‘Jesus fucking bastard of a—’
The girl tugged at his hand. ‘You said a bad word.’
The Traveller pulled his hand away from hers. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Why did you do that?’
She sat down on one of the benches, arranged the doll in a standing pose on her lap. ‘Do what?’
‘Come to me,’ he said. ‘Why’d you do that?’
‘To say hello.’ She walked the doll back and forth along the bench.
Maybe he could just walk out and leave her here. Maybe he could slip out of the main doors, past the bloody snake on the pillar, and run. And maybe not. ‘Christ,’ he said.
‘Do you know Gerry?’
You asked me that already,’ he said. Standing here fretting was doing no good, so he sat down beside her. ‘I said yes, didn’t I?’
‘Do you really know him?’
He wrung his hands together, trying to force his mind into action. ‘No, I don’t. Why are you so bloody worried whether I know Gerry Fegan or not? Why would I know him, for Christ’s sake?’
The girl leaned close until her shoulder pressed against his arm. He inched away.
You’ve got friends like him,’ she whispered.
‘What?’ He turned to see her hard blue eyes.
‘Secret friends,’ she said.
He laughed, but it died in his throat.
Her gaze did not waver. ‘Lots and lots of them,’ she said.
‘What are you talking about?’ He stood, wiped his sweating palms on his jeans.
She brought a finger to her lips, shush, and gave him a conspiratorial smile.
‘What are you talking about, “friends”?’
She grinned, then, and giggled. ‘It’s a secret.’
‘Jesus,’ the Traveller said, making for the door. ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers, I’m getting out. Don’t follow me.’
He was halfway to the door when she sang, ‘Gerry’s going to get you.’
The Traveller stopped, turned on his heel. He considered calling her a liar, but the certainty on her face caused a ripple of doubt in his mind.
A cool draught licked the back of his neck.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ a voice asked.
Slow, easy, he swivelled to see a middle-aged woman wearing a sweater and a minister’s collar closing the door behind her. She smiled the tepid, condescending smile of the clergy. He put his palm to the side of her head and shoved. She staggered shoulder-first into the wall, the shock on her face the last thing he saw before he wrenched the door open and bolted outside, her scream the last thing he heard before it all went to shit.
54
Lennon heard the scream first, saw the pistol second. People scattered, falling over each other, limbs outstretched. He grabbed for his Glock, tried to keep the thin man’s blurred shape in his vision as it wove through the panicked crowd.
‘Stop!’ he shouted as he levelled the Glock.
The security guard dropped the telephone and clambered over the reception desk. He tried to grab the fleeing form, but it turned. A boom, and the guard dropped, a hole torn in his shoulder.
Some threw themselves down, some huddled against any solid surface they could find, and others ran. The thin man found a path through them before Lennon could aim.
‘Get down!’ he shouted, knowing the terrified herd would not heed him. He caught the thin man’s silhouette against the glass of the exit doors. ‘Stop! Police!’ he shouted.
Lennon took two steps towards the glass, then stopped, his fear coming back to him. ‘Ellen?’ he called to the confusion of bodies. Then he saw her in the arms of a woman, a chaplain, by the Quiet Room. He ran to them, pulled Ellen close and kissed her forehead.
‘Don’t move from here,’ Lennon said to the chaplain. ‘Keep her safe till I come back.’
He ran for the exit.
55
The Traveller slammed into the side of the ambulance and staggered back, dazed. The Desert Eagle slipped from his fingers and clattered across pavement and tarmac. He almost lost the gun beneath the ambulance, grabbed it before it went under the wheel, and threw his body towards the covered walkway.
The barrier that had risen to let the ambulance through dropped back into position. He hit it gut first, and his momentum carried his torso over, the earth spinning around him until the ground hit his back hard enough to drive every bit of breath from his lungs.
He rolled to his side, got back to his knees, then pushed away again. His lungs screamed for oxygen as he hauled the air in with desperate gulps, but he kept moving even as the black sparks danced across his vision.
Hard, quick footsteps slapping against concrete somewhere behind. A voice ordering him to stop. He spun, fired blind at whoever followed, kept running. Where to? He didn’t know. His mind lurched as it tried to function amid the adrenalin’s phosphorescent burn.
The car park.
If he could get there, lose himself among the rows upon rows of vehicles, maybe in the shadows of the lower level …
The footsteps faster now, closer. ‘Stop!’ the voice called.
A gunshot cracked, aimed overhead. A warning. The Traveller ignored it, willed his legs to move faster as he ducked under the shelter of the walkway, pedestrians leaping from his path as he tried to use them for cover. Up ahead, the steps down to the lower level with a pay station at the top of them. If he could get that far, he’d be safe.
He ran from the shelter of the walkway, dodged a car, kept his eyes on the stairway as it came closer. An old man was studying the pay station, coins in his hand, confusion on his face. He turned to see the Traveller barrelling towards him.
The Traveller pushed him out of the way, scattering coins across the concrete, a curse taking the last of his breath. He didn’t see the nurse until there was no avoiding her. His chin connected with her forehead and the ground disappeared from under him.
56
Lennon saw them go down, the thin man and the nurse tumbling from the top step. He crossed the road from the walkway to the pay station, Glock up and ready.
The old man glanced up as he retrieved coins from the concrete. ‘Bloody lunatic,’ he muttered.
Lennon went to the lip of the top step. The nurse sprawled on her back, half a dozen steps down the upper flight. She blinked at the sky and moaned, a trickle of blood drawing a bright red line across her forehead.
A sputtering curse came from the landing below where the steps doubled back on themselves. The thin man sat with his back propped against the railings, the big gun almost within his reach. He pulled his feet back, trying to get them under him. He pitched forward, his hand falling close to the pistol’s grip.
Lennon charged, taking two steps at a time, until he hit the landing. He let his weight carry him forward, slamming the thin man against the railing. A wounded cry and he slumped on the concrete.
Lennon rolled him onto his back and straddled his chest. He grabbed the big pistol with his left hand, keeping the Glock pressed against the thin man’s cheek with the other. He eased back and stood, his aim still on the man’s head.
‘Sit up,’ he said.
The man obeyed and cradled his left hand in his right. ‘Jesus, I think you broke my wrist, you dirty fucker.’
Against the railing,’ Lennon said. ‘Now.’
The man struggled into position, keeping his left hand tight to his stomach, and rested his back against the blue metal. Lennon studied his face, the swelling on his eyelid, the stiffness in his movement.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ Lennon said.
‘Maybe,’ the man said.
The big pistol was heavy in Lennon’s left hand. A Desert Eagle, the sort of thing American gun nuts loved for its size and noise. He shoved it into his waistband. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.