Whispers, now. Two voices in a low staccato. Maybe ten feet away. Fegan curled up tight to the side of the dumpster. He could see nothing more than a few inches away. They would be just as blind. If he could—
The fire the fire oh God the fire no no—
‘No!’ Fegan hissed through gritted teeth. He pushed the vision away, swallowed bile, breathed deep, listened.
The alley was silent now, but he could sense them just feet away. Fegan shrunk into the corner between the dumpster and the wall. He watched the dark in front of him, waiting for some disruption in the black.
A can rolled in front of him, rattling along the pavement. A hushed voice cursed. Another shushed it. Fegan got his feet under him, crouched against the dumpster. He pushed one foot back against the wall.
Only darkness before his eyes, no matter how hard he stared into the black. He heard the snick-snick of a round being chambered. Stale sweat wove its way through the alley’s scents and odours. Fegan held his breath until it burned for release.
A pinpoint of green light blinked at him from the murk.
It took less than a second to understand what it was: a mobile phone on someone’s belt. Another second decided Fegan’s next action.
He pushed with the foot against the wall, shoulder first, launching himself at the green light. He roared. He slammed into someone’s hip, heard them cry out, felt them buckle. His momentum carried him and his target into another body, and another voice echoed in the alley until all three slammed into the far wall.
A gun boomed, and Fegan’s ear numbed for a moment before a high whine followed him to the ground. Feet tangled in his arms, and he reached up and grabbed fabric and skin. A man’s weight fell on top of him, and Fegan’s hands spidered along a soft torso until they found a tender throat. He slammed the edge of his hand into it and the body on top of his writhed.
A muzzle flashed in the alley, its hard report breaking through the whine in Fegan’s ears, and something punched the ground by his head. He hauled the body across his own. The muzzle flashed twice more, and the body convulsed. Fegan ran his hand down the arm until he found the gun clasped in its fingers. He raised it towards where the muzzle flash had been and squeezed the trigger three times. In a fiery strobe, he saw a man raise his arms then fall backwards.
Fegan scrambled from beneath the body, crawled to the far wall, turned and stared back. Nothing moved in the black, but he heard a stuttering gurgle. He aimed the pistol at the sound, ready to fire again.
Had the Doyles’ men on Hester Street heard the shots? The enclosed alley might have damped the sound, sent it skyward between the rising storeys, but he couldn’t risk it. There was no point trying to mount the fire escape now; stealth was no more use to him. He got to his feet and edged along the wall towards the back door.
Fegan felt in the darkness for the metal among the brick. His hand found it, cold and damp. The broken bulb was just visible above it. Noise was the least of his worries, so he hammered the door with his fist. Mr Lo’s shitty little room was just on the other side.
Fegan listened. Nothing. He hammered the door again.
‘Fuck off!’ a muffled voice came from the other side. ‘I call the cops already.’
‘Mr Lo?’ Fegan called.
A pause, then, ‘Who that?’
‘It’s Gerry … Paddy. Paddy Feeney.’
‘Who?’
‘Paddy Freeney from the eighth floor,’ Fegan said. ‘Let me in.’
‘What you do out back? Where your key?’
‘I’m in trouble,’ Fegan said. ‘Let me in, give me five minutes to get my stuff, and I’ll be gone.’
‘Trouble? I hear gun. No way I let you in. I gonna call the cops. They lock you up.’
‘You said you called them already.’
‘I lie,’ Mr Lo said. ‘Now go ’way.’
‘Please.’ Fegan pressed his ear against the metal door. ‘I’m in trouble. I need your help. I gave you six months’ rent in advance, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah,’ Mr Lo said. ‘So?’
‘I’ll go tonight,’ Fegan said. ‘You can keep the rent.’
Yeah, I keep it,’ Mr Lo shouted. ‘Lease say you give three month notice.’
‘Jesus,’ Fegan whispered. Men were coming to kill him, and he was standing in an alley, quibbling over the terms of his lease. ‘Fuck the lease,’ he said. ‘Keep the rest and I’ll give you two hundred in your hand.’
‘Fuck you,’ Mr Lo said. ‘I no get shot for two hundred.’
‘What, then?’
‘Five hundred,’ Mr Lo said, his voice like a petulant child’s.
Fegan thought about the bundle of notes in a plastic bag, taped beneath the dressing table in his room. Mr Lo was gouging him, but he had no choice. ‘All right, five hundred,’ Fegan said. ‘But you open this fucking door right now.’
Locks snapped, bars rolled back. Mr Lo’s eye appeared in the crack of the door.
‘Come in,’ he said.
23
Lennon sat with his head in his hands, afraid to look at Gordon or Uprichard when he spoke. They thought they had the case wrapped up. Lennon doubted they’d take it well to hear he thought different. He told them anyway.
‘I don’t think it was the kid.’
‘It’s too early to think anything,’ Gordon said. He’d had an Ulster fry sent up to his office from the canteen. He swished a piece of sausage around in a pool of yellow egg yolk.
From his spot against the radiator, CI Uprichard watched Gordon eat. He’d had a minor heart attack last year, and talk was his wife made him eat muesli for breakfast. ‘Wait for the post-mortem,’ he said, ‘even if you can’t wait for forensics to come up with something.’
‘We know he wasn’t there alone,’ Lennon said.
‘So there was another kid,’ Gordon said through a mouthful of egged sausage. ‘Doesn’t mean the one we found didn’t do it. Doesn’t mean he did, either. You jump to conclusions far too quickly, DI Lennon. You should learn to stand back and take in the facts as a whole. Thirty years I’ve been at this, and one thing I can tell you for certain.’ He jabbed his fork in Lennon’s direction for emphasis. ‘Investigating with an agenda will lead you in circles.’
‘Agenda?’ Lennon asked.
‘That’s right,’ Gordon said. ‘First thing you said to me when you found out it was Quigley: “Couldn’t be coincidence,” you said. That’ll taint everything you do from here on if you’re not careful.’
Lennon had to concede the point. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘What now?’
‘I suggest you go home and get some rest,’ CI Uprichard said. ‘You look exhausted. We can’t do much until the post-mortem and forensic reports come back.’
Gordon chewed toast, spitting crumbs as he spoke. ‘We’ve got three teams doorstepping the area to see who the kid was friends with. If anything comes up, we’ll call you back in.’
‘All right,’ Lennon said. He got up and headed for the door.
‘Don’t go chasing things that aren’t there,’ Gordon called after him. ‘You’ll end up missing the truth for want of a lie, young Lennon.’
Lennon lay on his back for an hour, wishing for sleep. A dull hint of a headache loomed behind his eyes. Making up for the lost hours of the night before would ease it, but he knew the more he wished for the warm darkness the less likely it would come.
The quiet again. Too much silence, and too many thoughts to break it. Most were of Marie and Ellen. He had found out everything he could when they first disappeared, begged favours, pressed anyone he knew for more information. The same story everywhere he turned: Marie felt unsafe after her uncle got his brains blown out, so she made herself scarce. After a while, Lennon eased up. He told himself to let it go. His daughter was lost to him. It didn’t matter if she lived in Belfast or somewhere across the sea; he’d never know her anyway.