Collusion by Stuart Neville Page B

you have a cell?’ the jogger asked.
    ‘I don’t carry mine when I’m running.’
    ‘Uh,’ the follower said. He looked back to the park’s entrance.
    ‘Sir,’ the jogger said. ‘This man needs help. Do you have a cell-phone to call an ambulance?’
    The follower patted his pockets as he looked in every direction but down. ‘I, uh, don’t know if I, uh …’
    ‘Do you have one or not?’
    ‘I guess not,’ the follower said.
    ‘Will you stay with him while I get help?’
    The follower sighed and nodded.
    ‘We need to get him into the recovery position,’ the jogger said. ‘Help me out, here.’
    The follower bent down to grab Fegan’s legs while the jogger slipped a hand underneath his neck. Fegan felt his body turn, his head supported by the—
    She’s burning the fire it’s eating her up the child oh no not her —
    Fegan’s right foot lashed out and connected with the follower’s knee. The follower screamed as Fegan felt something buckle. Then he was up, his shoulder ramming into the jogger’s chest. Fegan ran as the jogger went tumbling, each breath scorching his throat, his eyes streaming. He ran until his legs and lungs could carry him no further.

10
    The elevator doors slid open and Lennon stepped inside. Susan, the divorcee from upstairs, stood there with her daughter Lucy huddling against her.
    Susan’s face brightened. ‘And how’s you this morning?’ she asked, reaching out to stroke his upper arm.
    ‘Not bad,’ Lennon said, returning the smile.
    Susan had flirted with him from the moment she moved in a year ago. She was attractive, he couldn’t deny it, but he’d never responded. It took him six months to figure out why: she was a good woman bringing up a child on her own. A child around the same age as the daughter he’d abandoned. She didn’t need a bastard like him to mess her around. Susan deserved a decent man who’d treat her well, who’d look after her and Lucy. Lennon knew that wasn’t him. He’d only let her down.
    Sometimes, when she’d lean her shoulder against his in the lift, or when she’d brush her hand against his as he held a door for her, he thought about telling her so. He considered telling her he was no good, that she should stop the flirting, it could only lead to hurt for her and her daughter.
    But what was the point?
    ‘You look thoughtful,’ she said. ‘Busy day today?’
    ‘Something like that. A big interview.’
    She nodded and smiled. He’d never told her he was a cop. The elevator door swished open. He stepped aside to let her out first. Her hand ran down his sleeve and glanced off his fingers.
    ‘See you,’ she said.
    He smiled in return. Outside the lift, he stooped to fiddle with his shoelace so that she could get some distance on him. Distance would be best for all concerned.
    *
    ‘You have friends in high places, Dandy,’ Lennon said.
    Rankin crossed one slippered foot over the other and stared at Lennon from the hospital bed. ‘Don’t call me that,’ he said. ‘Anyone calls me that to my face, and anyone I hear of calling me that behind my back, they get sorted. Right?’
    ‘Sorted,’ Lennon echoed, a laugh thinning the word as he spoke it. He took a plastic cup from the stack on the bedside locker and opened the bottle of Lucozade that stood beside them. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
    He didn’t wait for an answer before filling the cup. Three swallows drained it of the fizzing orange liquid, and he filled it again. He’d headed out again last night, and the late hours had started to catch up on him. A boost to his blood sugar wouldn’t go amiss.
    Dandy Andy Rankin looked resplendent in his silk pyjamas and dressing gown. No hospital duds for him. If not for the wires snaking out from beneath his pyjama top, connecting him to the beeping monitor at his bedside, he’d have looked like an aristocratic gentleman enjoying a late morning. Albeit with a Red Hand of Ulster tattoo peeking out from between the buttons on his