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.’
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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.
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The Traveller untangled his legs from Fegan’s, kicking the madman away. The Glock lay out of either man’s reach. He raised himself up. Fegan watched from under drooping eyelids. The Traveller coughed, then doubled over, vomiting up the blood he’d swallowed. His head seemed to float, lighter than the rest of him. He knew he didn’t have long, but he had to finish it. He had to see Fegan’s life end.
The ceiling was lost now above a canopy of roiling darkness. Currents of hot air ferried black motes past his eyes. The Traveller tasted the burning through the blood and bile in his mouth. He swung his right foot into Fegan’s groin. Fegan curled into a ball, his forearms across his stomach. The Traveller edged along the wall, using it for balance. When his feet were level with Fegan’s eyes, he kicked hard. Fegan rolled away, spitting blood and a tooth.
The bright and beautiful joy of it flared in the Traveller’s heart, sending waves of giddy happiness up to his brain. He stepped over Fegan’s body, ignoring the clutching hands as he tried to rise, and drove a heel into his upturned face. It connected with Fegan’s chin, and his body flopped back to the carpet.
Before he could follow the kick with another, a tidal wave through the centre of his brain sent the Traveller staggering sideways. His legs deserted him, and he landed on his side. He blinked, tried to clear his mind, but it was so hard, and he was so tired. Warmth enveloped him, pulled him down so his cheek rested on the carpet. His eyes closed for a few seconds, at first against his wishes, but soon he welcomed the darkness. It wouldn’t be so bad to sleep here, to just let his eyes stay closed, let the warmth take him.
No.
Warm, like a soft bed on a winter morning.
No.
As he drifted, he saw Sofia and her round hips, her soft thighs, her belly swollen with the baby he’d resolved to give her.
No.
His eyes snapped open as a thunderbolt of pain cracked behind them. He screamed against it, filled his lungs with the precious clean air near the floor, and coughed. A spray of blood marked the carpet. As his vision cleared he saw the Glock just inches from his fingers. With every bit of strength left to him, he reached for it, took it in his grasp.
The Traveller forced his body up until he sat with his back against the wall. Fegan stirred, his chest rising and falling, his hands reaching up to grab at whatever phantoms circled him. The Traveller raised the Glock and blinked hard as he tried to align the sight on Fegan’s head.
He drew in the clean air and held it in his lungs as he struggled to his feet. His legs quivered, but the wall held him upright until the Glock picked out a point between Fegan’s distant eyes.
The Traveller’s finger tightened on the trigger, but a voice called to him from somewhere far away.
‘What?’
The word emptied his lungs, forcing him to breathe the tainted air. His head immediately lightened, and he searched around him for the source of the intrusion.
There, by the door, the shape of a man, his blond hair blackened and burnt, pointing back at him. No, not pointing, aiming something—
Two hard punches to his shoulder, one after the other, and the floor slammed into his back. The ceiling looked like a churning river of black. Everywhere was silence, save for the faintest whistling in his ears. He tried to breathe in, but his lungs would not obey. His hands would not move to his chest to remove the weight and heat that had settled there.
100
Lennon stayed low, breathing as shallow as he dared. His eyes streamed and stung. He grabbed Fegan’s collar and dragged him along the floor, managing a few feet before he had to stop, his lungs screaming.
Fegan rolled to his side and moaned. Lennon knelt down beside him.
‘Can you get to your feet?’ he asked.
Fegan blinked at him, his mouth open.
Lennon slapped his bloodied cheek. ‘Listen, I need you to move. It’s not far, just through the door.’
Fegan looked to the doorway, his face twisting as he tried to concentrate. His eyes cleared as he seemed to realise what Lennon wanted from him. He got to his hands and knees and crawled towards the door where smoke swirled in the battling air currents.
Lennon came alongside him, keeping his head down. He wedged a hand under Fegan’s arm and pulled him to his feet. They staggered together, but Lennon steadied them. If he could just get Fegan to the fire escape, only fifteen feet away. He dragged Fegan after him, moving more by the momentum of their bodies than the will of their legs. The blackness swallowed them, billowing up from the stairwell, carried by the searing heat.
‘Go,’ Lennon said, his throat tightening against the fumes. He pushed Fegan forward until he saw the light at the end of the corridor.
Fegan stumbled, landed on his knees. Lennon wrapped his arms around his torso and hoisted him up. He shoved him towards the open door and the fire escape’s platform beyond.
Lennon tumbled through the door after Fegan, both men collapsing against the steel grating. Fegan gulped air. The gash beneath his left eye streamed red, the flesh around it swollen and puffy. More blood coated his neck, trickling and pulsing from his nearly severed earlobe. Lennon pulled hi
mself up by the railing and breathed deep. He spat over the edge, fighting the swimming sensation that started in his head and ran down to his legs.
‘Where are they?’ Lennon asked.
Fegan retched and coughed.
Lennon hunkered down beside him. ‘What did they do with them?’
Fegan turned his face to him. ‘Upstairs,’ he said, his speech slurred, his tongue red and swollen behind his teeth.
Lennon leaned back and looked at the platform above. ‘Up there? In what room?’
A fresh wave of heat burst out of the door. Through the smoke, Lennon saw the flames advance.
‘He told me the end of the corridor,’ Fegan said. He coughed again and spat blood on the grating. ‘In one of the old servants’ rooms.’
Fegan got to his feet, using the railing to haul himself upright. He lurched towards the metal stairs and climbed. Lennon followed, pushed past him, taking two steps at a time despite the weakness in his legs. Fegan quickened his pace behind him, his feet slapping hard and clumsy on the steel steps.
Lennon reached the upper platform and went for the door. Like the fire exit below, it was old with plain glass panes set in a wooden frame. He smashed one of the panes with the pistol’s butt and reached inside. The heat lapped at his hand as he fumbled at the lock. He pushed the door open and dropped low as a scorching black cloud billowed out.
Fegan reached the platform and staggered past Lennon into the darkness beyond the door.
Lennon followed him in. ‘Which room?’ he called after Fegan. The smoke attacked his chest, and he crouched down, coughing until his sides shrieked.
‘Here,’ Fegan said. He opened the nearest door, and fell through.
Lennon scrambled towards it. Through the black swirls he saw the shape of a man lying a few feet along the corridor, maybe a guard, either unconscious or dead. He crawled through the door and found Fegan hunched against the wall, his face blank and staring as his chest rose and fell. Tears mixed with the blood on his cheeks.
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