Collusion (30 page)

95

The Traveller clambered up the steps, choking on the smoke. He couldn’t quite believe how the fire had taken hold, how it had eaten everything around him in seconds. He had kept low, a handkerchief to his nose and mouth as he fought his way back to the steps. One side of his face glowed with a heat of its own where the initial bloom of fire had licked at him. He had been burned before, he knew this time wasn’t bad, but it had been close.

The cop was lost among the flames. The Traveller glanced behind him as he reached the top step. Smoke, black and thick, under-lit in orange and red, curled up the stairwell. No way the cop could get through that. He fell against the door and dropped to the floor, gulping at the air, as a rush of heat came behind him.

The Traveller coughed and retched as he crawled, his eyes streaming, his spit streaked with black when he ejected it from his mouth. He hauled himself to his feet and ran for the door leading back to the entrance hall. His sides ached with the coughing, and his head spun. The air out in the hall tasted sweet and clean. He closed the door tight behind him and leaned his back against it for a moment as he caught his breath. One last hacking cough to clear his chest, one last spit to clear his mouth, then he’d go to O’Kane, warn him to get out.

He pushed himself away from the door and towards the staircase. His chest heaved as he climbed to the gallery and the room where he’d left O’Kane and the bleeding Fegan. As he reached the summit, the first gunshot came, and the first cry of panic and pain.

96

Fegan had never found it difficult, and he’d never wondered why. He simply did, and usually that was all it took. When O’Kane’s attention was off him, the Walther aimed somewhere over his shoulder, and O’Driscoll’s grip had loosened, Fegan moved.

He got his hands under the wheelchair’s leg-rests, and pulled up hard. O’Kane managed a shot as he pitched backwards, but it caught Ronan’s upper chest. O’Driscoll tried to stop O’Kane’s fall, sacrificing his own balance, and Fegan had his legs from under him with a sweep at his ankles, the slippery plastic sheeting denying him purchase.

O’Kane landed hard on his back and rolled with the chair as it yawed to the side. He cried out when his injured leg hit the floor, tangled in the blanket.

Fegan got to his feet before O’Driscoll could recover. O’Kane tried to haul himself across the floor to where the Walther had fallen. Fegan stepped around him and claimed the pistol for his own. A shot rang out and he felt the heat of the bullet scorching the air by his ear. He turned, slow and calm, aimed at Ronan’s raised head as the other tried to lift his own gun again. The Walther bucked in Fegan’s hand, and Ronan’s head jerked back.

O’Driscoll scurried across the floor, making for the pistol in Ronan’s dead hand. Fegan put two in his back. O’Driscoll collapsed on top of Ronan’s legs, his shoulders shuddering. Fegan took the gun from Ronan’s hand and pushed it into his waistband. He went back to O’Kane.

The Bull stared up at him, bubbling spit running from the corner of his mouth. ‘Bastard,’ he said.

‘Where are they?’ Fegan asked.

‘Fuck you.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Fuck you, go ahead and kill me.’

‘No,’ Fegan said. ‘Not until you tell me where they are.’

‘Fuck you.’

O’Kane’s left leg, the one that had taken the bullet months before, lay outstretched on the floor, no bend at the knee. Fegan put his foot just above the joint, where the bullet had hit. He settled his weight on it.

O’Kane screamed.

‘Where are they?’

‘Fuck you,’ O’Kane said.

As Fegan put his weight on O’Kane’s knee once more, the sound of the double doors behind spun him around. The Walther was up and aimed before Fegan was conscious of the movement, his finger tight on the trigger before the Traveller could raise his own gun. Fegan had just enough time to register the scorched skin and singed hair before the Walther barked, the shot going wide as the Traveller ducked.

Fegan backed towards the door at the rear corner of the room as the Traveller recovered and took aim. A hard grip on Fegan’s ankle took his balance and he stumbled as the Traveller fired. Fegan let his body fall, the bullet passing over him. He landed on his back, O’Kane still clinging to his ankle. Fegan kicked out, his foot connected with O’Kane’s forehead, and the grip fell away.

The upended wheelchair lay between Fegan and the far door where the Traveller crouched. Fegan scurried on his back towards the corner, one hand raised, keeping the Walther trained on the door. The Traveller straightened for a moment, and Fegan fired. It went wide once more, Fegan was no good at more than a few feet, but the Traveller dropped low again.

Fegan kept pushing with his feet until his back hit the wall. He shifted to his side and reached up for the door handle. It swung away from him. He fired once more at the other door to keep the Traveller down, and the pistol’s slide locked in place, its magazine empty. Fegan dropped it and scrambled to his feet and through to the room on the other side. He closed the door behind him and backed into the empty room, a small kitchen with a sink, giant kettles by a cooker, a fridge humming in the stillness. He took Ronan’s pistol, a chrome-finished revolver, from his waistband and fixed its sight on the door.

Would the Traveller come after him that way, or would he circle around? Another door stood to his right. Fegan struggled to picture the building’s layout in his mind. That door must lead to another room that would open further along the corridor. He crossed to it and tried the handle. The door opened into a smaller space with comfortable looking chairs arranged in circles, coffee tables between them in the darkness, wooden shutters sealing out all but a hint of daylight. Two more doors matched the placement in the room he’d just left, one leading to the corridor, the other to another room like this one. He had no choice but to try it, stay out of the corridor.

Fegan headed for the door, but something stopped him. He froze, his senses picking at the air. Smoke, not far away, heat on the breeze that somehow swept through the room, and a crackling and sighing. Thin black fingers reached out from above the door leading into the corridor.

‘Ellen,’ Fegan said.

97

The Traveller crossed the room to the wheelchair and set it upright, kicked the brake to lock the wheels. He crouched down by O’Kane and got his hands under the old man’s arms. Christ, he was heavy, frail and wasted as he was. The Traveller got O’Kane to the chair, hoisted him up and into the seat.

‘Go finish him,’ the Bull said between gasps of air, sweat thick on his face, spit hanging from his lip.

‘I’m getting you out of here first,’ the Traveller said. ‘There’s a fire in the cellar. Won’t be long till it spreads up here.’

O’Kane grabbed the Traveller’s arm. ‘I’m not going anywhere till Fegan’s dead.’ Spit prickled the Traveller’s cheek. ‘Now for Christ’s sake do what I tell you and go and get the fucker.’

The Traveller pulled his arm away and grabbed the handles at the back of the chair. He released the brake and pushed it towards the door, but O’Kane twisted in the seat and swung a big fist at him.

‘I told you to go after Fegan, for Christ’s sake, now do it or I’ll fucking kill you.’ O’Kane’s eyes brimmed. ‘I can look after myself. There’s a lift out there. I can get out if I need to. Just do what I paid you for.’

‘Jesus.’ The Traveller let go of the chair and stepped back. ‘All right, you mad old bastard, whatever you want.’

A high wailing cut the air as the smoke alarms kicked in.

‘The fire’s spreading,’ the Traveller said. ‘If I can’t get back to you, then you’re on your own.’

The Bull breathed deep, seemed to gather himself. He wiped his forearm across his mouth and eyes. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘Just worry about Fegan. He’ll probably go after the woman and the kid. Go to them, then he’ll come to you.’

The Traveller drew his Glock and left the Bull in the recreation room. He headed for the old servants’ quarters at the other end of the building, using his teeth to pull at the tape that secured the strapping on his wrist. The bandage peeled away. He flexed his fingers. It triggered a spasm in his wrist, but the pain was better than the restriction when he had to fight.

Black motes floated in the hazed air as he walked along the gallery, his Glock held out ahead of him. That same air seemed to disappear for a second or two, long enough for the Traveller to feel it pull at his lungs. The floor shuddered beneath his feet, and he felt rather than heard the pressure of the blast somewhere below. He fell to his knees as the door he’d closed just a few minutes ago was blown across the entrance hall. He rolled away from a wave of heat that rose up from below and flooded over him.

The walls reflected shifting and flickering oranges and reds, and smoke leaked up between the banisters. Heat prickled his throat and chest and stung his eyes.

‘Fuck me,’ the Traveller whispered as he clambered to his feet and got moving, aiming for the door at the far end of the hallway. Beyond it lay a small staircase that led to a series of tiny hallways and rooms that would once have housed maids and valets. He took his time, mindful of the shadows. He stopped halfway to blow a mixture of snot and soot out of his nose onto the carpet. He pictured the layout of the rooms beyond the door, recalling what he’d seen of them as he carried the woman up the stairs to Orla’s room, the girl following, clinging to her mother’s loose hand. There was a fire escape at the outer wall. If he could get Fegan, then fine. If he could get back to O’Kane, then all right, he would. If he could do neither, then to hell with Bull O’Kane and his money, he’d get the fuck out and leave them to burn like the cop in the cellar.

A thin dark blanket crept along the ceiling above him and the air grew hotter. The Traveller quickened his pace until he reached the door to the servants’ quarters. He tested the brass doorknob for heat like he’d seen on television. It was cool. He took a breath, coughed, and threw the door open.

A wall of heat and black smoke knocked him to the floor. He landed on his back, blind and choking. The Glock had slipped from his fingers. He rolled onto his belly and felt the floor around him, seeking out the comfort of cold metal. He blinked hard, and his vision returned in a watery haze, but not enough to make out the pistol. His fingers brushed something solid as they swept along the floor, and he swung his hand back to find nothing. Had he knocked it away? No, he couldn’t have, he’d hardly touched it.

‘Fucking bast—’

Hard hands seized his collar, hauled him to his feet, and spun him around. He blinked again and again, trying to clear his eyes, until the stony ridges of a face came into focus, a face streaked red and black.

‘Where are they?’ Gerry Fegan said.

98

Fegan pushed him hard against the wall. A picture fell from its hook, the frame splitting as it hit the floor. The Traveller blinked back at him, tears cutting clear streaks through the black on his face.

‘Where are they?’ he asked again.

The Traveller wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He coughed and spat on the floor at Fegan’s feet.

Fegan pushed him again. ‘Where are they?’

The Traveller waved a hand at the door. ‘Up there. Next floor up. I don’t fancy their chances. The woman was half dead any—’

The heel of Fegan’s hand rocked the Traveller’s head back to smack against the wall. He staggered sideways but kept his footing. He brought a hand to his jaw. ‘Jesus, the place is burning down around us and you want a fist fight? The Bull was right. You
are
a mad fucker.’

Fegan took the Traveller’s Glock from his waistband. He aimed at the Traveller’s forehead.

‘Jesus, just go and get them while there’s time,’ the Traveller said as he raised his hands. ‘It’s up one flight, then the end of the hall, last on the left. The fire escape’s right there. You might get the wee girl out if you go now. Christ, the stairwell’s filling up, look at it, you might not make it.’

The moment Fegan chanced a look over his shoulder towards the door he knew he’d made a mistake. The Traveller was on him with more speed than he’d ever seen, like a starved cat on its prey. He grabbed Fegan’s wrist, forcing the pistol up, his momentum carrying both of them towards the smoke-filled doorway. Their feet tangled, and Fegan fell back, the Traveller’s lean body landing on top of his.

The Glock bounced away across the carpet. The Traveller tried to scramble after it, but Fegan grabbed his shirt collar and hauled him back. A knee slammed into his groin, and Fegan convulsed, but didn’t let go. He threw his weight to the side, rolling the Traveller’s body away from his own, and followed, trying to straddle him. The Traveller bucked and twisted, not letting him take hold. He reached up and grabbed Fegan’s throat with both hands. Instead of pulling away, Fegan let his weight press down on the arms until they quivered and buckled. His torso landed flat on the Traveller’s chest, their eyes inches apart, the breath hot on Fegan’s cheek as teeth snapped at his flesh.

Fegan cried out at the pain and the tearing sensation beneath his eye. He pushed himself up onto his knees. Smoke flooded his lungs, and the world shifted its balance, taking his own with it. He steadied himself against the wall, the Traveller still writhing beneath him. Fegan shook his head, tried to dislodge the heavy fog that had settled over his mind. He focused on the other man’s face, brought his fists together to form a hammer, and smashed them down on the bridge of the Traveller’s nose. It shattered against his hands, blood hot on his skin.

His vision blurred and swayed as the smoke clawed at the back of his throat. He pitched forward, jarring his elbow on the floor by the Traveller’s head. The Traveller renewed his struggle, throwing his body from side to side. Fegan reached back to his waistband, searching for the revolver he’d stowed there. His hand closed on it, its metal chill reaching up through his arm to clear his mind. Fegan seized on that glint of clarity as he pulled the pistol free, used it to focus through the pain and black clouds. He brought the revolver around, tried to aim at the Traveller’s forehead, but another wave washed over his consciousness. His upper body rocked forward from the waist, his spine seeming to give way. He saw the Traveller’s hand too late as its heel shot upwards and connected with his jaw, slamming his teeth together, taking a piece of his tongue.

The world rotated around Fegan, first the floor and the Traveller’s blood-streaked face rushing away from him, then the door, belching smoke up from the belly of the house, followed by the ceiling’s blur as it raced past his vision. Red hung in the air as it all spun away from him, and somewhere in the fading light of his mind, he knew it was his own blood. The floor hit the back of his head, barely cushioned by the carpet.

Sparks and black dots peppered his vision, and through them, a grin surrounded by crimson, the Traveller, rising.