Collusion

66

No one noticed Fegan as he entered McKenna’s bar on the Springfield Road. It was early yet and only a few drinkers sat staring at pints of Guinness or glasses of whiskey. Tom the barman filled chill cabinets with bottled beer and cider, the clink of glass on glass piercing the gloom. His head was just visible as he crouched behind the bar.

This was where it had all begun, just a few months ago. Michael McKenna had placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder and set his own death in motion. Had that not happened, if McKenna hadn’t sought him out that night, Fegan wondered if he might never have started this terrible journey. Perhaps the twelve would still have been following him, hiding in the shadows, emerging to torment him when sleep was all he wanted.

Fegan walked further into the pub, seeking the dark places. No one sat at the bar. He watched Tom work for a while before slowly, quietly approaching. Tom stood upright, an empty crate hanging loose at his side. He turned, saw Fegan, froze.

‘Hello, Tom,’ Fegan said.

Tom stared, his mouth hanging open.

‘I want a word,’ Fegan said.

Tom’s eyes darted around the bar before coming back to Fegan.

Fegan nodded to the door behind the bar. ‘In the back,’ he said.

Tom didn’t move.

Fegan walked to the side of the bar, lifted the hinged top and walked through.

‘What do you want, Gerry?’ Tom asked, his voice like sand on paper.

‘Just a talk,’ Fegan said. He indicated the door. ‘It won’t take long. Then I’ll leave you alone.’

Tom backed up until he reached the door, the crate still in his hand. Fegan scanned the dark corners of the pub. No one watched. They both entered the back room, a small space with a sink and a microwave oven, boxes of crisps and peanuts stacked in the corners. Fegan took a stool and placed it at the centre of the linoleum-covered floor.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

Tom dropped the crate and did as he was told. ‘I need a smoke,’ he said.

Fegan nodded.

Tom took a packet of Silk Cut and a lighter from his shirt’s breast pocket. He put a cigarette between his lips. His hands shook too hard to get the lighter to catch. Fegan took it from him and thumbed the wheel. The flame sparked into life. He held it to the end of the cigarette. It danced in the flame. Tom sucked hard, coughed when the tobacco caught, blew the flame out.

Fegan set the lighter on the worktop. ‘You know why I came back?’

Tom shook his head, took a drag on the cigarette.

‘Somebody tried to take Marie McKenna’s daughter yesterday,’ Fegan said. ‘I need to know who it is.’

Tom coughed again. ‘I don’t know anything about it. She’s been gone for months, her and the wee girl. She cleared out after … you know.’

‘She came back yesterday,’ Fegan said. ‘Someone tried to snatch Ellen at the hospital. It said on the news someone was arrested. It didn’t say who. You know everything that goes on. People talk to you. Now you talk to me.’

‘I don’t know anything, Gerry, I swear to God.’

Fegan bent down so he was at eye level with Tom. ‘You know better than to lie to me.’

‘I didn’t know she was coming back,’ Tom said. ‘I saw that thing on the news last night, but I never knew it was her and the wee girl.’

‘Where’d she been?’

‘Away somewhere, nobody knows where. After that business with her uncle and all, she took off.’

‘What about that cop?’

Tom flinched. ‘What cop?’

‘The one she used to live with,’ Fegan said. ‘He’s the wee girl’s father.’

‘Yeah, I know who you mean,’ Tom said. ‘What about him?’

Fegan straightened and looked down at Tom. The barman could barely hold onto the cigarette. He had started sweating when Fegan mentioned the cop.

‘He’s been around here, hasn’t he?’

Tom opened his mouth ready to say something, but changed his mind. His shoulders slumped and he nodded.

‘What did he want?’

‘He was asking the same as you, about Marie McKenna and the kid, where they were. I told him the same as I told you: I know nothing about it.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Big fella, broad-shouldered. Dirty blond hair. Dresses well.’

Fegan studied Tom as he sucked hard on the cigarette. ‘There’s more,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

‘He asked about what happened with Michael McKenna and that business in Middletown. About the feud. Then he asked about Patsy Toner.’

‘And you told him nothing.’

‘That’s right.’

Fegan’s gut told him to keep pressing. ‘There’s more,’ he said.

‘No, that’s all,’ Tom said. He brought the cigarette to his lips.

Fegan reached out and took the cigarette from Tom’s mouth. He dropped it to the floor and crushed it beneath his heel. ‘There’s more,’ he said.

‘No, Gerry, that’s—’

‘Don’t,’ Fegan said. He stepped closer to Tom, forcing the barman to crane his neck to look up at him. ‘Don’t lie to me.’

Tom sighed. It turned to a whine in his throat, then a cough in his chest. ‘There was another fella came round. I didn’t like the look of him. He had a bad eye, infected or something. He was asking about Patsy Toner. Couple of days later, Patsy Toner drowns in a hotel bathtub.’

‘You think he was the one tried to take Ellen yesterday?’

‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ Tom said.

‘What was he like?’

‘Dark hair, cut short. Medium height, sort of thin, but built tough. All knuckles and muscles and veins, you know? Southern accent, maybe like a gyppo.’

‘A traveller?’

‘Maybe. Thing is, there was something about him, the way he carried himself, the look in his eye. He was like …’

‘Like what?’ Fegan asked.

‘You,’ Tom said. ‘He was like you.’