24

Orla O’Kane stood alone in her room in the old house’s servants’ quarters. The small window overlooked the long, sweeping driveway. She flicked the tip of her cigarette against the rim of the ashtray. With her free hand she dialled the mobile she’d given the Traveller.

‘What about ya, love?’ he answered.

She closed her eyes and took a deep drag on the cigarette.

‘Fegan’s in New York,’ she said. ‘We got word from a friend in the NYPD. Some arsehole called Murphy turned up in a hospital, said some Irish fella and a darkie gave him a going over. Said the Irish fella stopped the darkie from killing him. Said the Irish fella’s name was Gerry Fegan.’

‘You want me to fly to New York?’ the Traveller asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Stick to the plan. Use the woman and the girl. We’re told they’ll be out in the open soon. Make him come to you.’

‘All right,’ the Traveller said.

‘Besides, you’ve got Patsy Toner to take care of yet.’

‘True,’ the Traveller said.

Orla hung up and dropped the phone on her single bed. She stubbed the cigarette out and checked her watch. Her father’s colostomy pouch needed changing, and he didn’t like either of the nurses to do it. Instead, Orla had to undo the pouch of faecal matter from the stoma, the surgical opening in her father’s belly. Then she would dispose of it and attach a fresh pouch. She’d wept the first few times she’d had to do it. Now she simply ignored the smell and got on with it.

Two flights of narrow stairs took her down to the first floor. She crossed the gallery overlooking the entrance hall and knocked on her father’s door.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me,’ she answered.

‘Come in.’

His voice carried an urgency she didn’t like. She opened the door and entered, then stopped between the door and the bed.

‘Don’t just fucking stand there staring,’ Bull O’Kane said. ‘Come and help me.’

He sat on the edge of the bed, sheets and blankets tangled around his legs. They were stained orange and red. An upturned plastic bowl lay on the floor, a tumbler beside it. The tray rested against the bedside locker.

Orla approached him. ‘Jesus, Da, why didn’t you call one of the nurses?’

‘Because I don’t want them fussing round me. Just help me, all right?’

She knelt down, retrieved the tray, and placed the bowl and tumbler upon it. The smell was bad down here, so close to him. She plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the bedside locker and dabbed at the puddles of soup and orange juice on the floor.

‘You have to let the nurses help you sometimes,’ she said. ‘That’s what we pay them for. I can’t always be here to pick up after you.’

‘I don’t want them near me,’ the Bull said. ‘If I can’t depend on my own daughter, then Jesus, who can I depend on?’

Anger broke free of her, hot and pure, before she could catch it. ‘Then be more fucking careful, you—’

The slap knocked her sideways, and she landed on her shoulder. Her ear burned, a high whine sounding somewhere deep inside it. She lay there until her breathing came under control.

The old man gazed into the distance. ‘My own daughter, for Christ’s sake.’

Orla got to her knees, balled up the tissues, and placed them on the tray. She stood, carried the tray to the door, and left the room. Her ear whined as the tears burned her eyes. She threw the tray at the wall, and watched the last drops of soup and orange juice streak the wallpaper before the plastic clattered to the floor.