Collusion

73

Fegan paced the small guesthouse bedroom listening to the dial tone. His fear fed on itself, remade itself again and again, stronger with each reincarnation. He had tried to sleep, but a vision of fire, the smell of burning flesh and hair, and a child’s screams had shaken him awake minutes ago. Sweat soaked the clothes he lay in. He had gone straight for the phone.

The dial tone ceased, replaced by steady breathing.

‘Marie?’ Fegan said, fear sharpening his voice.

‘She can’t come to the phone right now.’

A man’s voice. The kind of voice Fegan knew too well. His head swam. He sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Where is she?’ he asked.

‘She’s right here,’ the voice said. ‘Her and the wee girl.’

‘Who are you?’ Fegan said.

A pause. ‘Would that be the famous Gerry Fegan?’

‘Don’t touch them.’

‘I’ve heard all about you,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve been dying to meet you in the flesh. Something tells me we’d get on like a house on fire.’

Fegan doubled over as his stomach cramped. ‘I’ll kill you if you touch them,’ he said.

‘Too late for that. I’ve got to be honest with you, Gerry. Marie’s not looking her best.’

‘I’ll kill you,’ Fegan said. ‘I’ll make it bad.’

‘It’s that cop you should go after. The kid’s father. You know what the useless shite did?’

‘I’ll kill you,’ Lennon said.

‘He left the child and her mother in a whorehouse in Carrickfergus. Just upped and left them here all on their own. Jesus, you wouldn’t do that to a dog.’

‘I’ll—’

‘Yeah, you’ll kill me, I heard you. Time’s wasting, Gerry. Gotta go.’

The phone died.

‘I’ll kill you,’ Fegan said to the lifeless plastic.

He stood and went to the window. His room took up half the first floor of a converted terraced house. The street below ached with quiet, the lights making shadows pool around the parked cars and garden walls. The occasional rumble of traffic came from Botanic Avenue, less than a hundred yards away. It had been an hour, maybe more, since the last train had passed along the track that ran behind the guesthouse. Fegan had always cherished quiet, but now it lay heavy on him, like a cold, damp blanket.

The man with the mocking voice had said Carrickfergus. Where in Carrickfergus?

A screech split the silence. It echoed along the street, touching Fegan’s heart like an icy finger. He held his breath tight in his chest. It came again, a high animal cry, the sound of suffering. Fegan looked up and down the rows of houses, searching for the source.

Then he saw it. The animal came creeping between two cars, long snout to the ground. Its large pointed ears twitched, and it raised its head. It opened its jaws wide and screeched again, the sound tearing through the street and over the rooftops.

The fox sauntered out onto the road, following some scent that had caught its interest. It froze, tensed, lifted its lean body flexing beneath the fur. It stared hard at the window and quivered.

Fegan put a hand against the glass. The fox raised its snout to the black sky and screeched once more. It bared its teeth. Fegan couldn’t hear through the glass, but he was sure the fox snarled and growled before it blossomed in flame. Fegan blinked and heard the engine of a car. Its headlights burned and reflected on the fox’s pelt as it approached. The fox looked to the light, then back at Fegan, before it dashed into the shadows.

The car passed, the driver oblivious to the watching animals.

Somewhere in the distance, across the city, sirens rose. In the dark hollows beneath the window, the fox answered.

Carrickfergus. A whorehouse, he said.

Fegan pictured the office behind the reception desk downstairs. He’d seen keys on hooks through the open door. One of them had been a car key. Fegan left his room, quiet as air.