Collusion

by Stuart Neville

  ‘Then get yourself someone else to play with. Won’t bother me. Just make sure he wears a johnny. Don’t want to catch nothing off some dirty bastard.’

  ‘Pig,’ she said as she rolled away.

  He reached under the sheet and squeezed a fleshy buttock. She slapped his hand away. The sound of it reverberated around the high-ceilinged bedroom. It was made up to look like some grand old place, with cornices and an elaborate rose above the light, but the house couldn’t have been standing more than five or six years. New money trying to look like old, the Traveller thought. Sofia had inherited the place from her dead husband, along with half a dozen other properties, a fat investment portfolio, and a luxury-car dealership. Did she know he was the one that did the husband in? He reckoned so, but she’d never let on. That scar on her back wasn’t the only one. The first time he’d bedded her there had been something close to gratitude in her eyes.

  Not that she’d bought the hit. That had been a rival businessman the husband had shafted on a deal. When the Traveller had been watching the doomed man’s comings and goings, figuring out the job, he’d seen Sofia driving the big Range Rover away from the massive house. He’d followed her to some young lad’s place where she drew the curtains and emerged two hours later with her skirt crooked and her hair messed up. He’d made a mental note then to call on her once the job was done.

  Two years ago, that was, and he visited her at least once every few weeks. He’d even taken her to Benidorm. She got drunk and tearful on cheap sangria and talked about her only regret: the husband hadn’t given her a baby. He sometimes wondered why she didn’t just quit the pill and not tell him about it, get pregnant and say goodbye. Maybe she had an honest streak in her. He laughed out loud.

  ‘What’s so fucking funny?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. He turned onto his side and slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her in close to him. She took his hand and placed it on her plump breast.

  ‘Fancy another?’ he asked.

  ‘Already?’

  He squeezed. ‘Me? Sure I’m always raring to go.’

  ‘Bastard,’ she said.

  It took an hour and a half to drive north through Ardee, Carrickmacross, and Castleblaney before hitting the outskirts of Monaghan town a few miles south of the border. The Traveller had bought a ten-year-old Mercedes from a dealer he knew near Drogheda. It was a big, wallowing estate with 200,000 miles on it. An automatic with plenty of room in the back if he needed to stash anything or anybody.

  The Bull had described the place well, even drawn a map. The Traveller stopped at junctions as he got nearer, traced the shape of the words on the map with his finger, and matched them to the road signs.

  He remembered the word ‘alexia’ as a shadow, how a doctor explained it to him in broken English fifteen years ago. Another name for it was acquired dyslexia. Something about the piece of Kevlar they dug out of his head, how it fucked up something in his brain, made written words turn into a jumble of criss-crossing lines.

  The doctor had told him he’d never read anything again. That didn’t bother the Traveller at first; he’d never been one for books. But when he re-entered the living world, the lack of words became an obstacle. So he had trained himself to memorise the letters as shapes, all twenty-six of them. He could study a word, judge each letter in turn, and decipher its meaning if he tried hard enough. But more than one or two words, and it might as well be Chinese. It suited him to let the likes of Bull O’Kane think he was illiterate. No one ever suffered for being underestimated.

  Another thirty minutes and he found Malloy’s place, just as it was getting dark. An old cottage set back a hundred yards from the road with a single-track lane running up to the small garden.

  He stopped the car halfway along the lane, far enough so the Merc couldn’t be seen from the road, and not too close to the cottage. He pulled the IMI Desert Eagle from under the seat. People said a Glock or a SIG was a better combat pistol, and they were probably right, but the Desert Eagle was a big bastard that scared the shite out of anyone he pulled it on. It was noisy, too. If you needed to take someone’s head off in a crowded pub without worrying about heroes, it was the one. It sounded like the end of the world, and it could stop anything with its .44 load.

  Lights glowed behind drawn curtains up ahead. He got out of the Merc and walked towards them. If the Traveller lived in a place like this, he’d have a dog. A big, mean one. He kept to the grass verge to silence his footsteps and listened for growling as he approached.

  Kevin Malloy had a wife, the Bull had said. She might or might not be in the cottage. Malloy was still bedridden from his injuries. It was a simple job, really. Get in, do anyone inside, grab any money, wreck the place, get out. The cottage stood black against the hills behind. Just twenty yards now. The wind changed direction.

  There, a low rumble as a dog caught his scent. The Traveller froze, listened, waited. The Eagle’s heft felt good. Solid, like the power of God in his hand. He started towards the house again.

  The rumble turned to a growl punctuated by gasps. He could hear the animal’s excitement and fear. No sign of it in the shadows yet. He listened for another sound: the high jangle of a chain. No one would leave a big dog loose out here, but he wanted to be sure.

  It launched into a clamour of barking, then, the low bass vowels of a deep-chested animal. The Bull said Malloy was an arsehole. If he was an arsehole he’d have a dog he thought made him look hard. Something stupid and brutal, maybe a Rottweiler or some kind of mastiff, rather than a smart guardian like a German shepherd or a Dobermann.

  The braying grew louder and the Traveller heard heavy paws crunching on gravel. Then a gallop, the jangle of chain, and a yelp as it snapped taut. That was all he needed to know.

  He reached into his pocket and took out the Vater earplugs. Drummers used them to protect their hearing. The little beehive-shaped pieces of rubber blocked out the dangerous frequencies but let through the detail of the environment. They blocked out the worst of a gunshot, but you could still hear a mouse fart. He pressed the two earpieces, joined by a twelve-inch plastic string, into place. He worked his jaw open and closed, swallowed, and walked.

  There it was, some sort of mastiff cross. A low wall surrounded the cottage. The dog stood just inside the open gate. It stopped its barking and watched the Traveller approach. There was enough light yet to see the glow of its eyes. He pulled back the Eagle’s slide to chamber a round and thumbed the safety off. The dog’s legs quivered and its chest rumbled.

  The Traveller raised the Eagle in a two-handed grip, his wrists firm so his shoulders would take the brunt of the recoil, and squeezed the trigger until he felt resistance. Sometimes he forgot which was his right hand, and which was his left. Something else that came out of his brain along with that piece of Kevlar. Not that it mattered much; he had trained one hand to be about as strong as the other.

  He lined the sights between the dog’s eyes. It lunged. He blew its skull apart.

  The boom rolled across the hills. The Traveller watched the house for movement. No surprises now, just get in and do it. He marched to the old wooden door and booted it below the handle. He kicked it again, and it swung inward. He went in gun first, ready to take down anything that moved.

  The tiny open-plan kitchen and living room was empty. Old bottles and beer cans crowded around the sink. The remains of a Chinese takeaway littered the dining table. The place reeked of stale cigarettes and alcohol, damp and rotten food. Only two doors led from this room. One of them stood open, revealing a dirty bathtub and toilet. He went to the other, the Eagle at shoulder level.

  The Traveller threw it open, and the door frame exploded around him. He fired blind into the room three times, the recoil throwing him backwards against the table. His wrist shrieked; splinters and plaster dust stung his face.

  ‘Bastard,’ he said. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes. Hot pain seared the right. He shook his head, tried to dislodge whatever burned t
here.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. He rubbed the heel of his left hand against the eye. It came away wet and red. ‘Dirty fucker.’

  He calmed his breathing and listened. Moaning and sobbing came from the room. The Traveller crossed to it, both hands supporting the Eagle.

  Kevin Malloy lay on the floor between the bed and an open wardrobe, his legs tangled in sheets, a shotgun by his side. A ragged hole was torn in his shoulder.

  The Traveller lifted the shotgun and admired the polished wooden stock and steel barrel. ‘Fuck, that’s a beauty,’ he said, putting it on the bed. He recognised the stag’s head logo. ‘Browning. Very nice. Think I’ll have that. You got more shells?’

  Malloy lay there shaking. His blood soaked the carpet. It squelched under the Traveller’s feet. He kicked Malloy’s shoulder. Malloy screamed.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ the Traveller said. ‘You got more shells for that?’

  Malloy turned his head. ‘In… in there.’

  The Traveller stepped over him and found three boxes of 20-gauge cartridges in the bottom of the wardrobe. He threw them on the bed beside the Browning.

  ‘Anyone else here?’ he asked.

  Malloy shook his head.

  ‘Where’s your missus?’

  Malloy cried.

  The Traveller kicked him again. When Malloy’s screaming died down, the Traveller said, ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In town,’ Malloy said. ‘Please don’t kill me.’

  ‘When’ll she be back?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please don’t kill me. I’ve money. You can have my cash card and my PIN. There, in my wallet.’

  The Traveller went to the dressing table and put the wallet in his pocket. It would help make it look like a robbery, but he’d dump it somewhere on the road. No way he’d use the card.

  He rubbed his right eye on his sleeve, hissed at the sting. ‘You might’ve fucking blinded me, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Malloy said. ‘Please don’t kill me.’

  The Traveller flicked the Eagle’s safety on and tucked it into his waistband. He went to the bed and lifted the Browning. He turned it in his hands, tested its heft. It was compact and light. ‘Fucking lovely,’ he said. He pulled back the slide to eject the spent cartridge and pushed it forward to load the next. The action was smooth and easy. ‘That’s a beauty,’ he said, running his fingers over the smooth walnut stock. He wedged the butt against his shoulder and lined up Malloy’s head.

  ‘Jesus,’ Malloy said.

  The Traveller took three steps back. He didn’t want to get covered in the splatter.

  Malloy wept and prayed.

  The Traveller blinked blood away from his right eye. He sniffed and swallowed. He shifted his weight onto his leading foot, braced for the recoil, and pulled the trigger.

  It didn’t make too bad a mess of Malloy, considering. The recoil gave the Traveller a solid kick to the shoulder, but it was a controllable piece. He held the Browning out to admire it again. ‘Nice,’ he said.

  He pulled the earplugs out by the plastic string and put them in his pocket. He opened and closed his jaw to clear the pressure. His eye stung pretty bad, now. He walked back to the kitchen and turned on the tap. A scoop of cold water eased the burning a little.

  He wondered if there were any old plastic bags under the sink in which to carry the boxes of cartridges back to the car. He opened the cupboard doors.

  A woman lay trembling on her side in there, squeezed beneath the plumbing. She covered her head with her hands, her knees drawn up to her chin. She smelled of gin.

  ‘Ah, fuck,’ the Traveller said.

  He reached for the earplugs.

  9

  Fegan knew he was being followed. The tall, broad man had been ten paces behind him when he entered Grand Street station. It was almost six, still dark above ground, when Fegan boarded the D Train. He watched the other man pass the car. Fegan guessed the follower would choose the next car along, probably glancing out at every stop to see if his quarry left the train.

  He’d be wasting his time. Fegan would ride the train all the way to Columbus Circle so he could walk in the park as the sun came up. Sleep had barely touched him last night. The Doyle brothers’ oily words and knowing grins kept him from slipping under, so he rose early and headed out.

  Fegan took a seat and opened his book. It was slim, a little over a hundred pages, and he’d found it not long after arriving in New York. He’d been walking along Bleecker Street, mouth and eyes agape, the city seeming to roar through him. He passed a small shop, stopped, and turned back. A memory drew him towards the door. The sign above the entrance said Greenwich Judaica. He walked in.

  He couldn’t recall the title of the book Marie McKenna told him about just a few months ago while he sat terrified beside her, but he could hear the sadness in her voice as she told him how her dead uncle, the man he had killed, forced her to tear it up. After some explaining, the young man in the shop found a copy of Yosl Rakover Talks to God in a box of used books. Fegan had read it twice so far, picking over the words in the same slow and deliberate way he had when he was at the Christian Brothers School back in Belfast. He hadn’t been much of a reader then, and he wasn’t now. He caught himself moving his lips as he grappled with the text, and brought a hand to his mouth.

  Fegan liked to read on the subway. His cold, damp room was too quiet. Outside was too noisy. The subway’s rattle and thrum was just right. Besides, you needed somewhere to put your eyes. He’d found it strange his first few days here, people seeming to fall asleep the instant they took a seat, or even clinging to the poles. But then he started doing it too.

  Victor Gonzalvez, an electrician from Brazil with wide, hairy shoulders, called it New York Narcolepsy. Rather than constantly avoiding other passengers’ eyes, it was easier to close your own and drift. But then the dreams would creep in behind Fegan’s eyelids, refugee visions from the night. So he preferred to read.

  The train slowed, its brakes singing, causing his weight to shift on the seat. A flat voice announced 59th Street–Columbus Circle. Fegan stuffed the book down into his pocket, left the car, and made his way up towards ground level. He still crackled with that childish excitement as a fleet breeze ferried the noises and smells of the city down the stairwells to swirl about him.

  Fegan didn’t care about the footsteps behind. The Doyles thought he’d flee the city, and he would, but not yet. He needed time to think, to plan. He wouldn’t let them panic him into running before he knew where to go. When he was ready, he would slip out of the city regardless of who followed. Perhaps back to Boston – he’d spent a month there before coming to New York – or maybe Philadelphia.

  It was past six-thirty, now, and the first hints of light glowed behind the towers to the east of Central Park. The glass palace of the Time Warner Center reflected the weak dawn. Fegan had gone in just the once and felt poor as he wandered between the boutiques full of hard-faced women and stiff-backed salesmen. He had no desire to return. Countless yellow taxis rumbled around the Circle, carrying workers getting an early start. Fegan waited for a break in the traffic before crossing over to the massive Maine Monument and the park entrance beyond. He resisted the urge to glance behind.

  He took the path that ran under the westerly wall’s shadow and hesitated as the trees darkened the way. Yellows and reds peppered the leaves, but autumn had not yet set them to balding. The follower was still behind him somewhere, Fegan sensed him there, but his footsteps were lost in the morning bustle. He scolded himself and kept walking. If he hurried he could be at Umpire Rock in time to watch the sun rise over the grand buildings of Park Avenue. He would keep to the wide paths.

  Quick footsteps came from behind, and Fegan braced himself. As they approached, he heard them veer to his right. He turned his head to see an early jogger pass, giving him a wide berth. Fegan allowed himself a glance over his shoulder. The darkness concealed all but the vague silhouette of the big man. He kept walking, his hands
buried in his pockets, but curled into fists all the same. He couldn’t—

  Oh God she’s burning the child’s burning oh no please no make it stop she’s burning—

  Fegan staggered, barely held his balance, his stomach hurling bile up to his throat. He coughed, choked, wrapped his arms around his middle as the shock of the vision pounded his chest and stomach. Another jogger coming towards him slowed, thought about—

  Jesus sweet Jesus no don’t let her burn please stop it she’s drowning in the smoke she’s burning—

  Fegan’s legs betrayed him, and he pitched forward. His left shoulder hit the ground first and the pavement scraped his cheek. He vomited, hot foulness stinging his throat and nostrils. The jogger stopped for a moment, hopped from foot to foot, then sprinted to him.

  ‘Sir?’ he said as he crouched. ‘Sir, do you need help?’

  ‘She’s burning,’ Fegan said.

  The jogger called to someone beyond Fegan’s vision. ‘Excuse me! Sir! This man needs help. Do you have a phone?’

  The follower came into view, his heavy shoulders twitching as he looked around, confused.

  ‘Do you have a cell?’ the jogger asked.

  ‘I don’t carry mine when I’m running.’

  ‘Uh,’ the follower said. He looked back to the park’s entrance.

  ‘Sir,’ the jogger said. ‘This man needs help. Do you have a cell-phone to call an ambulance?’

  The follower patted his pockets as he looked in every direction but down. ‘I, uh, don’t know if I, uh …’

  ‘Do you have one or not?’

  ‘I guess not,’ the follower said.

  ‘Will you stay with him while I get help?’

  The follower sighed and nodded.

  ‘We need to get him into the recovery position,’ the jogger said. ‘Help me out, here.’

  The follower bent down to grab Fegan’s legs while the jogger slipped a hand underneath his neck. Fegan felt his body turn, his head supported by the—

  She’s burning the fire it’s eating her up the child oh no not her—

  Fegan’s right foot lashed out and connected with the follower’s knee. The follower screamed as Fegan felt something buckle. Then he was up, his shoulder ramming into the jogger’s chest. Fegan ran as the jogger went tumbling, each breath scorching his throat, his eyes streaming. He ran until his legs and lungs could carry him no further.