Just a few months ago, Declan Quigley had saved Bull O’Kane’s life by dragging his huge bulk into a car and speeding to a hospital in Dundalk. Even so, O’Kane wanted Quigley gone. It wasn’t the Traveler’s place to question the Bull.
Quigley lived with his mother in a red-brick two-up-two-down off the Lower Ormeau. The Traveler circled the area around the house. He couldn’t park up and hope no one noticed him as he did at Marie McKenna’s place on Eglantine Avenue. This was a close-knit community. Any stranger would draw attention if they stayed in one place too long.
A gang of fifteen or so youths wandered from street to street, making their way toward the interface with the Loyalist-dominated Donegall Pass. Looking for a fight, the Traveler thought. They’d probably get it. He circled back toward Quigley’s street.
The mother was doting, the Bull said, didn’t know night from day. There was no need to touch her, even if she saw everything. The Bull had been quite clear on that point, and the Traveler intended to honor his promise.
He tucked the old Merc into a parking bay on the Ormeau Road, next to a fenced-off housing development where the sports ground used to be. It’d be a trek to Quigley’s house, but it was the most secluded place he could find to leave the car. He kept his head down as he walked along the main road, avoiding eye contact with the few people he passed.
The Traveler walked as far as the Ormeau Bridge before looping back along the river. He counted side streets as he made his way north. The Bull had told him how many. A police siren wailed somewhere toward Donegall Pass, followed by cheers. The youths had got their fight by the sound of it.
He ducked into the narrow alleyway that cut along the back of Quigley’s terrace. Seven houses along from the river end, the Bull had said. The Traveler kept tight to the wall and counted gates. He worked his way through the alley’s blackness, careful of his footing. Litter snagged his heels, old plastic bags and cigarette packets. He kicked an empty can and froze. Inside one of the houses, a dog barked at the clatter. When it settled, he started moving again.
A siren screamed along Ormeau Avenue. The Traveler saw a cop car flash past the far end of the alley. A moment later he heard the screeching of tires and the whoops and laughter of breathless boys. He moved faster, reached Quigley’s back gate, pressed against the painted wood and found it open. As he slipped into the yard he kept his eyes on the far end of the alley. Two youths appeared there, their trainers skidding as they rounded the corner.
The Traveler eased back into the yard and pushed the gate closed. It stood as high as the wall, would keep him hidden, but it had no latch. He listened to the hammering of feet as the boys sprinted along the alley.
“Quick, they’re coming!” a voice said.
“Fuck’s sake, hide!” another said.
The Traveler heard hands slapping on wood as the boys tried the gates. Too late, he went to block Quigley’s, and the boys burst through.
He put the first one down with a blow to the temple, and the sound of skull meeting brickwork cut the boy’s cry short. The other slipped as he tried to halt his momentum and landed at the Traveler’s feet.
The Traveler swooped, threw him on his belly. Before the boy could scream, the Traveler had his throat in the crook of his elbow. The boy didn’t struggle long.
The Traveler got to his feet and pressed his back against the gate. Heavy footsteps trudged along the alley, accompanied by deeper voices and radio static.
“No, they’re gone,” one of the voices said.
A burst of static replied as the footsteps drew closer.
“Christ knows,” the voice said. “Balfour Avenue, probably.”
Wood rattled as the cops tried the gates. The Traveler leaned against the flaked paint, braced himself.
“No chance,” the voice said. “I’m not doing any more running tonight. I’m too old for this shit.”
The gate pushed against the Traveler’s back. Static crackled.
“Up your arse,” the voice on the other side of the wall said. “I’m going back to the car.”
The footsteps receded toward the Ormeau Road. The Traveler stooped down and checked if the boys were breathing. They both were, but the first one he’d hit was slick with blood. The other would wake before too long with a crushing headache. The Traveler had to get this done. He went to the back door and peered through the glass into the kitchen. An old woman in a dressing gown stood gazing at a biscuit tin, her lips moving as if she were trying to remember the words of a song.
He tried the handle, but the door was locked. The old woman looked up at the sound. She approached the door and turned the key. She opened it and stared at the Traveler for a moment. “Bobby, love, where’ve you been?” she asked.
“Away,” the Traveler said.
“Away where?”
“Just away,” the Traveler said. “Can I come in?”
The old woman stepped back to let him enter. She stroked his arm as he passed. “You missed your tea, love.”
“I had something when I was out,” the Traveler said.
“What did you have, love?”
“Fish and chips,” the Traveler said. He heard a television in the next room.
She slapped his arm. “You could’ve brought some back with you,” she scolded.
“They’d be cold,” the Traveler said. “Where’s Declan?”
“He’s watching the telly,” the old woman said.
“Ma?” a slurred voiced called from the next room. “Ma! Who’re you talking to?”
“It’s Bobby,” the old woman said. “He’s home. He got fish and chips, but he never brought us any back.”
The Traveler went to the door and stepped through. Declan Quigley froze half out of the armchair facing the television.
“How’re ya, Declan,” the Traveler said. “Better sit down, there’s a good fella.”
The old woman followed behind. He turned to her and asked, “Any danger of a cup of tea?”
“Surely, Bobby, love.”
“Ta very much,” the Traveler said. He watched her shuffle to the kitchen before he turned back to Quigley. “Who’s Bobby?”
Quigley sagged back into the chair. “My brother,” he said, his voice shaking. A half-empty bottle of vodka and a glass sat on a side table next to him. “The Brits shot him twenty years ago. She thinks every man she meets is Bobby. Except me. Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” the Traveler said, taking a step toward him.
“Jesus, I knew it wasn’t over,” Quigley said. “When them three blew themselves up, then Kevin Malloy the other night. The news said it was a robbery, but I knew it was lies.”
The Traveler reached into his pocket.
“Wait!” Quigley held his hands up. “Wait a minute. I haven’t said a word to anyone. I know what happened, I saw the whole thing, I know all that stuff about a feud was bullshit. I could’ve gone to the papers and told them the truth. I could’ve made a fortune. I could’ve made enough to look after my mother. But I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut. There’s no call for this.”
The Traveler thought about arguing, explaining the nature of things to this man, but what was the point? He sighed and took the knife from his pocket. The blade opened with barely a sound. Best to do it quiet.
Quigley took a swig of neat vodka from the bottle and coughed.
“There’s no call for it,” he said, putting the bottle back on the table.
“It’s not fair.”
The old woman’s voice shrilled from the kitchen. “Do you want a biscuit, Bobby, love?”
“You have any Jaffa Cakes?” the Traveler called back.
“No, love. But I’ve got Penguins.”
“Aye, that’ll do.”
Quigley seemed to shrink in the chair. “Christ, I’m tired,” he said. “So tired. Maybe I should’ve run, but who’d look after my mother? So I’ve been sitting here waiting. I haven’t slept in months. I can’t eat. I’ve lost a stone and a half. I should’ve killed Gerry Fegan, you know. Or tried, anyway.”
The Traveler stopped. “Why didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t,” Quigley said. He started to cry. “I was too scared. He was too … big.”
“Big?”
Quigley looked down at his shaking hands. “Like nothing could hurt him. Like nothing could stop him. Like if he set his mind to killing someone, then they were already dead. I’d never seen anything like it in my life.” He looked up at the Traveler. “Until now. Promise me you won’t touch her.”
“I won’t,” the Traveler said.
Quigley stared hard at him. “Promise me.”
“I won’t touch her,” the Traveler said. “I swear to God.”
Quigley unbuttoned his shirt collar, pulled the fabric away from his throat, and laid his head back. “Make it quick,” he said.
“No, not the throat,” the Traveler said. “You’ll piss blood everywhere. All over your ma’s carpet, up the walls, fucking everywhere. Just close your eyes. I’ll make it easy.”
Quigley’s head dropped, and he wept. Tears blotched his shirt. “What a fucking waste,” he said.
“Quiet, now,” the Traveler said. “It’ll be quick, I promise. Close your eyes.”
Quigley squeezed the armrests and closed his eyes. His breath quickened. He whined. The Traveler switched his grip on the knife to underhand and leaned on the chair. Quigley inhaled, held his breath. The Traveler made one, two, three thrusts, burying the blade to the hilt each time before drawing it out again.
Quigley breathed out, his exhalation bubbling as it thinned. He coughed. A small red bloom, about the size of a rose, spread on his chest.
The old woman screamed “Bobby!” and drove a knitting needle into the Traveler’s upper arm.