do you want this time of the morning?’ she asked. ‘I’m not even out of bed yet.’

  ‘Were you asleep?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t sleep too well.’

  The Traveller twisted his back, trying to find somewhere for his left arm that didn’t hurt like a bastard. ‘I know the feeling,’ he said.

  After a short pause, Orla asked, ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘Tell me about Gerry Fegan,’ the Traveller said.

  ‘My father told you about him already,’ she said. ‘You’d find out some more if you could read the fucking files he gave you.’

  ‘Tell me about him,’ the Traveller repeated.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Quigley talked about him last night,’ the Traveller said. ‘He talked about him like he was something …’

  ‘Something what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The Traveller thought hard about his words. ‘He talked about him the way my ma used to talk about charms, and spirits, and seventh sons of seventh sons. The old stuff, you know? Quigley had this look on his face when he talked about this Fegan fella. Like he was something else. Something … other.’

  Orla sounded very tired. ‘Listen, if you don’t think you’re up to the job, tell me now. We’ll pay you for what you’ve done so far and call it quits. We need a solid man on this, not someone who gets the fear because he hears some stories.’

  ‘No,’ the Traveller said. ‘I’m sound. I just want to know who I’m going after. When we draw him out, when I take him on, I want some notion what he’s made of.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘Gerry Fegan is the only man ever struck my father and lived, and he did that when he was a teenager. He’s a killer, just like you. I’ll tell you the truth, if you can take it.’

  The Traveller stopped picking at the wad of tissue over the wound in his arm. ‘Yeah, I can take it.’

  ‘If I tell you this, there’s no going back. It’s final. You either see this job through or there’s a price on your head. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I understand,’ the Traveller said.

  Orla O’Kane sighed. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you can kill Gerry Fegan. I don’t know if any man can. You’re right, from what my father says, he’s something other. He watched him walk out of a gunfight that left four men dead and my father gut-shot, and Fegan didn’t have a scratch on him. He just walked away. I’ll tell you something now, and if you repeat it, I’ll find out. And if I find out you repeated it, I’ll send every man we’ve got after you. Are you ready for me to tell you?’

  The Traveller said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gerry Fegan is the only man alive my father is afraid of.’

  For a moment the Traveller thought of some glib response, that he wasn’t afraid of anyone, even if the Bull was. He thought better of it. Yeah?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Orla said. ‘My father made a bargain with him that day. He said he’d leave Fegan and Marie McKenna in peace if Fegan let him live. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My father is Bull O’Kane, for Christ’s sake. The Bull. The cops, the British Army, the SAS, MI5, the fucking UVF, the UDA, every fucker out there that ever stood against him. He never bowed to any of them. But he begged Gerry Fegan for his life. Like a fucking whining dog, he begged Fegan not to kill him.’

  The Traveller sat silent, unsure how to respond to Orla’s confession.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ she asked.

  Yes,’ the Traveller said.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  ‘No,’ the Traveller said, honestly.

  ‘I can’t allow a man my father is afraid of to live. It’s as simple as that. Now listen to me carefully. I’ve made a confession to you I’ve never made to another living soul. I’ve made that confession because I think you’re the only man who stands a chance against Fegan. Your life comes down to a couple of choices. You kill Fegan, or Fegan kills you. That’s all that’s left for you now. There’s no walking away. Not any more.’

  The Traveller swallowed and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll—’ He stopped talking when he realised the phone was dead.

  22

  Fegan needed the passport. He wasn’t going to flee the country yet, but he had to get out of New York. No question, Pyè would have run straight to the Doyles, and they’d have sent their boys to Fegan’s building. But would they be here yet? He had to assume as much.

  He clung to the steel slats, his shoulder pressed to the closed shop-front, as he peeked around the corner to Ludlow Street where the bui
lding’s reinforced door waited for his key. Nothing stirred. The Chinese catering supply businesses stood silent beneath their awnings, graffiti-scarred shutters closed tight. Fegan examined the cars parked nose to tail along the street, looking for silhouetted heads and shoulders, a reflection in a wing mirror, anything. The dark hollows of the doorways revealed nothing. But they could be there, waiting, whether he saw them or not.

  Wait, there. What looked like an old BMW, its passenger window cracked open. A wisp of cigarette smoke puffed out. Or was it a trick of his fatigued imagination?

  There, a movement, and more smoke.

  Fegan cursed. The building had a back entrance, but it was heavily fortified and only opened from the inside. If the Doyles’ boys were smart, they’d have it guarded. But unless they were very smart, it would be only one or two men. If Fegan could take them, he might be able to use the fire escape to reach his apartment.

  He retreated along Hester Street, past the store and the coffee shop, until he found the alley that cut back to the rear of his building. Corrugated iron gates sealed it shut. The super, Mr Lo, kept his decrepit old Ford Taurus parked behind them. Fegan had never seen it move.

  The gates were decorated with a crudely painted Stars and Stripes, with NO PARKING sprayed across the white and red. A metal frame surrounded them with a bar running across the top. Fegan jumped, but he couldn’t reach the bar.

  A garbage bin stood outside the coffee shop. A chain tied the lid to the shop’s shutter frame, so he lifted it off and lowered it to the sidewalk as slow and easy as he could. He tipped the bin over, careful of any rubbish that might clatter as he emptied it onto the ground, then carried it back to the gates. Fegan climbed on top and reached up for the bar. He hauled himself up, threw a leg over the top, and let his weight carry him over. The smell of motor oil reached him as he dropped to the ground.

  The car’s windscreen reflected the dim orange light that crept in from the street. Fegan squeezed past, wondering how Mr Lo ever opened the doors to get inside. He worked his way towards the back corner and rounded it as darkness swallowed him. His feet picked through litter as he skirted the dumpsters. He moved slow, seeking human forms in the black, breathing shallow to stay—