36

The Traveller shut off the taps when the water reached the overflow. Its surface rippled as the last drops hit. He dipped his hand below the surface. Cold. He stood up from the edge of the bathtub and turned out the light. There was just enough room behind the door for him to stand unseen.

How long could he stand in one place? The longest had been almost four hours, in the corner of an accountant’s office. He didn’t even have to touch the poor fucker; the accountant keeled over, his heart stopped dead in his chest, at the sight of the Traveller rushing at him from out of the shadow. Easy kill, but the waiting had been a bastard.

Could he wait more than four hours, standing still? He thought so. He rarely got bored. He wasn’t much of a thinker, but still, his mind could amuse itself for a long, long time. He could remember people he’d known, some he’d fucked, some he’d killed. He could think of Sofia and the baby he planned to give her.

Instead, he thought about Gerry Fegan. The Bull had shown him a photograph. Fegan was thin and wiry, like the Traveller, with a hard, pointed face. He wondered how many Fegan had killed. There were the twelve he’d been put away for, and then that spree a few months ago. How many had that been? Four in the city, then two on the farm near Middletown – a British agent and the politician Paul McGinty. That made eighteen. The Traveller had killed twice as many, and more.

Was he afraid of Fegan? Probably, but that was no bad thing. Orla O’Kane blustered about her father being scared of no man, except the great Gerry Fegan, but the Traveller knew it was just that: bluster. The man who feared nothing was the man looking to get himself killed. It was what you did with your fear that really counted. The Traveller turned his to anger and hate, things he could use to get the job done. And the job was more important than anything.

The Traveller closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and waited.

An hour, maybe a little more, passed before he heard the bleep of the keycard in the slot, followed by the clunk of the lock opening. He listened hard, pictured Patsy Toner entering and closing the door behind him.

The little lawyer breathed hard as he crossed the room, his feet dragging on the cheap carpet. The Traveller heard the rustling of fabric as he removed clothing, probably his jacket, then the thumps of his shoes being kicked off. The mattress groaned. A lighter sparked, air was sucked in and blown out. A few moments later, the Traveller caught the bitter stink of a cigarette. Then sobbing, dry and pitiful, the sound of the wounded and dying. The Traveller knew it well. A deep, wet sniff, and then a cough. The creak of weight lifting from the mattress, the padding of socked feet on carpet.

The bathroom light clicked on, and the Traveller squinted. From behind the open door, he heard the toilet lid lift, and Toner’s fly opening. He’d let the poor shite finish pissing before he moved, let him get his cock put away.

‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,’ Toner whispered to himself before he was rewarded with the thunder of water on water. He sighed, the sound of it hollow against the bathroom’s tiles. The Traveller smelled a sour blend of alcohol and tobacco. He listened to the last drops, then the rustling of fabric, the fly closing, and the toilet flush.

Then a pause, followed by, ‘What the fuck?’

The Traveller gently, quietly pushed the door back.

Patsy Toner stared down at the bathtub full of water, his drunken eyes blinking as if it would make sense if he only tried a little harder. He turned his head and he saw the Traveller watching.

‘No,’ Patsy Toner said, his voice so small it was almost lost beneath the noise of the cistern filling.

The Traveller let the anger and hate take control, let it push him forward, took his speed from it. Toner barely had time to raise his hands and grab the breath for a scream that never came. It died in his throat as the Traveller slammed his forehead into the mirror above the bath, leaving a bloody star on the cracked surface. Pieces of reflective glass dropped into the water, turning through the swirls of red.

Toner’s legs left him, and the Traveller let the lawyer’s weight pull him head first into the water. He gripped the back of Toner’s neck with one hand, his wrist with the other.

Nothing happened for a while, just spidery threads of crimson spreading out and dissolving among the bubbles.

Then Toner jerked.

Then Toner bucked.

Then Toner screamed beneath the water.