‘No,’ Fegan said. ‘That’s not my name.’
‘Gerry, what’s he talking about?’
‘I’m not Gerry,’ Fegan said. ‘I’m Paddy. Paddy Feeney.’
‘Wi, li Paddy Feeney,’ Pyè said. He pointed at Fegan. ‘Paddy Feeney, li fuck you up.’
Murphy wrung his hands. ‘Gerry, Paddy, whatever the fuck your name is, I don’t give a shit, just please tell me what the fuck he’s saying to me. What does he want?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Fegan said. ‘Pyè, what are you saying to him?’
‘Lajan!’ Pyè shouted. ‘Doyles want they lajan.’
‘What’s ‘lajan’?’ Fegan asked.
‘Lajan!’ Pyè opened his arms wide. ‘Dollar, motherfucker. Dime, quarter, buy stuff, you understand?’
‘Money?’ Fegan asked.
Wi, money!’ Pyè grabbed his own hair in exasperation. ‘Lajan, money. What the fuck I say?’
‘Money?’ Murphy asked. ‘What money?’
‘I don’t know,’ Fegan said. ‘What money, Pyè?’
‘Doyles’money,’ Pyè said. He started to pace. ‘You say jewels worth sa much. You buy jewels off Doyles, wi? But you know jewels worth sa much, and you sell them, put lajan in you pocket. Wi?’
‘What?’ Murphy said.
Fegan leaned down to Murphy. ‘I think I know what he’s getting at. Did you buy some jewellery off the Doyles?’
‘Yeah,’ Murphy said. ‘They had some stuff to move. They always have stuff to move. I don’t ask where it comes from, I just find a buyer for it. So what?’
‘I think Pyè reckons you told the Doyles it was worth less than it was,’ Fegan said. ‘And then you sold it to someone else for what it was really worth, and you kept the difference. Does that sound right?’
Murphy nodded first, then shook his head. ‘Yeah, no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. The market, you know, what you call it … fluctuates.’ He turned back to Pyè. ‘The market fluctuates. I paid the Doyles market price, right? When I sold the stuff on, the market was in my favour, that’s all.’
‘Doyles want they lajan, they money,’ Pyè said. He took a knife from his pocket, a big hunter’s piece with a serrated blade. ‘This knife mwen. Money. Now, motherfucker.’
Murphy turned back to Fegan. ‘Gerry, tell him—’
‘I’m not Gerry,’ Fegan said.
‘Whatever the fuck your name is, tell him I paid the Doyles a fair price, and I made a fair profit.’
‘I don’t think he’ll listen to me,’ Fegan said.
‘I haven’t got the money,’ Murphy said. He lowered his voice and stretched up to Fegan. ‘You know how much the rent is on this place? It’s only Jersey, I know, but Christ they charge for it, Gerry. I’m one week away from being put out on the street.’
‘That’s not my name,’ Fegan said. He looked up at Pyè. ‘He says he doesn’t have it.’
Pyè raised his eyebrows. ‘Non? Okay.’
‘Okay?’ Fegan asked.
‘Okay?’ Murphy asked.
‘Wi, okay,’ Pyè said. He took two steps forward and stuck the blade in Murphy’s upper arm.
Murphy screamed.
Fegan stepped back.
‘Lajan, blood, no different,’ Pyè said. He pulled the blade from Murphy’s arm and stabbed him in the thigh.
Murphy screamed.
Fegan said, ‘Jesus, Pyè.’
Pyè stood back and said, ‘What? Li no got money, li get knife. No different. Doyles happy.’
Murphy wept. ‘Listen to me, Pyè, I got no money. Fuck, I’m bleeding. It hurts. Jesus, I need a doctor.’
‘Get lajan, mwen get doctor, wi?’
‘I got no money,’ Murphy said. He pressed one hand against his thigh and the other on his upper arm. ‘Jesus, look at the blood.’
Pyè stabbed Murphy’s other thigh. ‘No lajan, no doctor.’
Murphy screamed again. ‘Pyè, you bastard! Fuck!’
Pyè leaned close, his hands on his knees. ‘Mwen say last time. No money, no doctor. Konprann? Understand, motherfucker?’
‘Oh God,’ Murphy said. Sweat mixed with tears on his cheek. ‘I got a couple hundred downstairs in the safe. Take any stock you want. Whatever you can carry, all right? Take it all. Just don’t cut me no more. Please.’
‘That not enough, Murphy.’
‘Please, Pyè, I don’t got it. Please, no more.’
‘Fuck,’ Pyè said. He grabbed Murphy’s hair, forced his head back to expose the throat. He drew back the knife, ready to open Murphy’s jugular.
Murphy said, ‘Please don’t.’
Pyè put his shoulder behind the blade.
Fegan leaned across the back of the chair and grabbed Pyè’s wrist. ‘Don’t,’ he said.
Pyè stared at Fegan. ‘What you do, Gerry?’
‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.
Pyè tried to pull his wrist free, but Fegan held firm. Murphy shrunk away from the blade. Pyè tried to prise Fegan’s fingers from his wrist. ‘Let go,’ he said.
‘No,’ Fegan said. He pushed down and to the side, taking Pyè’s balance.
Murphy slid to the floor and crawled away, blood trailing behind him. He craned his neck to watch Pyè and Fegan struggle.
Pyè grabbed Fegan’s throat with his free hand, the chair still between them. Fegan kneed the back of it, taking Pyè’s feet from under him. The Haitian fell forward and lost his grip on Fegan’s throat. Fegan smashed his forearm across Pyè’s jaw. Pyè’s head rocked to the side, and he blinked. Fegan shifted his weight, taking Pyè’s body with him, and the Haitian slumped to the floor, his eyes blank. Fegan took the knife from his fingers.
‘Stick him, Gerry,’ Murphy hissed. ‘Fucking stick him.’
Fegan looked up from the blade.
Murphy lay in his own blood, hate and fear on his face as it dripped out of him. ‘Go on, stick that motherfucker.’
‘No,’ Fegan said.
Pyè moaned and blinked. His eyes focused on Fegan and the knife. He gasped and scrambled backwards.
‘Get out of here,’ Fegan said. ‘Tell the Doyles I won’t do their dirty work.’
‘They kill you, Gerry.’ Pyè wiped blood from his lip.
‘Maybe,’ Fegan said. ‘Go on, get out.’
Pyè got to his feet. He opened and closed his mouth, worked his jaw from side to side. ‘For him?’ he asked, looking at Murphy. He shook his head. ‘Doyles right. You a crazy motherfucker.’
‘Go,’ Fegan said.
Pyè walked towards the door. He paused at Murphy’s side. ‘Soon,’ he said.
Murphy crawled away from him.
Pyè turned in the doorway. ‘See you round, Gerry.’
Fegan stayed silent and watched him leave. In the quiet, he became aware of Murphy’s ragged breathing.
‘Thank you, Gerry,’ Murphy said as he struggled towards the telephone.
‘That’s not my name,’ Fegan said. He crossed to the telephone, lifted it, and placed it on the floor by Murphy’s bloodstained hand. ‘Call an ambulance,’ he said.
He left Murphy alone and bleeding.
20
Lennon stood waiting in the hallway of the terraced house when the forensics team arrived from Carrickfergus at first light. They picked over Quigley’s corpse first while the photographer took daylight shots of the boy in the yard. Lennon’s eyes were dry and hot as he watched from the kitchen window. He’d gone home for a couple of hours, but sleep had eluded him.
He looked at the boy’s body, his face turned up to the sky, the tarpaulin that covered the yard overnight pulled back to let the light in. The acute angle of his neck suggested the blow to his head hadn’t killed him. Seventeen or eighteen, nineteen at most. He wore a tracksuit and Nike trainers, most likely fakes bought at a market stall somewhere. Chances were he was from the neighbourhood. He probably made a point of carrying no identification, but they’d know who he was before long. Some mother would find her son’s bed had not been slept in, and when the talk of a youth’s dead body lying in a yard nearby reached her, she would know. When she came running to Quigley’s door, he would deal with her.