The Traveller and Other Stories

by Stuart Neville

  As Cam the Hun began the climb up Scotch Street, the warmth in his groin grew with the terror in his stomach. The two sensations butted against each other somewhere beneath his navel. It was almost a year since he’d last seen her. That long night had left him drained and walking like John Wayne. She’d made him earn it, though. Two likely lads had been dealing right on her doorstep, and he’d sorted them out for her.

  Back then he’d have done anything for a taste of the Queen, but as she took the last of him, his fingers tangled in her dyed crimson hair, he noticed the blood congealing on his swollen knuckles. The image of the two boys’ broken faces swamped his mind, and he swore right then he’d never touch her again. She was poison. Like the goods she distributed from her fortress on the hill, too much would kill you, but there was no such thing as enough.

  He walked to the far side of the library on Market Street. Metal fencing portioned off a path up the steep slope. The council was wasting more money renovating the town centre, leaving the area between the library and the closed-down cinema covered in rubble. Christmas Eve revellers puffed on cigarettes outside the theatre, girls draped with tinsel, young men shivering in their shirtsleeves. The sight of them caused dark thoughts to pass behind Cam the Hun’s eyes. He seized on the resentment, brought it close to his heart. He’d need all the anger and hate he could muster.

  He’d phoned the Queen that afternoon and told her it had been too long. He needed her.

  “Tonight,” she’d said. “Christmas party at my place.”

  The house came into view as Cam the Hun climbed the slope past the library. Last house on the terrace to his left, facing the theatre across the square, the cathedral towering over it all. Her palace, her fortress. The fear slammed into his belly, and he stopped dead.

  Could he do it? He’d done worse things in his life. She was a cancer in Armagh, feeding off the misery she sowed with her powders and potions. The world would be no poorer without her. She’d offloaded her twin sons on their grandmother and rarely saw them. No one depended on her but the dealers she owned, and they’d have Davy Pollock to turn to when she was gone. No, the air in this town could only be sweeter for her passing. The logic of it was insurmountable. Cam the Hun could and would do this thing.

  But he loved her.

  The sudden weight of it forced the air from his lungs. He knew it was a foolish notion, a symptom of his weakness and her power over him. But the knowledge went no further than his head. His heart and loins knew different.

  One or two of the smokers outside the theatre noticed him, this slight figure with his coat wrapped tight around him. If he stood rooted to the spot much longer, they would remember him. When they heard the news the next day, they would recall his face. Cam the Hun thought of the ten grand the job would pay and started walking.

  For a moment he considered veering right, into the theatre bar, shouldering his way through the crowd, and ordering a pint of Stella and a shot of Black Bush. Instead, he thought of his debts. And there’d be some left over to pay for a home help for his mother, even if it was only for a month or two. He headed left, towards the Queen’s house.

  His chest strained as he neared the top of the hill, his breath misting around him. He gripped the railing by her door and willed his heart to slow. Jesus, he needed to get more exercise. That would be his New Year’s resolution. Get healthy. He rang the doorbell.

  The muffled rumble of Black Sabbath’s Supernaut came from inside. Cam the Hun listened for movement in the hall. When none came, he hit the doorbell twice more. He watched a shadow move against the ceiling through the glass above the front door. Something obscured the point of light at the peephole. He heard a bar move aside and three locks snap open. Warm air ferried the sweet tang of cannabis and perfume out into the night.

  “Campbell Hunter,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

  She still wore her hair dyed crimson red with a black streak at her left temple. A black corset top revealed a laced trail from her deep cleavage, along her flat stomach, to the smooth skin above her low-cut jeans. Part of the raven tattoo was just visible above the button fly. He remembered the silken feel against his lips, the scent of her, the firmness of her body. She could afford the best work; the surgeons left little sign of her childbearing, save for the scar that cut the raven in two.

  “A year,” Cam the Hun said. “Too long.”

  She stepped back, and he crossed her threshold knowing it would be the last time. She locked the steel-backed door and lowered the bar into place. Neither bullet nor battering ram could break through. He followed her to the living room. Ozzy Osbourne wailed over Tony Iommi’s guitar. A black artificial Christmas tree stood in the corner, small skulls, crows and inverted crosses as ornaments among the red tinsel. Men and women lay about on cushions and blankets, their lids drooping over distant eyes. Spoons and foil wraps, needles and rolled-up money, papers and tobaccos, crumbs of resins and wafts of powder.

  “Good party,” Cam the Hun said, his voice raised above the music.

  “You know me,” she said as she took a bottle of Gordon’s gin and two glasses from the sideboard. “I’m the hostess with mostest. Come on.”

  As she brushed past him, sparks leaping between their bodies, Cam the Hun caught her perfume through the room’s mingled aromas. A white-hot bolt crackled from his brain down to his groin. She headed to the stairs in the hall, stopped, turned on her heel, showed him the maddening undulations of her figure. “Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for?”

  Cam the Hun forced one foot in front of the other and followed her up the stairs. The rhythm of her hips held him spellbound, and he tripped. She looked back over her naked shoulder and smiled down at him. He returned the smile as he thanked God the knife in his coat pocket had a folding blade or he might have sliced himself open. He found his feet and stayed behind her as she climbed the second flight to her bedroom on the top floor.

  The décor hadn’t changed in a year, blacks and reds, silks and satins. Suspended sheets of shimmering fabric formed a canopy over the wrought-iron bedstead. A huge mound of pillows in all shapes and sizes lay at one end. He wondered if she still had the cuffs, or the—

  Cam the Hun stamped on that thought. He had to keep his mind behind his eyes and between his ears, not let it creep down to where it could do him no good.

  “Take your coat off,” she said. She set the glasses on the dressing table and poured three fingers of neat gin into each.

  He hung his coat on her bedpost, careful not to let the knife clang against the iron. She handed him a glass. He sat on the edge of the bed and took a sip. He tried not to cough at the stinging juniper taste. He failed.

  Somewhere beneath the gin’s cloying odour, and the soft sweetness of her perfume, he caught the hint of another smell. Something lower, meaner, like ripe meat. The alcohol reached his belly. He swallowed again to keep it there.

  The Queen of the Hill smiled her crooked smile and sat in the chair facing him. She hooked one leg over its arm, her jeans hinting at secrets he already knew. She took a mouthful of gin, washed it around her teeth, and hissed as it went down.

  “I’m glad you called,” she said.

  “Are you?”

  “Of course,” she said. She winked and let a finger trace the shape of her left breast. “And not just for that.”

  Cam the Hun tried to quell the stirring in his trousers by studying the black painted floorboards. “Oh?” he said.

  “There’s trouble coming,” she said. “I’ll need your help.”

  He allowed himself a glance at her. “What kind of trouble?”

  “The Davy Pollock kind.”

  His stomach lurched. He took a deeper swig of gin, forced it down. His eyes burned.

  “He’s been spreading talk about me,” she said. “Says he wants me out of the way. Says he wants my business. Says he’ll pay good money to anyone w
ho’ll do it for him.”

  “Is that right?” Cam the Hun said.

  “That’s right.” She let her leg drop from the arm of the chair, her heel like a gunshot on the floor, and sat forward. “But he’s got no takers. No one on that side of town wants the fight. They know I’ve too many friends.”

  He managed a laugh. “Who’d be that stupid?”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  He drained the glass and coughed. His eyes streamed, and when he sniffed back the scorching tears, he got that ripe meat smell again. His stomach wanted to expel the gin, but he willed it to be quiet.

  “So, what do you want me to do?” he asked.

  She swallowed the last of her gin and said, “Him.”

  He dropped his glass. It didn’t shatter, but rolled across the floor to stop at her feet. “What?”

  “I want you to do him,” she said.

  He could only blink and open his mouth.

  “It’ll be all right,” she said. “I’ve cleared it with everyone that matters. His own side have wanted shot of him for years. Davy Pollock is a piece of shit. He steals from his own neighbours, threatens old ladies and children, talks like he’s the big man when everyone knows he’s an arsewipe. You’d be doing this town a favour.”

  Cam the Hun shook his head. “I can’t,” he said.

  “Course you can.” She smiled at him. “Besides, there’s fifteen grand in it for you. And you can go back to Orangefield to see your mother. Picture it. You could have Christmas dinner with your ma tomorrow.”

  “But I’d have to—”

  “Tonight,” she said. “That’s right.”

  “But how?”

  “How? Sure, everyone knows Cam the Hun’s handy with a knife.” She drew a line across her throat with her finger. “Just like that. You won’t even have to go looking for him. I know where he’s resting his pretty wee head right this minute.”

  “No,” he said.

  She placed her glass on the floor next to his and rose to her feet, her hands gliding over her thighs, along her body, and up to her hair. Her heels click-clacked on the floorboards as she crossed to him. “Consider it my Christmas present,” she said.

  He went to stand, but she put a hand on his shoulder.

  “But first I’m going to give you yours,” she purred. “Do you want it?”

  “God,” he said.

  The Queen of the Hill unlaced her corset top and let it fall away.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  She pulled him to her breasts, let him take in her warmth. He kissed her there while she toyed with his hair. A minute stretched out to eternity before she pushed him back with a gentle hand on his chest. His right mind shrieked in protest as she straddled him, grinding against his body as she got into position, a knee either side of his waist. She leaned forward.

  “Close your eyes,” she said.

  “No,” he said, the word dying in his throat before it found his vocal cords.

  “Shush,” she said. She wiped her hand across his eyelids, sealed out the dim light. Her weight shifted and pillows tumbled around him. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her breath warmed his cheek. Lips met his, an open mouth cold and dry, coarse stubble, a tongue like ripe meat.

  Cam the Hun opened one eye and saw a milky white globe an inch from his own, a thick, dark brow above it, pale skin blotched with red.

  He screamed.

  The Queen of the Hill laughed and pushed Davy Pollock’s severed head down, rubbing the dead flesh and stubble against Cam the Hun’s face.

  Cam the Hun screamed again and threw his arms upward. The heel of his hand connected with her jaw. She tumbled backwards and spilled onto the floor. The head bounced twice and rolled to a halt at her side. She hooted and cackled as she sprawled there, her legs kicking.

  He squealed until his voice broke. He wiped his mouth and cheeks with his hands and sleeves until the chill of dead flesh was replaced by raw burning. He rolled on his side and vomited, the gin and foulness soaking her black satin sheets. He retched until his stomach felt like it had turned itself inside-out.

  All the time, her laughter tore at him, ripping his sanity away shred by shred.

  “Shut up,” he wanted to shout, but it came out a thin whine.

  “Shut up.” He managed a weak croak this time. He reached for his coat, fumbled for the pocket, found the knife. He tried to stand, couldn’t, tried again. He grabbed the iron bedpost with his left hand for balance. The blade snapped open in his right.

  Her laughter stopped, leaving only the rushing in his ears. She looked up at him, grinning, a trickle of blood running to her chin.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  She giggled.

  “What are you?” A tear rolled down his cheek, leaving a hot trail behind it.

  “I’m the Queen of the Hill.” Her tongue flicked out, smeared the blood across her lips. “I’m the goddess. I’m the death of you and any man who crosses me.”

  “No,” he said, “not me.” He raised the knife and stepped towards her.

  She reached for Davy Pollock’s head, grabbed it by the hair.

  Cam the Hun took another step and opened his mouth to roar. He held the knife high, ready to bring it down on her exposed heart.

  He saw it coming, but it was too late. Davy Pollock’s cranium shattered Cam the Hun’s nose, and he fell into feathery darkness.

  He awoke choking on his own blood and bile. He coughed and spat. A deep, searing pain radiated from beneath his eyes to encompass the entire world. The Queen of the Hill cradled his head in her lap. He went to speak, but could only gargle and sputter.

  “Shush, now,” she said.

  He tried to raise himself up, pushing with the last of his strength. She clucked and gathered him to her bosom. He stained her breasts red.

  “We could’ve been good together, you and me,” she said.

  His mouth opened and closed, but the words couldn’t force their way past the coppery warm liquid. He wanted to weep, but the pain blocked his tears.

  “You could’ve been my king,” she said. She rocked him and kissed his forehead. “This could’ve been our palace on the hill. But that’s all gone. Now there’s only this.”

  She brought the knife into his vision, the blade so bright and pretty. “Close your eyes,” she said.

  He did as he was told. Her fingers were warm and soft as she loosened his collar and pulled the fabric away from his throat.

  The cathedral bells rang out. He counted the chimes, just like he’d done as a child, listening to his mother’s old clock as he waited for Santa Claus. Twelve and it would be Christmas.

  It didn’t hurt for long.

  The Night Hag

  She is awake. This is certain. She sees the room in the half-light, the nightstand, the lamp, the mobile phone. Someone is here. They embrace her, pinning her arms to her side. A leg wrapped around hers, pressing it down onto the mattress. She wants to lift her head, but a hand forces it into the pillow.

  It is a woman, she is almost sure of that. Although she cannot see her, she knows her skin is blackened as if smeared with soot and ash.

  She thinks, who’s there?

  Lips against her ear. A low, breathy giggle.

  She wants to scream. No one is here to help her, but she wants to call for help anyway. She tries. The hand slips down around her jaw, closes it tight. Her tongue is locked in place. Her voice churns in her chest and throat but can’t escape her mouth. She cries with every exhalation, pulling air through her nose, in and out, in and out, more frantic with each breath.

  Help me.

  God someone help me.

  Help.

  Then she’s gone.

  Catherine woke again, a second return to the room and the half-light, the nightstand, the lamp, the mobile phone. Her br
eath rasped in and out of her, her heart knocking in her chest, feeling like it could come untethered.

  Calm, she told herself. Be calm.

  She closed her eyes and turned her face into the pillow, smothered a low groan. Her hands grasped the bedsheets, her feet kicking against the mattress as if she were trying to climb it.

  “God,” she said, the vowel drawing out long and thin, the consonants swallowed by the pillow.

  She turned onto her back, saw the flame-retardant tiles on the ceiling, the ones she’d wanted to tear down ever since she’d moved into this house.

  “Oh, God,” she said, a whisper this time, because it was a blasphemy, and fear was no excuse for taking the Lord’s name in vain.

  Catherine sat upright, letting the duvet slip away, feeling the early morning chill creep under her nightdress.

  Might as well get up and go downstairs, she thought.

  Have a cup of tea.

  Catherine was at the library before opening time, waiting for them to unlock the doors. She had driven her ten-year-old Skoda Fabia into town and enjoyed a scone and a milky coffee at the little café next door, pretending to read one of the newspapers they kept in a rack for the customers. That had kept her occupied until ten minutes to ten, and she had been waiting out here in the cold since then.

  Helen, the manager, let her in at three minutes to the hour.

  “Morning, Catherine,” she said, wearing a layer of cheer over the fluster. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Tanya’s off sick and I’m single-manning today.”

  “Not to worry,” Catherine said, her own cheer masking her impatience.

  She entered the library and walked straight to the row of computers along the side wall.

  “Were you looking to use the internet?” Helen asked. “The network’s on a timer, so it won’t come on until ten. It’ll be another minute or two to get everything switched on and booted up.”

  “No hurry,” Catherine said, keeping her voice warm and smooth.