The Traveller and Other Stories

by Stuart Neville

  “I’m sorry,” Ellen said, meaning it.

  He leaned in, placed his hand flat on the table in front of her. A gesture of surrender.

  “Look, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through these last few weeks. These last years, for that matter. You’ve seen more than any child should see.”

  Ellen suppressed a laugh, remorseful, knowing his sincerity.

  “I know about your Aunt Bernie’s people. The things they’ve been involved with. I want you to know my door is always open to you.”

  “Okay,” Ellen said, looking him in the eye. “Thank you.”

  Bernie returned, and Father Coyle’s hand retreated across the table, into the other.

  “Bloody canvassers,” Bernie said. “As if they didn’t know what way we were voting. I’m sure you’ve lots to do, Father, so I won’t be keeping you.”

  “Oh,” Father Coyle said, giving his full mug of tea a wantful look. “Well, yes, I’ll be off, then.”

  He got to his feet, pulled his coat and scarf from the back of the chair. Bernie ushered him out while he was still trying to get them on. They exchanged a few stiff pleasantries in the hall before Ellen heard the front door close. Bernie came back, lifted the mug from the table, and poured the tea down the sink.

  “Can I go?” Ellen asked.

  “What did he say to you?” Bernie asked. “When I was at the door, what did he say?”

  “Nothing,” Ellen said.

  “Didn’t look like nothing.”

  “Nothing to do with you.”

  Bernie turned to glare at her. Ellen got up from the table and went to the door.

  “Maybe Jack Lennon was your father after all. You’ve got his mean streak.”

  “He was a good man,” Ellen said.

  Bernie snorted. “Good enough to leave you when you were in your mother’s belly.”

  “He died for me,” Ellen said.

  “And your mother died for him, fool that she was.”

  “You didn’t know him.”

  “I knew him well enough. I know how he—”

  The tremor that rattled through the kitchen silenced her. The lightbulb overhead dimmed and flickered. Bernie’s eyes widened, staring at Ellen.

  “You didn’t know him,” Ellen said. “And you don’t know me.”

  She left her there, went to the cramped room they’d given her. She pulled the old iPod from under the pillow, lay on the bed, and pushed the earbuds in. She closed her eyes and fell into the music.

  Acknowledgments

  Early in my career, another author told me that this job gets more difficult with each book, and they were absolutely correct. Therefore, my gratitude to those who’ve helped along the way grows deeper every time I write an acknowledgements page. My heartfelt thanks to:

  Nat Sobel, Judith Weber, and all at Sobel Weber Associates; Caspian Dennis and all at Abner Stein. The last couple of years have presented several challenges and I couldn’t have made it this far without you.

  Juliet Grames, Bronwen Hruska, Paul Oliver, and all at Soho Press, for keeping your faith and patience with me. And for indulging me by publishing this collection.

  Geoff Mulligan, who will always remain a friend.

  My partners in crime, Chris, Doug, Luca, Mark, and Val, who have given me so much over the last couple of years.

  My friends in the crime fiction community, both readers and writers, for your constant support. Special thanks to Colin Scott for saving what’s left of my sanity.

  John Connolly for your unfailing kindness.

  Jo, Issy, and Ezra, for giving me a reason to keep trying.