Collusion

by Stuart Neville

  They said nothing, lying there, holding each other. When they separated he saw she was crying. With his fingertip he traced the path the tears had taken.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘We proved the point, didn’t we?’

  ‘What point?’

  She got out of bed and wrapped herself in her dressing gown. ‘That we can go through the motions when we have to.’

  He watched her leave for the bathroom and felt suddenly ashamed to be naked.

  It had been a grey day, cold outside, half-hearted raindrops on the window. Six weeks gone, she told him. Maybe this would bring them back together, she said. Maybe this would heal the rift that had grown between them. He had smiled and took her in his arms, told her everything would be all right, even as the panic bloomed in his gut.

  He could no more be a father than he could a surgeon or a priest. He would fail. He would let his child down, just like his own father had. Still, he held Marie close, his soul crumbling as he lied to her.

  *

  Lennon stirred and remembered where he was. A breeze leaked in through the Audi’s open door, cool air exploring a deserted street. Something snagged his attention, a movement at the periphery of his vision. He turned his head and saw an old Peugeot 306 pull in to the kerb in front of his car. Its engine grunted and wheezed, struggling to cope with the power forced upon it by boy-racer modifications. Its suspension had been lowered, alloy wheels and low-profile tyres fitted. Its rear windows were blacked out and a dark band obscured almost half of the front windscreen. Lennon could make out three forms inside, all wearing Rangers football shirts.

  He considered easing his legs back into the Audi, pulling his door shut. His anger wouldn’t let him. He watched the three of them climb out of the Peugeot. They wore trainers and tracksuit bottoms, just like the boy whose body Lennon had inspected in a backyard less than a mile from this spot. But that might as well have been a different planet; in life, that boy was as alien to these youths as prey is to a spider, even though they dressed and spoke the same. Just different coloured shirts, that was all.

  The driver was the leader. Lennon watched him closest of all.

  ‘’Bout ya,’ the driver said.

  His friends flanked the Audi, eyeing it as they passed on either side.

  Lennon said nothing.

  ‘You lost?’ the driver asked.

  ‘No,’ Lennon said.

  ‘What you doing here?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ Lennon said.

  The driver’s friends reached the Audi’s rear. One of them leaned on the boot, ran his hands along the back, looking for the release to open it.

  ‘Where you from?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Somewhere else,’ Lennon said. ‘Tell your mate to take his hands off my car or I’ll break his fucking face.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  The driver snorted. ‘Here, Darren? C’mere!’

  Lennon let one hand slip inside his jacket, released the catch.

  Darren lumbered around from the back of the Audi. He was tall and heavy-set, with red cheeks beneath pig-like eyes and a blond crew cut. ‘What?’

  The driver pointed at Lennon. ‘He says he’s going to break your face if you don’t leave his motor alone.’

  Darren put a hand on the Audi’s roof and leaned down to Lennon, his breath smelling of the cheap fortified wine all these toe-rags drank. ‘You what?’

  ‘Get your dirty hands off my car or I’ll kick your face in,’ Lennon said. ‘You and your mates. Now fuck off.’

  ‘Your car?’ Darren asked. He pulled a knife from his pocket. ‘This is my car. Now get the fuck out of it.’

  In one smooth motion, Lennon seized Darren’s wrist with his left hand and pressed the Glock 17 beneath his chin, the Glock 17 that had been in his right hand since the driver had first called his friend over.

  ‘Drop the knife, you stupid fat fucker,’ Lennon said.

  Warm liquid splashed on Lennon’s ankles as a dark stain spread on Darren’s tracksuit bottoms. The knife clanked on the kerb and disappeared beneath the Audi. The driver sprinted for the Peugeot. The third youth called after him, ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  The Peugeot’s overburdened engine coughed into life, and its tyres screeched as they fought to put the power down on the road. It roared away from the kerb, barely missing the Audi. Lennon followed it with his eyes until it disappeared around the corner.

  Darren cried. The other youth came closer, saw the pistol, and ran like hell.

  ‘Just you and me, then, Darren,’ Lennon said.

  Darren whimpered. He smelled of stale sweat and fresh urine.

  ‘You and your mates,’ Lennon said. ‘I suppose you’d call yourselves Loyalists, right?’

  Darren didn’t answer. Lennon pressed the Glock’s muzzle harder into the loose flesh beneath his chin.

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Darren said.

  ‘Funny, that,’ Lennon said. ‘Your mates don’t seem too loyal. Tell me, who are you loyal to?’

  Darren’s nose dripped snot on Lennon’s sleeve. Lennon pushed the muzzle deeper into his flesh until the pressure against his windpipe made the stocky kid cough.

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Darren said, his voice a watery croak.

  ‘Are you loyal to your friends? Your family? Your neighbours?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Darren said.

  ‘Shit-bags like you,’ Lennon said. You steal off your own people, you intimidate them, you keep them quiet with your threats and all this bullyboy shit. You don’t give a fuck about anything but trying to be the big men, lining your pockets, leeching off your own community. And you can call yourselves Loyalists because the arse-wipes who should be keeping you in line haven’t got the brains or the balls to do it. And people wonder why the Republicans ran rings around your lot all these years.’

  ‘Please,’ Darren whined.

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Please don’t shoot me.’

  Pity and contempt and anger fought one another in Lennon’s gut. ‘Give me one good reason.’

  Darren’s mouth opened and closed as he searched for something that could save his life. ‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ he said, his face contorting like a child desperate to escape punishment.

  ‘Sorry for what?’ Lennon asked.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Darren said.

  Lennon’s laughter died in his mouth, dry like paper. ‘Cunts like you made sure there was no one left around here to go to the cops, to speak up. No one sees anything, no one hears anything. You know what that means?’

  Darren shook his head as best he could. His trembling grew to a crescendo, his weight pressing harder against Lennon’s grip. His legs would go soon, Lennon could sense it.

  ‘It means I could blow what little brains you have all over that wall, and no fucker would know a thing about it. Nobody to hear it, nobody to see it. And do you think your mates would stick their necks out and go to the cops?’

  Darren sniffed a line of snot back up his nose. ‘No,’ he said. His weight shifted forward, and Lennon pushed him back.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

  Darren stumbled backwards until he hit the wall. He stared at Lennon, his chest heaving, his eyes wide.

  ‘Go on, fuck off,’ Lennon said as he tucked the Glock away.

  Darren retreated, shambling at first, then gathering speed. When he was ten feet away, he put his head down and sprinted as fast as his bulk would allow. He didn’t get far before he tripped and landed face first on the pavement. Lennon grimaced as the boy puked. Darren picked himself up and lurched off again.

  Arsehole,’ Lennon whispered to himself as the boy rounded the corner. ‘Fucking stupid arsehole.’

  He couldn’t be sure if he meant himself or Darren.

  36

  The Traveller shut off the taps when the water reached the overflow. Its surface rippled as
the last drops hit. He dipped his hand below the surface. Cold. He stood up from the edge of the bathtub and turned out the light. There was just enough room behind the door for him to stand unseen.

  How long could he stand in one place? The longest had been almost four hours, in the corner of an accountant’s office. He didn’t even have to touch the poor fucker; the accountant keeled over, his heart stopped dead in his chest, at the sight of the Traveller rushing at him from out of the shadow. Easy kill, but the waiting had been a bastard.

  Could he wait more than four hours, standing still? He thought so. He rarely got bored. He wasn’t much of a thinker, but still, his mind could amuse itself for a long, long time. He could remember people he’d known, some he’d fucked, some he’d killed. He could think of Sofia and the baby he planned to give her.

  Instead, he thought about Gerry Fegan. The Bull had shown him a photograph. Fegan was thin and wiry, like the Traveller, with a hard, pointed face. He wondered how many Fegan had killed. There were the twelve he’d been put away for, and then that spree a few months ago. How many had that been? Four in the city, then two on the farm near Middletown – a British agent and the politician Paul McGinty. That made eighteen. The Traveller had killed twice as many, and more.

  Was he afraid of Fegan? Probably, but that was no bad thing. Orla O’Kane blustered about her father being scared of no man, except the great Gerry Fegan, but the Traveller knew it was just that: bluster. The man who feared nothing was the man looking to get himself killed. It was what you did with your fear that really counted. The Traveller turned his to anger and hate, things he could use to get the job done. And the job was more important than anything.

  The Traveller closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and waited.

  An hour, maybe a little more, passed before he heard the bleep of the keycard in the slot, followed by the clunk of the lock opening. He listened hard, pictured Patsy Toner entering and closing the door behind him.

  The little lawyer breathed hard as he crossed the room, his feet dragging on the cheap carpet. The Traveller heard the rustling of fabric as he removed clothing, probably his jacket, then the thumps of his shoes being kicked off. The mattress groaned. A lighter sparked, air was sucked in and blown out. A few moments later, the Traveller caught the bitter stink of a cigarette. Then sobbing, dry and pitiful, the sound of the wounded and dying. The Traveller knew it well. A deep, wet sniff, and then a cough. The creak of weight lifting from the mattress, the padding of socked feet on carpet.

  The bathroom light clicked on, and the Traveller squinted. From behind the open door, he heard the toilet lid lift, and Toner’s fly opening. He’d let the poor shite finish pissing before he moved, let him get his cock put away.

  ‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,’ Toner whispered to himself before he was rewarded with the thunder of water on water. He sighed, the sound of it hollow against the bathroom’s tiles. The Traveller smelled a sour blend of alcohol and tobacco. He listened to the last drops, then the rustling of fabric, the fly closing, and the toilet flush.

  Then a pause, followed by, ‘What the fuck?’

  The Traveller gently, quietly pushed the door back.

  Patsy Toner stared down at the bathtub full of water, his drunken eyes blinking as if it would make sense if he only tried a little harder. He turned his head and he saw the Traveller watching.

  ‘No,’ Patsy Toner said, his voice so small it was almost lost beneath the noise of the cistern filling.

  The Traveller let the anger and hate take control, let it push him forward, took his speed from it. Toner barely had time to raise his hands and grab the breath for a scream that never came. It died in his throat as the Traveller slammed his forehead into the mirror above the bath, leaving a bloody star on the cracked surface. Pieces of reflective glass dropped into the water, turning through the swirls of red.

  Toner’s legs left him, and the Traveller let the lawyer’s weight pull him head first into the water. He gripped the back of Toner’s neck with one hand, his wrist with the other.

  Nothing happened for a while, just spidery threads of crimson spreading out and dissolving among the bubbles.

  Then Toner jerked.

  Then Toner bucked.

  Then Toner screamed beneath the water.

  37

  ‘Bonjou, Gerry,’ Pyè said.

  Fegan put his half-eaten slice of toast back on the plate. Pyè slid into the booth beside him. The Doyles’ driver took a stool at the counter. It was early; only two others ate in the diner. A waitress dozed at a table.

  ‘You a bad man.’ Pyè wagged a finger at Fegan. ‘Real bad man. Ou moun fou, a crazy motherfucker. Doyles, they tell me all evil shit you do. You malad, in head.’ Pyè tapped his temple with his forefinger.

  Fegan wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘So what now?’

  You come with mwen,’ Pyè said. ‘Go see Doyles. They waiting in machin la.’ He jerked his thumb at the car idling outside, its windows darkened.

  Pyè slid out of the booth and put his hand on Fegan’s shoulder. ‘Come, Gerry.’

  Fegan put the napkin on his plate and pushed it away. ‘I’ll kill you all if I have to,’ he said.

  Pyè smiled. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe not. Come.’

  Fegan followed him out to the car, the driver coming behind. Pyè stopped and put a hand on Fegan’s chest. He slipped his hands around Fegan’s torso, feeling under his arms and behind his back.

  ‘I’m not armed,’ Fegan said. He’d left the gun he’d seized in the alleyway back at the motel.

  ‘Mwen look anyways,’ Pyè said.

  He crouched and ran his hands up and down Fegan’s legs before dipping into his pockets. He found a wallet first, and then the mobile phone.

  ‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘My phone,’ Fegan said. ‘I need it.’

  Pyè laughed. ‘You need anyen, Gerry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You need nothing.’ Pyè dropped the phone to the ground. It bounced and rattled. Its screen fractured.

  ‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè raised his foot, ready to bring it down on the phone. Fegan formed his knuckles into a sharp line and stabbed at his Adam’s apple. Pyè fell against the car and crumpled to the ground, coughing, his eyes wide.

  ‘I said don’t.’

  Pyè blinked and gasped as he tried to get his feet under him. A thick-fingered hand grabbed Fegan’s shoulder, tried to turn him around. Fegan grabbed the wrist with his left hand, turned inside the big man’s reach, felt the nose crunch against his elbow, a warm spatter on his face as the blood came. Two more blows and the driver went down, cracked the back of his head on the ground.

  Fegan turned back to Pyè. The Haitian gasped as his trachea swelled from the blow, his feet scrambling for purchase.

  ‘Stay down,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè reached behind his back, grasping for something. He got one foot under him, began to rise. Fegan’s foot connected with his jaw, and Pyè sprawled in the gutter between the car and the pavement, a pistol clattering at his side.

  Fegan picked up his phone, turned it in his hands, looked at the cracked screen, put it in his pocket along with his wallet. He reached for the gun, a semi-automatic. He aimed at the darkened rear window. ‘Open it,’ he said.

  Nothing.

  Fegan stepped closer and tapped the glass with the pistol’s muzzle. ‘Open it,’ he said.

  The vague forms of two men sat still inside.

  Fegan struck the glass with the butt of the gun. It held. Two more blows and it shattered, fragments peppering the two men inside.

  Frankie and Packie Doyle stared back at Fegan, their hands raised.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Fegan said. ‘If you come after me again, I’ll kill you both. Do you understand?’

  The Doyles sat frozen.

  Fegan pressed the muzzle against Packie Doyle’s cheek. ‘Do you understand?’

  Packie nodded. Fr
ankie said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get Pyè to a hospital,’ Fegan said. ‘He might die. Do you understand?’

  Frankie nodded. Packie said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ Fegan said. He tucked the pistol into his pocket alongside the phone as he walked away.

  38

  ‘Get out of here,’ DCI Gordon said.

  ‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘I want to examine the scene.’

  ‘Scene?’ Gordon said, blocking the doorway. ‘There’s no scene. It was an accident. He was drunk, he slipped and cracked his head open.’

  Hotel guests hovered in the corridor, watching the comings and goings of paramedics and police.

  ‘Someone tried to kill him two days ago,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Rubbish,’ Gordon said. ‘A woman was assaulted in his building. It had nothing to do with him. A coincidence.’

  ‘Someone came to get him. He told me,’ Lennon said. ‘He saw them.’

  ‘He told you?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here,’ Lennon said. ‘Downstairs, in the beer garden. He called my mobile, said he needed to talk to me. He was scared shitless.’

  ‘Was he drinking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There you are, then,’ Gordon said. ‘He was drunk, slipped, that’s all there is to it.’

  Lennon stared at Gordon, tried to read the lines of his face. ‘You know that’s not true.’

  ‘Easy, son.’

  ‘You know there’s more to it,’ Lennon said. ‘We know there was a threat against him, that he was scared of someone. You can’t pretend—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Gordon said.

  ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Shut your mouth.’ Gordon grabbed Lennon’s sleeve and pulled him along the corridor until they reached a quiet corner by the fire exit. He put a hand on Lennon’s chest and pressed him against the wall.

  ‘Now, listen to me, son, your career depends on it.’ Gordon looked along the corridor for eavesdroppers, then back to Lennon. ‘Mr Toner was of interest to Special Branch. When someone is of interest to Special Branch, they call the shots. Their officers have already inspected the scene and declared it an accident. And you know what that means?’