‘Please don’t kill me.’
‘When’ll she be back?’
‘I don’t know. Please don’t kill me. I’ve money. You can have my cash card and my PIN. There, in my wallet.’
The Traveller went to the dressing table and put the wallet in his pocket. It would help make it look like a robbery, but he’d dump it somewhere on the road. No way he’d use the card.
He rubbed his right eye on his sleeve, hissed at the sting. ‘You might’ve fucking blinded me, you know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Malloy said. ‘Please don’t kill me.’
The Traveller flicked the Eagle’s safety on and tucked it into his waistband. He went to the bed and lifted the Browning. He turned it in his hands, tested its heft. It was compact and light. ‘Fucking lovely,’ he said. He pulled back the slide to eject the spent cartridge and pushed it forward to load the next. The action was smooth and easy. ‘That’s a beauty,’ he said, running his fingers over the smooth walnut stock. He wedged the butt against his shoulder and lined up Malloy’s head.
‘Jesus,’ Malloy said.
The Traveller took three steps back. He didn’t want to get covered in the splatter.
Malloy wept and prayed.
The Traveller blinked blood away from his right eye. He sniffed and swallowed. He shifted his weight onto his leading foot, braced for the recoil, and pulled the trigger.
It didn’t make too bad a mess of Malloy, considering. The recoil gave the Traveller a solid kick to the shoulder, but it was a controllable piece. He held the Browning out to admire it again. ‘Nice,’ he said.
He pulled the earplugs out by the plastic string and put them in his pocket. He opened and closed his jaw to clear the pressure. His eye stung pretty bad, now. He walked back to the kitchen and turned on the tap. A scoop of cold water eased the burning a little.
He wondered if there were any old plastic bags under the sink in which to carry the boxes of cartridges back to the car. He opened the cupboard doors.
A woman lay trembling on her side in there, squeezed beneath the plumbing. She covered her head with her hands, her knees drawn up to her chin. She smelled of gin.
‘Ah, fuck,’ the Traveller said.
He reached for the earplugs.
9
Fegan knew he was being followed. The tall, broad man had been ten paces behind him when he entered Grand Street station. It was almost six, still dark above ground, when Fegan boarded the D Train. He watched the other man pass the car. Fegan guessed the follower would choose the next car along, probably glancing out at every stop to see if his quarry left the train.
He’d be wasting his time. Fegan would ride the train all the way to Columbus Circle so he could walk in the park as the sun came up. Sleep had barely touched him last night. The Doyle brothers’ oily words and knowing grins kept him from slipping under, so he rose early and headed out.
Fegan took a seat and opened his book. It was slim, a little over a hundred pages, and he’d found it not long after arriving in New York. He’d been walking along Bleecker Street, mouth and eyes agape, the city seeming to roar through him. He passed a small shop, stopped, and turned back. A memory drew him towards the door. The sign above the entrance said Greenwich Judaica. He walked in.
He couldn’t recall the title of the book Marie McKenna told him about just a few months ago while he sat terrified beside her, but he could hear the sadness in her voice as she told him how her dead uncle, the man he had killed, forced her to tear it up. After some explaining, the young man in the shop found a copy of Yosl Rakover Talks to God in a box of used books. Fegan had read it twice so far, picking over the words in the same slow and deliberate way he had when he was at the Christian Brothers School back in Belfast. He hadn’t been much of a reader then, and he wasn’t now. He caught himself moving his lips as he grappled with the text, and brought a hand to his mouth.
Fegan liked to read on
‘When’ll she be back?’
‘I don’t know. Please don’t kill me. I’ve money. You can have my cash card and my PIN. There, in my wallet.’
The Traveller went to the dressing table and put the wallet in his pocket. It would help make it look like a robbery, but he’d dump it somewhere on the road. No way he’d use the card.
He rubbed his right eye on his sleeve, hissed at the sting. ‘You might’ve fucking blinded me, you know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Malloy said. ‘Please don’t kill me.’
The Traveller flicked the Eagle’s safety on and tucked it into his waistband. He went to the bed and lifted the Browning. He turned it in his hands, tested its heft. It was compact and light. ‘Fucking lovely,’ he said. He pulled back the slide to eject the spent cartridge and pushed it forward to load the next. The action was smooth and easy. ‘That’s a beauty,’ he said, running his fingers over the smooth walnut stock. He wedged the butt against his shoulder and lined up Malloy’s head.
‘Jesus,’ Malloy said.
The Traveller took three steps back. He didn’t want to get covered in the splatter.
Malloy wept and prayed.
The Traveller blinked blood away from his right eye. He sniffed and swallowed. He shifted his weight onto his leading foot, braced for the recoil, and pulled the trigger.
It didn’t make too bad a mess of Malloy, considering. The recoil gave the Traveller a solid kick to the shoulder, but it was a controllable piece. He held the Browning out to admire it again. ‘Nice,’ he said.
He pulled the earplugs out by the plastic string and put them in his pocket. He opened and closed his jaw to clear the pressure. His eye stung pretty bad, now. He walked back to the kitchen and turned on the tap. A scoop of cold water eased the burning a little.
He wondered if there were any old plastic bags under the sink in which to carry the boxes of cartridges back to the car. He opened the cupboard doors.
A woman lay trembling on her side in there, squeezed beneath the plumbing. She covered her head with her hands, her knees drawn up to her chin. She smelled of gin.
‘Ah, fuck,’ the Traveller said.
He reached for the earplugs.
9
Fegan knew he was being followed. The tall, broad man had been ten paces behind him when he entered Grand Street station. It was almost six, still dark above ground, when Fegan boarded the D Train. He watched the other man pass the car. Fegan guessed the follower would choose the next car along, probably glancing out at every stop to see if his quarry left the train.
He’d be wasting his time. Fegan would ride the train all the way to Columbus Circle so he could walk in the park as the sun came up. Sleep had barely touched him last night. The Doyle brothers’ oily words and knowing grins kept him from slipping under, so he rose early and headed out.
Fegan took a seat and opened his book. It was slim, a little over a hundred pages, and he’d found it not long after arriving in New York. He’d been walking along Bleecker Street, mouth and eyes agape, the city seeming to roar through him. He passed a small shop, stopped, and turned back. A memory drew him towards the door. The sign above the entrance said Greenwich Judaica. He walked in.
He couldn’t recall the title of the book Marie McKenna told him about just a few months ago while he sat terrified beside her, but he could hear the sadness in her voice as she told him how her dead uncle, the man he had killed, forced her to tear it up. After some explaining, the young man in the shop found a copy of Yosl Rakover Talks to God in a box of used books. Fegan had read it twice so far, picking over the words in the same slow and deliberate way he had when he was at the Christian Brothers School back in Belfast. He hadn’t been much of a reader then, and he wasn’t now. He caught himself moving his lips as he grappled with the text, and brought a hand to his mouth.
Fegan liked to read on
Similar Books
