91

‘Who are you?’ the woman asked.

‘I’m the fella with the gun,’ Lennon said. ‘Now who the fuck are you?’

Her eyes flitted between his and the door and back again. ‘I’m Orla O’Kane.’

‘Bull O’Kane’s daughter?’

She nodded.

‘You own this place?’

She nodded.

‘Where are they?’

‘Who?’

‘Marie and Ellen,’ Lennon said. He took one step closer, squared his aim on her forehead. ‘Don’t fuck me about. I’ll blow your brains out, you understand? Tell me where they are.’

Her eyes brimmed. She pointed one trembling finger towards the door. ‘Inside,’ she said. ‘Upstairs.’

‘Take me to them.’ He took another step. ‘Now.’

A tear dripped from her eyelash. ‘Don’t kill me. Please.’

‘Just take me to them,’ Lennon said. ‘I won’t hurt you if you take me to them now.’

‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ Orla said, her words spilling out faster as she spoke, her nose running, her face creasing. ‘It’s my da, the stuff he gets up to, I know nothing about it, I never knew he wanted to hurt anybody, I wouldn’t have let him use my place if I knew—’

‘Shut up,’ Lennon said. Another step, and the Glock’s muzzle quivered inches from her forehead. ‘Just shut your mouth and take me to them.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘But don’t do anything stupid.’

‘Move,’ he said. ‘You go first.’

Orla walked towards the door, keeping her gaze on Lennon as he came behind. She tripped on the step and turned her head to look where she was going. The door stood open. She slipped through into the shadows.

Lennon followed her into some sort of entrance hall-cum-laundry room. A bank of industrial washing machines and dryers stood against the far wall. Mildew coated the ceiling above them, and the air had a damp, cloying smell. Water pooled on the floor around the equipment.

Orla headed for a door to the left. It led them to a room cast in aluminium and stainless steel. What had once been a traditional country house kitchen was now a catering business, deep-fryers, bath-sized sinks surrounded by mould, grimy hotplates and ovens big enough to fit a person in. That thought spurred Lennon on.

‘Hurry up,’ he said, jamming the pistol between her shoulder blades.

Orla moaned and quickened her pace around the grease-coated islands as she approached a swing door with grubby glass at its centre. When she was ten feet from it, her shuffling steps became a brisk stride, then a jog.

‘Don’t,’ Lennon said, hurrying to catch her, reaching out to grab the fabric of her jacket, his balance lost to the chase.

She slapped his hand away and sprinted across the few feet to the door. He followed inches behind, the pistol an idle threat in his hand. She grabbed the door’s edge, threw it back behind her, slamming it into Lennon’s outstretched hands as he tried to take aim.

‘Da!’ she screamed again and again as Lennon pushed through the door to see her trip and land sprawling on the floor. ‘Da!’ again, ‘Da!’

Lennon saw only the silhouette of the gunman, barely registering the shape in the corridor’s dimness before he raised the Glock and fired.