Collusion (8 page)

16

Lennon sat at his Mexican-style dining table eating microwaved lamb rogan josh. The edge of the Mexican-style chair cut into the backs of his thighs. The set had cost almost five hundred, but he’d got it on finance. He was sure the interest rate would have been scandalous if he’d looked at it. But he hadn’t, just signed the form the salesman put in front of him. They delivered the table and six chairs a few days later, and he’d never eaten a comfortable meal while seated here.

He thought back, searching for the last time anyone else had sat at the table. Months ago, he reckoned, and he couldn’t remember her name. She drank coffee and he drank tea while they barely looked at each other. He took her number even though they both knew he’d never dial it.

The lamb turned sickly in Lennon’s mouth. He swallowed it and pushed the plate away, then washed his palate with a swig of lukewarm tap water. The silence pressed on him with a cold insistence. He could only take his own company for so long, so he cleaned up, changed, and headed into town.

He decided to try the Empire’s basement bar. A blues band did their best for an indifferent crowd mostly made up of students getting an early start on the weekend. Lennon scoped the women and felt every day of his thirty-seven years. He wasn’t quite old enough to be anyone’s father, but maybe a creepy uncle. He ordered a pint of Stella as he wondered where else he could go. The small pang of guilt he’d felt at drawing forty pounds cash on one of his credit cards grew sharper and deeper as he handed a twenty over. His bank account had run dry the day before. Anyone with common sense would wait for pay day rather than spend borrowed money, but common sense and money never occupied the same parts of his mind.

Two girls leaned on the bar beside Lennon. Not young enough to be students, he thought, too well dressed. They both wore the kinds of clothes and jewellery that rich boyfriends or fathers would never buy. They made their own money, probably working in one of the call centres that had sprung up across the city.

‘Two Smirnoff Ice,’ one of the girls called across the bar.

Lennon held out the ten-pound note he’d just got back in change, forgetting any notion of frugality he might have entertained a few seconds before. ‘Allow me,’ he said.

The nearest girl looked him up and down. ‘If I wanted my dad to buy my drinks, I’d have brought him,’ she said. ‘Thanks anyway.’

Lennon forced himself to finish his pint before leaving. He phoned Roscoe Patterson to see if he had anything on tonight.

Less than thirty minutes took Lennon to the apartment block overlooking Carrickfergus Marina. Roscoe said nothing when he opened the door to the penthouse flat, and Lennon followed him through the entrance hall to the living room. The shaven-headed, bull-shouldered man took a seat and resumed his computer game. His thick fingers moved over the controller with a curious grace. Uniformed soldiers died under a hail of gunfire on the massive plasma screen, the shiny new Playstation 3 whirring in the cabinet beneath it.

‘Sit down,’ Roscoe said. ‘She’s got a punter in. He’ll not be long.’ His face creased in an absent-minded grin. ‘They never are.’

Lennon lowered himself into the leather sofa facing Roscoe. The floor resonated as the surround-sound system’s woofer made the most of the game’s explosions.

‘The neighbours don’t complain about the noise?’ Lennon asked.

Roscoe winked. ‘Just the once,’ he said. ‘There’s only a couple here during the week, anyway. The rest is holiday lets or weekend places.’

Lennon shifted, trying to get comfortable as his jeans slid across the leather.

‘I heard you lifted Dandy Andy,’ Roscoe said as he blew someone’s head off.

‘That’s right,’ Lennon said.

‘Good job,’ Roscoe said. ‘He’s a cunt. Will he do time?’

‘A little. Not much.’

Roscoe shrugged. ‘Better than nothing,’ he said.

Lennon watched the blurred tattoos on Roscoe’s forearms flex and ripple as he worked the controller. ‘You know what Rankin’s gripe with Crozier was?’

‘Don’t be asking me that,’ Roscoe said. ‘I’m not touting for you.’

‘I heard Crozier was palling up with the Lithuanians,’ Lennon said. ‘He was filling the gap Michael McKenna left when he got his brains blown out. He was supplying the muscle while they supplied the girls. He was letting them set up their own places on McKenna’s old turf.’

‘Know nothing about it,’ Roscoe said. ‘Ah, fuck! Look, I got shot now ’cause of you.’

‘So you and your boys are okay with Crozier doing business with the Liths?’ Lennon asked. ‘You know they pay dues to the Republicans, don’t you? Crozier’s putting money in their pockets.’

‘Dirty business, that,’ Patterson said. ‘Them Liths are trafficking girls in from all over the fucking place, Russia, Ukraine, all them auld shitty holes. Keeping them doped up so they can have them doing punters for fuck all money. Slaves, like. I don’t hold with that. I deal in quality, not quantity. You pay a bit more, but you know the girl’s there of her own free will, and she’s getting her fair share of the money. And she’ll be so clean she’ll squeak when you stick it to her.’

You’re a prince among pimps,’ Lennon said.

Roscoe grinned. ‘I should put that on my business cards. Anyway, so long as I’m turning a pound, Crozier can give the Liths free blowjobs for all I care. And the taigs. No offence, like. Now, either change the subject or fuck off.’

‘Fair enough,’ Lennon said. ‘Who’ve you got on tonight?’

‘Debbie,’ Roscoe said.

‘Debbie?’

‘Edinburgh Uni. She’s doing her Master’s in commercial law, she tells me. Whatever the fuck that means. I normally just bring her over on weekends, but she’s got some bills to pay. Fucking lovely wee thing, she is. You’ll like her.’

A door opened in the entrance hall, and Lennon heard the rustling of clothes. The shadow of a man, his head bowed, passed the door.

‘Everything all right?’ Roscoe called.

‘Yes, thank you,’ a small voice replied.

‘Dead on,’ Roscoe said. ‘You can let yourself out.’

The apartment door opened and closed.

‘Give her a minute to clean up,’ Roscoe said.

You boys talk amongst yourselves,’ Lennon said. ‘About what’s going on. Who’s doing what to who, that sort of thing.’

Aye,’ Roscoe said. ‘But like I said, I’m not touting for you. You’re a good friend to have, Jack, but don’t push your luck.’

‘Michael McKenna,’ Lennon said. ‘Paul McGinty, too. What do you reckon to all that? The inquiry said it was a feud, all internal stuff. You ever hear anything different?’

Roscoe smiled. ‘That was a good week,’ he said. ‘My auld da used to say the only good taig was a dead taig. Lot of good taigs that week. No offence, like.’

‘None taken,’ Lennon said.

Roscoe’s mobile phone beeped. He picked it up and thumbed a button. ‘She’s ready for you,’ he said.

Lennon got to his feet and walked to the door.

‘There was one weird thing came of it all,’ Roscoe said.

Lennon stopped in the doorway. ‘What was that?’

‘That lawyer, Patsy Toner,’ Roscoe said. ‘They said he lent that bent cop his car, and the cop wound up getting his head took off. They said it was mistaken identity, said the dissidents meant to get Toner. But then the dissidents blew themselves up, problem solved, everything gets back to normal.’

Lennon walked back to Roscoe. ‘And?’

‘Patsy Toner’s a regular with one of my girls. She says he’s in pieces. He still comes to see her, but he can’t manage anything. She’s tried handjobs, blowjobs, stuck her finger up his arse, everything she can think of. Not a fucking thing.’

‘I could’ve done without that image,’ Lennon said.

‘Me too,’ Roscoe said, his lip curling. ‘But you hear worse in my line of work.’

Lennon leaned on the back of Roscoe’s chair. ‘I’m sure you do, but what’s your point?’

Roscoe shrugged. ‘Might be nothing, but she told me he turned up pissed off his face one night. He was blathering about how it wasn’t over, they wouldn’t let it go, it was only a matter of time before they came for him.’

Lennon stood upright. ‘Is that right?’

Roscoe smiled. ‘Is what right? I didn’t tell you nothing.’ He turned back to his game. ‘I’m not touting for you. Now go and see that wee thing before she gets lonely.’

Lennon patted the other man’s muscled shoulder. ‘Thanks, Roscoe.’

He went back to the entrance hall. A thin streak of light reached across the carpet from the bedroom door. He rapped the wood with his knuckles, and the door opened. She had shoulder-length brown hair and smelled of strong soap.

‘Put a hundred on the dressing table, love,’ she said, her Scottish accent easing through her smile. ‘Then we’ll talk about the options. All right, sweetheart?’

Lennon forced himself to maintain eye contact. ‘Roscoe and me have an arrangement.’

She stood on tiptoe and called over his shoulder. ‘Roscoe?’

Roscoe’s voice came back from the living room. ‘Whatever he wants. I’ll sort you, don’t worry.’

Her face slackened for a moment, whether with contempt or sadness he couldn’t tell. Then it brightened, as if a light behind her eyes had switched on, and her lips parted in a smile that could cut glass. ‘Whatever you want, darling,’ she said.

17

Just a few months ago, Declan Quigley had saved Bull O’Kane’s life by dragging his huge bulk into a car and speeding to a hospital in Dundalk. Even so, O’Kane wanted Quigley gone. It wasn’t the Traveller’s place to question the Bull.

Quigley lived with his mother in a red-brick two-up-two-down off the Lower Ormeau. The Traveller circled the area around the house. He couldn’t park up and hope no one noticed him as he did at Marie McKenna’s place on Eglantine Avenue. This was a close-knit community. Any stranger would draw attention if they stayed in one place too long.

A gang of fifteen or so youths wandered from street to street, making their way towards the interface with the Loyalist-dominated Donegall Pass. Looking for a fight, the Traveller thought. They’d probably get it. He circled back towards Quigley’s street.

The mother was doting, the Bull said, didn’t know night from day. There was no need to touch her, even if she saw everything. The Bull had been quite clear on that point, and the Traveller intended to honour his promise.

He tucked the old Merc into a parking bay on the Ormeau Road, next to a fenced-off housing development where the sports ground used to be. It’d be a trek to Quigley’s house, but it was the most secluded place he could find to leave the car. He kept his head down as he walked along the main road, avoiding eye contact with the few people he passed.

The Traveller walked as far as the Ormeau Bridge before looping back along the river. He counted side streets as he made his way north. The Bull had told him how many. A police siren wailed somewhere towards Donegall Pass, followed by cheers. The youths had got their fight by the sound of it.

He ducked into the narrow alleyway that cut along the back of Quigley’s terrace. Seven houses along from the river end, the Bull had said. The Traveller kept tight to the wall and counted gates. He worked his way through the alley’s blackness, careful of his footing. Litter snagged his heels, old plastic bags and cigarette packets. He kicked an empty can and froze. Inside one of the houses, a dog barked at the clatter. When it settled, he started moving again.

A siren screamed along Ormeau Avenue. The Traveller saw a cop car flash past the far end of the alley. A moment later he heard the screeching of tyres and the whoops and laughter of breathless boys. He moved faster, reached Quigley’s back gate, pressed against the painted wood and found it open. As he slipped into the yard he kept his eyes on the far end of the alley. Two youths appeared there, their trainers skidding as they rounded the corner.

The Traveller eased back into the yard and pushed the gate closed. It stood as high as the wall, would keep him hidden, but it had no latch. He listened to the hammering of feet as the boys sprinted along the alley.

‘Quick, they’re coming!’ a voice said.

‘Fuck’s sake, hide!’ another said.

The Traveller heard hands slapping on wood as the boys tried the gates. Too late, he went to block Quigley’s, and the boys burst through.

He put the first one down with a blow to the temple, and the sound of skull meeting brickwork cut the boy’s cry short. The other slipped as he tried to halt his momentum and landed at the Traveller’s feet.

The Traveller swooped, threw him on his belly. Before the boy could scream, the Traveller had his throat in the crook of his elbow. The boy didn’t struggle long.

The Traveller got to his feet and pressed his back against the gate. Heavy footsteps trudged along the alley, accompanied by deeper voices and radio static.

‘No, they’re gone,’ one of the voices said.

A burst of static replied as the footsteps drew closer.

‘Christ knows,’ the voice said. ‘Balfour Avenue, probably.’

Wood rattled as the cops tried the gates. The Traveller leaned against the flaked paint, braced himself.

‘No chance,’ the voice said. ‘I’m not doing any more running tonight. I’m too old for this shit.’

The gate pushed against the Traveller’s back. Static crackled.

‘Up your arse,’ the voice on the other side of the wall said. ‘I’m going back to the car.’

The footsteps receded towards the Ormeau Road. The Traveller stooped down and checked if the boys were breathing. They both were, but the first one he’d hit was slick with blood. The other would wake before too long with a crushing headache. The Traveller had to get this done. He went to the back door and peered through the glass into the kitchen. An old woman in a dressing gown stood gazing at a biscuit tin, her lips moving as if she were trying to remember the words of a song.

He tried the handle, but the door was locked. The old woman looked up at the sound. She approached the door and turned the key. She opened it and stared at the Traveller for a moment. ‘Bobby, love, where’ve you been?’ she asked.

‘Away,’ the Traveller said.

‘Away where?’

‘Just away,’ the Traveller said. ‘Can I come in?’

The old woman stepped back to let him enter. She stroked his arm as he passed. ‘You missed your tea, love.’

‘I had something when I was out,’ the Traveller said.

‘What did you have, love?’

‘Fish and chips,’ the Traveller said. He heard a television in the next room.

She slapped his arm. ‘You could’ve brought some back with you,’ she scolded.

‘They’d be cold,’ the Traveller said. ‘Where’s Declan?’

‘He’s watching the telly,’ the old woman said.

‘Ma?’ a slurred voiced called from the next room. ‘Ma! Who’re you talking to?’

‘It’s Bobby,’ the old woman said. ‘He’s home. He got fish and chips, but he never brought us any back.’

The Traveller went to the door and stepped through. Declan Quigley froze half out of the armchair facing the television.

‘How’re ya, Declan,’ the Traveller said. ‘Better sit down, there’s a good fella.’

The old woman followed behind. He turned to her and asked, ‘Any danger of a cup of tea?’

‘Surely, Bobby, love.’

‘Ta very much,’ the Traveller said. He watched her shuffle to the kitchen before he turned back to Quigley. ‘Who’s Bobby?’

Quigley sagged back into the chair. ‘My brother,’ he said, his voice shaking. A half-empty bottle of vodka and a glass sat on a side table next to him. ‘The Brits shot him twenty years ago. She thinks every man she meets is Bobby. Except me. Who are you?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ the Traveller said, taking a step towards him.

‘Jesus, I knew it wasn’t over,’ Quigley said. ‘When them three blew themselves up, then Kevin Malloy the other night. The news said it was a robbery, but I knew it was lies.’

The Traveller reached into his pocket.

Wait!’ Quigley held his hands up. ‘Wait a minute. I haven’t said a word to anyone. I know what happened, I saw the whole thing, I know all that stuff about a feud was bullshit. I could’ve gone to the papers and told them the truth. I could’ve made a fortune. I could’ve made enough to look after my mother. But I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut. There’s no call for this.’

The Traveller thought about arguing, explaining the nature of things to this man, but what was the point? He sighed and took the knife from his pocket. The blade opened with barely a sound. Best to do it quiet.

Quigley took a swig of neat vodka from the bottle and coughed. ‘There’s no call for it,’ he said, putting the bottle back on the table. ‘It’s not fair.’

The old woman’s voice shrilled from the kitchen. ‘Do you want a biscuit, Bobby, love?’

‘You have any Jaffa Cakes?’ the Traveller called back.

‘No, love. But I’ve got Penguins.’

‘Aye, that’ll do.’

Quigley seemed to shrink in the chair. ‘Christ, I’m tired,’ he said. ‘So tired. Maybe I should’ve run, but who’d look after my mother? So I’ve been sitting here waiting. I haven’t slept in months. I can’t eat. I’ve lost a stone and a half. I should’ve killed Gerry Fegan, you know. Or tried, anyway.’

The Traveller stopped. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I couldn’t,’ Quigley said. He started to cry. ‘I was too scared. He was too … big.’

‘Big?’

Quigley looked down at his shaking hands. ‘Like nothing could hurt him. Like nothing could stop him. Like if he set his mind to killing someone, then they were already dead. I’d never seen anything like it in my life.’ He looked up at the Traveller. ‘Until now. Promise me you won’t touch her.’

‘I won’t,’ the Traveller said.

Quigley stared hard at him. ‘Promise me.’

‘I won’t touch her,’ the Traveller said. ‘I swear to God.’

Quigley unbuttoned his shirt collar, pulled the fabric away from his throat, and laid his head back. ‘Make it quick,’ he said.

‘No, not the throat,’ the Traveller said. ‘You’ll piss blood everywhere. All over your ma’s carpet, up the walls, fucking everywhere. Just close your eyes. I’ll make it easy.’

Quigley’s head dropped, and he wept. Tears blotched his shirt. ‘What a fucking waste,’ he said.

‘Quiet, now,’ the Traveller said. ‘It’ll be quick, I promise. Close your eyes.’

Quigley squeezed the armrests and closed his eyes. His breath quickened. He whined. The Traveller switched his grip on the knife to underhand and leaned on the chair. Quigley inhaled, held his breath. The Traveller made one, two, three thrusts, burying the blade to the hilt each time before drawing it out again.

Quigley breathed out, his exhalation bubbling as it thinned. He coughed. A small red bloom, about the size of a rose, spread on his chest.

The old woman screamed ‘Bobby!’ and drove a knitting needle into the Traveller’s upper arm.