Collusion

77

The door of the Red Fox Bar, off the Shankill, was locked, but lights shone inside. Lennon hammered with his fist until the pane of frosted glass rattled in its frame.

‘We’re closed,’ a hoarse voice called from inside. A silhouette formed against the glass. ‘Fuck off.’

The silhouette faded.

Lennon kicked the door.

The silhouette returned. ‘I told you to fuck off, we’re closed. Away to fuck or I’ll come out there and kick your shite in.’

Lennon kicked the door again and again until the glass cracked.

‘Right, you fucker,’ the voice said.

The bolts sounded like two rifle shots as they opened at the top and bottom of the door. It swung inward, and a heavy-set man with a shaven head and tattoos on his neck filled the doorway. He wore spectacles that sat at an odd angle. Before he could take a step, Lennon drove a fist into the valley beneath his belly and shattered his nose with the other. The man stumbled into the bar, blood erupting from between his fingers as he clasped his hands to his face. His spectacles fell away, cracked and bent. He tripped over his own feet and landed on his back.

Lennon stepped over him and into the bar. Three men were gathered around a table strewn with cards and cash, bottles and glasses. Two were on their feet, their hands out and ready for action.

Lennon drew his Glock and aimed at Roscoe Patterson’s forehead, one hand supporting the other in a combat stance. Roscoe sat at the far side of the table, his face blank, staring back at Lennon. The two standing men drew pistols, both small-calibre toys, the kind of weapons jumped-up thugs would carry to make themselves look big.

‘Put ’em away, boys,’ Roscoe said. ‘No need for playing silly buggers, is there, Jack?’

The two men obeyed.

‘Get rid of them,’ Lennon said.

‘Jesus, you got Slant a good ’un,’ Roscoe said. He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Fucking stove his face in.’ He smiled at Lennon. ‘Know why we call him Slant?’

‘I don’t care, just get them out of here.’

Roscoe continued, ‘We call him Slant ’cause when he gets pissed, his glasses sit at a slant. Fucking comical. The way you just pasted his nose all over his face, he’ll never get them glasses to sit straight again.’

Lennon took a step closer and steadied his aim. ‘Get rid of them. Now.’

Roscoe’s smile broadened. His eyes dimmed. ‘You heard the fella,’ he said to his companions. ‘Fuck off and take Slant with you.’

‘You sure?’ one of Roscoe’s thugs asked.

‘I’m sure,’ Roscoe said. ‘Jack’s a smart fella. He’ll not do anything stupid. Will you, Jack?’

‘Just get them out of here,’ Lennon said.

‘Go on, boys.’ Roscoe dismissed them with a wave.

They sauntered past Lennon, rolling their shoulders, keeping eye contact with him, trying to show they weren’t intimidated by a stranger with a gun.

Lennon kept his eyes on Roscoe. He heard Slant moan and curse as his friends gathered him up. The door closed, and all was quiet save for Lennon’s breathing. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows.

Roscoe said, ‘That was bad form, Jack.’

Lennon didn’t answer. He took a step closer, kept the pistol trained on Roscoe’s forehead.

‘Making a cunt of me like that,’ Roscoe said, his hand beginning to shake on the tabletop. His lips thinned across his teeth. ‘Any other fucker tried that, I’d break the bastard’s neck. I’d take that gun and shove it so far up their arse they’d frigging choke on it. I’d put my fucking boot in their—’

‘I’m not here to play games, Roscoe,’ Lennon said. ‘I know what you did. I’ll put a bullet in your bigoted little brain and I won’t give it a thought. You understand? No threats, no fucking around. I’ll shoot you dead.’

Roscoe stood up. He leaned forward, his knuckles on the tabletop, the cards spreading beneath his weight. ‘Watch your mouth, Jack. I’ve been good to you, you’ve been good to me. I wouldn’t call us friends, like, but as taigs go, you’ve been a decent sort of a fella. But no one threatens me. No one makes a cunt of me in front of my boys. You’re playing with your life, here, Jack. Don’t go making—’

Lennon focused on the heart-shaped tattoo on the back of Roscoe’s left hand. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet split the tabletop an inch from Roscoe’s fingers. Roscoe pulled his hands away, but didn’t make a sound. He stepped back from the table, shaking his head.

‘Who did you go to?’ Lennon asked. ‘Who did you tell?’

Roscoe held his hands up and backed away. ‘What are you talking about, Jack? I told no one about nothing. You’re making a serious mistake here, mate.’

Lennon followed. He pushed the table aside, ignoring the crashing of bottles as it tipped over. Paper money and broken glass crunched beneath his feet. He holstered his pistol. He flexed his fingers. ‘You told someone where Marie and Ellen were. You told someone where my daughter was. Now they’ve got them.’

Roscoe backed towards the bar. ‘Fuck’s sake, Jack, you’re talking out your arse. I told you before, I’m no tout. I said nothing to no—’

Lennon caught Roscoe with an elbow to the jaw. Roscoe dropped like a sack of loose flesh. He rolled on his side, hands to his chin.

‘He has my daughter,’ Lennon said.

Roscoe squirmed on the floor. He spat blood on the grime-caked tiles.

‘He has my daughter,’ Lennon repeated. ‘Do you understand?’

‘My tongue,’ Roscoe said, his words blunt. ‘I bit my fucking tongue, you Fenian bastard.’

Lennon stood over Roscoe, one hand on the bar. ‘Talk to me now or I’ll kill you, I fucking swear.’

‘Shove it up your taig arse, you cunt,’ Roscoe hissed. He spat again, spattering the floor with crimson.

Lennon kicked him in the gut. Roscoe doubled up, curled into a ball, rolled so his back was to Lennon. Lennon aimed his foot at Roscoe’s kidney, felt the flesh give under the force of it.

When the squealing was done, Lennon hunkered down and said, ‘You passed on the information. You tell me now who you talked to. See, I don’t give a fuck. Ellen is the only good thing I ever gave to the world. I talked to her today. For the first time in five years, I talked to my own daughter. She has no notion who I am, but it doesn’t matter. I have a chance to make it right. I have a chance to get her back. And you sell her out to some piece of shit.’

Roscoe uncurled. He tried to haul himself away, but the pain creased his face. ‘You’re wrong. I never—’

‘You sold her out to the other side. You, the big Loyalist, you sold a child to the Republicans. It’s like Patsy Toner said. The collusion, it goes all ways, all directions. All the likes of you ever cared about was lining your own pockets. You didn’t give a shit about any cause, did you? Just so long as you were making money.’

‘You’re losing it,’ Roscoe said. ‘You’re fucking off your—’

Lennon drew his Glock and pressed the muzzle to Roscoe’s forehead. ‘You’ve got one last chance,’ Lennon said. ‘Someone will have reported the gunshot. The moment I hear the sirens, I’ll pull the trigger and blow your brains out. It’ll be self-defence, a known career criminal against a cop. The Ombudsman’s office won’t care. No one’s going to give a fuck about a piece of shit like you. Do you understand?’

Roscoe blinked at him, his nostrils flared.

‘The only way you live is if you tell me who you talked to,’ Lennon said. ‘That’s all there is. No other choices. Now tell me.’

Roscoe squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Fuck,’ he said. His face went slack, his eyelids fluttered. ‘Dan Hewitt,’ he said. ‘That Special Branch fucker. He’s the one you want. He’s the one put the word out. He wanted to know what you were up to, if anyone saw you around, if you came at anyone looking favours. I called him up. Told him you wanted the flat.’

Roscoe opened his eyes and smiled. ‘What? You think you’re the only cop I’m mates with? Like you said: all ways, all directions.’

Lennon stood upright and holstered the Glock. ‘You breathe a word of this, I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that you’re a tout.’

‘Fuck you,’ Roscoe said.

‘You know what they do to touts,’ Lennon said. ‘You come near me, or anyone I know, I’ll tell every last fucker in this city you’re a tout. You won’t be able to show your ugly face on the street. You understand me?’

‘Fuck you,’ Roscoe said.

Lennon kicked him hard in the groin. Roscoe curled into a tight ball, blood dripping from his lips. He vomited onto the tiled floor.

The smell of it hit Lennon hard, and he went for the door, swallowing against his own bile until the night air cooled his skin.

He didn’t see the tall man coming, only felt the hard hands on his throat before he hit the ground.