Fegan sat upright and raised the Walther.
“Fuck me!” Anderson grabbed for his pocket and pulled out a small revolver. Fegan was ready for it; all cops carried Personal Protection Weapons. The cop swung his arm around the passenger seat and Fegan grabbed his wrist, forcing Anderson’s aim to the rear window.
“Oh, Jesus!” Toner curled into a ball, burying his head in his arms.
Beads of sweat broke on Anderson’s brow as he struggled with Fegan, fighting to regain control of the pistol. The little gun boomed in the confined space and Fegan felt the bullet zip past his ear.
The noise set Toner moving and he opened his door, spilling out onto the ground. Fegan heard a scream as he landed, then the scrabbling of feet. He let his stare leave the cop’s face for a moment to see Toner disappear between the derelict buildings.
Fegan raised the Walther to Anderson’s forehead, but still the cop fought him. The revolver fired again and Fegan felt glass shower his back. He threw his weight against Anderson’s arm, keeping the cop’s wrist in his grip, and pushed with his feet against the Jaguar’s door. The passenger seat made a fulcrum for leverage, and Fegan pushed with everything he had. He gritted his teeth, blood rushing to his head with the effort, until he felt the sudden jolt of Anderson’s shoulder dislocating. The gun disappeared into the footwell behind the passenger seat and Anderson howled until his voice cracked.
“Sit still,” Fegan said, a sudden clarity swelling in him.
Anderson squirmed, kicking at the Jaguar’s dashboard.
“I said sit still.”
The cop gave another hoarse cry before turning to face Fegan from the passenger seat. “Oh, Christ, what do you want?”
“You,” Fegan said.
He screamed again when Fegan released his arm to flop uselessly between the seats. His legs writhed and his face turned from red to purple. At last, his screaming died and his breathing levelled. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry about the beating. Patsy told me to. McGinty’s . . . McGinty’s orders.”
Fegan looked to the RUC man who leaned against the windscreen, peering in. His eyes blazed with savage joy. The car’s interior lighting glared, picking out the sweat on Anderson’s contorted face, glinting on his gritted teeth. The RUC man would see everything, just like his son had.
“You remember the RUC man you sold out?”
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
“Do you remember?”
Anderson shook his head. “I . . . I . . . Which one?”
“That’s right.” Fegan smiled. “You sold lots of them, didn’t you? How much did you get for them?”
Anderson opened and closed his mouth, shaking his head. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
Fegan kicked the arm still hanging between the seats. When Anderson’s screaming faded, Fegan asked, “How much?”
“It depended . . . who they were.”
“How much for a constable? Just an ordinary peeler. How much for one of them?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know . . . a few thousand . . . please, don’t . . .”
“Think back. Do you remember one from 1982? It would have been the start of February. It had been snowing. I killed him in front of his kid.”
Anderson’s eyes darted back and forth, his breath was ragged. “At the school? I remember. Yeah, I remember. What was his name? Oh, Jesus, what was his name?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Fegan said. He placed the Walther back against the cop’s forehead. “He wants you.”
“Wh . . . what?”
“Look.” Fegan indicated with his eyes. “Out there. He’s watching. They’re all watching.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look.” Fegan pressed the Walther’s muzzle against Anderson’s cheek, turning his head to face out the window. “There he is. He’s been waiting years for this.”
Anderson began to weep. “There’s no one there.”
“It’s time to pay for what you did.”
The cop turned back to Fegan. Tears mixed with sweat on his cheeks. “But
you
killed him. Not me.”
Fegan blinked. “I just pulled the trigger. He was dead as soon as you fingered him.”
Anderson shook his head. “You’re insane.”
“I know. But I’m getting better all the time.”
Fegan pulled the trigger.
FIVE
41
The smell of blood, sweat and alcohol rose up through the spectators to the top tier. The old man stood taller than anyone else in the barn, and he could see through all the raised fists waving euros and pounds. He always had the best seat in the house. After all, he owned the place.
The crowd’s roar couldn’t drown out the snarling and yelping from below. The dogs circled each other, snapping, growling and lunging. They were evenly matched, both of them with blocky jaws and thick necks. Both good, mature males, scarred and battle-hardened, with heavy balls hanging between their legs, filling them with fight. Choice pit bulls. Good animals. He loved good animals, as did any man worth a shite.
They’d been at it forty minutes now. Their snouts and barrel chests were caked in red, and fresh wounds glistened in the pitiless light. One had lost a piece of its cheek, and the other’s shoulder was torn open, but neither tired of the struggle as their handlers goaded them to attack. Wooden boards lined the pit walls, wild arcs of blood, old and new, slashed across them.
The Brindle and the Red squared off, eyes locked together. The old man felt a surge in his loins, sensing this would be the final spar. The roaring of the crowd faded to a murmur, nearly sixty men waiting for the moment.
They didn’t have to wait long.
Christ, they were fast. They looked stupid, just lumbering hunks of muscle and teeth, but think that and they’d have you. A good pit bull is quick; strong isn’t good enough. They launched at the same instant, thick paws in the air, batting at each other, trying to get the other down. Their haunches bunched as they boxed, teeth snapping. Shouts began to rise from the crowd as the dogs danced and snarled, each trying to gain dominance, to push the other down and finish him. First it seemed the Red was gaining as its teeth pinched the folds at the back of the other’s neck, but the Brindle forced its weight downward, throwing the Red off balance.
Then it was over. The Brindle’s mighty jaws locked on the Red’s neck, and a whimpering shriek echoed up through the old barn. A low, triumphant growl resonated in the Brindle’s chest as it ground the Red’s muzzle into the dirt. The Red’s feet kicked out, but it was at the mercy of the other dog. The Brindle had no notion of mercy, and poured all its strength into its bulbous jaw muscles, breeding and instinct forcing its teeth together.
“All right, enough!” Bull O’Kane stepped downwards from tier to tier of the bleachers, his bulk making the scaffolded benches groan.
The handlers jumped into the pit to separate the dogs. “Release!” the Brindle’s owner shouted. The pit bull was oblivious, blood trickling from between its jaws.
“Release!” He grabbed the dog’s ear and yanked it.
The other dog’s handler tried to pry the victor’s jaws open with the metal rod he used to train his own animal. “For fuck’s sake, he’ll kill him.”
The Brindle shook its head, reinforcing its grip.
“Jesus, get out of the way,” O’Kane said.
He stepped down into the pit and pushed the handlers aside. The Brindle’s scrotum dangled between its hind legs, tender and exposed. O’Kane’s boot connected with a fleshy slap and the dog whimpered, but held on.
“Ignorant fucker,” O’Kane said, wiping spit from his mouth. Once more, he drew his foot back; once more he buried his boot between the Brindle’s legs. It staggered sideways, its hind quarters quivering, but still it kept its monstrous grip.
“This time, ya bastard.” O’Kane was coming seventy, but he was still the Bull. He put all his weight behind his right foot, and now the dog opened its jaws and raised its snout to the corrugated roof. It howled, snarled, and turned to face its tormentor.
O’Kane locked stares with it. “Come on, then.”
It lowered on its haunches, preparing.
O’Kane put his weight on both feet.
The Brindle didn’t hesitate, coming at him with teeth bared, eyes rolling in its head, blood-tainted drool arcing from its black lips.
It didn’t stand a chance.
O’Kane let it come at him, offering his callused hand. Just as it tried to clamp its teeth on his right fist, O’Kane forced his fingers to the back of its mouth and wrapped his left arm around its powerful neck. The Brindle opened and closed its jaws, struggling to gain purchase, but O’Kane pushed harder and seized its tongue with his thick fingers. He took his arm from around its neck as he twisted the slick pink flesh and pulled up until the dog’s front paws scrabbled on the dirt floor. It coughed and gagged and whimpered as its eyes bulged.
O’Kane gave it a hard kick to the ribs as it hung there before lowering his arm, keeping the dog’s head twisted to the side.
He turned his eyes to the handler. “If you can’t control your animal, don’t fucking bring him to my fights.”
“Yes, Mr. O’Kane.” The handler looked at the ground. “Sorry, Mr. O’Kane.”
“Get this thing out of here.” He released the whining dog’s tongue as the handler slipped a chain around its neck.
O’Kane looked up to Sean the bookie and smiled, wiping his hand on his coat. Sean winked back and straightened his cap. Most of the crowd had put their money on the Red. It had been a good night so far.
A voice came from the barn’s open doorway. “Da!”
O’Kane turned to see his son Pádraig, as tall as his father and twice as wide. “What?”
“Yer man’s here.”
O’Kane nodded and stepped up and out of the pit, past his son - who turned and followed him - and out to the farmyard. Dogs penned in the old stables barked and snarled as they passed, and he hissed at them to shut up. Wire cages on the opposite side housed the visiting animals. A diesel generator rattled by the side of the derelict house, giving it and the barn power. The place still had the acrid chemical smell from the fuel-laundering plant he’d housed here before Customs had raided it. The dogs didn’t bring in as much money, but they brought him greater pleasure. As an old man, he took his pleasures where he could find them. Besides, he had plenty of other plants churning out stripped diesel along the border.
Languid rain drops slithered down the farmhouse windows. A soft light burned inside. O’Kane pushed open a door into what had once been a kitchen.
“Wait out here,” he said to his son, and stepped inside, ducking his head beneath the top of the door frame.
There were three other men in the room. Tommy Downey from Crossmaglen, thin and wiry with slicked-back hair, leaned against one wall. Kevin Malloy from Monaghan, thickset like O’Kane but a full twelve inches shorter, leaned against the other.
Downey pointed to the third man, who was seated in the middle of the room. “Here he is, boss.”
“Aye, so he is.”
O’Kane walked over to the man. The pillowcase over his head puffed out and in again as he breathed. His well-cut suit had red blotches on it.
“What’s this? Did he not come quietly?”
“Not really,” Malloy said.
O’Kane tutted. “That’s a shame.”
He reached out and plucked the pillowcase from the man’s head. The young man stared up at him. Blood congealed around his nose and mouth.
“Jesus, Martin, you’re sweating like a pig.”
Martin blinked.
“It’s an awful pity you wouldn’t listen to me, Martin. Now it’s come to this, and there was no call for it.”
Martin’s eyes brimmed. “What do you want?”
“I want to give you money. But you won’t take it from me. It’s mad, isn’t it? I want to give you two hundred grand and you’re slapping my hand away.”
“I told you to talk to my solicitor.”
O’Kane waved the idea away. “Jesus, solicitors? Fucking crooks, the lot of them. Why pay one of them fuckers when you can just deal with me?”
Martin’s voice shook with foolish defiance. “That land’s worth half a million and you know it.”
O’Kane leaned down, his hands on his knees. “Is it, now?”
“The estate agent told me.”
O’Kane snorted and stood upright. “Estate agent? Sure, they’re even bigger crooks than solicitors. You don’t need an estate agent to deal with the Bull. No, no, no. Spit and a handshake, that’s how I do it.”
The young man held O’Kane’s eyes steady. “All right, I’ll sell you the land, but I need a fair price.”
