Sometimes she hated him for it. At times she wished his heart would give out, or that he’d happen upon a thief with a knife, or he’d take a corner too fast as he drove home. Something quick so she could bury him and be gone from here. And every time she wished for these things, she scolded herself, ashamed of her selfishness.
Ellen closed her eyes and rested her head against the glass, listening to the grinding guitars and hammering drums, the growling vocals. Time passes more quickly when you can’t see it. She kept them closed until she felt the bus sway at the turn into the northern end of the village. Opening them, she saw the caravan park, the rows of trailers lined up, waiting for the sun to return along with their owners. The sea came into view, the bay sweeping from Tornamoney in the north to the small harbour in the south, the cliffs rising above, the caves beyond.
She looked out across the water, shining dark as slate, the horizon barely distinguishable where it met the sky. Gulls circled and swooped. The Sea of Moyle stretched from here to Scotland, less than fourteen miles away, a border between the Atlantic and the Irish Sea. On a clear day, the Mull of Kintyre was visible in the distance, houses like pinpoints on the hillsides. But not today. Nothing out there but waves and pregnant cloud. The bus approached the clusters of low whitewashed buildings that made up the village of Cushendun. This side of the river was a designated conservation area, and property developers had been kept out, leaving these old houses intact, not intruded upon by holiday homes.
The bus steered right, then left, into the centre of the village. It pulled up at the stop by the post office, and Ellen climbed out of her seat, keeping her gaze on the floor as she made her way down the aisle. She couldn’t hear them, but she knew they called, See ya, Freak, and worse. As the bus pulled away, leaving her there with the late autumn breeze chilling her skin, she did not look at them.
A few minutes’ walk took her out the other side of the village to the bridge over the river mouth. A gull stood on the wall, picking at some food it had scavenged, undeterred by her passing. She crossed to where the road curved back inland. Their house stood in a pair of semidetached homes, the other better kept, even though it remained empty most of the year. A weekend getaway for a middle-class couple from Belfast. She did not know their names.
Ellen let herself in and stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs, listening. There, her father’s snoring, deep and drunken. It was how she knew he was alive. She pulled her phone from her jacket pocket to check the time: just gone four. Time to do her homework, then take something from the freezer to put in the oven. The door to the kitchen was closed, and she knew what she would find when she opened it: empty beer cans, maybe a plate with crumbs of toast on it. She would clear the mess away before spreading her schoolwork over the small table.
As she reached for the door handle, something stopped her. A desire to flee, to leave the house and never come back. She was used to such feelings, of being bidden by unknown voices, but this had a clarity that rang through her. Her hand dropped to her side and she studied the door.
Wood, nothing more. Hinges and handle. A thing between her and the room on the other side, that’s all.
“Stupid,” she said aloud, and turned the handle, letting the door swing inward.
She saw the blood first. Red arcs across the walls and window, over the sink, trails of it running down the cupboards.
Then she saw him. The thin man.
He had once had a name, but she had pushed the memory of him so deep down in her mind that she could not recall it. She had once held his hand, hard and bony. He had been eaten by the same fire that had taken her mother, in a house far away from here. She only saw it in dreams, black smoke and orange flames, devouring everything.
The thin man sat at the table, those hard hands laid flat on its surface, fingers spread. He stared at her, eyes wide.
Not real, she thought.
None of it is real.
Yet she felt him there, the presence of him, the weight of him. She dropped her bag at her feet and stepped into the kitchen.
What was his name?
The towel draped over the edge of the sink caught fire. Flames spread, the blood as fuel. Now it was all around. Fire and smoke. But no heat. Only cold.
The thin man’s lips moved, but she could not hear him.
What was his name?
He spoke in silence, his eyes wide.
What was his name?
Gerry. His name was Gerry. She had once held his hand and walked with him.
And now he was here in fire and blood.
“He’s coming,” Gerry said, the flames licking at his clothes, the skin on his hands blistering.
Ellen tried to ask, who?
“He’s coming,” Gerry said. “Run.”
The flames crept across the floor to her, carried by the blood. They touched her legs, and now she felt them, the burning, the devouring. She screamed.
Gerry got to his feet, screamed at her in return.
“Run!”
Everything burning.
“Run!”
Ellen fell into darkness.
When she woke, her father held her, cradling her on the kitchen floor.
No blood. No fire.
“What happened?” Jack Lennon asked.
“He’s coming,” Ellen said.
3
Another gap in his consciousness. They were becoming more frequent, and the Traveller supposed he should see a doctor about them. And the headaches, thunderous, hammering pain that pulsed from the front of his skull to the back. He hated doctors, but sometimes they couldn’t be avoided. Like when he’d had the surgery to make him look more human. They’d done the best they could, and with a hoodie shrouding his face, he could walk along the street without drawing too much attention. But if anyone looked twice, they would see.
He should have died. Spared himself the pain. But he was a stubborn bastard, so he’d crawled out of that house near Drogheda even as it collapsed in flames, got himself out of there and away. The days and weeks after were hellish. All because of an old man’s anger and a cop who should have stayed out of it. It hurt so bad he lost his mind, but he survived out of pure bloody spite. He hadn’t been back in Ireland since then, but now he was here, ready for work.
The Traveller sat in the ten-year-old BMW 3-series he’d sourced through an old contact in the motor trade. A private sale to a woman who didn’t exist anymore, at least not above ground. By the time the Driver & Vehicle Agency figured out it had been registered to a ghost, the car would have been burnt out in a field somewhere across the border.
How long had the gap been? He checked his watch. Nearly thirty minutes. He might have missed his target. The lane leading to the home of Detective Superintendent Dan Hewitt stood thirty yards along the road. This layby off the motorway was as close as he could park up and still get a view. Not that it mattered now. Those missing thirty minutes had wasted an evening’s waiting and watching. His decision now was call it a night and come back in the morning, or approach the property on foot.
The first choice was clearly the more logical. He took the second.
When there was no sign of traffic in either direction, he got out of the BMW, locked it, and jogged across the road. He carried no weapons and no identification. Better to be without should he be caught. If he got lucky and an opportunity arose to take care of Hewitt tonight, he was more than capable of doing that with his hands.
A low barrier ran alongside the hard shoulder, which he stepped over, and into the trees. A minute or so of pushing through and under low branches took him to the lane that led to the house. He followed it, staying within the treeline. Full dark out now, but there was enough moonlight to go by. It didn’t take long to arrive opposite the gates, electric, lights and a camera above a numeric keypad. He stayed far enough back to remain out of the camera’s reach.
Through the gates, he could see the driveway, and the glow of the house. A big spread. A wall stretched in each direction from the gate, three feet high, topped by an iron fence bringing the barrier to maybe six feet. Remaining hidden in the trees, he made his way to the far end, then ducked across the lane, his footsteps softened by fallen leaves. The neighbouring property was older, less well kept, fronted only by hedgerow with a wire fence. He forced his way past the end of the hedge where it met Hewitt’s wall and pushed aside the metal post that the wire fence had been tied to. It offered barely any resistance.
A tall wooden fence made a border between this property and Hewitt’s, no more than two or three years old. He made his way along it, keeping the neighbour’s house to his left. A rusting Nissan Note sat in the driveway, an old person’s car. As he drew nearer the house, he saw the living room window’s curtains were open. An elderly man sat dozing in an armchair, the light from the television reflecting blue on his face. A calico cat watched him from the windowsill, showing only a casual interest in the intruder.
The Traveller moved farther along the fence until he was out of view of the window, then stood still and listened. Only the sound of trees whispering, distant traffic. An aeroplane somewhere high above. He gripped the top of the fence and pulled himself up just enough to see into Hewitt’s property.
The cop’s car sat in front of the double garage. He cursed, knowing his mind’s absence had caused him to miss Hewitt’s return home. But still, at least he had an idea of what time it had been. He considered returning to his BMW and coming back in the morning, but now that he was out here, exploring, he might as well get a better look at the place.
Dan Hewitt, wicked bastard that he was, had done well for himself. Nice car, nice house. Maybe just affordable enough between his and his wife’s income that he wouldn’t have to answer too many questions. But a man can’t be so wicked for so long without making enemies.
The contract had been taken out by Laima Strazdienė.
He had met her a week ago in an industrial estate on the outskirts of Brussels. It had been before dawn when he parked up between two warehouses, both of them deserted. He had been there for only a matter of seconds before a black Range Rover pulled up alongside his hire car. Two large men in good suits climbed down from the SUV. While one turned in a circle, examining the world of concrete and metal around them, the other indicated that the Traveller should get out of his car. The Traveller did so, and the large man searched him, arms and legs, torso, collar, belt, his pockets. When he was satisfied, the large man opened the Range Rover’s rear door.
“In,” he said.
The Traveller did as he was instructed, hoisting himself up into the vehicle. The leather seat seemed to swallow him whole. As the door closed, he turned to see the other occupant.
There was hardly anything of her. She had clearly been a small woman, and even more so now that she had been diminished by illness. Her elegant clothes appeared almost empty, as if they had been arranged loosely on the seat, her head suspended above them. Her features might have been elfin at one time, but now her skin was stretched across her skull, her makeup unable to hide her pallor. The tubes of a nasal cannula fed into her nostrils, the hose snaking up over her ears. A small canister of oxygen stood in a wheeled trolley on the floor. Her breath sounded like tearing paper, and the odour of sickness tainted the car’s air.
But her eyes, sharp and hard like black diamonds. He could barely look at them.
“I want three people to die,” she said.
“Who?” the Traveller asked.
“Two men and a young woman,” she said. “The two men you know. This is why I have chosen you.”
The Traveller knew their names, but he would not say them until she did.
“They killed my sons, my two boys. Tomas had his throat cut in a whorehouse. Two days later, Arturas was shot like a dog by the roadside. I will die soon, but the truth is, I have been dying since that winter. They should have been great men, but their lives were squandered because of these three people. Two of them are in Ireland, both policemen, Dan Hewitt and Jack Lennon. You have dealt with them before. The young woman, I have been seeking her for years. I am close to finding her, she is somewhere in Kyiv, but I can’t wait any longer. When my people have tracked her down, I will pass her information on to you. In the meantime, you will take care of the others.”
“All right,” the Traveller said. “You know my rates. It’ll be done as soon as I get the first payment.”
“The money will be transferred today. May I ask one question?”
“You can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”
“You have reason to kill Lennon yourself,” she said. “After so many years, why haven’t you?”
He looked at the frail shadow of a woman and wondered how long she had left. Death lingered over her, biding its time. Her sins were legend and she was perhaps only weeks away from discovering if heaven and hell were fairy tales or reality.
Why had he allowed Lennon to live this long? The Traveller had asked himself that question many times. Even though he could barely face it himself, he told her the truth.
Now he was here, back in Ireland, across the border in the Black North, ready to take Laima Strazdienė’s revenge for her sons. One of them had been executed on a roadside near the airport, the other had his throat cut. He wondered if Dan Hewitt had pulled the trigger. Hewitt didn’t seem the type to cut a man’s throat, but a bullet in the head? Sounded right.
A shallow, sluggish stream ran along the rear of the neighbour’s property, and Hewitt’s. Only a foot or so of sodden ground provided a path along Hewitt’s fence. The Traveller followed it until he reached a gate. It would be secured, of course, but he tried it anyway, reaching through the hole to feel the padlock on the other side.
Without warning, the rear of the house became illuminated, the trees all around lit up. He drew back his hand, wondering if he’d tripped a motion sensor. Then he heard a door close, and a voice.
“I know . . . I know . . . Don’t worry about it. If they had anything solid, your client would’ve been charged by now. They’re just fishing . . . Honestly, stop panicking . . . Yes, it’s easy for me to say because it’s the truth . . . Just tell him to calm down, don’t do anything stupid, and let me take care of things from my end.”
The Traveller bent down and peered through the hole in the gate. Hewitt paced a circle around the garden as he talked, came close to where the watcher crouched, then turned his back, walking to a darker part of the lawn, shaded from the lights by a shed.
Leave now or take the opportunity?
The Traveller gripped the top of the gate, wedged his foot into the hole, and pulled.
“Yes, the usual,” Hewitt said, pausing. “I’ll expect the transfer by the morning.”
Hewitt hung up and cursed under his breath. Didn’t hear a thing as the Traveller approached across the grass. He sealed Hewitt’s mouth with one hand, reached for the holster at the cop’s hip with the other. Hewitt’s hand clamped onto the Traveller’s, tried to pull it away from the pistol’s grip. They danced there in the darkness behind the shed, feet slipping on wet grass, heels digging into the earth.
Finally, the Traveller released the weapon from its holster, and he forced his hand up, bringing Hewitt’s with it. With the muzzle pressed against Hewitt’s cheekbone, he whispered into his ear.
“Take your hand away or I’ll blow your fucking face off.”
Hewitt complied, holding both his hands out.
“You make a sound and I’ll go in there and kill y
our wife and both your kids. Do you understand?”
Hewitt struggled. The Traveller pushed the cop away, into the side of the shed, and aimed the Glock at his chest.
“Do you remember me?”
Hewitt stared, shook his head, his hands raised.
The Traveller took a step back, into the light, drew back the hood, showing what they’d saved of his face.
“You remember, you piece of shit whore’s son?”
Hewitt took a step closer. “You died,” the cop said.
“Fake news,” the Traveller said, “isn’t that what they call it these days? I know I look a little different than the last time you saw me. Actually, thinking about it, you couldn’t see me then, could you? I seem to remember giving you a face full of pepper spray.”
“And you broke my nose,” Hewitt said, squaring his stance but unable to mask the fear in his voice.
“Did I? Jesus, I don’t remember that.”
“I did what was agreed on. I got you out of that cell. I’ve no quarrel with you, so what do you want?”
“To talk, first of all. I’ve got a couple of questions before we get down to business.”
“Talk? Where? My family are—”
“Here’s fine,” he said. “Your missus comes out looking for you, then we’ll just have to deal with that, won’t we?”
Hewitt was trembling now, close to panic.
“Calm yourself,” the Traveller said. “You just answer my questions, and everything will be fine. I’ll be on my way, you won’t see me again.”
Hewitt gave a whine of an exhalation. “What do you want to know?”
“Where’s Jack Lennon?” he asked.
Hewitt almost smiled with relief. “Jesus, you want him? You could have just asked me and I’d have told you.”
“Go on, then,” the Traveller said.
“He got out of the job on a medical pension a few years ago. He has a place in Cushendun, up on the northeast coast. I don’t know the address, but it’s near the bridge over the river. Him and his daughter live there.”
The Traveller and Other Stories Page 15
