Collusion

by Stuart Neville

  ‘Sit up,’ he said.

  The man obeyed and cradled his left hand in his right. ‘Jesus, I think you broke my wrist, you dirty fucker.’

  Against the railing,’ Lennon said. ‘Now.’

  The man struggled into position, keeping his left hand tight to his stomach, and rested his back against the blue metal. Lennon studied his face, the swelling on his eyelid, the stiffness in his movement.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Maybe,’ the man said.

  The big pistol was heavy in Lennon’s left hand. A Desert Eagle, the sort of thing American gun nuts loved for its size and noise. He shoved it into his waistband. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  The man laughed and wiped his eye on his sleeve. ‘Many a fella’s wanted to know that.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Lennon repeated. He took a step closer and steadied his Glock with both hands.

  ‘Barry Murphy,’ the man said.

  ‘Is that your real name?’

  ‘No, but it’ll do for you.’

  The accent was southern, more country than city. His left wrist had begun to swell in his lap. A bloodied tear ran from his right eye.

  ‘You’re a fucking mess,’ Lennon said.

  The man, Murphy, snorted. ‘Yeah, well, it’s been a rough few days. Lucky for you I’m not at my best.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Murphy sniffed hard and spat on the concrete. Blood streaked the saliva and phlegm. ‘Just doing a job,’ he said.

  ‘What was the job?’

  ‘Look, shouldn’t you arrest me or something? We’re drawing a crowd here.’

  In his peripheral vision, Lennon could see people gathering. He heard someone tend to the nurse behind him on the steps. He blocked it all out and kept his attention on the man before him.

  ‘I’ll arrest you all right,’ he said. ‘But not until you tell me what you’re doing here.’

  Murphy held his hands out, wrists together. ‘Fucking arrest me,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Lennon asked, hunkering down. ‘Is there someone inside that’s going to help you if I bring you in?’

  Murphy smiled, his face a grotesque caricature of sweetness. ‘As me ma used to say, that’s for me to know and you to find out.’

  ‘Is it Dan Hewitt?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dan Hewitt. Special Branch. He told me Marie was flying in today, told me to meet her at the airport. He knew I’d probably bring her here. Did he tell you to be here waiting for us?’

  ‘Don’t know any Dan Hewitt.’

  ‘What about Gordon? DCI Roger Gordon.’

  Murphy shrugged. ‘I don’t know any cops up here in the Black North.’

  Lennon moved closer, levelled the Glock at Murphy’s forehead. He ignored the gasps from above. ‘Then who sent you here?’

  Murphy smiled up at him. ‘Arrest me.’

  ‘Who sent you to kill Declan Quigley and Patsy Toner?’

  Murphy’s smile broadened. ‘Arrest me, you Prod fucker.’ The shift on Lennon’s face gave him away. ‘You’re not a Prod? Jesus, a Catholic cop. Not even one of the new recruits. How long you been on the job?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Lennon said.

  ‘C’mon, how long? Ten years? Fifteen?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Before it was okay for Fenians to join up, anyway. Jesus, you must’ve been popular all over. I’m surprised you didn’t get your fucking brains blown out years ago by one side or the other. What’d your family make of it?’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Touch a nerve there, did I?’

  Lennon swallowed and pressed the pistol against Murphy’s temple. ‘Enough.’

  Murphy grinned and another blood-streaked tear ran down his cheek. ‘What, you going to shoot me? Eh? You going to pull that trigger and spray my brains all over the steps with this crowd watching?’

  ‘Don’t push me.’

  ‘Like fuck you will,’ Murphy said. ‘Now fucking arrest me, you stupid cunt.’

  Lennon sighed. ‘Give me your hands,’ he said.

  Murphy held up his hands again, wrists together. Lennon grabbed the swollen one and twisted. Murphy screamed. Then he laughed. Lennon applied more pressure. Murphy screamed again.

  ‘Tell me who sent you here,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Murphy said between gasps. ‘Arrest me.’

  Lennon twisted again. Murphy screamed and kicked at the concrete.

  ‘Who sent you here?’

  Murphy spat in Lennon’s face. It tasted of blood. Lennon slammed the Glock’s butt into Murphy’s temple.

  Quiet, then, all around.

  Lennon found them in the Quiet Room with the chaplain. Marie held Ellen on her lap. Her mobile phone beeped as she thumbed it off.

  ‘Who were you calling?’ he asked.

  ‘No one,’ she said. ‘What happened? Are you okay? Who was that?’

  The chaplain excused herself and left them alone

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘He’s in custody. You’re safe now.’

  ‘Safe?’ Anger flashed in her eyes and she bared her teeth. ‘From who, for Christ’s sake? From what? From you?’

  Lennon sat down beside her. ‘Marie, I—’

  ‘You were supposed to keep our daughter safe. How could you let that … bastard …’

  The words trailed into sobs.

  Lennon went to put a hand on her shoulder, but thought better of it. He stood and said, ‘They’ll want a statement.’

  57

  The motel had a small coffee shop attached. Fegan had wanted to stay out of sight, but hunger got the better of him. He sat at a table in the back corner where he could watch the door.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ a waitress asked.

  He studied the menu. Sandwiches mostly, all with cheese. He didn’t like cheese. Why did Americans put cheese on everything?

  He pointed at the menu. ‘That one,’ he said. ‘Turkey. But no cheese.’

  ‘Cook only works to lunchtime,’ the waitress said. ‘Sandwiches are all made up. Cheese is already on ’em.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘And water.’

  From here he could see the afternoon traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike and the airport beyond, the control tower reaching towards the fading sun. Cutlery rattled as jets passed overhead, either ascending from or descending to Newark’s three runways.

  While Fegan waited for his sandwich, he took the phone out of his pocket. He set it on the table and stared at the screen as if that would make it spring to life. It hadn’t hit the ground that hard, surely it couldn’t be completely destroyed. He turned it over, examined the casing, tried the power button again.

  A boy at the next table watched. ‘Is it broke?’ the kid asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Fegan said. ‘I think it might be.’

  The boy’s mother looked up from her limp salad. She gave Fegan a suspicious stare. He dropped his gaze back to the phone.

  ‘Did you drop it?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Fegan lied.

  ‘Let me see,’ the kid said. ‘I can fix stuff.’

  Fegan looked back to the mother. ‘Can he?’

  She hesitated before nodding. ‘Aaron likes to fix things. Anything you can take apart, he can put it back together.’

  The waitress brought his sandwich on a plate with a glass of water. Fegan handed the phone to Aaron. While the boy held the phone to the light, Fegan set about removing the cheese from his sandwich.

  ‘The casing’s loose,’ Aaron said.

  Fegan took a bite. The bread was stale.

  The boy popped the phone’s back off and a rectangular block dropped to the table. ‘See? The battery wasn’t in right. It must’ve got knocked out when you dropped it.’

  Aaron picked up the block and slotted it in. He aligned the rear casing and popped it home, then grinned and handed it back. ‘Bet it works now,’ he said.

  Fe
gan thumbed the power button, and the screen lit up. ‘You fixed it,’ he said.

  ‘Told you I could,’ Aaron said.

  ‘He told you,’ the mother said with a proud smile. She had freckles on her cheeks.

  ‘So he did,’ Fegan said. He returned her smile.

  ‘I’m Grace,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Paddy Feeney,’ Fegan said.

  The phone vibrated in his hand. Fegan’s stomach clenched like a fist. The screen showed a text message. It said, ‘You have one new voicemail.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ the woman asked.

  Fegan went to answer her, but realised he hadn’t been breathing. He coughed.

  ‘Drink some water,’ she said.

  ‘I need to go,’ Fegan said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, her smile falling away. ‘Well, it was nice meeting you.’

  Fegan nodded. He stood, looked down at the boy. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and headed for the door.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ the boy called after him.

  ‘Hey!’ The waitress stopped Fegan at the door. ‘You going to pay for that sandwich?’

  Fegan took a bill from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. He squeezed past her and out onto the parking lot. Another jet screamed overhead.

  ‘Hey!’ the waitress shouted over the plane’s roar. ‘This is a hundred!’

  Fegan ignored her and climbed the flight of steps to the top floor. He ran to his room, unlocked the door, locked it behind him again. He called the number to retrieve the message.

  A metallic voice said, ‘We’re sorry. The service you are trying to access is unavailable when overseas. If you would like to enable outgoing international calls, please talk to one of our operators by dialling—’

  Fegan hung up. ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  Marie had called. No one else knew the number. There could only be one reason.

  He put the phone in his pocket and took the roll of money from the dresser along with the Irish passport. What if it didn’t get him past security? He’d have to take that risk. He lifted his bag, hoisted it across his shoulder.

  The outside air cooled the sweat that had broken on his brow and sent cold fingers down his spine. He could wait for a cab, but twenty minutes on foot would take him to the airport. He knew there was an evening flight to Belfast, just a few hours from now, then six and a half more on the plane. He’d be home by the morning.

  Fegan hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

  58

  The Traveller’s vision turned crimson for a moment before the nurse pressed a damp cotton pad against his eye. A searing hot ball of pain burned for a few seconds and eased to a small point of fire beneath the pad.

  ‘Looks like a little bit of wood,’ the nurse said. He heard a metallic clank as she placed the tweezers in a tray. ‘It might have scratched the cornea too, and the eyelid’s quite badly infected. When the bleeding stops we’ll flush it out and get a little bit of antibiotic ointment on it.’

  He couldn’t see them, but he could feel the presence of the two uniformed cops guarding him. Big fuckers, faces like stone. The kind of arseholes who wanted to be cops just so they could push people around.

  Handcuffs bound his right wrist to the trolley. A narrow bed with a thin mattress. The noise of the A&E ward’s busywork whisked and rattled outside the bay. His left hand lay on a pillow. The wrist throbbed, but not with the deep, hard pain you get with a break. Sprained, more likely, and that cop Lennon hadn’t helped it any. It pulsed in time with the sickly ache that sat lodged behind his eyes. They’d X-rayed his head and his wrist, and then put four stitches in his temple. That bastard cop had hit him just below the spot they’d pulled the chunk of Kevlar from all those years ago, opening the scar, and it had bled like hell. Now they waited for a doctor to have a look at the images.

  The nurse had changed the dressing on his shoulder. When she asked how it happened, he said he’d fallen on a knitting needle. The nurse had blinked and looked away. She was a pretty thing, all right. Easier on the eye than the two cops, anyway.

  She took the cotton away from his eye and dabbed around it with a clean piece. His vision cleared. The plastic curtain swished back and the doctor entered carrying a red folder.

  Lennon stood beyond the bay, staring. The Traveller raised his head and grinned at him. Lennon shifted his weight, bristled.

  ‘Lie back,’ the doctor said.

  ‘Fuck off,’ the Traveller said. He pushed up on his left elbow, ignoring the screaming in his wrist. ‘You and me. We’ll settle it between the two of us.’

  Lennon walked away.

  ‘That Marie one’s not bad looking,’ the Traveller called. ‘I’ll let you watch me fuck her before we finish things.’

  The nurse scowled.

  The cop’s footsteps receded, and the Traveller shouted after them, ‘How’s that, eh? You hear me?’

  ‘Lie back,’ the doctor said. ‘Please.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ the Traveller said.

  One of the cops pushed past the doctor and put a hand on the Traveller’s chest. He shoved hard and the Traveller’s back slammed against the thin mattress, knocking the wind out of him. The Traveller breathed deep then spat in the cop’s face.

  The cop made a fist, raised it.

  ‘Come on,’ the Traveller said. ‘I dare you, you cunt.’

  The cop shook his head and slowly lowered his fist. ‘Either you stay down, or I’ll make you stay down,’ he said. ‘And I won’t be gentle about it.’

  The Traveller laughed. He smiled and relaxed as the doctor took his hand, tuned out what he was saying. He ignored the pain as the quack manoeuvred the joint, pushing it this way and that. The Traveller didn’t make a sound, just stared at the ceiling.

  59

  Roscoe Patterson waited at the door to the apartment, arms folded across his chest. Tattoos of Ulster flags and fiery skulls decorated the skin. He nodded as they approached. Lennon carried Marie’s suitcase, and she carried a sleeping Ellen.

  Roscoe handed Lennon the key. ‘I tidied the place,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lennon said. ‘No one knows she’s here, right?’

  ‘Not a soul,’ Roscoe said. He slapped Lennon’s shoulder. ‘Look after yourself, big lad.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Marie asked once the lift doors closed on Roscoe.

  ‘A friend,’ Lennon said as he unlocked the apartment.

  ‘He doesn’t look like a nice man,’ she said.

  ‘He’s not,’ Lennon said. He carried the suitcase inside. ‘He’s a scumbag. But he’s an honest scumbag, and that’s good enough for me.’

  Marie followed. ‘Do you trust him?’

  ‘I don’t trust anybody,’ Lennon said. He flicked lights on as he made his way towards the bedroom. True to his word, Roscoe had hidden the handcuffs and vibrators, the bowlful of condoms, the pornographic pictures on the walls. Lennon put the suitcase on the bed.

  Marie hesitated in the hallway.

  ‘You should get some sleep,’ he said.

  ‘So should you,’ she said. ‘Couch looks comfortable.’

  Lennon drifted in and out of the world. His body ached for rest, but his mind raced. Every time his thoughts got caught in the quicksand at the edge of sleep they would break loose again, wild and darting.

  DCI Gordon had taken his statement while Dan Hewitt and CI Uprichard stood in opposite corners. Hewitt had been pale and distant. Gordon had been gruff and matter-of-fact. Lennon told them he believed the man he had captured was responsible for the deaths of Kevin Malloy, Declan Quigley, Brendan Houlihan and Patsy Toner. Lennon watched them both as he spoke, but neither Hewitt nor Gordon reacted.

  Hewitt and Uprichard left the room, but Gordon remained, when Lennon gave another statement to some pen-pusher from the Police Ombudsman’s office. Gordon said nothing, stared straight ahead, when Lennon said he believed elements within the security forces had been protecting the arrested man.

  When the statem
ents were done, and the pen-pusher had packed up and left, Gordon put his hand on Lennon’s shoulder.

  ‘That’s dangerous talk, son,’ he said.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ Lennon said.

  ‘The truth is a slippery thing,’ Gordon said. ‘Watch your back, son, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Marie and Ellen had been waiting for him in reception when he emerged at two the following morning. Marie had given her statement to a sergeant. There hadn’t been much to say, there or on the journey to Roscoe’s apartment in Carrickfergus; she’d seen nothing.

  Daylight found the crack in the living room curtains. Seagulls screeched over the marina outside the window. Fatigue saturated Lennon’s mind. He drifted.

  Lennon dreamed of the women he’d known, the women he’d lied to, the women he’d let down. He passed among them, tried to speak to them. They turned away. They would not listen. His mother stood at the centre of them clutching a tattered shirt. As he drew close he saw the blood on it. Liam’s shirt, the one he’d died in.

  His mother said something, her words lost beneath the growing clamour of the women.

  What? he tried to ask, but his lips and tongue were too leaden to form the word. He tried again, a dry croak this time. ‘What?’

  She opened her mouth, the sound eaten by a new noise, a high chiming.

  ‘What?’ he asked again.

  She smiled as she faded into darkness and said, ‘Answer the phone.’

  Lennon sat upright, his head buzzing, his heart hammering. ‘Jesus.’

  That high chiming again. He scanned the room looking for it. Marie’s shoulder bag lay on the glass coffee table, its mouth agape. Something glowed inside. Lennon leaned forward on the couch and reached inside the bag. The phone vibrated in his hand. He thumbed the green button and brought it to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, breathless.

  A pause. ‘Where’s Marie?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  A loud speaker made an echoing announcement somewhere. ‘I want Marie,’ the caller said.

  ‘She can’t come to the phone,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. Who are you?’