Collusion by Stuart Neville Page B

no need to touch her, even if she saw everything. The Bull had been quite clear on that point, and the Traveller intended to honour his promise.
    He tucked the old Merc into a parking bay on the Ormeau Road, next to a fenced-off housing development where the sports ground used to be. It’d be a trek to Quigley’s house, but it was the most secluded place he could find to leave the car. He kept his head down as he walked along the main road, avoiding eye contact with the few people he passed.
    The Traveller walked as far as the Ormeau Bridge before looping back along the river. He counted side streets as he made his way north. The Bull had told him how many. A police siren wailed somewhere towards Donegall Pass, followed by cheers. The youths had got their fight by the sound of it.
    He ducked into the narrow alleyway that cut along the back of Quigley’s terrace. Seven houses along from the river end, the Bull had said. The Traveller kept tight to the wall and counted gates. He worked his way through the alley’s blackness, careful of his footing. Litter snagged his heels, old plastic bags and cigarette packets. He kicked an empty can and froze. Inside one of the houses, a dog barked at the clatter. When it settled, he started moving again.
    A siren screamed along Ormeau Avenue. The Traveller saw a cop car flash past the far end of the alley. A moment later he heard the screeching of tyres and the whoops and laughter of breathless boys. He moved faster, reached Quigley’s back gate, pressed against the painted wood and found it open. As he slipped into the yard he kept his eyes on the far end of the alley. Two youths appeared there, their trainers skidding as they rounded the corner.
    The Traveller eased back into the yard and pushed the gate closed. It stood as high as the wall, would keep him hidden, but it had no latch. He listened to the hammering of feet as the boys sprinted along the alley.
    ‘Quick, they’re coming!’ a voice said.
    ‘Fuck’s sake, hide!’ another said.
    The Traveller heard hands slapping on wood as the boys tried the gates. Too late, he went to block Quigley’s, and the boys burst through.
    He put the first one down with a blow to the temple, and the sound of skull meeting brickwork cut the boy’s cry short. The other slipped as he tried to halt his momentum and landed at the Traveller’s feet.
    The Traveller swooped, threw him on his belly. Before the boy could scream, the Traveller had his throat in the crook of his elbow. The boy didn’t struggle long.
    The Traveller got to his feet and pressed his back against the gate. Heavy footsteps trudged along the alley, accompanied by deeper voices and radio static.
    ‘No, they’re gone,’ one of the voices said.
    A burst of static replied as the footsteps drew closer.
    ‘Christ knows,’ the voice said. ‘Balfour Avenue, probably.’
    Wood rattled as the cops tried the gates. The Traveller leaned against the flaked paint, braced himself.
    ‘No chance,’ the voice said. ‘I’m not doing any more running tonight. I’m too old for this shit.’
    The gate pushed against the Traveller’s back. Static crackled.
    ‘Up your arse,’ the voice on the other side of the wall said. ‘I’m going back to the car.’
    The footsteps receded towards the Ormeau Road. The Traveller stooped down and checked if the boys were breathing. They both were, but the first one he’d hit was slick with blood. The other would wake before too long with a crushing headache. The Traveller had to get this done. He went to the back door and peered through the glass into the kitchen. An old woman in a dressing gown stood gazing at a biscuit tin, her lips moving as if she were trying to remember the words of a song.
    He tried the handle, but the door was locked. The old woman looked up at the sound. She approached the door and turned the key. She opened it and stared at the Traveller for a moment. ‘Bobby, love, where’ve you been?’ she asked.
    ‘Away,’ the