The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve)

The voice told him the Chief Constable was on the line.

“Geoff,” Hargreaves said.

“Good afternoon, Minister,” Pilkington said.

“Please tell me we’re making progress on the Belfast situation.”

“Some. Our colleagues have sent a man in to see what’s going on.”

“And?” Hargreaves asked, impatient. The car advanced another five feet closer to Downing Street. “I’m meeting the Secretary and the PM shortly, and I need something to tell them. Was it this Fegan character?”

“We simply don’t know, Minister. Circumstances point to him, but McGinty says otherwise. He says the Lithuanians got McKenna, and my men got Caffola.”

“

Did

your men get him?” Hargreaves asked. He knew the answer, but found amusement in irking the Chief Constable.

“Certainly not, Minister. He’s using it for propaganda, trying to better his position in the party by grabbing headlines. He gave a speech a couple of hours ago saying he’ll recommend the party withdraws its support for the PSNI if some of my men don’t swing for it. The brass neck, as if it was up to him.”

Hargreaves couldn’t help but smile at Pilkington’s predicament. “Yes, I’ve got a transcript in front of me now. He’s a clever bastard, that McGinty. And the Unionists are already making noises about walking away from Stormont. This needs to be nipped in the bud, Chief Constable. If our man can’t get to the bottom of it, you’ll have to be prepared for sacrifices.”

A second or two of silence passed before Pilkington said, “Are you suggesting I allow my men to be charged with Caffola’s killing when I know they’re innocent? Minister, let me make it clear: I will not throw good police officers to the wolves for the sake of political expediency. If you think—”

“How noble of you,” Hargreaves interrupted. “Political expediency is our stock in trade, Geoff; you should know that better than anyone. How many little transgressions have you let slide to keep the wheels turning, hmm? How many robberies have gone unsolved on your watch for want of a little effort? How many punishment beatings have been ignored for the sake of a quiet life?”

“Minister, I really don’t—”

“Don’t lecture me about expediency, Geoff.” Hargreaves felt his smile stretch his dry lips. “How many of your men would be standing trial if not for expediency?”

Pilkington sniffed. “I won’t dignify that with an answer, Minister.”

“Sacrifices,” Hargreaves said. “Everyone must make sacrifices for the greater good. Keep me informed.”

He hung up without waiting for a response.

18

Davy Campbell stood at the bar, alone, conscious of being the only man here not wearing a black suit. The sideways glances had started as soon as he entered McKenna’s, murmurs passing from person to person, heads nodding in his direction. They recognised him; they knew he was the one who had drifted to the dissidents in Dundalk. He waited for a challenge, some demand to know what he was doing back in Belfast. None came, perhaps out of respect for the departed. Had he been a stranger, he would have been tackled within seconds of entering. This wasn’t the sort of pub you just dropped into for a quick drink as you passed by. Peace only went so far.

The late Michael McKenna’s bar might have been a dive, a place for lowlifes to swill, but there was no denying they served a decent pint. Campbell raised the pint of dark Smithwick’s ale to his mouth, and its cool smoothness slicked the back of his throat.

“You’ve some fucking nerve, boy.”

Campbell didn’t turn his head. Eddie Coyle’s reflection stared back at him from the grubby mirror behind the bar. He stood a full six inches shorter than Campbell, his thinning blond hair standing in tufts above his round face. Campbell wiped foam from his beard.

“What are you doing here?” Coyle asked. “You get fed up playing toy soldiers with them cunts in Dundalk?”

“Something like that,” Campbell said.

Coyle stepped closer. “What, you think now Michael’s gone you can just waltz back in?”

“I’m just having a pint, Eddie, all right?” Campbell turned to face Coyle. “You want to have one with me, dead on. If not, then fuck off out of my face.”

Coyle’s eyes narrowed. “You what?”

“You heard me.” Campbell placed his glass on the bar.

A smile crept along Coyle’s lips, wrinkling his blotchy cheeks. “Did you just tell me to fuck off?”

“I think that was the gist of it, Eddie, yes.” Campbell smiled. “If you don’t want to take a drink with me, then fuck off. Clear enough?”

He was aware of the punch coming even before the man who threw it. Campbell had learned many years ago that to best a man in a physical struggle, all one need do is keep one’s balance while throwing the other’s. Coyle made the simple error of sacrificing balance for power, and all Campbell had to do was raise his left forearm, guiding that power past him, and Coyle’s weight would follow. Like so.

Coyle sprawled into a line of bar stools and landed on his back, cursing. He found his feet and came again. Once more, Campbell diverted the blow, sending Coyle to mash his chest against the bar. Coyle turned, ready to swing again, but Campbell was quicker. He got hold of Coyle’s blond hair with his left hand and formed a fist with his right. He slammed it into Coyle’s upturned face until his knuckles were slick with red. Campbell released his grip on Coyle’s hair to let his chin bounce off the bar with a satisfying thump.

The rest came at him then. Campbell didn’t know how many, but a wall of black-suited men collapsed on him. He felt one hand grab his hair, another his ear, while a pair gripped the lapels of his denim jacket. The fists raining down on him blocked one another, rendering them all but harmless, as he brought his forearms up to cover himself.

“Hey, hey, hey!” A small body squeezed itself between Campbell and the angry mob. “Leave him! He’s with me.”

“But look what he did to Eddie,” one of them protested.

“Eddie started it,” Patsy Toner said. “Now leave him alone. Right?”

“But—”

“Leave it!” Toner pointed a stubby finger at the nearest of them. They backed away, grumbling and cursing. Toner grabbed Campbell’s elbow. “Come on, for fuck’s sake.”

Campbell grinned as Toner dragged him out to the street, his senses buzzing.

“What the fuck are you at?” Toner asked, his watery eyes incredulous, his mouth gaping under his thick moustache.

“He was asking for it,” Campbell said.

Toner straightened his black tie. “Jesus Christ, Davy. Eddie Coyle’s an arsehole, everyone knows that, but you don’t beat the shit out of him in front of his mates. Not if you’re looking to make friends around here.” He wagged a finger at Campbell. “Just remember I’m taking a big risk for you.”

Campbell inclined his head towards the Jaguar at the curb. “That yours?”

“Aye,” Toner said, seeming to grow a full inch taller.

Campbell wiped blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief. “Well, quit yapping and take me to McGinty.”

McGinty’s jacket was slung across the back of a chair, his tie loosened, and his sleeves rolled up. He stood in the bereaved mother’s living room as if it were his own house, and he the master of it. The politician’s face hardened and slackened as he spoke on a mobile phone. He took a last drag on his cigarette, then threw it into the fireplace.

Campbell and Toner waited in the doorway, watching. Toner leaned close and whispered, “Looks like there’s trouble. I think the higher-ups didn’t like what he said at the funeral.”

McGinty snapped his phone closed before Campbell could reply, and scowled as he waved Toner over. They both glanced back at Campbell as they spoke, but theirs weren’t the only eyes on the prodigal Scot. The debris scattered around the room told of many people having been here a short while ago, but now only a few remained. They all eyed Campbell as if he might pocket any unguarded valuables. With a self-important flourish, Toner beckoned.

McGinty extended his hand as Campbell approached. “Good to see you, Davy.”

“You too, Mr. McGinty,” Campbell said, matching the other’s hard grip.

“Did you get bored pissing about with McSorley and that shower of shit he runs with?” McGinty’s grin was wide and his eyes were cold.

“They didn’t know what they were at,” Campbell said. “I shouldn’t have gone near them.”

McGinty’s grip tightened. “That’s right, Davy. You shouldn’t have. That annoyed a lot of people, especially the dear departed.”

Campbell prised his hand away. “See, that was the thing. When I heard about Michael, it got me thinking. I made a mistake. I’m really sorry, Mr. McGinty. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, I will.”

McGinty nodded. “I know what it’s like, Davy. You’re a man of action. You want to be in the thick of it. I used to be like that once upon a time, so I can sympathise. Things got too quiet for you here, so you went to see what the dissidents were up to. And I bet you were disappointed, eh?”

“Too fucking right,” Campbell said, returning McGinty’s easy smile. “They just sat around getting pissed and talking about what they were

going

to do.”

McGinty lifted his jacket and slipped it on. He placed his arm around Campbell’s shoulder and guided him towards the kitchen. “Let’s get a bit of air.”

A slender blonde woman stepped aside to let them through. Campbell recognised her as McKenna’s niece. She did not meet his or McGinty’s gaze, even though they both eyed her as they passed. The other women formed a production line, passing plates and glasses back and forth between sink and cupboards. They gave Campbell curious glances as McGinty led him to the back yard.

Two young men stood there, smoking. McGinty jerked his head at the door and the men dropped their cigarettes to grind them with their heels.

“Don’t litter Mrs. McKenna’s yard,” McGinty said. “Show some respect. Pick them up and take them with you.”

The two young men obeyed in silence, bending down to pick up the crushed butts. As they passed McGinty on their way to the door, he grabbed the younger man’s sleeve.

“When I’m finished talking with my friend, you and your mate can sweep the yard out. Right?”

“Okay,” the young man said, keeping his gaze on the ground.

“Good lad. Off you go.” McGinty turned back to Campbell and smiled. “So, Davy, you’re back in town. I don’t remember telling you to come back. I don’t remember telling you your work was done in Dundalk.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “And if I’m not mistaken, there’s still money going into that wee savings account I set up for you. So what the fuck are you doing here? It was your idea to get in with McSorley’s lot in the first place.”

“Like I said, Mr. McGinty, I was wasting my time there. They’re no threat to you.”

McGinty snorted. “Christ, you didn’t need to jump into bed with them to figure that out. Listen, if I send you to do a job, you do it. No questions.” His forefinger prodded Campbell’s chest. “I don’t care if you think it’s doing any good. That’s for me to decide.”

Campbell cast his eyes down, showing the politician the deference he expected.

McGinty sighed. “All right, but remember - this stays between you and me. I don’t want anyone thinking I was worried about McSorley. Not the way things are now.”

“Of course,” Campbell said, raising his head.

“So, what are your plans?”

“Nothing in particular,” Campbell said. “I was kind of hoping you might need some jobs doing.”

“I might,” McGinty said. “You were always a good worker. A bit hot-headed, though. I got a text from Tom over at the bar. Eddie Coyle’s off getting stitches.”

“He was looking for a fight. He got one.”

“Eddie Coyle’s a prick, but that doesn’t mean he deserves a beating.”

Campbell knew when to back down. “Yeah, fair enough. I’m sorry.”

McGinty smiled. “You can apologise to him next time you cross each other’s paths. He’ll be told to let it go. Anyway, I might have a wee job for you. It’s kind of a sensitive one.”

“Oh?”

“You were always good at sniffing out troublemakers. Our internal security’s lost a good volunteer. Vincie Caffola was the best at clearing out touts and such, but I seem to remember you were pretty sharp yourself.”

Campbell looked up at the sound of a helicopter. “I had my moments.”

McGinty moved close to the yard’s back wall, out of sight of the intruder in the sky. “You sniffed out that bastard Delaney when he sold me to the Loyalists.” McGinty sneered. “Ulster Freedom Fighters, for Christ’s sake. Bunch of fuckwits pretending they’re Al Capone, not a brain between them. What was Delaney thinking? They’d never have pulled it off. Still, they could’ve gotten lucky if you hadn’t twigged it. It was you who beat it out of him. I haven’t forgotten that, Davy.”

Campbell watched McGinty closely. “Delaney was easy. It was Gerry Fegan who got the UFF boys.”

“If you hadn’t fingered them, Gerry wouldn’t have sorted them out, and I wouldn’t be standing here. I owe you and him a lot. That’s the only reason Gerry Fegan’s still alive this afternoon.”

“What do you mean?”

McGinty’s eyes narrowed. “Who else do you know would have the balls to take out Michael McKenna and Vincie Caffola?”

“I heard it was—”

“Forget what you heard,” McGinty said. He beckoned Campbell to come close. “You don’t need to know the details. Just believe me when I tell you it was Fegan.”

Campbell played it sceptical, stringing McGinty along. “I heard he’d lost it, took to the drink.”

“Maybe so.” McGinty nodded as a shallow smile spread across his mouth. “But don’t you ever underestimate Gerry Fegan. He’s strong, but there’s stronger. He’s smarter than he lets on, but he’s no genius. You want to know what makes Gerry Fegan so dangerous?”

Campbell couldn’t help but play along. “What?”

McGinty took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, placed one between his lips, and tucked the packet away again. “He’s fearless. Gerry Fegan isn’t afraid of any man alive. Not one.”

“Fearless means careless,” Campbell said.

“Maybe for some. But not Gerry.” McGinty lit the cigarette and stuffed the lighter back into his pocket. He took a drag. “I’ll tell you a little something about Gerry Fegan. Years ago, late Seventies, him and Michael McKenna were just kids, fifteen, sixteen, something like that. Me and Gusty Devlin, God rest him, used to take some of the young lads down to Carnagh Forest, just over the border, for camping trips. Michael nagged me to take Gerry, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t like him. He was too quiet, always watching, saying nothing. But Michael talked me into it, and we took them in this old Volkswagen Camper I had.”

McGinty smiled and straightened his designer jacket, blue plumes of smoke leaking from his nostrils. “I didn’t dress so smart in those days. Fancied myself as a working-class hero, you know? Anyway, we got stopped at a checkpoint just this side of the border. The cops knew all about us, thought we were carrying guns. Some of the boys went to bits when the peelers searched them, had them down to their socks and their underpants on the side of the road. Not Gerry. He looked every one of those fuckers in the eye.

“So we get to the forest, set up camp, and Gusty hikes them round the lakes for a couple of hours. Everybody’s knackered, so we turn in. About two or three in the morning, all hell breaks loose. Gerry’s up shouting there’s people in the trees, watching us. Can you believe that? A kid who’ll stare out a peeler who’s ready to take his head off, and he’s scared of shadows?”

Campbell tried not to flinch as McGinty laughed, blowing smoke in his face. “You said he wasn’t scared of anything.”

“Not of any man. The dark, maybe, but no man. Anyway, next morning Bull O’Kane arrives with the guns the cops thought we’d be carrying. Nothing much, just a couple of air rifles and an old .303 from the war. So, Gusty sets up paper targets for the lads to practise with and, fuck me, Gerry can’t hit anything. Up close, he’s fucking deadly, but more than twenty feet? Couldn’t hit a cow on the arse with a shovel.”

Campbell nodded, smiled, and filed that fact away.

“So one of the other lads, can’t remember his name - he was a thick shite, blew himself up with a pipe bomb - he starts slagging Gerry, how he’s no use, he’s scared of the gun, he’s scared of the shadows in the trees, he should get his ma to come for him. So Gerry fucking lit on him. He’s battering the shit clean out of him, pasting his nose all over his face, and we’re all stood back laughing.

“All of a sudden, Bull says, ‘Enough of this,’ and grabs a-hold of Gerry, pulls him off the other lad, and he’s still kicking and screaming. Bull plonks him down on his feet, and before anyone knows what’s happening, Gerry spins around and - POP!”

Campbell blinked as McGinty slammed his fist into his palm.

“Gerry only goes and smacks Bull O’Kane, the scariest fucker I ever met, right in the mouth.”

“Jesus,” Campbell said. He’d never heard of anyone crossing Bull O’Kane and getting away with it. With genuine curiosity, he asked, “What did the Bull do?”

“Fucking decked him.” McGinty grinned. “Bull’s got hands like sides of beef. He belted Gerry and he went down like a sack of spuds. Now, I’ve never seen anyone raise a hand to Bull O’Kane before or since. So, I was thinking, Christ, what now? He’ll kill him. I’m thinking we’ll have to bury this kid in the forest.”

McGinty’s smile washed away. “Well, Bull goes and gets one of the air rifles, puts a pellet in the breech, and comes back to Gerry. Gerry just stares up at him, breathing hard. Bull aims the rifle, says, ‘You’ve got some balls, son.’ I says, ‘Jesus, Bull, he’s just a kid, he didn’t mean it.’ Bull says, ‘Just a kid? Takes more than a kid to clout me. You better watch this young fella, he’s got great things ahead of him.”

Campbell realised his mouth was open. “And?” he asked.

“And he shot Gerry in the thigh. Tough wee bastard never made a sound. We drove all the way back to Belfast, him with a pellet in his thigh, and all he did was sweat and bleed till we dropped him at his ma’s house.”

“Christ,” Campbell said. “And now you think he’s done McKenna and Caffola?”

McGinty shrugged and dropped the cigarette butt to the ground. “Like I said, who else?”

“So why hasn’t he been sorted out?”

“Because I’m getting soft in my old age.” McGinty smiled as he slapped Campbell’s shoulder. “That’s all I’m saying. So, I’ve given him a wee job, you know, to see if he’ll do what he’s told. To see if he’s under control.” McGinty leaned in close. “Now, here’s what I need you to do for me . . .”

19

The little girl sized Fegan up as he stood on the other side of the low garden wall.

“What’s your name?” she asked from the doorstep.

“Gerry,” he said.

“I’ve got new shoes.” She extended her foot for his inspection. “Mummy got me them.”

“They’re pretty,” Fegan said.

“Ellen, show Gerry the lights,” Marie said as she closed the door.

Ellen jumped from the step onto the tiny garden’s path. Little red lights danced on her heels. She looked up at Fegan and grinned.

“You’re good at jumping,” Fegan said.

“Yeah, I can jump really high,” she said, lifting her arms above her head to illustrate.

“Show me,” he said.

“Okay,” Ellen said as she squatted down. She launched herself upward with all her strength and landed square on her feet. “That was really high, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Fegan said.

“How high can you jump?”

“Not very high,” he said.

“Show me.”

“No, I’m too tired,” Fegan said.

“But I showed you.” Ellen’s little blue eyes pleaded with him.

“Oh, go on,” Marie said. “Fair’s fair.”

Fegan looked up and down the street. Marie and Ellen joined him on the footpath.

“Don’t worry, nobody’s watching,” Marie said, suppressing a giggle.

Fegan sighed and bent his knees, wondering when he’d last jumped for the sake of jumping. He pushed upward and staggered as he landed, his leather soles slapping on the pavement. Marie and Ellen both applauded as he smoothed his jacket. He still wore his black suit, but the tie was tucked into his pocket.

“I jumped far higher than that,” Ellen said.

Fegan couldn’t argue. “You win.”

She grinned at him and her mother in turn then spun on her heels to walk east along Eglantine Avenue towards the Malone Road. She turned to acknowledge Marie’s instruction not to go too far ahead. Fegan and Marie followed.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” Marie said. Trees lined the avenue and the evening sun made shadow patterns on her skin. “You forget how lovely Belfast can be. All it takes is a little sunshine.”

Eglantine Avenue’s old houses glowed red. Some were better kept than others. Some, like Marie’s, were divided into flats. Others housed students or migrant workers, while others provided office space for dentists or lawyers. The avenue ran between the Lisburn and Malone Roads, and the rumble of traffic at either end seemed muted by the gentle May warmth.

“Ellen looks like you,” Fegan said.

“So everyone says. She’s taken a shine to you already.”

“You think?”

“Oh, yes.” Marie smiled. “She’s a love-or-hate kind of girl. She loves dogs and she hates cats. She loves peas and she hates carrots. With people, it’s one or the other, but I think you’ve got on her good side. That was a wise move, complimenting her jumping skills. You’ll have a friend for life.”

“Where’s her father now?” Fegan asked.

“Oh, he’s around somewhere,” Marie said. “Sends her money at Christmas. Other than that, we haven’t heard from him in years.”

“It must be hard, managing on your own,” he said.

Ellen waited at the corner of Eglantine Gardens for the adults to take her across the road. Fegan felt something flutter inside when she took his hand instead of her mother’s.

“Sometimes it is,” Marie said as they crossed. “But we’re better off without him.”

Ellen didn’t release his hand when they reached the other side. She kept his index and middle fingers gripped in her small fist and he wanted to tell her to let go, she didn’t know where his hands had been. She would find flecks of old blood in the tiny creases of her fingers if she held his hand too long. He was sure of it.

“I do all right at the paper,” Marie continued, “And I can work from home most days, so I don’t have to spend too much on childcare, especially now she’s started school. Jack knew what I sacrificed for him, and he betrayed me anyway. Ellen doesn’t need a man who’d do something like that. Neither do I.”

I’ve done worse things

, Fegan thought. Marie seemed to read it on his face. Her smile faltered and she looked straight ahead.

They walked in silence to the Malone Road, and turned north towards Queen’s University. This part of the city was alien to Fegan, a million miles away from the Belfast he knew. Grand residences and private clinics lined the Malone Road, guarded by high walls with electric gates.

“Did you go to Queen’s?” Fegan asked.

“No, Jordanstown,” Marie said. “I used to come to the Students’ Union here, though. That was a long time ago, but it hasn’t changed much. Did you go to university?”

She realised it was a foolish question.

Fegan shrugged. “I never quite got around to it,” he said.

She nodded. “What about in the Maze? Did you study anything there?”

“Woodwork,” Fegan said. “A lot of the boys got degrees. Politics, history, that sort of thing. They got a better education there than they ever did at the Christian Brothers. I was never much for studying. I do better with my hands. My father was a carpenter, so I thought I’d give that a go.”

“Are you any good?” Marie asked.

“I’m okay,” he said. “I had a good teacher.”

Her head tilted. “Tell me about him.”

Fegan saw that expression on her face again. The same one she had worn in her car the day before, the same one the prison psychologists like Dr Brady speared him with when they wanted him to spill his guts. Lorries and buses rumbled along the Malone Road. They approached the iron fences of Methodist College. The boarding school’s windows burned orange as the sun ebbed. Fegan battled within himself, part of him wanting to stay hidden, part of him needing to show itself.

He surrendered.

“He was called Ronnie Lennox,” Fegan said. “He was a Prod, from the Loyalist block. He wasn’t a teacher, really, just an auld fella with nothing better to do. It was after my mother died, not long after the Agreement in ’98. I didn’t want to be around the boys any more. I couldn’t listen to them arguing and shouting, so I used to stay behind in the workshop. You could do what you wanted in the Maze, not like a normal prison.

“This one day, there was just me and him and a guard in the workshop. The guard was sleeping in the corner. I was building a cabinet for my cell. I was trying to make the carcass with dovetail joints.” Fegan looked at the scar on his left thumb. “I cut myself and Ronnie came over, cleaned it, put a plaster on me. Then he showed me how to use a coping saw properly. We talked a bit. He coughed all the time; he had asbestos poisoning from the shipyard. He shouldn’t have been in the workshop with all the dust, but he couldn’t stick it in the Loyalist block. He loved to show you stuff. You started him talking about joints and dowels, you’d never get him stopped.”

Fegan noticed Marie’s amused expression. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, her face glimmering. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you really smile, that’s all.”

Fegan coughed. “Guitars were Ronnie’s thing. He played beautiful. Not like those guys in the pubs, banging out the same old songs, but really playing it. Like he was talking to you.”

He caught himself making shapes in the air with his free hand and dropped it to his side. “A couple of the guards had sons who played. They used to bring their guitars in for him to work on. He could take a cheap plank and make it play like it cost a grand.”

“Where is he now?” Marie asked.

“Dead,” Fegan said. “The asbestos finished him. The fluid in his lungs. He would have got out two weeks later.”

“Christ,” Marie said. “I’m sorry.”

Fegan shrugged. “He always told me about this guitar he had at home. A Martin D-28 from the Thirties - a herringbone, he called it. He said he would fix it up when he got out. That’s what kept him going.

“About a year and a half ago, this woman knocked on my door. She said she was Ronnie’s daughter. She handed me this guitar case, all battered and torn up. She said Ronnie had wanted me to have it, he told her that before he died. It took her all that time to find me. It was the Martin. I’m restoring it now. It’s almost done.”

They reached the end of the Malone Road, where it met University Road and the top of Stranmillis Road. They stopped at the pedestrian crossing.

Marie asked, “And what are you going to do with it?”

Fegan’s cheeks grew hot. “I’m going to learn to play it,” he said.

“Good,” she said, nodding. “Tell me, what was Ronnie in the Maze for?”

Fegan looked across the road to the Ulster Museum, its austere form blotting the blue sky. “He slit a man’s throat,” he said. “A Catholic who walked into the wrong bar. Ronnie cried when he told me.”

Marie fell silent. They watched the traffic lights above the crossing, waiting to be released.

The great red-bricked castle of Queen’s University stood a short distance away, to the right, in the midst of its carpet-smooth lawns. It couldn’t have been more unlike the ugly grey block of the Student Union building, facing it directly across University Road.

Students gathered in huddles on the grass on one side, and on the concrete steps on the other. Young, pretty people Fegan would never know. It occurred to him that most of these children had never been torn from sleep by a bomb blast in the night, the force of it hammering their windows like a thousand fists, freezing their hearts in their chests. For a moment he might have resented them for it, but then he felt Ellen’s fingers adjust their grip on his, and he was glad for them. He thought of Ellen as a young woman, and how she would never comprehend the awful, constant fear that had smothered this place for more than thirty years.

The lights changed. Ellen kept hold of Fegan’s hand while she took her mother’s, and they crossed the road towards the Ulster Museum. The three of them were swallowed by tree-shade at the entrance to Botanic Gardens, the park sprawling ahead of them behind the university buildings. Fegan had the urge to run from them, from Marie and her child, but the little girl’s hand felt good on his. His skin felt clean where she touched it.

This is what normal people do

, he thought.

This is what normal people feel like

. He had never thought it possible to feel terror and stillness in the same heart, but both beat in his chest as they walked among the green lawns and the budding flowers.

They stopped at the seats facing the Palm House. Fegan and Marie sat down while Ellen went to peer through the glass at the plant life within.

“Thanks for letting me walk with you,” Fegan said.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask,” Marie said as she swept blonde hair from her face. She settled back in the seat. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

Fegan leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, his fingers laced together. “Why would you go for a walk with someone like me? Why did you give me a lift yesterday?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. She thought for a few seconds. “You saw what I said over Uncle Michael’s coffin, but you didn’t judge me. I’ve gotten so used to people judging me. The people I work with know where I come from, who I’m related to, and they judge me. The people I come from can’t forget what I’ve done, as if falling in love with a cop was an act of treason, and you saw how they looked at me today and yesterday. Everywhere I go, people know who I am, where I’m from, what I did, and they judge me for it. I guess that’s why. You didn’t judge me.”

“I’m in no position to judge anybody,” Fegan said.

“But you know what it’s like to be judged.”

“Yeah, I do. You don’t deserve it, though. You didn’t do anything wrong. Not like me.”

“How do you live with it?” she asked.

Fegan watched Ellen move from pane to pane of the giant greenhouse, standing on tiptoe for a better view. A chill crawled over him, despite the evening warmth. Shadows lengthened as the sun sank. “I don’t,” he said. “Most people wouldn’t call it living, anyway.”

“Well, you’re breathing, aren’t you?”

“I suppose.” He wanted to tell Marie about the followers, about the screaming and the baby crying in the night. He looked round to her. “I’m going to put things right, though. I’m going to make up for what I did.”

She sat forward to meet his gaze. “How?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet,” he said. It was only half a lie. He knew what he had to do, just not how to go about it. “But I’ll find a way. I always find a way.”

“You’re an interesting man, Gerry Fegan.” The strange crescent of Marie’s lips made something shift inside him. “I’d like to get to know you, if you’ll let me.”

He turned his eyes to the ground where cigarette butts and old chewing gum, things people no longer wanted in their mouths, were trampled into the path. “I’m not a good person to know.”

“We’ll see,” she said.

He couldn’t see her face from the corner of his eye, but he imagined Marie McKenna was smiling, playfully biting her lower lip. He had to say it now.

“Paul McGinty wanted me to give you a message,” Fegan said.

Her weight shifted beside him. “Oh?”

He studied the detritus at his feet. “He wants you to leave. He says now your uncle’s gone it isn’t safe here for you.”

Marie shot to her feet and extended her hand towards her daughter. “Come on, Ellen, it’s time to go.”

Ellen spun towards the sound of her mother’s voice, frowning in protest. “No, Mummy!”

“No arguing,” Marie said. “Come on.”

“Wait,” Fegan said as he stood up.

Marie turned to face him. “Tell McGinty he can go fuck himself. They couldn’t scare me away back then, and they won’t do it now.” The hardness in her face dissolved as her eyes glistened. “How can you do that? How can you hold my daughter’s hand one minute, and deliver McGinty’s threats the next?”

“You don’t understand,” he said.

“Don’t I? I thought it was pretty clear.” She turned to where Ellen lingered by the Palm House. “Ellen, get over here now.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Fegan said. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I won’t let McGinty hurt you. Or Ellen. If he sends anyone I’ll take care of them.”

Ellen came over, dragging her heels, pouting. Marie took her hand. “We’ve been managing for five years now,” she said. “We don’t need your protection.”

“Maybe not, but I want to help you anyway.”

Marie bared her teeth. “Why? Why do you care? If you’re his errand boy, why don’t you go and see what other odd jobs need doing? Go and collect some protection money for him, or rob a post office, or hijack some cigarettes. Why waste your time with a traitor to the cause like me?”

A hundred reasons flashed in Fegan’s mind; some he dared not speak, more he dared not think. He looked down at the little girl hugging her mother’s thigh. “Because Ellen held my hand,” he said.

Marie sighed and covered her eyes. “Christ, this place. Sometimes I think there’s a future here for me, and for Ellen. Then I remember men like McGinty are still running things. I should’ve gone years ago when I had the chance.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Fegan said again.

“So you said.” She uncovered her eyes and allowed him a hint of a smile.

“If anyone comes around, phone me.”

“What’s your mobile number?”

“I don’t . . . I’ll buy one. Tomorrow morning.”

She gave an exasperated laugh. “Jesus, who doesn’t have a mobile phone?”

“I don’t,” Fegan said.

“Me neither,” Ellen said. “Mummy won’t get me one.”

Marie looked down at her daughter. “You’re five, Ellen. Who are you going to phone?”

Ellen gave it some thought. “Santa,” she said.

Marie reached into her bag and produced a pen. She took Fegan’s hand, holding it as she wrote on his palm. Her skin was soft and warm. “Call me when you get your phone,” she said. “I can’t promise I’ll answer, but you never know.”

“Thank you,” Fegan said. He smiled at Ellen. “You practise jumping. Next time I might jump higher than you.”

“No, you won’t,” Ellen said as her mother led her away.

Fegan watched them until they were lost among the trees. The chill that had been creeping along his limbs finally reached his center, and his temples buzzed. He felt them watching, waiting for him.

He turned to see the black-haired woman, the baby in her arms, nodding her head towards two of the followers. The Loyalists, the Ulster Freedom Fighters, were pointing to the trees over at the Botanic Avenue entrance. Their stares flitted between Fegan and the shadows under the branches.

“What?” Fegan asked. He walked over to them and searched for whatever they were looking at. He saw nothing but the students wandering in and out of the park, their plastic bags full of beer and cider ready to start their evening’s drinking in the sun and fresh air.

The two UFF boys slowly lowered their tattooed arms. Whatever they wanted Fegan to see was gone.

20

“He didn’t see me,” Campbell said. He held the phone between his shoulder and his ear while he ate cold beans from a tin. He had slipped out of the park and back to his flat as soon as Fegan started peering in his direction. It was only a few minutes’ walk from Botanic Gardens to his flat on University Street, just off Botanic Avenue.

“Have you reported back to McGinty yet?” the handler asked.

“No, I’ll do that next.”

“What’ll you tell him?”

“The truth. I don’t think Fegan told her to get out. She argued with him for a minute, but they looked like they parted on friendly terms. Didn’t look much like a threat to me.”

Campbell put the tin on the windowsill and lifted a glass of milk. He took a cool swallow as he watched the students wander along the street below. Some swigged from beer cans as they walked, probably on their way to one of the student haunts like The Bot or Lavery’s. They’d wander back in the early hours of the morning, gangs of them singing and shouting, no concern for the people who needed their sleep.

“And what do you think McGinty will do about it? Will he take Fegan out?” The handler sounded hopeful.

“I doubt it,” Campbell said. “Not yet, anyway. He’s still playing the angle that the cops got Caffola. He won’t want to do anything to distract the media from that.”

“What, then?”

“He’ll probably send one of his heavies to put the woman out.”

“Not her, I don’t care about her. What’ll he do about Fegan?”

“I’m not sure,” Campbell said. “He might let it go for now, but it’s only a matter of time. McGinty doesn’t let anyone cross him and get away with it. He’ll make Fegan pay sooner or later.”

“See if you can make it sooner, there’s a good lad,” the handler said. “We’ve got the Northern Ireland Office, the Chief Constable and the Minister of State breathing down our necks. They want it over before any more damage is done. If we can prove it was Fegan who did Caffola, not the police, so much the better.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Campbell said. He hung up and tossed the phone onto the sofa. He pulled the other phone from his pocket and dialled McGinty’s private number. The politician answered, and Campbell told him what he’d seen.

“Gerry will have to be dealt with,” McGinty said, “But not just yet. We’ll leave it until after Vincie’s funeral.”

“What about the woman?” Campbell asked.

“Let me worry about that,” McGinty said.

21

Fegan sat alone in McKenna’s, nursing a pint of Guinness while he watched Father Coulter down brandy at the bar. He knew the priest would be here. It was well known that Father Eammon Coulter only drank after weddings, christenings, first communions and funerals, but once he got started he would drink until he fell.

When he’d left Botanic Gardens, Fegan had gone straight to the derelict house on the next street to his, climbed into its back yard, and retrieved his Walther. Now it nestled at the small of his back. He kept it against the wall so no one could see.

The followers circled the room. They hadn’t left him all evening. Fegan’s temples buzzed with their presence, and a chill sat lodged at his center. The three Brits paid close attention to Father Coulter while the two UFF boys paced, opening and closing their fists.

A cheer rang through the bar as Eddie Coyle entered, escorted by Patsy Toner. The lawyer still wore his black suit from McKenna’s funeral. Coyle’s left eye was swollen shut and a gauze pad covered a wound on his brow. “Fuck off,” he shouted at the drinkers.

“Sit down, I’ll get you a drink,” Toner said.

Coyle did as he was told, taking a seat two tables away from Fegan. He cursed quietly to himself for a full minute before he raised his head.

“What are you looking at?” he demanded.

“You,” Fegan said.

“Well, you can fuck off, too.” Coyle couldn’t hold Fegan’s gaze. He dropped his eyes to the tabletop.

“Jesus, calm down, Eddie,” Toner said as he carried two pints back to the table. He rolled his eyes at Fegan and shook his head.

“Calm down?” Coyle pointed to his face. “Look at the cut of me, for Christ’s sake. That cunt’s going to get it, Patsy. I don’t care what McGinty says.”

Toner pointed at the door. “Go on, then. Go and get him. Then you can go and tell McGinty what you did and see what he says.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Coyle said, reaching for his beer.

“Get who?” Fegan asked.

Coyle set his pint back on the table, letting it spill over his fingers. “What’s it to you?”

“Jesus, Eddie, settle yourself,” Toner said. He turned to answer Fegan. “Davy Campbell’s back in town. Him and Eddie had a run-in this afternoon.”

The two UFF boys drifted to Toner’s table, suddenly showing interest in the little man’s words. The hairs on Fegan’s forearms bristled beneath his sleeves. “I thought he was with McSorley’s lot these days.”

“Looks like he had a change of heart,” Toner said. “He phoned me up last night, said he wanted to come back to Belfast. He’s a good lad, so I squared it with McGinty this morning.”

“He’s a cunt,” Coyle said.

“Aw, give over,” Toner said. “You shouldn’t pick fights with boys you can’t take. Now, quit mouthing about it, will you?”

Coyle muttered something under his breath and got back to drinking his beer. Over at the bar, Father Coulter got ready to go.

“Och, come on, Father, you’ll have another wee one,” one of the young men who drank with the priest said.

“No, no, no,” Father Coulter said, waving away the offered glass. “I’ve had quite enough. It’s way past my bedtime, so God bless you all the same, but I must go.”

He shuffled away from the bar, turning in circles as he struggled to find the sleeve of his overcoat. The young man helped him on with it and guided him to the door. Shadows followed.

Fegan looked at the clock above the bar and took a mouthful of Guinness. He would give it five minutes before following the priest. What would he do when he caught up with him? He didn’t know.

Fegan studied the wet circles his glass left on the tabletop and ignored the pressure of his gun at the small of his back.

It didn’t take long to catch up with the priest. Father Coulter had made slow progress through the streets, and Fegan found him propped against a Lexus within minutes of leaving the bar. Fegan remembered a time when only the most well-to-do owned cars. Now the streets were lined with them, crammed into every space available. The priest had chosen the most comfortable-looking to lean on.

Father Coulter waved as he approached. “Gerry Fegan,” he said. “You caught me. I was just having a wee rest. Will you walk with me?”

“Of course I will, Father,” Fegan said. He began walking slowly, the priest at his side.

“I haven’t seen you at Mass for a long time, Gerry,” Father Coulter said.

“I was there today,” Fegan said.

“Apart from funerals, I mean. When was the last time you went to Mass?”

Fegan tried to remember. He had been once or twice since he got out of the Maze, but when? “Years ago,” he said.

Father Coulter clucked and shook his head. “That won’t do, Gerry. Have you no thought for your soul? What would your mother have said?”

“My mother was ashamed of me,” Fegan said.

“Nonsense!” Father Coulter placed his hand on Fegan’s arm.

“She told me. She was ashamed of what I did.”

The priest wagged a finger at him. “You’re a hero of the cause, Gerry Fegan, and don’t you forget it. You didn’t choose a war; it was forced upon you. The good Lord knows why you did what you did. God forgives all soldiers. John Hewitt wrote that. The poet. He wrote—”

Fegan stopped walking. “We’re here.”

Father Coulter looked round to see his own front door. “Oh, so we are. Will you come in for a wee drop?”

Fegan looked up and down the empty street. “All right,” he said.

Father Coulter fished a key from his pocket and turned to insert it in the lock. It scraped against wood as he missed his mark. He tried, and failed, twice more.

“Here,” Fegan said, taking the key from the priest’s hand. He unlocked the door and let it swing open. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Gerry.” Father Coulter patted his shoulder and went inside. Fegan followed him, slipping the key into his own pocket.

The small house was clean and sparsely furnished. Father Coulter ushered Fegan through to the living room. A fire in the hearth blasted heat at them. Sweat broke out across Fegan’s brow and back, but the chill stayed at his center. Father Coulter flicked the light on and a caged bird, a cockatiel, hissed at them.

Father Coulter went to the cage, clucking. “Now, now, Joe-Joe, it’s only me.” He threw his coat over the back of a chair and turned to Fegan. “Sit down, Gerry.”

The priest took a bottle of brandy from the sideboard and poured two generous glasses. He handed one to Fegan and sat down facing him.

His bleary eyes searched Fegan’s face. “Tell me, do you dream much?” he asked.

“No,” Fegan said. “I don’t sleep too well.”

“I dream,” Father Coulter said. He took a sip of brandy and coughed. “Terrible dreams. I’ve seen awful things, Gerry. There’s things I could have changed. Things I could have stopped. Things I should never have done. I always told myself I’d no choice, but I was wrong. I always had a choice. You know what I’m talking about.”

Fegan moved his glass in slow circles and watched the firelight refracted in the reddish-brown liquid. “Yes, Father.”

“So many times I could have said something, told someone. Men like you making your confession, telling me the things you’ve done, then I give you forgiveness so you can go out and do it again.”

Father Coulter watched the fire, his wet eyes reflecting the orange glow. “Maybe in a different place, I could have been a better priest. Maybe I could have done right by God. Or maybe I never really had it in me.” He reached across and gripped Fegan’s hand. “I dream a lot, Gerry.”

“You’re drunk, Father.”

The priest released Fegan’s fingers and smiled. “I know, I know. I’m drunk and I’m tired. I worry about you, Gerry.”

Fegan looked up from his brandy. “Why?”

“Because you’re carrying so many things around with you. When did you last make your confession?”

“When I was in the Maze.” It had been a week after he returned to prison from his mother’s funeral, the blood of two Loyalists on his hands.

Father Coulter beckoned. “Come here to me, son.”

Fegan stared into his glass. “No.”

The priest leaned forward and took Fegan’s hand again, gently pulling. “Come on. Do it to ease an old priest’s conscience.”

“No,” Fegan said, resisting but not letting go. He set the glass on the floor.

“For your mother, Gerry.”

Fegan slipped off the chair and allowed Father Coulter to guide him to his side, kneeling. He rested his forearms against the chair and clasped his hands together. A minute passed, the ticking of the clock over the fire hammering against Fegan’s temples.

Father Coulter turned his head just a little. “Don’t you remember what to do?”

“I’m afraid, Father.”

The priest turned in his chair and circled Fegan’s hands with his. “Don’t be. Just—”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Father Coulter’s hands slipped away from Fegan’s. “It’s been nine years since my last confession.”

Father Coulter waited for a few seconds. “Go on.”

“I’ve been quiet for so long. I turned away and I was quiet. But they won’t leave me alone.”

“Who won’t?”

“The people I killed.”

The priest nodded. “Guilt is the heaviest of all emotions. It’ll eat you alive if you let it. Have you confessed to these sins before?”

“Yes, Father. In the Maze.”

“Then you have absolution. But guilt remains, of course it does. You must carry that burden. That is your penance, not any prayer. You must carry it and live on, however painful that might be.”

“Father.” Fegan hesitated, squeezing his eyes shut. He let the air out of his lungs in a long hiss and opened them again. “Father, I’ve killed two more men.”

The priest shifted in his chair. “When?”

“This week.”

“This . . . this week?”

“Yes.”

“Oh God, Gerry. Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“I didn’t want to. I swear to God, I didn’t want to.”

“Oh, my Lord. Michael McKenna? Vincent Caffola?”

“Yes, Father.” Fegan pressed his interlocked hands against his forehead.

“Jesus. Jesus, why?”

Fegan looked up. Father Coulter stared back at him. “Because I had to.”

“What do you mean?” The priest shook his head.

“I told the boy’s mother where his body was. I thought that would do it, make him leave me alone. Then Michael found out. He came to me, said he’d tell McGinty if I didn’t do what he wanted. Then the boy told me what to do, and I did it.”

“What boy? What are you talking about? Dear God, Gerry, this is madness.”

“Then Vincie, he was coming after me, asking questions. And the UDR men, they wanted him, and I—”

“Stop it.”

“I had to give—”

“No.”

“—give him to them.”

“Enough!” Father Coulter slammed his fists into his thighs. “Enough. No more.”

Fegan closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Father.”

A long silence passed. The ticking clock sent jolt after jolt into Fegan’s temples. The chill at his center deepened.

After an age, Father Coulter whispered, “The Sacrament of Penance is my curse. The things I’ve had to carry for men like you. A curse is what it is.”

He bowed his head and made the Sign of the Cross. “God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Fegan asked, “My penance, Father?”

“Your penance?” Father Coulter gave a thin, sad smile. “The same as it’s always been. The same as it always will be. Your burden, Gerry Fegan. That is your penance.”

The priest looked away. “Now get out,” he said.

Fegan watched him for a moment before standing. Without looking back, he went to the hallway where the shifting shadows waited. They parted for him, moved around him, as he opened the front door and stepped out onto the street.

The three Brits came to him and stared over his shoulder at the house, hateful longing on their faces.

“No,” Fegan said. He crossed the street. An alleyway faced the priest’s house. He let its darkness devour him and the nine followers. The bricks cooled his forehead as he rested against the wall.

“Christ,” Fegan said. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

The three Brits pointed to the door.

“Jesus, he didn’t do anything.”

The priest’s upstairs light glared for a moment before blinking out again. The Brits walked out to the street, their arms raised towards the window.

“I didn’t give him a choice. Not really.”

The Brits went to the door, and one pressed his ear against it. The woman stepped out into the orange glow of the street lights and pointed to the window. The butcher joined her, then the cop and the two UFF boys.

Fegan followed them.

“He was scared,” Fegan said. “All right, he could have stopped it, but I threatened him. Look, he knows he did wrong. You heard him.”

The woman moved close to him, her eyes blazing. Fegan looked down at the baby in her arms. It stared back up at him, its toothless mouth contorted with hate.

“Christ!” Fegan backed into the alley’s dark harbour and covered his eyes. “Leave me alone. I can’t do it.”

He reached for the small of his back and pulled the Walther from his waistband. He chambered a round and placed the muzzle between his teeth. It was cold and slick. He had a moment to wonder what it would feel like, that explosion in his skull, before another thought appeared in his mind.

He thought about Ellen’s small hand, and how his skin felt clean where she held his fingers in her fist. Then he thought about how the sun found the gold flecks in Marie’s hair. And then he thought about the promise he’d made, that he would protect them from McGinty’s threat.

Slowly, Fegan took the pistol from his mouth. He released the round from the chamber and dropped it into his pocket, alongside the priest’s key. The nine followers stared as he emerged from the alley. He tucked the Walther back into his waistband and began the walk home. The Brits overtook him, pointing back to the priest’s house.

“No,” Fegan said. “Not him.”

They were screaming even before he was in his own home. The sound of their agony echoed through the streets, and Fegan wondered how the city could sleep through it. Once inside, without turning on the lights, he went straight for the sideboard and the bottle of Jameson’s. He unscrewed the cap and brought the bottle to his mouth. He was on his fifth deep swallow, trying not to retch from the burn, when the baby started crying.

22

Fegan woke late the next morning and immediately ran to the bathroom to throw up. He’d drunk almost a full bottle of whiskey the night before and it had taken its toll. He would have retreated to bed, dug himself in beneath the covers while he waited for the greasy waves of the hangover to ease, but he had a mobile phone to buy.

He walked to the supermarket on watery legs, keeping his gaze from the morning shadows. Every step of the way he felt eyes on his back. Occasionally, he spun on his heels, looking for whoever followed. But part of him knew.

Campbell, probably sent by McGinty.

Once, as he paid for the cheap phone, he looked up and caught a flash of denim disappearing behind a magazine rack. On his way home he considered stopping, doubling back, and confronting Campbell. He dismissed it as foolishness. He kept his head down and kept walking. A quick glance up and down Calcutta Street didn’t reveal anything, but once he was inside his own home the feeling left him.

While he waited for the phone to charge, Fegan worked on the guitar to soothe his aching head. He polished the frets with steel wool in the good light from the window. He had shaped them with a rounded fret file and sandpaper, sighted a line down the fingerboard to make sure they were even, and now he worked over them one by one, giving them a mirror finish.

Fegan thought of Ronnie Lennox as he worked. The old man got his release letter around the same time he did. Like Fegan, it had brought on sleepless nights, but for different reasons.

They talked about it often in those last days. While Fegan swept up chippings from the workshop floor and Ronnie rested on a stool, they talked about the changes outside, the Good Friday Agreement that supposedly settled it all, and the referendum that followed. Two years after Ireland, north and south, had voted in favor of the Agreement, the Maze Prison stood almost empty. The last few inmates moved around the place as they wished, captives and guards happy to keep the peace and count the days.

Ronnie looked at Fegan with rheumy eyes and said, “If it sticks, if this peace deal works out, you’ve got to ask yourself something.”

Fegan propped the broom against the workbench and scooped up chippings with a dustpan. “What?”

“If there’s peace, if it’s really over, then what use are we?”

Fegan had no answer.

Ronnie turned his attention to an acoustic guitar that a guard had left for repair. The guard had said his son was driving him crazy about it, that the boy loved the guitar more than his own mother. Ronnie would get a couple of sets of strings for payment. His face glazed with concentration as he held his ear to the guitar’s face. He pressed the wood with his fingertips and squinted.

“Aye,” he said. “There’s a brace gone.”

Ronnie laid the guitar flat on its back atop a felt sheet so the coarse workbench wouldn’t scratch it. Hunkering down, he stared across its surface for a moment and said, “See? She’s starting to belly.”

Fegan bent down at the opposite side of the bench. Ronnie smelled of mint and linseed oil. Yes, there it was: a slight deformation in the guitar’s smooth face. “I see it,” Fegan said. He ran his fingertips over the satin-finished cedar.

Fegan reached in through the guitar’s soundhole and felt the loose brace just inside. “Glue it and clamp it?” he asked.

“That ought to do it,” Ronnie said. He coughed and spat into a tissue, his face reddening. “Grab us the aliphatic resin like a good fella.”

Fegan went to a storage cupboard and found a bottle of the glue. He brought it to Ronnie, but the older man shook his head and eased himself back onto his stool.

“You have a go,” Ronnie said. “Dab a bit of that on a spatula and slap her on.”

Fegan hesitated. “You sure?”

Ronnie nodded. Fegan worked while Ronnie watched, the old man softly humming an old jazz tune in his wheezy voice. Fegan recognised this one as “Misty’. Ronnie had played it for him once on his guitar. He said Clint Eastwood made a film about it.

As Fegan tightened a G-clamp to hold the glued brace in position, Ronnie asked, “Are you sleeping any better?”

“No,” Fegan said.

“Still those dreams?”

Fegan wiped away the excess glue with a tissue. He did not answer.

“Don’t tell me,” Ronnie chided. He coughed and smiled. “See if I care.”

“It’s just . . .” Fegan rolled the tissue in a ball and threw it on the workbench. “It’s just I’m not sure they’re dreams.”

Ronnie scratched his stubbly chin. “Why?”

“Because I’m awake when they come. I know I’m awake. And sometimes ...”

Ronnie waited. “And sometimes?”

“I’ve seen them in the daytime.” Fegan screwed the lid back on the bottle of glue. He didn’t look at the other man.

“What does Dr. Brady say?”

Fegan shrugged. “He says it’s guilt. He called it a manifestation.”

Ronnie wiped his mouth with his tissue and raised his eyebrows. “Big word. Must be serious. And what do

you

think it is?”

Fegan crossed the room and stowed the glue in the cupboard. He stayed there, his back to Ronnie. “When I was small, before my father died, I used to see things. People. I used to talk to them.” He listened for some response, some dismissal. When none came, he said, “I never told anyone that. Not even Dr. Brady.”

He waited for a long minute before turning back to Ronnie. The old man sat hunched on the stool, staring at the tissue in his fingers.

Fegan took a step closer. “Ronnie?”

“You’re talking about the dead,” he said. He hacked and spat, his face going from red to purple. When he was done, he wiped his lips and inhaled a deep, rattling breath. “Don’t talk to me about the dead. This stuff’s eating away at me, the asbestos, eating me from inside. You’ll be out of here in a few weeks, but I might not make it that far. The quack says some of these nights I’ll just drown in my sleep, same as if someone held my head under water. Every night I put my head down I pray I’ll lift it again in the morning. And I pray if I don’t, He’ll take care of me.” Ronnie’s shoulders hitched and his eyes welled. “You know what I did.”

Fegan nodded.

“Aye.” Ronnie sniffed and coughed. “Don’t talk to me about the dead, Gerry.” He raised himself from the stool and shuffled towards the door. “I’ll meet them soon enough.”

Ronnie stopped in the doorway while the guard checked his pockets. He looked back over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Gerry.” He winked. “No one else will.”

Fegan never saw him again. He wept the day Ronnie’s daughter brought the guitar to him.

Sunlight from his window made glistening pools on the Martin D- 28’s finish. Fegan propped the guitar back in its corner and admired the wood’s grain. The lacquer had yellowed with age, making the guitar even more handsome. He had a set of strings, eleven-gauge bronze, for when it was done. He wasn’t sure how to tune it, but he would figure it out.

Fegan checked the time. The phone had been charging for its requisite two hours. Despite the shaking of his hands, and the throb behind his eyes, he finally managed to put the little plastic card in place, cover it with the battery, and snap the phone’s back cover on. The instructions lay open on the coffee table in front of him, and he traced the small words with his fingertip. He pressed and held the green button. When it vibrated in his hand, he placed it on the coffee table and watched its colorful screen play a series of animations.

He looked at his palm. The string of digits was faint, but still readable. Following the instructions, he dialled Marie McKenna’s number. He closed his eyes and listened to the ring tone, remembering she had made no promises about answering. The phone almost slipped from his fingers when she did.

“It’s Gerry,” he said.

He heard a long exhalation. “I’m glad you called,” she said.

“Are you?”

“Yes.” Her voice had the slightest of shakes. “I had a visitor this morning.”

“Who?”

“Would you believe, Father Coulter?”

Fegan was silent for a moment before asking, “What did he want?”

“He advised me to leave. He said it would be best for me and Ellen. His exact words were ‘It’ll avoid any unpleasantness.”

Fegan thought about the Walther. He sensed it beneath his bed. It lay in the shoebox amid rolls of banknotes.

Marie continued. “He kept going on about how he’d hate to see anything bad happen to my wee girl, how he’d hate to see her get hurt. He kept telling me to think of Ellen and not be so stubborn. There were people who wanted to hurt us, and there might be no stopping them if I stayed. And all the time he had this look on his face, like the sight of me offended him.”

Fegan looked at his palm, imagining the cold weight of the gun there.

“Can you believe it?” Marie asked. “McGinty’s getting priests to deliver his threats now. Father Coulter said he was just telling me as a favor.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, at first; I was too shocked. Then I told him to get out.” Fegan listened to her breath against his ear. “They’ll be coming for me now, won’t they?”

“Yeah,” Fegan said. “They’ll come after dark. Nothing serious at first. Maybe just break a window. Next time, they’ll use a petrol bomb or a shotgun.”

“Jesus, what about Ellen? I can’t let her go through that. I’ve no one she can even stay with.”

“I’ll come over this evening. They won’t do anything while I’m there.”

“Please,” she said. “Please come over.”

Fegan made a fist with his free hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

He said goodbye and hung up. He stood, crossed the hall, and climbed the stairs. Perched on the end of his bed, he reached under and pulled out the shoebox as shadows gathered around him, watching. He removed the lid and was met again by the greasy smell of money. Once more he wondered how much there was. Fegan had never counted it. Thousands, anyway, maybe ten or more. He’d saved it from the salary that McGinty’s bogus Community Development job paid out.

The pistol’s baleful sheen entranced him for a while. Loose bullets rolled beneath the money like mice in a nest.

“No,” he said.

The three Brits came forward, the other six behind them. The woman stepped around them and knelt next to Fegan. She smiled as Fegan took the gun from its nest. It was cool and heavy in his hand.

“No,” Fegan said. He put the Walther back among the bills and bullets. “Not Father Coulter.”

But they would let him sleep. If he gave them everything they wanted, they would give him peace and let him sleep.

The wonderful thought of closing his eyes, hearing nothing but his own breathing, lingered in his mind. Suddenly, an even sweeter thought came to him, one which had never occurred to him before: the thought of falling asleep with his head on Marie McKenna’s breast, letting her warmth soak through him, her heartbeat drowning out all else.

Fegan blinked and wiped the thought away.

“No,” he said. He replaced the lid and slid the shoebox back under his bed.

The late Vincie Caffola’s girlfriend was red-faced and puffy-eyed when she shook Fegan’s hand. Caffola’s two sons looked bemused at the attention they were receiving, the older battling tears while the younger wept freely. They both looked like their father, the eldest as tall as Fegan.

He felt a sour turning in his gut when he told them he was sorry for their trouble. The boys couldn’t meet his eyes as he spoke, and Fegan was glad of it. Some insane part of him wanted to beg their forgiveness. Caffola might have been a mindless thug, but he had been a father to these boys. The younger was about the age Fegan had been when his own father fell down a flight of stairs, drunk.

Fegan finished his condolences and moved away, desperate to be free of their grief-reddened eyes, but Caffola’s girlfriend gripped his wrist.

“Nobody’s doing anything,” she said. “The party, the cops, none of them.”

Fegan tried to ease her hand away, but she gripped hard.

“Nobody cares,” she whispered. “So long as he’s buried and gone, no one gives a shite who done it. It’s not right, Gerry.”

He prised her fingers from his wrist and stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s not right,” she said again as Fegan turned his back on her and walked away.

Caffola’s house was not as crammed as McKenna’s mother’s had been, but air was hard to come by nonetheless. Fegan made his way upstairs to view the corpse. The mourners parted respectfully to let him through. Like McKenna’s, Caffola’s coffin was modest, but probably for economic reasons rather than appearances. Fegan crossed himself, but didn’t kneel to pray. He’d had enough of God for now. Instead, he paced a circle around the box. The undertakers had made a good job of concealing the injury to the deceased’s temple.

Fegan thought of Marie and how she had lingered over McKenna’s coffin. He whispered to himself, “You had it coming.”

A hush settled on the room, and Fegan looked up from the body, knowing who he’d see.

“Hello, Gerry,” McGinty said.

Fegan nodded.

McGinty addressed the others in the room. “Can I get a few minutes with my friend?”

The room emptied quickly, leaving only Fegan, McGinty, the pale cadaver and the deepening shadows. Fegan kept his eyes on the politician, the coffin between them.

“We have a wee problem,” McGinty said, smiling.

Fegan didn’t answer. The chill pulsed at his center. Despite himself, he put a hand on his own heart in case the politician would see its cold glow.

“You didn’t do what I asked you,” McGinty said. “Why not?”

“She’s no threat to you. There’s no reason to put her out,” Fegan said, fighting to keep the anger from his voice.

McGinty stepped closer and rested his hands on the edge of the box. “If I let her stay I look weak. I can’t afford to look weak, Gerry. Not now. I’ve too much at stake. I’ve already been more generous than that girl deserved. She would’ve been in the ground long ago if I hadn’t indulged Michael. There’s a limit to how generous I can be.” He looked down at the corpse. “I’ve already allowed too many things to slide. I owe you a lot, Gerry, but my patience is wearing thin.”

Fegan moved around the coffin, heading for the door. McGinty blocked his path.

“I mean it, Gerry. Don’t test me. You don’t want to tell her, all right, but don’t interfere.”

Fegan stepped to the side, but McGinty gripped his arm, and the two looked hard into each other’s eyes. The politician’s thin lips broke into a soft smile. He cupped Fegan’s face in his hands, leaned in, and placed a dry kiss on his cheek.

“We’ve always been such good friends,” McGinty said. “Ever since you were a kid. Don’t fuck it up over a woman. Not a whore like Marie McKenna.”

Fegan’s cheek burned. He pulled away and finally reached the door. The people on the landing made way for him, and he hurried down the stairs. He stopped dead when he reached the bottom.

Davy Campbell nodded. Fegan nodded back, ignoring the crackling in his temples and the shadows moving in from the edge of his vision. Campbell had changed since Fegan saw him last. Thinner. Darker round the eyes. Death clings to men who’ve wielded it, like the stench of the abattoir. Fegan imagined they could smell it on each other, as a dog knows friend from enemy by scent alone. He opened the front door and left Campbell staring after him.

23

Campbell watched Fegan disappear around the corner. As he went back into the house the mixture of fear, hate and anger in Fegan’s eyes lingered with him. He looked like a killer, the purest kind, the kind who killed more out of want than need. Campbell sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He made his way upstairs, struggling to squeeze through the mourners who had parted so easily for Fegan. He entered the bedroom where Caffola’s body lay. McGinty had his back to the door.

“I want that cunt sorted, Davy,” McGinty said without looking round.

“When?” Campbell asked.

“The day after tomorrow. I don’t want the press getting distracted from my speech at the funeral, but no later than that.”

“Whatever you say.” Campbell walked around the coffin to face McGinty. “What about the woman?”

“Eddie Coyle can sort it out,” McGinty said. “I made a kind gesture, letting Father Coulter speak to her, and she threw it back in my face. Well, no more. Eddie won’t be so polite about it.”

“What if he fucks it up? He’s not the brightest.”

“What’s to fuck up? All he’s got to do is put a brick through her window. Still, you’ve got a point. Maybe you should go with him.”

“He won’t like that,” Campbell said.

“I don’t care what he likes,” McGinty said. “He’ll do what he’s told. And, Davy, listen to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever happens, don’t hurt Marie or the wee girl, all right? Frighten them if you have to, but don’t hurt them.”

Something moved behind McGinty’s eyes. Campbell only caught a glimpse of it.

“They won’t get hurt. I’ll make sure of it.” Campbell looked down at Vincie Caffola’s peaceful face. “Why’d Fegan do it?”

“Christ knows. He’s off his head, so maybe he didn’t need a reason. Anyway, if he hadn’t done it, I would have, eventually. Caffola had a big mouth. It’s no great loss.”

“Then why go after Fegan now?” Campbell asked.

“Because if he thinks he can get away with it, where’s he going to stop? Besides, the old man has spoken. Bull O’Kane won’t have any unauthorised actions, even if they’re against pieces of shit like this.”

Campbell caught a scent and followed it. “So, the Bull still calls the shots? I thought he’d retired.”

“Bull?” McGinty’s laugh was laced with a little fear. “Christ, he won’t retire until he’s in a box himself. And no, he doesn’t call the shots. But the boys on the street still look up to him. Us politicians have to indulge him sometimes.”

McGinty stepped away from the coffin, then stopped and turned to look down at the corpse. He leaned forward and spat on Caffola’s pale face. “You had it coming,” he said, and left the room.

Campbell hung his new black suit from the handle on his bedroom door as he held the phone between his shoulder and his ear, listening to the ring tone. The handler answered, breathless.

“McGinty told me to do Fegan,” Campbell said.

“When?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“After the funeral. Clever bastard. He wants to milk Caffola’s death all he can. Try to move it forward a bit - give the press something else to think about - no point letting McGinty squeeze any more out of this than absolutely necessary.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Campbell removed the price tags from the suit. It was cheap, but it would do. It was only a thug’s funeral, after all. “By the way, he let an interesting scrap slip: Bull O’Kane’s still in the picture.”

“The Bull was supposed to have retired,” the handler said. “Last I heard he was putting his feet up at that farm on the border.”

“Well, apparently not. That old bastard still carries some weight. The politicians don’t have it all their own way.”

“I’ll pass it on. Anything else?”

“Just one thing. Once I’ve taken care of Fegan, what then? Do I stay in Belfast with McGinty or go back to Dundalk?”

“Not so fast,” the handler said. “We’ve been talking at this end. My superiors think it’s time you came out for good. I agree. You’ve been under for a long time.”

Campbell gave a hard laugh. “What are you talking about?”

“How old are you now? Thirty-eight? You’re not getting any younger. All right, you’re still sharp enough, but for how long? All it takes is one slip. Get out while you’re still young enough to have a life in the real world, away from all that shit.”

Campbell dropped the suit onto the bed. “This

is

my life.”

“Life? You call that a life? You’ve been under too long, Campbell. It’s just not healthy. And besides, things are winding down there. You’ve seen the changes. The soldiers are off the streets, the watch - towers are being pulled down. Think about it: once this mess is cleaned up, what good are you doing there?”

“The dissidents. They’re organising. They’ll be—”

“They’re a bunch of has-beens who can’t accept it’s over. Plumbers and bricklayers who call themselves soldiers. They’re no use to anybody now, just dinosaurs who forgot to lie down and die. They destroyed themselves in Omagh, and they’ll never recover. You know that, you spent time with them.”

“There’s the Loyalists. They’re still—”

“They’re what? They’re pushing drugs and counterfeit handbags between bumping each other off. The police can deal with them.” The handler sighed. “Listen, I’m not asking, I’m telling. Once you’re done there, you’re coming out. At least take some leave, just to get your head straight. And don’t worry about money. I’ll make sure you’re looked after.”

“Fuck the money. It’s not about the money.”

“Take it easy, Campbell. We’ll organise some leave for you when you’ve taken care of Fegan. A holiday. Where would you like to go? The Mediterranean, the Bahamas, Thailand?”

“Fuck you,” Campbell said as he hung up.

He threw the phone on top of the suit and paced the small bedroom. Leave? Get out? Why? Go back to what?

Campbell crossed to the dressing table, opened the drawer, and ran his fingers through the soft plume of his Red Hackle.

24

The sun dipped towards the rooftops as Fegan rang Marie McKenna’s doorbell. Her flat was on the ground floor of the old red-brick terraced house. The drawn curtains twitched in the bay window by the door. His skin tingled when he heard her footsteps approach from inside.

Marie opened the door and smiled. “Thanks for coming,” she said. She stepped back to let him in. Her eyes were puffy from crying.

“Have you eaten?” she asked as they walked along the hallway. A bicycle was propped at the foot of the stairs leading to the flats above.

“Not since this morning,” Fegan lied. His stomach had still been reeling from the whiskey and no solid had passed his lips that day.

“You must be starving,” Marie said, showing him into the flat. “I’m just about to make something for Ellen and me. You’ll have some too.”

It was more an instruction than an invitation.

“Hiya!” Ellen chimed as he entered. She lay on the floor, a coloring book and crayons strewn around her. The flat was open-plan, with the living area to the front, a kitchenette to the rear. Two doors opened off this room, leading to the back of the house.

“Hello, Ellen,” he said.

Fegan took in the large open space, and the homey objects scattered about it. His own home was drab and spare by comparison, decorated only by the wooden objects he’d made himself. He clutched one of them, wrapped in plastic.

“Lookit,” Ellen said, climbing to her feet. She brought the coloring book over for him to see. There was a picture of a pig in a little dress. Ellen had colored it all green.

‘Very good,” he said.

Marie stroked her daughter’s hair. “Ellen, leave Gerry alone a while, okay?”

Ellen pouted. “Okay.”

As Marie took his coat, Fegan said, “I brought you something.” He handed her the plastic bag as his cheeks grew hot.

“Oh?” She opened it.

Fegan had found the piece of oak on a derelict site near his home. It might once have been a small part of a mantelpiece or a banister. He had worked with the grain over weeks, sanding into its flow, until it became a fluid shape like a river current. He smoothed out the hole where a knot had been, and built up thin layer after thin layer of varnish, buffing between coats until it looked like it burned from within. To finish, he mounted it on a slate base.

“It’s beautiful,” Marie said.

“It was just gathering dust in my house,” Fegan said. “It’ll look better here.”

“Thank you.” She placed it on a table by the window next to an open laptop computer.

“Anything?” Fegan asked.

“Nothing. It’s been quiet. I’ve been working, mostly.” She studied the piece in what little light the drawn curtains let through.

“It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. They’ll come after that.”

“And what’ll you do?” she asked, turning back to him.

“Talk to them,” he said.

“Talk? I doubt they’ll listen.”

“Well, then I’ll try . . . something else.”

Marie stared at him for a beat then said, “I’m glad you came.”

Dinner was simple - grilled chicken breast with boiled new potatoes and salad - but Fegan devoured it like it was his last meal. When Marie asked if he wanted more, he said yes before she’d finished the question. The time since anyone had made him a home-cooked meal could not be counted in weeks, months or even years. It was almost two decades since he had last sat at a table and eaten with people he knew and liked.

Ellen had meticulously separated the red-leaf salad from the green, and banished it to the side of her plate. Likewise, she had removed dark spots from the potato skins with the care and precision of a surgeon, and deposited them with the unwanted salad. Other than that, she had cleared her plate whilst chatting to Fegan about shoes, drawing and Peppa Pig.

“What’s Peppa Pig?” Fegan asked.

Ellen giggled, and said, “Silly.”

Fegan didn’t inquire further.

When the meal was done, Marie stood and shooed Ellen away to her coloring books lying strewn around the living area.

“So, what happens after tonight?” she asked. She began clearing the table. “Say you see them off. They’ll just come back with more tomorrow, won’t they?”

“Maybe,” Fegan said. “I’ll come back and take care of it again, if you want me to.”

She brought the dishes to the sink where pots were already soaking. “And what about after that? They’ll come back with more and more. I don’t want Ellen to see that. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t,” he said. He joined Marie at the sink, took a towel, and began drying dishes as she handed them over. “I’m going to take care of it. In a few days, it’ll be sorted.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’m going to take care of it, that’s all you need to know. You and Ellen won’t have to worry any more.”

She held on to a plate as he went to take it from her. “What does that mean?”

He smiled at her. It felt easy and honest on his lips. “You won’t have to worry. That’s all.”

Marie returned his smile, but Fegan glimpsed something hard and jagged in it as she turned away.

Marie told Fegan about Jack Lennon, how the handsome policeman had asked her out as she packed her Dictaphone away. The story had been about Catholics in the police service at a time of reform. Jack had been a good interview, open and eloquent. Charming, even. He blushed when Marie asked if Jack Lennon was really a John.

Within six days, Marie was in love.

She had kept it secret at first. Her family’s disapproval of her working for a Unionist newspaper had been made clear. Her father had never spoken about his involvement in the conflict, but she knew her Uncle Michael was up to his neck in it. Everywhere she went, people knew who she was, and who she shared her blood with. Her friends were from that community, too, and all but a few drifted away because of her job. When she could keep Jack Lennon secret no longer, they deserted her as quickly as everyone else she’d grown up with.

At the age of thirty-one, Marie McKenna found herself isolated, cut off from her old life. But she had Jack, and that was enough. Vague threats would surface now and then, Mass cards with bullets in the post, but the couple were strong. They could survive it.

Two years after meeting him, just a few weeks before the day she realised her period was late, Marie smelt perfume on him. By now, Jack was working CID, out of uniform. He said it was a female colleague, one who had shown no interest in him in the past. Seeing him in a solid relationship with another woman changed that. Day after day she had been throwing herself at him, often physically, but he had resisted her. He always had been, and always would be, faithful.

Jack Lennon was a charming and persuasive man. Marie believed every word he said. In retrospect, she imagined she saw him flinch when she told him she might be pregnant. She couldn’t be sure of it, but that was immaterial in the long run. All she could be sure of was arriving home on a drizzly evening two months later and finding their flat empty.

Fegan listened to Marie as she sat next to him on her sofa. Her face showed no emotion as she spoke.

“Do you want to know the really sad thing?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “A week after he left me for her, she dumped him.” Marie gave a brittle laugh. “She wanted what she couldn’t have, and when she could have it, she didn’t want it any more. So much damage, just on a whim. Anyway, he phoned me, begging to come back. I told him to shove it.”

“Good,” Fegan said. “He sounds like an arsehole.”

Ellen looked up from her coloring. “You said a bad word.”

“Sorry,” Fegan said.

Ellen looked to her mother. “Mummy, can I watch a DVD?”

“It’s nearly bedtime, sweetheart,” Marie said.

“Can I just watch the start of it?” Ellen implored.

Marie sat forward on the couch and gave it her consideration. “All right, but no arguing when I say it’s bedtime, right?”

“Right.” Ellen grinned and went to a bookcase laden with paper-backs, CDs and DVDs. She picked a brightly colored case, opened it, and carefully removed the disc.

“Watch this,” Marie whispered. “She’s an expert.”

Ellen went to the player underneath the television, pressed a button to open its tray, and placed the disc at its center, adjusting it with her tiny fingertips. She turned on the television, found the right channel, and bounced over to the sofa. There was just enough room between Fegan and Marie for her to wriggle into. Fegan watched as Ellen manipulated the remote control until the film began to play.

“You’re very clever,” he said.

Ellen looked up at him, brought her finger to her lips - shush - and pointed to the television. Fegan cleared his throat and did as he was told. He caught Marie’s smile from the corner of his eye.

Soon, Fegan knew nothing but the movie. It was about an orange and white fish who searched a big blue ocean for his son. Sometimes he felt Ellen’s body jerk and rattle with laughter beside him, and he did the same. They felt strange, these spasms, rippling up from his belly to burst in his mouth. The moving images made shadows dance around the room, but they concealed nothing but Marie’s scattered possessions.

Ellen’s bedtime came and went with no protest from her mother, but as the film ended, Marie patted her knee and said, “Okay, missy, you got away with that one, but now it’s really time for bed.”

Ellen slumped forward, despondent. “Do I have to?”

“Yep, it’s nearly half-nine and you were supposed to be in bed an hour ago. It’s . . .” Marie paused as if remembering something she would rather have forgotten. “It’s dark outside.”

Fegan raised himself from the sofa. He looked to the curtained window, then back to Marie. She stood, lifting Ellen, and placed her upright on the floor.

“Go and get your jammies on,” she said. “Then we’ll get your teeth brushed.”

Ellen trudged to one of the doors beyond the kitchenette at the back of the house. She turned in the doorway, waved, and called, “Night-night, Gerry.”

“Night-night,” he said, feeling a little pang of sadness to see her go. He looked down to Marie, who stood with her hands in the hip pockets of her jeans.

“So, here we are,” she said.

“Yeah,” Fegan said. He was unable to hold her gaze and he looked away.

She cleared her throat and sniffed. “Listen, I’m pretty tired, too. I didn’t sleep well last night. I’ll, uh . . . I’ll see to Ellen, then take myself to bed. Will you be all right here?”

“Yeah,” Fegan said. “When they come I’ll be ready for them.”

“Okay,” Marie said. She stepped away, paused, and then came back to him. Standing on tiptoe, she placed a kiss on his cheek and smiled. “I’d say you were a good man, but I’m a terrible judge of character.”

Fegan watched her leave the room as the warmth of her lips on his cheek gave way to the slightest chill of moisture.

Once the flat was quiet, he circled the room, switching off lights. Blackness owned him until he opened the curtains. The street light outside coated the room in a dim orange. He sat down at the table by the window and waited.

Occasionally cars moved along the street outside, their headlights illuminating the old houses, making their facades seem to turn and watch the travellers go by.

Now and then, people would pass the window, oblivious to Fegan’s vigil. Sometimes they were couples, young men and women clinging to each other, moving as one. The sight of them opened paths in his mind, paths he did not want to follow. He would only find regret and self-pity there.

Instead, he thought about the chill of moisture on his cheek. He brought his fingertips to that place, remembering the warmth before the cold.

Almost three hours passed before the chill crept to his center, a tingling began in his temples, and the shadows around him came to life.

25

Eddie Coyle drove in silence. Campbell had greeted him with a friendly hello when he got into the car a few minutes before, but Coyle had not replied. Now they travelled along the Malone Road, approaching the Wellington Park Hotel and the right turn into Eglantine Avenue just beyond.

“So, you’re going to do the business, then?” Campbell asked.

Coyle stared ahead. The swelling over his eye had lessened, but the gauze pad on his brow carried an angry red rose.

“I’ll just stay in the car and let you get on with it, will I?”

Coyle’s mouth twisted. “Shut the fuck up, you cunt,” he said. “You’ve no call to be here. There’s plenty of boys could have come with me. Fuck, I’d sooner do it on my own than have to listen to you.”

“Don’t blame me if McGinty doesn’t trust you to do it right,” Campbell said.

His body leaned forward as Coyle stood on the brake pedal.

“You what?”

“McGinty thought you might make a balls of it, so he told me to go along,” Campbell said. “Believe me, I’ve got better things to do than put the frighteners on women and wee girls, but I do what I’m told. Now, get moving before the cops come along and wonder why we’re sitting in the middle of the Malone Road. The turn’s just there.”

“I know where the fucking turn is,” Coyle said as he gunned the accelerator. He pulled hard on the steering wheel, forcing oncoming traffic to brake. He let the engine drop to a low rumble as they moved slowly along Eglantine Avenue. The Vauxhall Vectra puttered quietly until they reached the woman’s place. The flat was in darkness, but her car was parked outside.

Coyle reached behind Campbell’s seat, into the foot well, and retrieved two halves of brick. This sort of thing happened all the time in Belfast. The cops called it ‘low-level intimidation’. It was just a way for paramilitaries of all shades to keep the locals in line, nothing special, nothing to get excited about. Unless you were on the receiving end, of course. Coyle opened the door, and went to climb out.

“Careful you don’t miss,” Campbell said.

“Aw, fuck off,” Coyle said. He walked around the front of the car, a half-brick in each hand. He cried out, almost dropping them, when Gerry Fegan emerged from the shadows of the small garden to block his path.

“Leave her alone,” Fegan said. Campbell could just hear his calm voice above the engine’s idling.

“What are you doing here?” Coyle asked.

“I said leave her alone.” Fegan took two steps closer to Coyle, the car’s headlights glinting in his hard eyes.

Coyle turned to look back at Campbell. Campbell eased himself out of the car.

“Don’t look at him, look at me,” Fegan said. “Leave her alone. Get out of here and don’t come back.”

Campbell thought quickly. He had no gun with him; carrying one on an errand like this was too risky. If the cops stopped them, a brick was easier to explain than a loaded weapon. He wondered if Fegan was armed. Probably not, he thought. Fegan knew the risks just as well as he did.

But then again, Fegan was crazy.

“Get out of the way, Gerry,” Coyle said. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“One last time,” Fegan said, his face impassive. “Leave her alone. Go away and don’t come back.”

Campbell watched with grim fascination. A man like Coyle couldn’t hope to take a man like Fegan. Fegan would rip him to pieces. Christ, if Fegan had been in shape, Campbell wasn’t sure he could have taken him, either. Even now, it wasn’t a certainty. Crazy can make up for a lot. He waited, part of him relishing the idea of seeing Coyle taken apart.

Coyle raised a half-brick above his head. His voice was shrill. “I mean it, Gerry. Fuck off before I do you one.”

Campbell saw shapes and movements at some of the windows. The police had probably been called already. The Lisburn Road station was barely half a mile away. They’d be here in minutes. “Fuck,” he said, stepping towards Coyle. “Leave it, Eddie.”

“You fuck off, too,” Coyle said. “I was sent here to do a job, and I’m going to do it.”

“Don’t, Eddie. He’ll break you in two.”

Fegan stood silent, his eyes locked on Coyle.

“Eddie, come on.”

Coyle brought the piece of brick down in a clumsy arc, and Fegan caught his wrist effortlessly. He kicked Coyle’s legs from under him, and took the brick from his hand.

Fegan drew his arm back, the brick held tight in his fist, ready to drive it into Coyle’s upturned face. “Get out of here or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Coyle scrambled backwards, and Fegan turned to Campbell. Campbell’s gut chilled when he saw Fegan’s eyes. The madman walked towards him and then stopped, lifting his hands up to his temples.

“Not now,” he said. “Not here.”

“What?” Campbell said.

“No!” Fegan stared at something to Campbell’s left. “There’ll be another time. I can’t do it here. Not with witnesses.”

“Jesus Christ,” Campbell said, backing towards the car.

“How can I do it here?” Now Fegan’s eyes moved to Campbell’s right. “If I do it here I’ll never be able to finish it.”

“Finish what, Gerry?” Campbell took a tentative step forward. “Who are you talking to?”

Fegan’s eyes moved from place to place, focused on something at eye level that only he could see. “There’ll be another time. I swear.”

Before Campbell could scream at him to stop, Coyle swung at Fegan from behind. Fegan ducked, but not quickly enough, and the second piece of brick glanced off his temple. He moved with the lithe speed of a predator, turning to seize Coyle’s forearm before the other could react. Fegan swiped his piece of brick across Coyle’s face, rocking his head back. He did it again and Campbell heard a sickening crunch. Coyle’s legs crumpled beneath him and Fegan swung twice more, sending blood across the pavement.

The roar of an engine pulled Campbell’s eyes to the Lisburn Road end of the street. A police Land Rover came barrelling around the corner. He hesitated for just a second, then turned and ran for the Malone Road.

He cut across it, dodging traffic, and ducked into Cloreen Park. He didn’t stop running until he was on the Stranmillis Road. He walked purposefully to the warren of streets around Queen’s University and wound through them until he reached the church on University Street. He crossed the road, opened the door to his building, trotted up two flights of stairs, and let himself into his flat. In the darkness he collapsed onto the couch, adrenalin sending wave after wave of tremors through his limbs.

“Fuck,” he said to the empty room.

26

Fegan’s eyes felt dry and heavy as he sat in his cell. It had been a long night. They’d taken him to the City Hospital on the Lisburn Road to have the abrasion on his temple examined, and the doctor had insisted on a scan. He had to sit on a bed in the Accident and Emergency ward, guarded by two police officers, until the results came back. Coyle had been in the hospital somewhere, too, but Fegan imagined he would have a longer stay.

Now Fegan sat on a thin mattress, his belt and shoelaces removed, waiting for them to let him go. Even if Coyle was in any state to be questioned, he would just clam up. Fegan was sure of that. McGinty would want Fegan away from the cops, out in the open, where he could be gotten to. Besides, despite what the party said in public, it would be considered bad form for Coyle to talk to the cops. That would place him only one step above a common tout. And the party dealt harshly with touts.

Shadows moved along the walls, sometimes taking shape, sometimes fading to nothing. Fegan’s temples buzzed. The chill pulsed at his center.

“What did you want me to do?” Fegan asked.

The shadows didn’t answer.

“If I’d done it last night, the cops would have got me for it. I’d be in here for murder, not for fighting. Then I wouldn’t be able to do any of the others.”

Still nothing.

Suddenly, one of the shadows solidified, its form revealing itself against the cold white wall. The Royal Ulster Constabulary officer, his uniform stiff and crisp. He stared hard at Fegan for a moment before turning to the door.

The peephole cover opened with a clang. Fegan saw the glint of an eye and the cover was closed again. Keys jangled and locks snapped. The door opened outwards and a tall, heavy-set policeman of around fifty stood in the opening. He looked up and down the corridor outside, and then back to Fegan. He entered, smiling, and locked the door behind him.

“Good morning, Gerry,” he said. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a tie. His utility belt bulged with equipment, but Fegan noticed the weapons had been removed, and so had his name badge. The RUC man put his fingers to the cop’s head.

“You’ll be glad to know you’ll be released in a few hours,” said the cop as he crossed the floor, limping slightly. “Your friend Mr. Coyle swears blind he fell and you were helping him up.”

“That’s right,” Fegan said, keeping his focus on the policeman’s round face, and away from the shadows that gathered around him.

“Well, that’s grand then, isn’t it?” the cop said, smiling. The fluorescent lighting reflected off his pink scalp. “But I’ve got to give you a wee message before you go. Why don’t you stand up?”

“A message from who?” Fegan asked.

“Let’s just say a mutual friend,” the cop said. “Now, stand up, there’s a good fella.”

Fegan slowly got to his feet. The smile never left the cop’s mouth, even when he drove his fist into Fegan’s gut. All air deserted the cell, leaving nothing but a painful vacuum, and Fegan wondered how the peeler could breathe. He collapsed back onto the mattress, clutching his belly. A flash of rage burned in him, but he stamped on it, pushed it down. He couldn’t fight the cop here. Not if he wanted to live.

The shadows retreated to the walls. The RUC man’s hand recoiled with every silent shot.

The cop placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder. “The message is in two parts. One part’s verbal, the other’s physical. Let’s get the verbal out of the way, okay?”

He slapped Fegan’s shoulder and sat down beside him. “Now, first things first. This conversation never happened or Marie McKenna has an accident. I want to make myself clear on that point. That’s very important. Now, to the rest of it.” The cop took a deep breath. “When you get out of here, you go home, you stay there until our mutual friend sends for you, or Marie McKenna has an accident. If you try to run, Marie McKenna has an accident. If you mess our mutual friend about in any way, shape or form, Marie McKenna has an accident. Are you getting the idea, Gerry?”

Fegan didn’t answer. He was concentrating too hard on breathing to form words.

The cop swung his lumpy fist down into Fegan’s groin. “I asked you a question, Gerry. Do you get the idea?”

Fegan fell to his side, grabbing at his testicles. His abdomen filled with hot lead. He gasped, scrabbling words from tiny mouthfuls of air. “I . . . under . . . stand.”

“Good man,” the cop said as he stood up. “Now we do the physical part. Are you ready?”

The cop went to work with the dispassionate care of a craftsman. He found all Fegan’s tender spots, every part of him that could accommodate a fist or a boot while remaining concealed under his clothing. Fegan blacked out once, only to be roused by sharp slaps across his cheek. As he lay on the floor, the pain verging on unbearable, he realised the woman was kneeling at his side, the baby held close to her breast. She flinched with every blow.

When he was finished, the cop stood back, proudly surveying his work. “There, now,” he said, still smiling, but a little breathless. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. “I’m glad we got that sorted out. Have you any questions?”

Fegan coughed, spattering a fine spray of blood on the floor. “Yeah,” he said.

The cop hunkered down. “Oh? What’s that, now?”

“Who the fuck

are

you?”

The cop laughed. “Don’t you know, Gerry?” He leaned in close and whispered, “I’m the rotten apple that spoils the barrel.”

Fegan closed his eyes and listened to the opening and closing of the door, the turning of keys, and the cop’s laughter receding in the distance. He rolled onto his back, feeling a deep, sickly weight in his midsection. The shadows gathered round, took shape, and he smiled weakly up at them.

“Are you enjoying it so far?” he asked.

The woman rested her cool hand on Fegan’s cheek, and the room slipped away from him.

27

Campbell marvelled at Paul McGinty’s ability to twist facts to suit his agenda. The speech was an incredible exercise in spin. The politician stood on the improvised platform just steps away from Vincie Caffola’s grave, blustering with all the indignation of the righteous. The same police force that left Caffola to choke on his vomit, he said, had beaten Edward Coyle, party activist, to a senseless mess after stopping his car on Eglantine Avenue. The crowd roared when McGinty vowed to see justice done, and it was all Campbell could do not to join in. No wonder the politician’s enemies respected and hated him in equal measure.

News cameras followed McGinty from the podium, but his security men blocked their path. The politician approached Campbell alone. “Walk with me,” he said.

They moved among the gravestones and memorials, working their way towards the gates where McGinty’s Lincoln waited. The sun warmed Campbell’s back.

“So, what do you reckon to our friend Gerry?” McGinty asked.

“He’s insane,” Campbell said. “That makes him dangerous. If I’m going to take him, it better be soon. He could do anything.”

“Our friend on the force gave him a message this morning,” McGinty said. “He made it very clear.”

“Threats won’t do it,” Campbell said. “You can’t reason with crazy.”

McGinty kicked gravel along the path and stopped. “Don’t worry, I won’t be reasoning with him. Not after what Father Coulter told me this morning. I knew it was him, but Christ, to come right out and say it. Even if he thought Father Coulter would keep that from me, he has some brass neck on him. But it’s a question of timing. I’ve got a press conference lined up for the morning. Eddie Coyle’s going to tell them how the peelers kicked the shit out of him. I don’t want anything to distract the press from that. It’s not just local press, either. Jesus, I’ve got CNN and Fox News coming. They love this sort of thing. See, this is what old Bull O’Kane doesn’t understand, what he never learned from us. As long as I’ve got the press lapping this stuff up, the Brits are on the back foot. I stir up enough shit, they’ll give us anything we ask for. They know we can bring Stormont down if we want to, and they’ll bend over backwards to stop it. They’ll be eating out of my hand, and the party won’t dare pass me over. Not when the cameras are on me. I’m telling you, the media’s a better weapon than Semtex ever was.”

“The media won’t be dancing to your tune if Fegan has a crack at someone else. He was ready to take me on last night, only something stopped him.”

“What?” McGinty asked.

“I don’t know.” Campbell shook his head. “Whatever it was, it was in his head. He’s snapped, completely gone, schizophrenic or some fucking thing.”

One corner of McGinty’s mouth curled up. “That’s your medical opinion, is it?”

“It’s no joke.” Campbell fixed the politician with a hard stare. “You better watch your back. I’m telling you, he—”

McGinty’s hand lashed out so quickly, Campbell felt the sting on his cheek before he knew it had moved.

McGinty cleared his throat and smoothed his jacket. He took a cautious look around to make sure no cameras had caught the slap. He leaned in close to Campbell.

“Watch your mouth,” he said. “You don’t tell me anything; I tell you. Got that?”

Campbell fought back rage as he brought his fingers to the heat on his bearded cheek. Blood rushed in his ears and his head seemed to float above his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mr. McGinty,” he said. “But with all due respect, think about this: he hasn’t taken too kindly to Marie McKenna being strong-armed. What if he comes after you next?”

McGinty snorted, but his eyes gave him away. “He’d never get to me. There’s boys have been trying to get to me since 1972, and nobody’s even come close, even Delaney and those two UFF boys you fingered. Why do you think Fegan could do it?”

Campbell locked eyes with McGinty. “Because I think he’d die trying.”

McGinty’s stare fell away and he cleared his throat. He set off towards the car again. Campbell followed.

“All right, I’ll tell you what,” McGinty said as they neared the Lincoln. “The cops will let Fegan go in an hour or so. You follow him and make sure he goes home. Get into the house and do him there. Lock the place up good and tight. With a bit of luck nobody’ll find him for a day or two. That’ll give me time to get what I can out of the press coverage.”

“What about the woman?” Campbell asked. “She might twig if she tries to reach him.”

McGinty lowered himself into the back of the Lincoln as his driver held the door. “Don’t worry about her,” he said. “She’s already taken care of.”

Campbell hunched down in the rusting Ford Focus and watched Fegan clamber out of a taxi and pay the driver. As the cab pulled away, Fegan took delicate steps towards his front door, his hand pressed to his abdomen. Campbell’s Focus sat at the far end of Calcutta Street. He sucked air through his teeth when his quarry stooped to spit blood on the pavement. Fegan straightened, wiped his mouth clean, and let himself into his house.

Christ

, Campbell thought,

the message must have been loud and clear. He’s really hurting

.

A part of Campbell wished Fegan would have a crack at McGinty. His skin still tingled where the politician had slapped him. The world would be no poorer for that bastard’s passing, just as it was no worse off without McKenna or Caffola. In fact, Campbell would have been delighted to help Fegan in a cull of the party. But for every politician like McGinty there were ten thugs who would gladly take his place and guide the party away from weapons like newspapers and television cameras, and back to AK47s and mortar bombs. It was sad, but true: Paul McGinty was the lesser of many evils.

The greatest of those evils was the Bull.

Terrance Plunkett O’Kane, a thickset man who stood six foot four, had risen to prominence as the Seventies became the Eighties, that turbulent time when the party’s political wing began to branch away from the paramilitary side. Campbell had never met the Bull, but the old man’s reputation travelled far and wide. When Campbell was still a corporal in the Black Watch he heard stories of O’Kane’s bloody ways. And when he left the barracks for the back streets of Belfast the stories grew more horrific.

As the political process had gathered momentum, it seemed the Bull’s time had come and gone. The twenty-first century belonged to men like McGinty and his nose for a headline. Thus, as his sixties edged towards his seventies, the Bull seemed content to retire and let McGinty and his political colleagues take the reins.

Apparently not

, Campbell thought.

McGinty and O’Kane were two sides of the same coin. O’Kane still commanded the loyalty of the old foot soldiers, the Eddie Coyles, and McGinty and the party leadership relied on them for their power on the street. At the same time, the party’s political influence had allowed the Bull to operate his fuel-laundering plants in relative peace for the last ten years. Each needed the other, and it was a precarious balance between the old ways and the new.

Now Fegan was tipping that balance. Whatever insane vendetta he was bent on had the potential to wrest the wheel from the politicians’ control altogether. If Campbell’s hunch was right, and Fegan managed to get to McGinty, it could tear the party wide open. The party could fill his position, all right - in fact, rumor had it they had someone lined up to take his place if they could find a way to sideline him - but McGinty’s crew wouldn’t stand for it. A feud would almost certainly follow. Stormont was fragile enough as it stood; losing McGinty would leave it on a knife-edge.

There was no question: Fegan had to disappear.

And after that?

Campbell thought about the handler’s words. He couldn’t imagine quitting. When he closed his eyes and pictured leaving this life, it was like walking off a cliff. A long drop into nothing. It made him dizzy just to picture it.

When Campbell first came to Belfast with the Black Watch, everyone said it would never end. The divisions and hatreds were too deep-rooted. The dirty war would roll on and on, bomb upon bomb, body upon body. The politicians were too busy pandering to the bigotry of their constituents to solve the issues, and the paramilitaries were making too much money to consider any other way.

But, in spite of every apparently insurmountable obstacle, it looked like they had finally done it. Campbell still couldn’t quite believe it. It didn’t seem real. The politicians had been cajoled, blackmailed and bullied by the British and Irish governments into figuring it out. After eighty-odd years, this tiny country finally had a future.

And Campbell did not.

He remembered an ancient Chinese curse as he opened the car door.

May you live in interesting times

, he thought.

Campbell crossed to an alleyway between two houses. It opened to another alleyway that ran parallel to Calcutta Street, acting as a border between it and the rear of Mumbai Street. He crept along the wall, hugging the brickwork, counting gates as he passed enclosed yards. The paint on Fegan’s gate was flaked and blistered, and the wood shifted in its frame when Campbell pressed it with his fingertips. A firm kick would set it free, but he was wary of undue noise. He wasn’t keen on scaling the wall here, either. Fegan would only have to look out of a window to see him coming.

Instead, Campbell moved back along the alleyway until he was beyond sight of Fegan’s rear windows, two houses down, and hoisted himself over the yard wall. His soft-soled trainers made no noise as he lowered himself on the other side. He went to the house’s back wall and used a bin to climb over to the adjoining yard. A small dog yapped at him as he landed on a collection of pot plants. He cursed under his breath and kicked the little mutt away. Christ, he might as well have ridden up on an elephant.

Campbell moved fast in case the dog’s owner came to investigate. Sticking close to the wall, he peeked into Fegan’s yard. It was a simple weed-strewn concrete patch. Campbell threw his leg over the wall and let his body follow, dropping to a crouch on the other side. His back against the brickwork, he looked up at the kitchen window. The small upper pane was open. He would be able to reach in and down to open the lower latch and slip inside.

Like most old terraced homes in Belfast, the house was a two-up-two-down with an extended kitchen at the back and a bathroom built on top. Amid the dog’s frantic barks, Campbell heard a cough and splutter from the open bathroom window above. He pictured Fegan folded over the toilet bowl, retching up gobbets of congealed blood. He pushed up with his legs to peer through the kitchen window.

Empty.

Another cough, then a sniff, from above. Campbell grabbed the window frame and lifted himself up onto the sill. He reached under the small open pane and down to the lower latch. With a little fumbling, he was in.

Carefully, he maneuvered over the few dishes in the sink and gently lowered himself to the kitchen floor. His shoes barely made a sound as he moved across the linoleum, breathing through his mouth. The room was sparsely furnished and clean, apart from some hand tools arranged on a cloth. It opened onto a living room with a staircase to the left. A few pieces of shaped and polished wood sat shoulder to shoulder with a cheap radio and an empty whiskey bottle on the sideboard. More crude sculptures stood along the fireplace, and an old-looking guitar was propped in the corner.

Now he was inside, Campbell didn’t hesitate. He went to the foot of the stairs, treading lightly. Although his pistol nestled at the small of his back, he reached for the small Gerber knife in his inside pocket. Quiet would be better. He pressed the thumb stud and the blade, razor sharp and gleaming, snapped open. Fegan would die with barely a sound.

Campbell tried not to think of ripping flesh, the soft tearing sound of a blade parting meat and gristle. He ignored the racing of his heart and began his climb.

He placed his left foot at the outer edge of the bottom step and pushed upward, bringing his right foot to the far edge of the next so the boards wouldn’t flex under his weight. Not a single creak announced his ascent. He made his way upwards, his feet to the outside of each step, silent as a ghost.

The bathroom door was closed over, a shaft of light emerging from the crack, and Campbell heard miserable coughs and moans from the other side. Now, at the top of the stairs, he was at the mercy of hundred-year-old floorboards. He had to move quickly and decisively. He waited for another spasm of retching and spitting.

When it came he hit the door hard, his knife ready to open the first vein it found. Instead, it found air as it swung in a useless arc over an empty toilet bowl.

A cold hardness pressed against the skin beneath Campbell’s ear.

“Don’t move,” Gerry Fegan said.

28

Fegan listened to Campbell’s deep, steady breathing. The Scot stood primed, ready to move, the knife held before him.

“Don’t do it,” Fegan said. “I know you want to, but don’t. You’ll be dead before you move a finger.”

Campbell’s body rippled with coiled energy. Slowly, his shoulders slumped and the energy evaporated.

Fegan reached out and took the knife with his free hand. He folded the blade back into its grip with his thumb. It fitted neatly into his jacket pocket. He patted Campbell’s sides and back until he found a Glock 23 tucked into his waistband, underneath his denim jacket. Fegan heard the other man exhale as he removed it.

“Turn around slowly and sit on your hands,” Fegan said.

“Can I put the lid down?” Campbell asked.

Fegan increased the Walther’s pressure against Campbell’s ear. “Just do it,” he said.

Campbell reached forward and lowered the toilet lid. He turned and sat down, slipping his hands beneath his thighs.

“Under your arse,” Fegan said. “Palms down, thumbs to the back.” He watched Campbell shift from side to side until his hands were in position.

Campbell looked up at him. “What now?” he asked.

“We have a talk,” Fegan said, dropping the Glock into his pocket to clank against the knife. He kept his Walther trained on Campbell. As chilled as it was, his heart hit his sternum like a battering ram, and his temples pulsed. He blotted out everything else, every shadow at the corner of his vision, and focused on Campbell.

He’d known that someone would follow him from the police station, and he’d had a good idea it would be Campbell. During the taxi ride he saw the same Ford Focus too many times. When he got home, he went straight to his bedroom and retrieved the pistol before going to the bathroom. Fegan hadn’t faked the first retches. The water in the bowl was stained deep red, and strange aches turned in his belly. He hadn’t really expected Campbell to come into the house after him, but then he’d heard the little dog’s panicked barking from the back.

“What do you want to talk about?” Campbell’s reddish-brown mop spilled into his eyes and he flicked his head to clear it away.

“McGinty sent you,” Fegan said.

“Of course.”

“So, he’s going to do me.”

“That was the idea,” Campbell said.

“Why?”

Campbell laughed and shook his head. “Jesus, why do you think?”

“He knows what I did. He didn’t come right out and say it at Michael’s funeral, but he knows.”

Campbell nodded. “That’s right. And the priest confirmed it this morning.”

The chill at Fegan’s center intensified. “What?”

“Father Coulter. That old bastard couldn’t hold his own piss. That was a stupid move, telling him.”

The shadows pressed against Fegan’s consciousness. “I never thought he’d . . .” He pushed them back and swallowed. “I never thought he’d do that.”

“Now you know different.”

“Yeah, I do.” Fegan nodded, letting the betrayal sink to the bottom of his stomach. It settled there, joining the rest of the slithering aches in his gut. “What about Marie?” he asked.

“McGinty said she’d been taken care of,” Campbell said.

Fegan stepped closer and lowered the gun to rest on the Scot’s forehead. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Campbell said.

Fegan snapped the Walther against Campbell’s cheek. “What does it mean?”

Campbell slumped sideways to rest against the wall. “Fuck,” he said.

“Sit up straight,” Fegan said. “Get your hands back under you. What does it mean?”

Campbell did as he was told. “That’s all he said. She’d been taken care of, that’s all. I don’t know what it means.”

Fegan raised the pistol again and Campbell screwed his eyes shut. He lowered the muzzle and pressed it against Campbell’s temple. He wanted to pull the trigger. He wanted to hear the roar in this small tiled room, then the whistling in his ears, feel the warm, gritty spots on his face, taste the copper on his lips. He wanted all that and for the two UFF boys to be gone. Christ, they wanted it too. He could feel them, watching, waiting, longing for it. Fegan so wanted to do it, to pull the trigger, but there were things he needed to know. He thought of Marie and the fine lines around her eyes, and of Ellen. The image of them in fear and pain tightened his finger on the trigger. He inhaled, the air cold at the back of his nose, clearing his head.

“Did he hurt her?” he asked, taking the Walther away from Campbell’s temple.

A little of the calm returned to Campbell’s face, along with a shadow of anger. “I told you I don’t know. Now, either take my word for it or shoot me, for fuck’s sake.”

Fegan swung the Walther at Campbell’s cheek again and the impact sent a jolt up to his shoulder. The Scot slumped against the wall, his eyes glassy, blood seeping from the growing welt below his left eye. Fegan took a glass tumbler from above the washbasin, filled it with water, and threw its contents at Campbell’s face. Two more glassfuls and Campbell was upright again, sitting on his hands.

“Who’s the cop?” Fegan asked.

Campbell’s mouth curled in a smile. “The one who did you over? I don’t know him.” He hunched down, his head between his shoulders, when Fegan raised the gun again. “I don’t know, for Christ’s sake! He’s Patsy Toner’s contact. He knows him. I only heard of him today.”

“I need to know who he is,” Fegan said. “I need to know why the RUC man wants him.”

“What?” Campbell raised his head from between his shoulders, a knot in his brow.

“If I’m going to finish this, I need to know why him. What did he do to deserve it?”

Campbell shook his head. “What are you talking about, Gerry?”

Fegan sighed and shrugged. “Christ knows.” He put the Walther back to Campbell’s forehead. “Well, that’s that, then.”

“Wait!” Campbell said. “For fuck’s sake, wait.”

“What for?” Fegan said.

“There’s a way out of this. A way to stick it to McGinty.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“No, no, listen to me. There’s a way, I swear.”

Fegan sighed and lifted the pistol slightly. “Go on.”

Campbell’s quick eyes revealed the working of his mind as the words spilled out of him. “McGinty’s milking Caffola’s killing for everything he can get, saying the cops did it. And Eddie Coyle, too. He’s saying the cops beat the shit out of him. If you give yourself up, go to the law, tell them the truth, everyone will know McGinty’s a liar. He’ll be disgraced. Tell the press, tell the TV people. They’re McGinty’s lifeblood.”

Campbell was smarter than Fegan had thought. “No, that won’t be good enough,” he said.

“Come on, Gerry, you know you can’t get to him.” Campbell’s voice belied his wide, easy smile. “He’ll get you first. This way, at least you’ll live. You’ll see him destroyed and you’ll live.”

“No.” Fegan shook his head. “I’m not going back inside. I’ll die first. Besides, McGinty can get me just as easy in prison as he can outside. Easier.”

Campbell leaned forward, his face upturned and pleading. “Just think about it, Gerry, eh? Just take a minute and—”

“Shush.” Fegan pressed the Walther’s muzzle against Campbell’s lips to silence him. “You know I’m crazy, don’t you?”

Campbell gave a nervous laugh as Fegan raised the gun slightly, but he didn’t answer.

“I’m away in the head; you know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Campbell said, his voice cracking.

Fegan sat on the edge of the bathtub, giving in to the insistent pains in his midsection. He kept the Walther trained on Campbell’s forehead. “Then why try reasoning with me?”

Campbell blinked sweat away from his eyes.

“I wanted to know who the cop was,” Fegan said. “I wanted to know why he deserved it. But I know why

you

deserve it.”

“Deserve what?” Campbell asked.

“To die,” Fegan said.

The shadows tightened around them.

Campbell shook his head. “Gerry, I—”

“Those two UFF boys,” Fegan said. Campbell’s head became still. “They were nothing more than cheap hoods, a pair of smart-arses selling dope for beer money. They couldn’t have got McGinty in a million years. They couldn’t even have dreamt of it. They were too busy getting stoned off their own merchandise.”

Campbell’s shoulders rose and fell. Blood and spittle hung from his lip.

Fegan said, “You know what that lot were like, the fucking UFF, and the rest of the Loyalists. All of them. Nothing more than jumped-up thugs with a bit of organisation. They were great at killing their own. They were even better at taking out civilians who had nothing to do with us or them. The easy target, that’s what they were best at. Even the top boys couldn’t have gone after McGinty, let alone those two bottom feeders.

“But somehow it turns out Francie Delaney struck a deal with them. Francie Delaney, an even bigger prick than Eddie Coyle, clubs together with two apes from the UFF and hatches a plan to get to McGinty. Funnily enough, the only person Delaney spills his guts to is you. And you beat him to death in the process of finding that out.”

“He sold McGinty to the Loyalists,” Campbell said. “Everyone knows that.”

“Because you said so, and they believed you. You fingered those two boys to complete the picture, didn’t you? You set it up for me to do them to cover your own tracks. What were you up to? Why did you need to get rid of Delaney?”

“They were going to get McGinty,” Campbell said. “You and me, we saved him.”

“Bullshit,” Fegan said. “You remember. They weren’t killers. Not like you and me. They died like women, crying and begging.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Campbell said.

“What, you hear them too?”

“Shut up.”

“When you close your eyes at night, do they scream?”

Fegan felt something vibrate against his chest and heard a high chiming sound. The phone in his pocket. Only one person knew the number. His eyes flicked downward.

Mistake.

Campbell had his wrist, pushing it away and upward. Reflexively, Fegan squeezed the trigger and plaster dust sprinkled down from the ceiling and into his eyes. He was pushed backwards and his head cracked on the tiles over the bath. As spots and dust danced in his eyes he felt himself slide into the tub. He concentrated all his strength on his right hand, the hand Campbell was grappling with, trying to claim the gun. Fegan’s feet hung over the edge of the bath and he kicked out, feeling his foot connect with Campbell’s groin. He heard the other man grunt, his grip weakening for just a moment and Fegan forced his hand down, pushing against Campbell until the Walther was between them.

The pistol’s angry shout boomed against the tiles, and Campbell fell backwards, his face twisted in pain, a scorched strip torn from the side of his shirt. The mirror dropped in pieces from the wall behind him. Fegan strained to drag himself from the bathtub while a hundred knives in his stomach fought to keep him there. He fired at the blurred shape of Campbell making a crouching sprint for the door. The bullet split the wooden frame.

Fegan spilled over the lip of the bath and onto the floor, crying out as pain roiled in his abdomen. He heard Campbell’s quick, light footsteps on the stairs. Fegan used the washbasin to pull himself up as he heard his front door wrenched open. Feet pounded along the street outside as he lurched down the stairs.

Sunlight burned Fegan’s already stinging eyes when he got outside. Through the glare he saw Campbell running to the row of parked cars. He aimed and fired, putting a spidery hole in a windscreen. He squeezed the trigger again and a wing mirror splintered, leaving plastic shards and wires dangling. Campbell reached his car, his hand clasped to his ribs. Fegan fired once more and Campbell fell against the hood. A dark circle spread on the back of his thigh. He pulled the door open and was inside the old Ford Focus before Fegan could aim again.

Fegan began to run, but the churning inside weighed him down. The car’s engine came alive and Campbell pulled away from the curb in reverse, clipping another parked car. The Focus rocked on its suspension as it swung in a tight circle to face the other way, and its engine squealed along with its tires. Fegan fired one last time, putting a hole in the car’s rear just as it reached the corner.

He bent over, coughed, and spat blood onto the tarmac. His stomach and groin smoldered with a deep, hot pain.

So, this was it. No more pretending. It was time to run, time to hide, time to find a way to get McGinty and the others. He straightened and turned in a circle, looking for his nine followers.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asked the empty street.

He took faltering steps to his open front door, his arms across his belly. He didn’t have long. Even in this part of Belfast, afternoon gunfire wouldn’t go unreported. He stepped into his dim house.

“Gerry?”

He stopped at the sound of a distant, disembodied voice.

“Jesus, Gerry, what’s happening? Answer me!”

Fegan reached into his pocket and took out the phone. “Hello, Marie,” he said.

29

“You’re a lucky man,” the doctor said.

Campbell didn’t know if he was smiling or not; his eyes were screwed shut against the pain. It wasn’t the wound in his thigh, the one the doctor was currently stitching up, that bothered him. No, it was the one at his side, the one that screamed and roared every time he breathed.

“Almost done,” the doctor said. He had been summoned to McKenna’s bar shortly after Campbell limped in, leaving a trail of blood on the floor. Now Campbell lay on a table in a back room with the retired GP sewing up the neat hole in his leg.

Fegan’s second shot had creased his flank, barely taking any flesh with it, but Campbell knew enough of wound ballistics to understand the transfer of energy from the bullet was like a hammer blow to his ribcage. The doctor couldn’t be sure if it had cracked a rib, or merely bruised it, without an X-ray. All Campbell could be sure of was it hurt like hell. A gauze pad was taped over the wound, and Campbell breathed in shallow gasps, trying not to spark another burst of pain.

“There, now,” the doctor said. Campbell heard instruments being placed in a dish. “No major damage done. The bullet just nicked you, really. Sliced a bit less than an inch at the back of the thigh. Nine-millimeter wounds are always nice and tidy. It’s a long time since I treated any of you boys, and believe me, I’ve seen much worse.”

Campbell opened his eyes and saw McGinty standing over him, still wearing his black suit from Caffola’s funeral. He hadn’t heard him enter. They watched each other as the doctor washed and packed up his equipment.

“Take it easy for a few days,” the doctor said. He placed a small bottle of pills on the table. “Stay off your feet if you can, and take three of these a day. Antibiotics, in case of an infection.”

“Thanks, Kevin,” McGinty said. He handed the doctor a roll of cash. The doctor nodded and left them.

“You fucked up, Davy,” McGinty said.

“He got the drop on me,” Campbell said, wincing at the effort. “Even crazy, he’s better than I thought.”

“It won’t do,” McGinty said. “You’ve let me down, Davy. I’m very disappointed.”

“Christ, what was I supposed to do? He had a gun to my—”

“You were supposed to fucking kill him!” McGinty slammed his fist against the table, and Campbell howled as the impact resonated up into his chest. “You were supposed to do what I sent you to do instead of running away from him.”

“He would’ve killed me.”

McGinty leaned down. “You think I won’t?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. McGinty, I never—”

“Bad enough you didn’t get him, you even had him shooting up the street. The cops were called. He’s done a runner and they’ll be looking for him. Our friend in Lisburn Road Station let Patsy know. If they get him, and he talks, it’ll get out it was him killed Caffola and McKenna, and him beat Eddie Coyle’s head in. How am I going to look then, eh? The press will rip the shit out of me. I’ll be a fucking laughing stock.”

“Did anyone see me?” Campbell asked.

“Someone saw a silver car, that’s all they got out of the neighbors.” McGinty pointed a finger at Campbell’s face. “And you’re bloody lucky, ’cause if they’d tagged you you’d have a fucking bullet in your head right now.”

Campbell gritted his teeth to quell a scream as he righted himself on the table. His left leg felt heavy and wooden, and a roman candle burned in his side. “Any ideas where he went? To the woman, maybe?”

“No.” McGinty handed Campbell his shirt. “Get dressed. Patsy Toner’s parked outside her place now, keeping an eye on her. He’s going to make sure she goes to the airport and takes that flight I booked for her.”

“Why not just do her?” Campbell asked as he struggled to get into his shirt. It had a ragged hole in the fabric, underneath the left sleeve.

McGinty’s eyes flickered. “That’s my business.”

Campbell sensed that pressing the politician would be unwise. He lowered himself from the table, feeling a deep throb in his thigh. “Fair enough, but you could use her to draw Fegan out.”

McGinty thought about it briefly. “No, too risky. Not with the press conference in the morning. If anything went wrong I’d be fucked.”

“What, then? Just wait for Fegan to make a move?”

“I don’t think we have much choice,” McGinty said.

“I was right about one thing. He’s going to come after you. And me, for that matter. He talked about that cop, too.”

“The cop can look after himself.”

“Maybe,” Campbell said. “Can you?”

An hour later, Campbell lay on the threadbare couch in his flat on University Street with a bag of ice resting on his side and the phone to his ear.

“Well, this is a fucking mess, isn’t it?” the handler said.

“Oh, don’t start,” Campbell said, wincing at the sparks in his side. “I’ve been shot twice, been pistol-whipped, been roared at by Paul McGinty. I don’t need any shit from you.”

“Need it or not,” the handler said, ‘you’re going to get it.”

Before the handler could continue Campbell hung up and dropped the phone to the floor. One of McGinty’s thugs had driven him back to the flat in his Focus, leaving Campbell to struggle up the two flights of stairs. Tom the bartender had given him a large bag of ice for his troubles, most of which was now in the small freezer that hummed in the flat’s tiny kitchen.

The phone buzzed on the floor and Campbell groaned. He picked it up. “What?”

“Hang up on me again and I’ll blow your cover. I’ll leave you stranded there without a friend in the world. Understood?”

Campbell sighed. “Understood.”

“Okay. Now, what’s happening?”

“Nothing much,” Campbell said. “We’ve just got to wait until Fegan shows his face again.”

“Well, wherever and whenever that is, you better be ready to take him out.”

“Christ, I’m in no fit state to—”

“I don’t give a flying fuck,” the handler said. “You’ve got a job to do, so bloody do it. You better pray Fegan doesn’t do any more damage before you get him. This is a bad situation for everyone. Maybe we shouldn’t have sent you in there in the first place. You’ve been under too long. For Christ’s sake, don’t let it get any worse.”

The phone went dead, and Campbell threw it across the room. He covered his eyes, frustration burning as brightly as his injuries. Today he had come as close to dying as he had in fifteen years of service, and he’d had some scrapes. He’d let Fegan, a crazy man, almost get the better of him.

Almost?

No, there was no almost. Fegan would have killed him if not for the phone going off. Blind luck was all that had saved Campbell. He shuddered at the thought.

And there was a bigger question, a more troubling idea. How had Fegan known? He was dead right: there had never been a threat from the UFF boys. The Ulster Freedom Fighters were the militant wing of the Ulster Defence Association, the working-class Protestant movement that claimed to defend its people from Republicans. In reality, they were common thugs, the kind the Loyalists bred in abundance. The kind who could walk into a pub and open fire on anything that moved, or call a taxi, wait for it to arrive, and then shoot its driver. But a real hit on a dangerous target? Never. They just didn’t have it in them.

It was Delaney. Campbell remembered the night the slimy bastard had cornered him, saying he knew he was a plant. Even now, Campbell could smell Delaney’s breath and cheap aftershave.

“Get me fifty grand,” Delaney had said, grinning as his oily black hair spilled into his eyes. “Just fifty grand and I’ll forget the whole thing.”

Campbell had searched the bar with his eyes, looking for eavesdroppers.

“Even if you weren’t talking shite, where do you think I’d get fifty grand?” he asked.

“From your handlers. They’ll pay it to keep your cover.” Delaney smoothed back his hair.

“You’re talking out your arse. Go fuck yourself,” Campbell said, pushing the stocky man aside.

“I’ll give you a day or two to think about it,” Delaney called after him.

Campbell phoned his handler that night, and the plan was in place within twenty-four hours. He would take care of Delaney, and a plant in the UFF would serve up a couple of stooges to complete the story.

When Campbell went to McGinty with the fictitious plot on his life, the politician was furious. Why hadn’t Campbell kept Delaney alive? The UFF boys were to pay a heavy price. They would receive a special death, an agonising death. It just so happened that Gerry Fegan was out of the Maze for three days to attend his mother’s funeral. The honor system between inmates and their captors, the next man’s furlough depending on the previous man’s return, meant Fegan could move around freely while he was outside. There was no better man for inflicting a painful end, seeing as Vincie Caffola was on remand for assault. McGinty would take care of the arrangements.

So, seventy-two hours after Delaney took Campbell aside in McKenna’s bar, thirty-six after Campbell beat Delaney to a lifeless pulp, he and Gerry Fegan stood over two weeping Loyalists, one of whom had wet himself.

A sour smell filled the room; the stenches of sweat, piss and blood combined to make Campbell’s stomach turn on itself. They were in an empty unit on an industrial estate just north-west of the city. Hard fluorescent lighting washed the high-ceilinged room in whites and greys, and the UFF boys’ sobs reverberated against the block walls. Blood already pooled on the concrete floor.

Fegan had said little on the journey here. Someone else had lifted the two UFF boys and left them bound to chairs, ready for Fegan and Campbell to interrogate. Campbell watched the other man circle the two Loyalists. Fegan’s face was carved from stone, and something deeper than hate or anger burned behind his eyes.

Fegan used a pickaxe handle. It took an hour, and neither of the Loyalists talked. Not because they were brave or strong, but because they never knew of any plot to hit McGinty. All the while, Fegan’s face remained blank, his eyes far away. Apart from one moment, that was. When one of the Loyalists wept for his mother, Fegan might have come to himself. Campbell thought he saw a wave of revulsion or pity - he couldn’t be sure which - on the other man’s face. It was gone before he could be certain.

When the screaming was over, and there was no more blood to spill, Fegan dropped the pickaxe handle to the floor. He finished them with a .22 pistol. Its sharp report boomed in the empty concrete room.

Fegan stood silent for several minutes. Campbell noticed the tear tracks glittering on his face.

“They didn’t know anything,” Fegan said.

Campbell leaned against the wall, fighting his own churning gut. “Delaney said it was them. He named them.”

“He lied,” Fegan said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Campbell said. “McGinty wanted them dead. That’s all there is to it.”

Fegan wiped his face with the back of his hand, leaving a red smear. “I put my mother in the ground yesterday,” he said.

Campbell said nothing.

Fegan’s eyes turned glassy, staring at something miles away. “She hadn’t spoken to me for sixteen years. She told me she was ashamed of what I did. That was the last thing she ever said to me. They let me out to go and see her in the hospital. She wouldn’t let me into the room. She died hating me.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Campbell asked.

Fegan snapped back to himself and looked at Campbell, his face creased with confusion. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can we go now?”

Campbell followed him out into the darkness. As he drove them back to the city, he kept one eye on the road and one eye on Fegan, his heart thundering in his chest.

That had been nine years ago. And now Fegan knew of Campbell’s deceit. Did he know he was a plant? Campbell had to assume as much.

The handler wanted Fegan dead. McGinty wanted Fegan dead. Campbell

needed

Fegan dead, because if McGinty learned the truth ... well, the politician wouldn’t let Campbell die easy.

30

Fegan waited in the darkness. From downstairs he heard the patient ticking of the clock over the priest’s fireplace, marking time as the last of the day’s light faded to black, chiming on the hour. Just past ten, now. Marie’s flight for London Gatwick would be in the air, somewhere over the Irish Sea. An associate of McGinty’s was to meet her at the other side when it landed at eleven, and escort her to whatever accommodation had been arranged for her and Ellen. That didn’t leave much time, but it shouldn’t be long until Father Coulter staggered home. Caffola would have been in the ground and the last speeches made by early afternoon. Father Coulter would have drunk his fill by now.

Fegan sat on a hard wooden chair in a corner of the priest’s bedroom, behind the open door. The followers wandered between the shadows. Sometimes it was hard to tell where the shadows ended and the followers began. If he concentrated he could focus on them, draw them out of the dark, and separate them from the blankets of gloom. He tried pushing them from his vision, and then drawing them in. But they were always there, watching.

Always watching.

There was no danger Fegan would fall asleep, even as tired as he was. Every time his eyes grew too heavy to bear, their screaming snapped him awake. When tonight was done, when the work was over, maybe they would let him have some silence. There were long hours ahead, but he could steal some sleep on the road, and the promise of a soft hotel bed somewhere miles from here made the task easier to imagine. He would make it quick for Father Coulter. He was a man of God, after all.

Fegan shifted in the seat, trying to dislodge the pain that clambered across his gut. He had stopped spitting up blood hours ago, but the aches still picked through his organs whether he was moving or still. And it was warm. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Father Coulter kept his house well heated, even during what was for Belfast an unusually clement spring. The heavy overcoat Fegan had found in the priest’s wardrobe didn’t help, but he needed something to keep the blood off his clothes. There shouldn’t be much if he did it right, but he had to be careful.

But it was more than heat making Fegan sweat. He remembered the symptoms from watching his father fight the drink. Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since he’d swallowed that last mouthful of whiskey. The shakes were mild yet, just the slightest of tremors, but bouts of clammy nausea came and went. Dryness dusted his tongue, and he gathered saliva to roll around his mouth. He remembered his father’s screaming nightmares, the horrors that would send him back to the bottle. Fegan wondered if the followers would let him dream.

Shafts of light moved across the ceiling, squeezing through the gap above the drawn curtains, and the clattering of a diesel engine came from outside. The creak of the taxi’s handbrake, a door opening and closing, a hearty voice wishing someone goodnight. A grumble as the taxi moved off, then the scratching of a key trying to find its home.

The shadows stirred and drifted to the darkest corners.

Fegan felt a cool draught around his ankles as the front door opened below. Light switches clicked on and off. There was a flutter and a high screech as the cockatiel in the living room was angered by the priest disturbing its sleep.

Fegan heard Father Coulter slur, “It’s all right, Joe-Joe. Sure, it’s only me. Go back to sleep, now.”

Another light switch clicked off and Fegan heard the priest begin to climb the stairs, huffing as he went, the steps creaking beneath his weight. Fegan heard the bathroom light’s pull-cord, then a fly unzipping. Father Coulter hummed to himself as he thundered into the toilet bowl for what seemed like hours. There was a softer running of water, then the rustling of a towel. All the while, the priest hummed some tuneless song.

Fegan tensed as the lumbering footsteps came closer. He kept his own breath quiet and even, while Father Coulter’s came in heavy rasps. He heard the priest pause in the doorway and then the click of the light switch.

“Aw, shite,” Father Coulter said when the darkness remained. The light bulb lay near Fegan’s shoeless feet.

Father Coulter sighed and entered the bedroom. Fegan and the shifting shadows watched his dark form as he kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. He turned onto his back and pulled the white collar from his black shirt. A few seconds of fumbling and his top buttons were undone. He let his arms fall to his sides, and he sprawled on top of the blankets. Within a few minutes his guttural snoring filled the room.

The three Brits emerged from the darkest corners to stand alongside the bed, miming the priest’s execution. The woman followed them, her baby’s tiny hands clutching at her dress as she rocked it in her arms. She smiled at Fegan. He nodded and stood up. Campbell’s knife was light but the grip felt solid in his hand as he crossed the room. He felt for the thumb stud, cold through the thin membrane of the surgical gloves. The blade opened with a small snap.

The snoring stopped. Fegan could just make out Father Coulter’s round face and blinking eyes.

The shadows receded.

The priest’s voice was a small whisper. “Who’s there?”

“It’s all right, Father,” Fegan said. “You’re just dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

“Dreaming? I . . . I ...”

“Shush.” Fegan raised the knife.

“Gerry? Gerry Fegan? Is that you?”

Fegan froze. “Yes, Father.”

“What do you want, Gerry? What are you doing here?”

“Remember you told me about the dreams, Father?”

The priest tried to raise himself up on his elbows. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

Fegan reached down and smoothed Father Coulter’s hair. “Remember? Those Brits. You could have stopped it, but you didn’t.”

Father Coulter slowly shook his head. “That was so long ago, Gerry. I was scared.”

“Aren’t you scared now?”

The priest nodded.

“You won’t have to dream about them any more,” Fegan said.

“Please, Gerry, you’re frightening me. What do you want from me?”

“Nothing at all,” Fegan said. “You know, I would have let you live.”

Father Coulter stiffened on the bed. “What?”

“I was ready to do it the other night, but I lost my nerve. I could have lived with the three Brits, maybe. I thought you didn’t deserve it.”

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, Gerry, please don’t. Let’s just talk about it, eh?” The priest tried to sit up and Fegan gently pushed him back down.

“Then you brought that message to Marie. You threatened her for McGinty.”

“No, I—”

“And you told McGinty what I said. My confession.”

“No, that’s not true. I swear, I never—”

“Quiet, Father.”

“Oh, Christ, please—”

Fegan closed his left hand over the priest’s mouth to stifle his cries. He brought the knife down once, hard, before Father Coulter could raise his arms in defence. It was a good knife, with a strong, sharp steel blade. There was little resistance, even from the breastbone, as the knife pierced his heart. Fegan withdrew it easily, and brought it down twice more.

Father Coulter gripped Fegan’s shoulder, his body twisting. In the darkness, Fegan saw gleaming eyes stare up at him. The priest’s breath was warm as he screamed into Fegan’s palm.

“It’s all right, Father,” Fegan said. “It won’t take long. You’ll go into shock soon. It won’t hurt at all.”

Fegan took his hand away, and Father Coulter grabbed shallow gasps of air. The priest’s mouth worked silently, opening and closing. He brought his hands to his chest. There was little blood.

“May God forgive you,” he hissed.

Fegan wiped the blade clean on the blankets. “It’s not His forgiveness I need, Father. I know that now.”

The bubbling of blood filling the priest’s chest cavity, the rustling of blankets, and the soft whimpering faded as Fegan watched him die. It took less than two minutes from the first stab to the last hiss of air as the life left Father Coulter’s body. Fegan removed the overcoat he’d taken from the wardrobe and covered the corpse.

He folded the knife and put it back in his pocket. His shoes were next to the chair and he slipped them on in silence. A sports bag holding a few clothes, British and Irish passports, two pistols, fifty-seven rounds of ammunition and thousands of pounds in rolled-up bills lay on the floor. Fegan slung it over his shoulder and made his way downstairs. He went through the kitchen to the backyard, closing the door softly behind him. The gate was secured from the inside by a padlock, so he climbed over the yard wall to the alleyway beyond and started walking. It was a long trek from here to the Europa Hotel in town, and the bus station behind it. He’d have to be quick to make the last airport shuttle.

Fegan kept his head down as he walked. Six shadows followed closely.

SIX

31

Marie McKenna lay naked beside him. It was his bed, but it wasn’t. It was his house, but it wasn’t. Fegan was naked, too, and it shamed him. He went to cover himself.

“Don’t,” she said, moving his hand away.

“I’m not clean,” he said.

She hushed him, and moved in close. Her body was warm against his. She kissed him. Her mouth was soft, like summer air.

When he was free of her lips, he said, “It’s been so long. I don’t know what it feels like.”

“It feels like this,” she said, taking his hand and placing it on her breast.

Her skin was soft, her breast round and supple, with a hardness against his palm.

Yes, that’s what it feels like. Smooth, warm . . . slick?

He looked down. His hand had smeared red on her body. She looked down, too, and he saw her mouth twist in disgust. He tried to wipe it away, but only made it worse, great crimson hand-prints across her breasts and stomach. She pulled away, kicking.

“No,” he said, grabbing her forearms. The blood made them slippery, and he couldn’t hold her. “Please, let me clean it.”

He tried again to wipe it away, leaving red tracks along her hips and thighs. “I’ll make it better,” he said. “Please let me make it better.”

She screamed then, writhing, scratching, kicking to get away. “Leave me alone. Get away from me. Help! Help! HELP!”

He didn’t know who she was screaming for, who could help her, or who she needed saving from. Surely not him? No, not him. Couldn’t be. It was only a little blood. If she would only stay still he could wipe it away. But she wouldn’t stay still. She kept kicking, screaming, crying, and he only wanted to make it better, but the hand on his shoulder wouldn’t let him. It kept shaking him, holding him back from her, that hand squeezing and shaking him, and now its owner was saying something, talking, but he needed to make Marie clean, make it better, but that hand wouldn’t stop, it wouldn’t leave him—

“You can sleep on the plane, mate.”

Fegan slapped the hand away, his eyes snapping open, and he reached for his pocket where the knife nestled, cold and still.

The bus driver stood back, blinking down at him. “Jesus, take it easy, mate. I’m just telling you we’re here.”

Fegan looked around, confused. The bus was dimly lit, and outside a few late-night travellers walked to and from the terminal. His heart rattled like an overworked engine and his forehead was cold with sweat. “Sorry,” he said. “Thanks.”

He gathered up the sports bag and walked along the aisle, the driver’s suspicious stare fixed on his back. He stepped down to the pavement, and the door hissed closed. The bus pulled away, leaving Fegan watching the terminal from the other side of a pedestrian crossing. Two Airport Police officers stood chatting between the entrance and exit, their MP5 sub-machine guns slung across bullet-proof vests.

Fegan knew he would be searched if he went near the terminal. Security was tighter now than it ever had been at the height of the Troubles. A war in a desert thousands of miles away frightened them more than a war on their doorstep. Fegan took the phone from his pocket and dialled Marie’s mobile number. He pressed the phone to his ear and closed his eyes. When she answered, he felt some small warm thing burst and spill inside.

“I’m here,” he said.

“You should’ve gone,” Fegan said.

“No chance,” Marie said. Her Renault Clio roared hoarsely as she sped through the roundabouts that led away from the airport, heading north. Ellen dozed in her child seat in the back, having barely woken as her mother carried her and a suitcase out to where Fegan waited.

“It would’ve been safer,” he said.

“Maybe,” she said, grinding gears in anger. “But I’d have to live with the knowledge that I let some fucking jumped-up gangster with political pretensions dictate where I could bring up my daughter. No, thank you. I’d sooner live in fear in my own home than live in shame in someone else’s.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Fegan said, glancing back at Ellen.

“Balls,” Marie said, with a finality that told Fegan to leave it. “Jesus, the rigmarole in that airport. I could see Patsy Toner following me all the way there in that Jag of his, then walking behind me into the terminal. Jesus, I hope McGinty never relies on him to be discreet. Anyway, I checked in, got my boarding pass, went through security, then just when they called us for boarding I said I wasn’t going. God, you should’ve seen them. Such a fuss! There was this girl, a stewardess, looked like she’d been licking piss off a nettle.”

Marie glowed with anger. Fegan stayed quiet.

“Christ, she was spitting bullets ’cause they had to unload my suitcase from the hold. That took nearly forty minutes, and then they had to wait for some security men to come and escort me out. I was only just back out of Departures a few minutes before you called.”

She was high on adrenalin and indignation. Fegan asked, “No sign of Patsy?”

“No,” she said. “He was gone. I imagine he slinked off as soon as he saw me check in.”

“So, where are we going?”

“Portcarrick,” she said. “Up on the coast, past Ballymena. My parents took us there a few times when we were little. We always stayed on the caravan park, but there’s a hotel on the bay. It’s a quiet place, hardly anyone ever stays there. Hopkirk’s, it’s called. I hope it’s still open.”

“Me too,” Fegan said.

Dreams came and went, some ugly, some beautiful. Fegan had kept his eyes open as far as the outskirts of Antrim, but the endless dual carriageways stretching into the distance lulled him into a fitful sleep, punctuated by jolts and swerves. As he drifted between waking and sleeping, he was aware of the rise and fall of the road, and the darkness they travelled deeper into.

After a time, Fegan woke to see nothing but black around them. The pressure in his ears told him they were up high somewhere.

“We’re nearly there,” Marie said. “We’re in the Glens now. You missed the delights of Ballymena.”

She took a left turn, and Fegan felt the car begin a shallow descent. Beyond the window he could pick out coarse grass that rolled away beyond his vision. It felt like a wilderness, miles of nothing.

“It’s beautiful country when you see it in the daylight,” Marie said. “Peaceful, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I used to love coming here. I always wanted to buy a home on the bay. I guess that’ll never happen now.”

Fegan’s breath caught in his throat when, for just a few seconds, the moon slid out from behind the clouds. It illuminated the landscape and he could see for miles in every direction, grassy hills climbing up to touch the sky. And up ahead, in the near distance, he saw the silver shimmer in the bay below, the North Atlantic meeting the Irish Sea to make a looking-glass for the moon. Then it was gone, the brilliant disc hiding, and the road cut downward between the slopes.

“I never . . .”

“Never what?” Marie asked.

“I never thought things could look like that,” he said. “Not really.”

She reached across and squeezed his arm. Fegan didn’t know whether to pull away or meet her hand with his own. He did neither.

A strange anticipation bubbled in him when he thought of the six followers. As much as he longed for a peaceful night, part of him wanted them to see this place too. He thought of the woman and her baby, always pretty, always showing him her soft, sad smile. She deserved to see somewhere other than the inside of McKenna’s bar or Fegan’s sparsely furnished house.

After a last steep drop, the road settled back into a soft undulation and a series of sweeping bends. They arrived at a gathering of low whitewashed houses, and followed the narrow road as it curved around them. And there it was, just as Marie had described it. To the left, a bridge over a small estuary, an ancient church on the other side of it, and a long beach curving north into the darkness beyond. On this side, its dim basalt reflecting little of the car’s lights, stood a memorial to a lost fishing crew.

The memorial passed on their left, between them and the river mouth, and a pretty two-storey cottage was just on the far side of the hotel on their right. Fegan could barely make out the mass of cliffs reaching out to sea, but he could feel them looming over the dwelling. Marie pulled the car into the space between the two old buildings. Lights peered through the slats in the cottage’s shuttered windows. Shadows moved against the walls, but Fegan couldn’t be sure if they were six echoes of the dead, or just the sweep of the car’s headlights. He shivered when he realised he didn’t know which he most desired.

“Here we are,” Marie said. “Hopkirk’s.”

“Oh, no,” Hopkirk said. “No, no, no.”

He was a tall, thin man of senior years, a plume of white hair swept back from his forehead. He wore a pointed goatee and thick glasses, and raised his nose and closed his eyes as he spoke, as if his words had a pleasing odor.

“Quite out of the question,” he said from behind the bar. One customer sat on a stool, watching the goings-on, a whiskey and a jug of water to hand. Fegan eyed the glass and swallowed.

“Please, we’ve nowhere else to go,” Marie said as she rocked Ellen in her arms. The little girl rubbed her eyes and mewled.

“The rooms aren’t aired out and the beds aren’t made up,” Hopkirk said. “I haven’t let rooms in years.”

“If you have sheets I’ll make the bed up myself,” she said. “If not, the mattress will do. It’s very late and my wee girl needs somewhere to stay for the night.”

It was indeed late, almost two in the morning. The bar’s opening hours seemed to be a loose arrangement between landlord and drinker. The customer was a stout man, around sixty, well dressed, with a deep, refined voice. “Come on, Hopkirk,” he said, with a crooked smile. “Have you no mercy?”

Hopkirk scolded the customer with a look. “I’ve no food in for breakfasts,” he said. “Really, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

Fegan put his bag on the floor, unzipped it, and fished inside until he found what he wanted. The bar was coated in generations-thick paint. Fegan placed a roll of notes on the muddy green gloss. Hopkirk and the drinker looked from it to each other and back again.

Hopkirk separated the notes with a fingertip.

“How long can we stay for that?” Fegan asked.

“A while,” Hopkirk said without taking his eyes from the money. “I’ll make no promises about the service. You’ll have to sort your own meals out and you won’t have any hot water.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Marie said.

“Wait here.” Hopkirk came out from behind the bar and disappeared into a dark doorway.

The bar, with its painted panelling and floral wallpaper, looked as if it hadn’t been refurbished in decades. The floor was covered in a loose-laid carpet, trodden thin, that didn’t quite reach the walls. A vast fireplace dominated one end of the room, the embers crackling and sighing as they settled down for the night. Fegan’s eyes scanned the bottles behind the bar and he swallowed. Some of them looked as old as him.

The sole customer watched Fegan and Marie from his stool. “So, Portcarrick seemed like the place to be at two in the morning?” he asked. His half-smile was kind, in spite of the jibe.

“We just took a notion,” Marie said. Ellen was awake now, blinking and rubbing her nose. Marie walked to the bar and set her on the painted surface.

“Where are we?” the little girl asked.

“We’re on our holidays,” Marie said, “At the seaside.”

Ellen accepted the answer without question. “I’m hungry,” she said.

“We’ll get you some crisps,” Marie said.

“I live in the cottage next door,” the customer said. “If Hopkirk can’t manage anything decent in the morning, give us a shout. I’m sure me and the missus can rustle up a fry.”

Marie smiled. “That’s very kind.”

“Not at all,” the man said. He looked at Fegan. “You look like you could do with a good feed.”

Fegan nodded and felt the odd sensation of his mouth curling in a smile. He was not used to kindness.

“Albert Taylor,” the drinker said as he extended his hand. “Good to meet you. Been in the wars?”

Fegan shook his hand. “George Ferris,” he said. His left hand went to the abrasion on his temple and smoothed his hair over it. “I had a fall.”

Marie stared at Fegan for a beat, then said, “Mary Ferris.” She indicated her daughter. “Ellen,” she said. That lie would be too hard to maintain.

Taylor shook Marie’s hand. “Just knock the window in the morning,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you fed even if Hopkirk’s not up to it.” He leaned forward on his stool, winked, and whispered, “Besides, I’m a better cook.”

Beyond the shuttered window the sea whispered and moaned. In the near-blackness, Fegan could hardly see the six shadows. But he could hear them. When his eyes fell shut, his head nodding forward, the screaming began. And the baby crying. Somewhere across the room, Marie and Ellen lay together, clinging to each other in this new place. Now and then, Fegan heard the little girl whimper. Sleep seemed to come no easier to her than to him. The chair he rested on was well upholstered, and with his feet propped on Marie’s suitcase he was comfortable enough, even with the rippling pains in his gut.

Sweat chilled his forehead and his hand trembled as he wiped it away. The dry want at the back of his throat deepened as he thought of the bar downstairs, the bottles lined up like whores in a brothel. He imagined the warmth of whiskey on his tongue and the coolness of stout on his lips.

Marie’s steady breathing formed a counterpoint to the waves rolling on the beach outside. Fegan’s own breath fell into step with hers as his mind wandered. His thoughts drifted from memory to memory - places and people, some bright and summery, others grey and haggard. He thought of the days before the bad times, before he knew not all fathers acted like that. About his mother and the warmth of her arms. About a goal drawn in chalk on a gable wall, and five boys kicking a ball at it, laughing, running, pushing, bare-backed on an August evening. About a girl called Julie who lived not far away but might as well have been from a different country. She shared a bag of toffees with Fegan, and her father beat her senseless for running with the likes of him. As his head rolled forward, he remembered her words and the purple swelling on her lip.

You’re the other sort

, she said.

Daddy says I can’t be friends with you.

He was falling head first into the dark when the cop started screaming, pulling him back. The others emerged from the black and joined in, dragging Fegan into wakefulness. Ellen stirred on the old bed, tiny cries escaping her. Fegan’s head felt so heavy, like sodden clay. He’d given them the priest. Couldn’t they leave him be?

No. The RUC man wanted his price paid. Fegan saw him, closest of the six, walking the floor.

“All right,” Fegan whispered to the dark. “Tomorrow night. Please, I’ll do it tomorrow night. Just give me a little quiet. Just a couple of hours.”

The RUC man hovered for a moment, then lost himself in the shadows. Ellen gave a cry so small Fegan might only have imagined it.

“But I don’t want to dream,” he said. “Don’t let me dream.”

He searched the blackness for them, for some assurance they would protect him from the horrors that waited in his mind. The woman stepped out of the dark and brought her forefinger to her lips.

“Thank you,” Fegan whispered.

He closed his eyes.

32

Edward Hargreaves was breathless when he answered his phone. The treadmill whirred under his feet. Two miles in less than twenty minutes - not bad. His good mood evaporated when the woman’s voice told him it was the Chief Constable on the line.

“Go ahead,” she chirped.

“Good morning, Minister,” Pilkington said.

“Christ, what now?” Hargreaves asked. He felt no inclination to feign conviviality. It was too perfect a morning to be spoiled by this oik. His top-floor Belgravia apartment afforded him a delightful view of the small private park surrounded by Cadogan Place. The single perk of this job was a top-notch London pad. So far he’d been able to prevent his wife seeing the inside of it. The desiccated old shrew would never cross its threshold if he had anything to say about it. Steam drifted in from the en-suite bathroom, where his new acquaintance was washing the sweat from her sculpted back. No, his wife would never visit this apartment and ruin the only good thing about his rotten job.

“Another killing,” Pilkington said.

Hargreaves stepped off the treadmill. “Who?”

“A priest. Father Eammon Coulter. His housekeeper found him ninety minutes ago when she arrived to make his breakfast. Details are sketchy, but he appears to have been stabbed.”

“And why are we concerned about a priest?” Hargreaves asked. A reasonable question, he thought.

“A few reasons,” Pilkington said. “He’s the priest who buried McKenna and Caffola. He was Bull O’Kane’s cousin, and not the finest example of the clergy from what I’ve heard. There was some sort of scandal in Sligo in the late Seventies, all swept under the carpet, and he was moved out of the parish in a hurry. Rumor has it O’Kane himself fixed it for him to be installed in Belfast. He wanted a priest he could control in the area.”

“So Fegan did it?”

“We must assume so.”

“I see,” Hargreaves said. “And why hasn’t he been taken care of yet?”

“Our man tried to take care of him yesterday, but he botched it. Our other insider, the one who got our man back in, says McGinty’s not best pleased. The leadership are ready to cut him off completely, feud or not. And now Fegan’s missing. My men were called to Calcutta Street after gunfire was heard, but there was no sign of him.” Pilkington cleared his throat. “And there’s another complication.”

“Dear God, what now?” Hargreaves’s shoulders sagged.

“There’s a woman, Marie McKenna, niece of the recently departed Michael McKenna. She fell foul of McGinty years ago, but he left her alone because of her uncle. Now the uncle’s gone, he’s been trying to intimidate her into leaving the country. Our insider gave her plane tickets for her and her daughter, followed her to the airport, and watched her check in. She never arrived on the other side. Now she’s missing, too.”

“I don’t understand,” Hargreaves said. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

“Well, she and Fegan were apparently getting close; he was at her flat when he was arrested the night before last. We believe they’re together, wherever they are. It means if he’s found it’ll be harder to do anything about it.”

Hargreaves felt a warm hand stroke the back of his neck. He turned to see the girl, her tanned skin bare and glistening. She spoke very little English, not that it mattered. “So, what happens now?” he asked.

“We wait,” Pilkington said. “Fegan will turn up somewhere. We’ll just have to be ready to deal with him. There is one good thing to come out of this, though.”

Hargreaves gave a dry laugh. “Really? Do tell.”

“McGinty was due to hold a press conference this morning. He was going to trot out one of his thugs who got a beating off Fegan and claim my men did it. Then he was going to repeat his claims about my men having been responsible for Caffola’s demise. He’ll most likely cancel it now. Our friend in the party says the priest’s murder has stolen McGinty’s thunder.”

“Lucky for you,” Hargreaves said. “Certain sacrifices might not have to be made after all.”

“My concern is the rule of law, sir, not politics.” Pilkington’s voice was hard against Hargreaves’s ear. “I’d have resigned before I let any of my men take the fall for Fegan’s actions.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Hargreaves said. He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. The girl smiled sweetly as she toyed with the silver hairs on his chest.

33

In less than a minute, Paul McGinty transformed Patsy Toner’s office from a drab, efficient workspace into something resembling a landfill. Campbell watched the eruption from a chair in the corner. He had to fight the urge to laugh when McGinty upended Toner’s desk, leaving the solicitor sitting in the middle of the room with books, folders and sheets of paper scattered all around him. Campbell was relieved when the urge passed, sparing him the unbearable pain it would have ignited in his side.

When McGinty’s rage subsided he stood panting among the destruction. “Jesus,” he said. “Look what you made me do.”

“I’m sorry,” Toner said.

“Sorry?” McGinty slapped Toner hard across the ear. “Sorry? All you had to do was make sure she got on the plane, for fuck’s sake.”

Toner brought his hands up to shield himself. “She’d checked in and everything. I couldn’t go through the security gates to see what she did. Honest to God, I thought she was away.”

McGinty paced the room, his hands on his hips. “Well, now you know different, eh?” He pointed at Campbell. “And you, you’re no better. I had to phone the Bull to tell him his cousin was dead. You’re bloody lucky he didn’t tell me to do you.”

Campbell went to speak, but his damaged rib protested as he inhaled.

McGinty continued to pace. “I should’ve been talking to the press right now, showing off Eddie Coyle’s face. All that’s fucked. Father Coulter, a priest for Christ’s sake. What’s wrong with Fegan?”

Campbell took a shallow breath. “I told you, he’s crazy.”

“Not so crazy that he couldn’t get the better of you.”

“Or maybe that’s

why

he got the better of me,” Campbell said, returning McGinty’s stare. “Don’t worry, he’ll show up soon enough. He’s still got you to come after.”

McGinty stopped pacing and glared at Campbell. “Get out, Patsy.”

Toner raised his eyes from his lap. “What? This is my office. You can’t—”

McGinty spun and kicked Toner squarely on the shin. “Get the fuck out or I’ll rip your fucking head off!”

Toner limped to the door, scowling.

When McGinty was alone with Campbell, he said, “Watch your mouth, Davy. I don’t want any talk of that. Not when there’s other people around.”

“All right,” Campbell said. “But you better be watching your back. Fegan could come at you any time, anywhere.”

McGinty sat down on Toner’s chair. “Maybe, if he’s got the balls.”

“Balls? Balls has nothing to do with it. How many times do I have to spell it out for you? He’s insane. He was a vicious bastard before; now he’s a

crazy

vicious bastard. All I’m telling you is watch out.”

“All right,” McGinty said, standing. “Now let me tell you something. If he shows up and you haven’t sorted him within thirty seconds, you’re the one who’d better watch out.”

Campbell held the politician’s gaze for as long as he dared before letting his eyes slip away. “So, what’s the plan?”

“The news.”

Campbell looked back to McGinty. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe you didn’t hear it. It’s mostly about Father Coulter, of course, how shocked the community is and all that. I did a couple of soundbites first thing this morning. But we got another wee story sneaked into the newsrooms, something about Marie McKenna and her daughter going missing. If some concerned citizen spots them they’re to call Lisburn Road Police Station where our friend will be waiting to answer the phone.”

“It’s risky,” Campbell said. “The cops might get to them first.”

“I promised our friend a nice bonus if he gets the call and passes it on to me. He loves his money. Mark my word, he won’t leave that phone all day. Besides, I don’t see what else we can do.” McGinty leaned forward and pointed at Campbell. “But listen hard, Davy. Don’t fuck it up again. If this flushes Fegan out, I want him done. You sort him or I sort you. Understood?”

Campbell got to his feet, his thigh complaining and his side shrieking. “Understood. If he surfaces, I’ll get him.”

34

“You’re very kind,” Marie said.

Mrs. Taylor smiled and set a plate of toast on the table.

The warm smell of fried breakfast filled the cottage and Fegan’s stomach rumbled in anticipation, despite the rippling aches still lurking in his midsection. Steam leaked from a big pot of tea at the center of the table. There was milk, sugar, butter and jam.

The lady of the house had a round, glowing face, and clear blue eyes. Like her husband, she was well-spoken but had a good line in swear words. Fegan, Marie and Ellen had been in the house less than thirty minutes, and Mrs. Taylor had already apologised three times for cursing within earshot of the child.

“Get the fu—I mean, get away, Stella,” she said to the dog who sat staring expectantly at the table. Fegan knew she was a Boxer - his grandfather had owned one - and Stella had the same kind of face. One that looked permanently guilty, as if some form of mischief was in the recent past, the near future, or both. Stella ignored Mrs. Taylor’s instruction, instead licking her chops as Mr. Taylor brought in a plate loaded with bacon and sausages.

Fegan’s dry-eyed gaze wandered the room. Paintings covered the walls - oils and watercolors - and small sculptures sat on every level surface.

Another wave of nausea came with the cold prickling of sweat on his forehead and back. He swallowed and wiped his brow before lacing his fingers together on the table, each hand keeping the other still. A headache threatened to blot out the sunshine from outside, where Fegan could see across the mouth of the river, over to where the long beach stretched into the distance. The sky was a hard blue and two boats dotted the horizon. A mass of land was just visible in the haze where the sea met the sky.

Mr. Taylor sat down. “The Mull of Kintyre,” he said. He leaned over to Ellen. “See out there? That’s Scotland.”

Ellen gaped out of the window. “Look, Mummy, that’s Scotland!”

Marie smiled and stroked her daughter’s hair. “We’ll take a walk on the beach later so you can see it better, okay? Now, eat up your nice breakfast.”

While Ellen carefully constructed a toast and bacon sandwich, Fegan thought about the Mull of Kintyre. It was 1994, and he was in the Maze when news came of a Chinook helicopter crash on the Mull. Twenty-five MI5, British Army and RUC intelligence personnel, plus four crew members, died when the aircraft ploughed into the hillside in heavy fog. There were celebrations in Republican and Loyalist blocks alike that night. While the other prisoners laughed and cheered outside his cell, Fegan lay on his bed and studied the cracks in the ceiling.

Mrs. Taylor came back with a pot and a wooden spoon. “Who’s for scrambled eggs?” she asked. Ellen and Fegan refused. The little girl smiled at him when he wrinkled his nose.

“So, how’s old Hopkirk treating you?” Mr. Taylor asked.

“Fine,” Marie said. “We’re used to roughing it, anyway.” She looked at Fegan with a sly smile. “Aren’t we, George?”

It took Fegan a moment to remember the lie. “Yeah, we’ve stayed in worse.”

Ellen looked back and forth between them, a crease in her brow. Marie winked at him, and Fegan smiled back.

Mrs. Taylor finally settled at the table, her fussing done, and joined them in eating. The silence was only interrupted by the hostess slapping her husband’s arm when he fed the dog a piece of sausage.

“So, what brings you to Portcarrick?” she asked.

“We just wanted a bit of a break,” Marie said. “It was all very last-minute.”

“Well, yes, landing in Hopkirk’s in the middle of the night does seem a bit impulsive.”

“We meant to get away earlier, but George got held up at work.”

Mrs. Taylor turned to Fegan. “And what kind of work do you do, George?”

Fegan chewed and swallowed his food before answering. “I’m a Community Development Officer,” he said.

“In Belfast?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Whereabouts? We’re both from Belfast, originally.”

Fegan scrambled for a lie, but came up empty. “Different places,” he said.

Mrs. Taylor seemed satisfied. “Did you hear the news this morning?”

“No, not yet,” Marie said.

“Oh, it’s terrible. A priest was killed in Belfast last night. Somebody broke into his house and stabbed him to death. Isn’t that awful?”

Marie set her knife and fork on her plate. “Dreadful,” she said, looking hard at Mrs. Taylor.

“And the funny thing is,” Mrs. Taylor continued, ‘he was the same priest who conducted the funerals for those two men who were killed this week. Isn’t that strange?”

“Did they say what time it happened?” Marie asked.

“Sometime last night is all they said. His housekeeper found him this morning. What’s the matter, love, aren’t you hungry?”

Marie stared across the table at Fegan. “I’ve had enough, thank you. Can I use your bathroom?”

“Of course you can, love. Just through the kitchen, first on your left.”

Marie stood and left the room, keeping her eyes on Fegan until she was out of view.

Fegan lost the will to eat.

“What did you do?” Marie asked.

“Nothing,” Fegan said. The sun warmed his skin, but a cool breeze came in from the sea. Clean, clear water rolled up to them. The white sand reflected harsh sunlight, stoking the throb behind Fegan’s eyes.

“I don’t believe you,” Marie said. They had left Ellen playing with Stella in the garden. She was under the watchful eye of Mrs. Taylor as she tended her plants.

“It’s the truth,” Fegan said. The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he didn’t know what else to say. She could never understand.

Marie stopped walking and shielded her eyes with her hand. “You said you had something to do before you came for me last night. It was Father Coulter, wasn’t it?”

Fegan struggled with the urge to look away. “No. I had to get money.”

“Then why is McGinty after you? Why did someone try to hurt you yesterday?”

“Because I stood up to them when they came to put you out.”

“No, it’s more than that.” She started walking along the beach again. “They wouldn’t do that just because you helped me. There’s got to be more to it.”

“There’s not.” Anger at his own deceit flared in Fegan’s chest.

“And what about Vincie Caffola? Jesus, Uncle Michael?”

Fegan hated himself for lying. “Your uncle was getting mixed up in things he shouldn’t, and Vincie Caffola was mouthing off about the direction the party was taking. McGinty told me himself. There were plenty of people who wanted them dead.”

“You’ve killed before,” she said. “I know you can do it. Whatever part of you that’s missing, you’ve never got it back.”

“I’ve changed.” He took her elbow, turning her to face him. “You said so yourself. You said you could see it in me.”