92
The cracking of gunfire halted the Traveller’s hand. He would never admit it, but he was relieved to have an excuse to break away from Fegan’s stare. The madman hardly winced when the Traveller started cutting into his earlobe, the bulging of his jaw muscles and a film of sweat on his forehead the only outward sign of pain. The blood ran in a deep red rivulet down Fegan’s neck to be soaked up by his clothing.
‘Da!’ A high shrieking came between the gunshots, Orla O’Kane’s voice cutting through the clamour. ‘Da! Da!’
‘What the fuck is that?’ Bull O’Kane asked.
The Traveller released Fegan’s ear, the lobe still attached despite the half-inch incision. He spoke to O’Driscoll and Ronan. ‘Keep hold of him,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take a look.’
‘Wait,’ Bull O’Kane said.
The Traveller ignored him and went to the double doors that led to the corridor and the stairs beyond, drawing the Glock from his waistband. He opened one a few inches and put his eye to the gap. Nothing.
‘I said wait.’ Fear edged the Bull’s voice.
The Traveller leaned out into the corridor. He pictured the layout of the entrance hall below. A grand staircase rose up along the right-hand wall before turning back on itself to form the gallery that lay ahead of him. Three doors stood beneath that. The left led to a series of rooms that had been converted into offices and treatment bays. The middle concealed a lift that had been built into the house’s structure, its sliding door cut neatly into the wood panelling. The right opened onto a corridor off which branched patient and staff dining rooms, and the kitchen. The voice and the gunshots came from somewhere down there. The Traveller turned back to O’Kane.
‘Jesus, don’t leave me here,’ O’Kane said, his face paling. ‘Not with him.’ The Bull’s sagging cheeks reddened at the admission of his fear. He couldn’t hold the Traveller’s gaze. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.
‘I wasn’t waiting for permission,’ the Traveller said.
He stepped out into the corridor and let the door swing closed behind him. A dozen light footsteps brought him to the top of the stairs. He clung to the wall as he descended and turned at the bottom. A dozen more paces took him to the door on the right, the one that led to the kitchen and dining rooms. Two splintered holes had been torn in the wood. He flattened himself against the wall.
One, two, three more barks of gunfire, close to the door. Then a squeal and a cry, followed by a man’s hoarse shout. Two more shots, this time echoing from deep in the corridor, then something heavy thrown hard against the door. It opened outwards as a man’s body spilled through. He landed on his back, two holes in his camouflage jacket radiating dark stains. He groaned and gasped and coughed and writhed.
Somewhere beyond the Traveller’s vision, Orla O’Kane screamed, ‘Jesus Christ! Don’t, don’t, don’t—’
The Traveller brought his pistol up and swung into the open doorway, searching for a target. Shapes moved against the glaring light from the kitchen, one clambering to its feet, the other already upright. They melded together as the Traveller strained to separate one shadow from the other in the bitter smoke. The larger of them moved towards him, fast. He couldn’t tell which arm belonged to which silhouetted body, or where the screams came from in the corridor’s echoes. When he saw a gun amongst the blurring shapes the reptile part of his mind took over, steadied his own Glock, and tightened his finger on the trigger.
The corridor amplified the boom and smoke burned his stinging eye. The shape still came at him and his finger closed on the trigger again. The muzzle flash illuminated Orla O’Kane’s terrified face for an instant as the bullet ripped a piece of her skull away.
Her body’s momentum carried her forward, and the Traveller stepped aside to let it tumble on top of the dying man, her weight crushing the last of the fight out of him.
‘Stupid fucking bitch,’ the Traveller said.
He edged back to the doorway and peered into the darkness and light. The other figure had gone, either retreated into the kitchen, or into one of the other rooms leading off the corridor. He replayed the scene in his mind, saw the width of the man, his height. Instinct and logic combined to tell him it was the cop Lennon.
‘Bastard cunt fucker,’ the Traveller said.
He stepped into the gloom, the Glock up and ready. If anything moved he would shoot first and worry about who he shot later. Two doors to his right, one to the left at the end, and the kitchen next to it. He moved slow and easy, his breath even and steady, listening hard.
The Traveller tried the first door on his right. The handle didn’t move. Locked tight. No way Lennon could have locked it from inside. He would have heard the footsteps in the corridor, the fumbling of the key in the lock. The Traveller kept moving. The second door’s handle loosened at the pressure of his fingers. He leaned tight to the wall and depressed the handle as far as it would go. The world slowed as he inhaled, then accelerated as he let the air out of his lungs and kicked the door open.
He ducked, his bandaged left hand coming up to support the pistol in his right. The door swung inward, struck the wall, and juddered with the shock of it. Nothing moved inside as the Traveller stopped the door swinging back with his foot. Chairs stacked on tables, clusters of them in the darkness as shutters blocked out all but the thinnest blades of daylight. Old odours of fried meat and overcooked vegetables drifted on the air along with the dust motes. He hunkered down and studied the forest of table legs. No one lurked among them. A pair of swinging doors in the far corner presumably led back to the kitchen, but the Traveller felt in his gut that the room’s stillness had not been disturbed for weeks. He straightened and backed out.
The door at the end of the corridor stood open, the kitchen beyond, its steely brightness dulled by grime. He walked towards it, ready to fire at any movement, but a new smell stopped him before he got that far. A sickly, chemical smell that tingled in his nostrils. He took three more steps and the smell deepened. But it did not come from the kitchen. The door to his left stood slightly ajar. He pushed it with the Glock’s muzzle, and the smell of fuel, petrol or something like it, washed up from the narrow staircase on the other side.
The Traveller spied a box of matches on a work surface just inside the kitchen. He smiled as he reached for them.