The Traveller and Other Stories

by Stuart Neville

  Sources have not ruled out paramilitary involvement in the killing, but say multiple avenues are being explored.

  This is a breaking news item and more information will be added as it becomes available.

  Ellen read the story again, and a third time.

  Daniel Hewitt. Dan.

  The name was familiar, but she couldn’t think why. She didn’t know any of her father’s old colleagues in the police. He hardly ever talked about his time as a cop, and when he did, it was without fondness. Either way, this had to be the reason for her father’s edginess this morning. But what did it have to do with what she saw yesterday?

  The bell rang. Registration first, then double maths.

  Ellen made her way to the form room and took the farthest seat back she could find, close to the window. Christ, there was Tim Cochrane, gawping at her again. He was into metal too and thought that gave them some sort of bond. His clumsy attempts to befriend her had seemed sweet at first but had now become an annoyance. He thought she owed him something just because he didn’t join in the taunting, didn’t call her Freak. But like most boys, he was incapable of reading the signals that she wasn’t interested, no matter how clearly she sent them. She didn’t want to be caught looking back, so instead she turned her gaze to the window.

  The driveway leading to the front gates, and the road beyond, was visible from here. She watched the traffic, some cars stopping to drop off latecomers, the rest speeding by.

  It took a moment to notice the man walking past the gates. Tall, hunched over, moving as if he was in discomfort. The same man she had brushed against earlier. He turned his head to glance towards the school buildings.

  Ellen remembered her father’s warning, to call him if she saw anyone.

  No, he was just a man, out for a walk. Maybe going to the shops down the road for a paper or cigarettes. The sort of man she wouldn’t have noticed any other morning.

  The form teacher called her name, and she replied, here.

  Just a man walking, she thought. Nothing to do with me. Nothing at all.

  6

  Lennon dropped his keys on the kitchen table and went to the fridge. A four-pack of Stella in there, and a few bottles of supermarket own-brand pale ale. Vodka in the freezer. This had become his daily ritual: coming home from the school run, drinking till noon, then going to bed until eight in the evening. But not today. He had told Ellen he wouldn’t.

  “Shit,” he said, and closed the fridge.

  He needed something else to occupy his hands, to take into his body. Anything to keep his mind in one place. He searched through the drawers, digging though old cutlery, dead batteries, unopened mail. Then the top cupboard, where the pills and medicines were kept. He pulled out a plastic box, overflowing with co-codamol packets, and reached to the back, feeling for . . . there. A rectangular package, no branding, just warnings of death and disease. Five cigarettes inside, probably stale, but they would do. He reached up into the cupboard again, his fingers seeking out the farthest corners, and found a disposable lighter.

  And the A4-sized manila envelope that he kept there.

  A few minutes later, he sat on a folding chair on the tiny patch of concrete that passed for a back garden. On the picnic table, a glass of water and a now empty blister strip of painkillers. It wouldn’t take long for the codeine to begin fizzing in his brain. In the meantime, he lit one of the cigarettes and drew deep on it. The nicotine hit hard, making his head float, then he coughed up blue smoke that drifted away on the breeze. Lennon cursed, rested his spinning head in his hands, waited for his heart to settle.

  Dan Hewitt, dead. The idea should have gladdened him. Lennon had been no angel when he was on the job, but Hewitt was as dirty as a cop could be. Ruthless, greedy, arrogant. The world would get along fine without him. But still, an alarm had sounded inside Lennon when he first heard the news report in the early hours, and it had only grown more insistent since then.

  Hewitt had sold him out years ago, betrayed him to a contract killer known as the Traveller, leading to the death of Ellen’s mother. Lennon hadn’t been the Traveller’s target back then, but his life had been blown apart by the collateral damage. The following two years on the force had been a grind, Hewitt pulling strings wherever he could to make Lennon’s life difficult, hoping he could push him into quitting the job. Then the botched attempt on Lennon’s life had finished it. Although he remained a police officer for more than a year after, Lennon had ceased being a cop the moment he had to kill another to save himself. All Hewitt’s doing.

  Lennon had no grief to spare for him, but it didn’t sit right. Trouble was coming. He could feel it in his aching joints.

  He took another drag on the cigarette, felt the heat of it in his throat, and reached for the envelope on the table. Inside, one open card, and seven other envelopes, all sealed. The first was a Christmas card, a glittery winter scene on the front, a banal greeting printed inside. And beneath that, in a childish hand, two lines intersecting to form the letter T.

  When the card came Lennon had been in a private hospital ward, out of danger from his wounds, but still tethered by wires and tubes to the equipment that hummed and beeped around him. Uprichard had brought the card to him. Lennon didn’t open it till he’d gone. He’d never told anyone about them as they arrived year after year. He would stash them away, unopened. That was the creeping fear of it, knowing that the Traveller was still out there; but he kept it to himself because deep down he was ashamed of that fear.

  Lennon leafed through the sealed envelopes, each of them addressed to him at Ladas Drive station. The address was computer printed on some of them, handwritten on others, each in a different script. Each was posted from a different city in Europe.

  One more lungful of smoke, and he opened one. Another Christmas card, another insipid message of seasonal cheer, another letter T in its childish, slashing scrawl. He opened another, and another, until the tabletop was covered in cards and ripped envelopes.

  A waste of time, he realised. He had always known what was in them. It would have been more useful to go back into the house, upstairs, and open the lower drawer in his bedside locker. There, wrapped in an old T-shirt, was the pistol he had bought years ago, a handshake deal in a graveyard in Belfast. At least two years since he had cleaned it, checked its operation.

  And why would he do that?

  The world was the same shape and size as it had been this time yesterday, save for one dead crooked cop. In all likelihood, Hewitt had got himself into some dirty deal or other and it had come back to bite him. Nothing to do with Lennon.

  Except, he knew. And so did Ellen.

  He took one last draw on the cigarette, ground it out with his heel, then gathered up the cards and torn envelopes. Inside the kitchen, he kicked the door closed and dumped the card and paper in the bin. Best thing he could do now was get some sleep. Ellen would be safe in school. No one would try anything in daylight, anyway.

  As Lennon exited the kitchen into the hall, he saw the silhouette of a man through the frosted glass in the front door.

  He froze there, on the same spot where Ellen had fallen the day before.

  The man brought his nose to the glass, hands cupped around his eyes, peering through. Lennon could make out none of his features, and he was certain the man could not see him. His heart rattled in him and he feared it would choke itself on the adrenalin that flooded his system. He dragged air in through his nose, held it, out through his mouth, counting, forcing himself to remain calm, not to panic, not do anything stupid.

  The doorbell rang, and Lennon felt it as a shock of electricity. Then the man rapped his knuckles on the glass. Lennon edged into the space beneath the stairs, ducking his head low, watching the door. The man bent down, and fingers intruded through the letterbox. Lennon pressed himself into the darkness and listened until he heard the letterbox snap shut. He leaned out a
nd saw the man step back from the glass. Then the silhouette moved to the side, out of Lennon’s vision.

  He seized the opportunity to move to the stairs, as quickly and quietly as he could manage with his limp. In his bedroom, he opened the drawer, pushed detritus out of the way, and pulled the T-shirt from the back. He shook the pistol loose, popped the cylinder, checked it was loaded. Snapping the cylinder back, he crossed to the bedroom door and the small landing, where—

  That noise.

  Lennon held his breath, listening through the rushing in his ears.

  He hadn’t locked the back door. Closed it all right, but he hadn’t locked it.

  The noise had been it opening. Now he heard it closing again.

  The man was downstairs in his house.

  Lennon swallowed a curse and brought his thumb to the pistol’s hammer. He drew it back until it locked into place. Edging to the top of the stairs, he peered down, keeping his body behind the bannister.

  A click and a creak as the door to the kitchen opened. A shadow stretched along the hall.

  A voice, deep and calm.

  “I know you’re there, Mr. Lennon. I’d like a word.”

  7

  The Traveller had Google Maps open on the laptop he’d bought from a repair store. Although he couldn’t make sense of a string of words, he knew enough to enter the name of a town.

  C-U-S-H-E-N-D-U-N.

  A bloody marvel, it was. A phone call to Tom at McKenna’s bar had gotten him Lennon’s address, and right here on the screen was his house. He’d barely have to scope the place out at all.

  A chime alerted him to an incoming Skype message. He opened the app, and the computer’s screen-reader recited the words in its flat tone: “Call me.”

  He clicked on the contact, the only one on this laptop, and initiated a call, the musical ringtone bubbling along as he waited for an answer. The headache that had been threatening for the last couple of hours began to show itself. He massaged his temples with the heels of his hands. The headaches were becoming more frequent, along with the gaps in his consciousness. He supposed he should be worried about that.

  At last, she answered.

  “Yes,” Laima Strazdienė said.

  “I saw your man last night,” the Traveller said. “I gave him the message.”

  “I know,” she said. “What about the second message?”

  “I’ll deliver that soon, don’t worry. Tonight or tomorrow night. I’ve got the location, I just need to figure out a delivery time. It’s in hand.”

  “I have the third message for you to deliver,” Strazdienė said.

  “Yeah? The woman?”

  “In Kyiv, as we discussed,” she said. “I’m sending an attachment.”

  The screen-reader said, “User TZK345689 wants to send a file attachment. Do you want to accept it?”

  He clicked the green button.

  “Take care of your business in Ireland,” Strazdienė said, “then travel to Kyiv. It’s taken years to find her. Now I want her dealt with. When you deliver the message, take your time. If you can, deliver the message to her brother first. They share the same apartment in Kyiv. Let her see it delivered. There will be a bonus if you do that for me. Record it if you can.”

  “Why this one?”

  The Traveller knew just as well as Strazdienė that they should be cautious in what they said, but curiosity is a powerful driver.

  “She started it all,” Strazdienė said. “She was a whore working from an apartment near Belfast. She killed my Tomas. She cut his throat with a piece of broken mirror. When you find them, do the same to her brother. Then her.”

  Static silence for a few moments, both of them knowing she’d said too much.

  “I’ll take care of it,” the Traveller said.

  The call ended, and he double-clicked on the attachment.

  “A password is required to access this document,” the screen-reader said.

  He peered at the keyboard, picking out the six letters, jabbing each key in turn.

  A scan of a passport, a pretty young woman, blonde, fine-featured. A driver’s license, a near identical image of her face. A series of photographs taken from a distance, coming and going from an apartment building, shopping in a supermarket. One in a café with a young man, darker hair, otherwise similar features. The brother, he guessed.

  At the end of the document, a page of text, laid out in bullet points as per his usual request, brief so he could make sense of it. The screen-reader recited the points, line by line, as he listened.

  Current name: Katina Goreva

  Birth name: Galya Petrova

  The screen-reader recited the address of her apartment, and of the night school where she worked as a teacher of English.

  Easy job, the Traveller thought, even with the brother. A soft target, and a trip to Kyiv, where he hadn’t been for some years. But first things first. He returned his attention to the map of Cushendun and the image of Jack Lennon’s house.

  8

  The bell went, and Ellen shoved her books into her bag and made for the door, pretending she didn’t hear Tim Cochrane call her name as she shoved the earbuds in as tight as they could go. Double English Lit next, which she didn’t mind so much. The class was working through Macbeth, but she’d read it from start to finish already, taking pleasure in the venality of it all. The greed of the protagonist’s wife, his weakness as she drove him on, the inevitability of his downfall. While the teacher had the kids take it in turns to read passages aloud, she could zone out for an hour.

  She climbed the stairs to the next floor, avoiding eye contact with everyone. No music played in her earbuds, they were for show, but no one called her Freak. That particular taunt was mostly reserved for when there were no teachers around, the beginning and end of the day, and the break for lunch, which came next. She planned to spend the break in the toilets, locked in a cubicle.

  Ellen moved with the flow of bodies up the second flight of stairs and onto the landing that led to the humanities rooms, the languages, religion, and English. Her class was at the far end, so again she focused on the floor, ignoring everyone. She studied the cracks between the vinyl tiles, the scuff marks from years of kids tramping up and down this corridor.

  Something made her look up.

  She wasn’t sure what, at first. A disturbance in the flow of pupils, an island between the rivers of coming and going. It took a moment to make sense of what she saw, of who stood there, waiting.

  The thin man.

  Gerry.

  He stared at her, his eyes blazing. She froze in place, staring back. Elbows and shoulders and bags shoved her side-to-side, but she stayed in place. Blood on the ceiling, the windows, the walls, the floor.

  A memory came to her, clear and bright. A bathroom in an old house. Gerry sitting on the edge of the bath. Tears in his eyes. She asked, Where’s the baby?

  Heaven, he said.

  Ellen didn’t know the meaning of the question, nor the answer. Only that the moment could have been the one before this, so hard and real it was in her mind.

  The other pupils walked past the thin man, oblivious, not seeing, not touching him. Someone pushed Ellen hard from behind and she stumbled, landed on her hands and knees, her bag sliding away. She looked up as his lips moved.

  “He’s coming,” Gerry said.

  Part of her mind noted that she couldn’t possibly have heard him so clearly over the chatter and laughter in the corridor, above the calls of Freak, what are you doing down there, Freak? But still his voice rang loud, cutting through everything else.

  The blood caught fire, the flames chasing the red arcs all around.

  They’ll burn, she thought. Everyone will burn.

  “Run,” he said.

  The flames rushed towards her, hungry, devouring.

  No,
she thought, they won’t burn. Only me.

  As the fire consumed her, Gerry screamed, “Run!”

  She screamed too.

  9

  The visitor had introduced himself as Preston Montgomery, MI6. Lennon had snorted with laughter, then the man showed him his identification. Lennon had uncocked and lowered the pistol, but kept it in his hand, pointed the man towards the kitchen where they now sat either side of the table. Montgomery wore dark jeans and a gilet over a black sweater. He had sand on his boots, leaving gritty trails on the floor.

  “So talk,” Lennon said, the pistol laid flat on the table, his hand resting upon it.

  Montgomery paid no attention to the gun, hadn’t even glanced it, as if it was of no consequence.

  “We have a mutual interest,” he said.

  “Dan Hewitt,” Lennon said.

  “Not Hewitt, though he has been of interest to me, but rather the man who killed him last night.”

  Montgomery must have been pushing sixty, shoulders broad and strong, his face marked by scars. Former military, Lennon guessed, had seen some action before going to the dark side.

  “Who do think killed him?” Lennon asked.

  “I think you know the answer,” Montgomery said.

  Lennon watched him for a moment, unsure how much to give away, before he realised he was too tired to play games with this man.

  “He called himself the Traveller,” he said. “I arrested him once, but the identity he gave us was stolen. I never found out who he really was. Do you know?”

  “In all honesty, I don’t,” Montgomery said. “I’ve been keeping tabs on him ever since he locked horns with you, found out as much as I could. I probably know more about him than any man alive, and that’s precious little. I’m not actually sure how much he knows about himself. It’s hard to keep secrets these days, no matter who you are, unless you’ve none to keep in the first place.”