The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve)

Marie studied his face, her eyes red and angry. “Do you swear?”

“Yes,” he said.

She put her hand on his chest, over his heart. “Do you swear on your mother’s soul?”

Fegan didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said.

Marie kept her hand on his heart and stepped in close, her voice a desperate whisper. “Do you swear on Ellen’s life? Do you swear on my daughter’s soul?”

“Don’t ask me to do that,” he said.

Marie gripped Fegan’s shirt in her fist. “Do you swear?”

Her eyes flared with hope, but something else burned beneath. Something Fegan didn’t want to see.

“Swear and I’ll believe you,” she whispered.

“I swear,” he said.

Marie nodded slowly and turned to look out to sea.

They walked without words along the beach, across the bridge, and into the cottage garden. Neither Ellen nor the dog showed any signs of wearing each other out as they ran in circles around the shrubbery. Mrs. Taylor was on her knees, her bottom in the air, as she tugged grass from beneath a flowering bush.

She looked around at the sound of the gate. “You weren’t long,” she said. “Too fresh for you?”

“We’re a bit tired,” Fegan said.

“I’ll help you with that,” Marie said.

“Oh, no, sure I’m fine,” the bright-faced woman protested.

“Please, I’d like to.”

“Well, all right.” Mrs. Taylor looked up to Fegan. “Why don’t you go on inside? You can keep Albert company while he watches his films.”

Fegan questioned Marie with his eyes. She pressed on his arm, telling him to go. He went inside to find Mr. Taylor with his feet up on the coffee table, watching a John Wayne movie.

“Ah, George,” said Mr. Taylor. “Grab yourself a seat. It’s just started.”

“What is it?” Fegan asked.

“

The Searchers

. Have you seen it? It’s a classic. The Duke’s best.”

“No, I haven’t seen it,” Fegan said. “I’ll hang my jacket up.”

He walked back to the coat hook in the small porch. Voices drifted in from the garden through the slightly opened door. Soft voices, women’s voices, punctuated by a child’s laughter and a dog’s excited yips.

“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” Mrs. Taylor said.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Marie said.

“All right. It’s just what it said on the news, a woman about your age, blonde hair, and her daughter.”

“No, it’s not me. Must be someone else.”

“That’s okay, love. Just remember, if there’s anything you want to tell me, anything you’re worried about, I’m here. You’re a smart woman, I can tell, but even smart women do silly things when they’re afraid.”

Fegan listened to five heartbeats of quiet. Only the dog’s panting rose above the waves.

“That’s the thing,” Marie said. “I’m not afraid of him.”

Marie didn’t look at Fegan as they ate lunch. Ellen’s appetite had been inflamed by almost three hours of chasing Stella around the garden. She attacked a stack of sandwiches with fervour. Stella lapped up a bowlful of water and collapsed in a contented heap on the thick rug at Mr. Taylor’s feet.

Fegan felt Mrs. Taylor’s eyes on him. Not accusing or fearful, but cautious, as a mother regards her daughter’s first suitor. He smiled at her once or twice, and she returned the gesture, but her gaze remained firm.

When lunch was finished, Mrs. Taylor allowed Ellen to take a nap upstairs in one of the comfortable bedrooms. The child had complained of noises disturbing her sleep the night before and seemed glad to climb onto the bed and bury her little head in a soft pillow. Stella hopped up and joined her, circling Ellen’s feet before curling into a dozing ball.

Marie insisted that Fegan and she should do the dishes while Mrs. Taylor put her feet up. They were alone at the sink, passing soapy plates back and forth.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Marie said. “I’m going to trust you because I’ve no choice. You’re the only person I know who’s prepared to stand up to McGinty.”

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Fegan said.

“So you keep telling me. But what does that mean? When will it be safe to go home? How long do we stay in Portcarrick? These people are so kind, but we can’t impose on them for ever.”

Fegan added a plate to the dried stack on the worktop. “I’ll go to Belfast today. I’ll sort it out.”

“How?” Marie turned to face him. There were no more dishes. “How are you going to sort it out?”

“There’s people I have to see,” Fegan said. “In a couple of days you won’t have to worry.”

Her stare would not leave him. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll sort it out,” he said.

“No. I need to know what you’re going to do. Tell me.”

Fegan threw the towel on the drainer. He gripped Marie’s shoulders with his wiry hands. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure you and Ellen are safe. That’s all.”

Her eyes danced with his. “All right. Whatever it takes, and that’s all. Nothing more.”

Fegan nodded, and lifted the towel from the drainer. He felt her hand on his forearm.

“And nothing less,” she said.

He turned to look into her hard eyes. “I’ll need your car,” he said.

35

Campbell moved through Fegan’s house, his steps light, even though there was no one to hear. The back window was still open after yesterday’s encounter, and despite the pain it caused him he had been able to climb through. The kitchen was clean and neat. The cooker was gleaming white, the linoleum flooring spotless. The only hint of untidiness was the row of hand tools still lying on a cloth. Campbell inspected them. The cloth was actually leather, soft to the touch, and the tools were held in place by loops. They lay on the flat portion of a foldaway table. He ran his fingers over them. There were small saws of different types, chisels and files. All well used, not the playthings of a casual hobbyist.

He stepped through to the living room. A sofa and two armchairs, not new but not threadbare either. A coffee table sat at the center of the room. It looked handmade, competently but not artfully put together, coated with thick varnish. Another home-made piece supported a small television. A mirror hung over the fireplace. Campbell went to it and studied the deepening lines of his face. His beard needed trimming, as did his hair.

A guitar case stood propped in the corner. Campbell opened the clasps and looked inside. He took the unstrung guitar out and peered inside the fist-sized hole in its belly. He turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing. After inspecting a small compartment inside the case, he put the guitar back in its coffin and sealed it.

He went to the table under the window. A felt sheet covered its surface, and a few small files and a ball of steel wool were scattered around it. There was good light here. Campbell imagined Fegan working under the window, his killer’s hands creating, not destroying.

The only other piece in the room was a sideboard. It was made of the same wood as the coffee table - pine, Campbell thought - with simple drawers and hinges. A framed photograph stood on top of it. Campbell lifted it. It looked like it had been taken in the late Fifties, early Sixties. A woman smiled at the camera, her hand held over her eyes like a salute, casting them in shadow. She was tall and slender, with blonde hair. Pretty in a clean, simple, girlish way. She stood on a street just like this one, one foot resting on a doorstep.

Campbell caught a warm smile spreading on his lips and coughed. He winced as his ribcage flared, and he put the photograph back.

A stack of unopened mail sat next to an empty Jameson’s bottle. He leafed through the envelopes, hoping for some clue as to where Fegan might have gone. If Campbell could find him first, take care of him, all would be well. If McGinty got him - well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

But what if Fegan found McGinty? That was an entirely different problem, and one that could not come to pass. If McGinty was killed, his old crew would scatter, perhaps turn on the leadership. A drift back to violence could destroy the movement, whether it was directed inward or outward. It had been McGinty’s feat to form a bridge between the street thugs and the more politically minded. Now McGinty had served his purpose, the leadership were starting to freeze him out, pull away from him and others like Bull O’Kane. But they were doing it slowly, carefully. The old ways were dead and gone, but still their ghosts might come to haunt the political process. The politicos might be smarter, but smart never stopped a bullet.

Nothing but bills. Campbell set them back on the sideboard. He hunkered down, mindful of his wounds, and opened the doors. Empty. One drawer contained a phone book and a Yellow Pages, both still wrapped in the plastic they were delivered in, but that was all. He stood and looked around the room and over to the stairs. No phone. Who the fuck didn’t have a phone?

Campbell crossed the room. There were deep reddish-brown spots on the carpet between the foot of the stairs and the front door. His own blood. He followed the trail up the staircase and paused at the top. The bathroom and two bedrooms. He knew he’d find nothing, but he entered the bathroom anyway. Mirror pieces crunched under his feet. There was a small hole in the wall at eye level, and another in the ceiling. The cops had probably missed them when they’d searched yesterday. Campbell pictured tired and jaded officers giving the home of a convicted terrorist a cursory sweep. No spray of blood commemorated Campbell’s injured ribcage.

He looked to the windowsill. A glass stood empty, the kind of glass a toothbrush and toothpaste might stand in. All the other accouterments of male grooming remained, apart from a razor. Fegan had left in a hurry, but not so quickly that he hadn’t taken the essentials.

The back bedroom contained nothing, not even a bed. It was clean, but completely bare save for cheap, neatly fitted carpeting. Campbell considered tearing the carpet up for just a moment, but it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed since it was laid. His aching side would never forgive him.

Back on the landing, an airing cupboard revealed only sheets and towels, all neatly folded and stacked. Campbell dug through them, already certain it was a pointless task.

Just the master bedroom left now. He pushed the door open and it gave a hard creak. Just like Campbell, Fegan didn’t oil his hinges. The bed was stiffly made, apart from the slightest impression at its foot where someone had sat some time ago. He knelt down and peered underneath the bedstead. A shoebox was just within reach. Campbell pulled it out and opened it. It was empty, but had the greasy smell of gun oil and money. A single nine-millimeter round rolled from corner to corner.

“Fuck,” he said, and tossed the box to the floor. There would be nothing under the mattress or tucked into the pillowcases, so there was little point in pulling the bedding apart. He did it anyway.

“Where the fuck are you?” Campbell asked the pile of sheets and stripped pillows. The mattress leaned against the wall, revealing the bare slats of the bedstead. There was only one place left to look. He opened the wardrobe door and, as he expected, found only a few shirts and a worn pair of jeans. He quickly proved there was nothing in the pockets.

Campbell went to close the wardrobe door, but something caught his eye. Something small and oblong, pushed into the farthest corner. He reached down and lifted it out. It was a long flat wooden box coated in black vinyl. The sort of box loose jewellery might be stored in. He sat on the edge of the bed and opened it.

Letters, all unopened, all postmarked HM PRISON MAZE, all emblazoned with

Return to sender

. Campbell flipped through them, twelve in total. The most recent was at the top. He hesitated for just a second, then tore it open.

It was one page of small, neat handwriting. The words and letters were impossibly uniform in size and spacing, as if the writer were afraid of revealing anything of himself. It was dated the fourteenth of December 1997. A little over nine and a half years ago. Campbell held his breath as he read.

Dear Mother,

Father Coulter was here today doing his visits. He told me you are very sick. He said you have cancer. I asked my new psychologist Dr. Brady and he said they would probably let me out to see you if I ask them.

Please let me see you. I am sorry for what I did. I am sorry I let you down. I know you are ashamed of me. I don’t blame you. I am ashamed of myself.

Please let me come and visit you. If I could take back what I did I would. I know you have mercy in your heart. I had no mercy in my heart when I did those things but I have now.

Please have mercy. Please let me see you before you get any sicker.

Your son,

Gerald.

Campbell closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling the paper’s texture between his fingers, listening to his own heartbeat. He opened them again and folded the letter before slipping it back into its envelope. Using his fingertip, he smoothed the tear over as best he could and returned the letter to the box. It fitted neatly into the back corner of the wardrobe, in the dark where he couldn’t see it.

“Fuck!” he said, startled at the vibration of his phone. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen. Number withheld. It could be anybody. He thumbed the answer button and brought it to his ear. “What?”

“We’ve found them,” Patsy Toner said.

36

“There you go,” the young man said, dropping the sponge into the bucket. “Not the tidiest ever, but you wanted it quick.”

Fegan pressed two twenty-pound notes into the acne-faced kid’s hand. “Thanks.”

“You all right, mate?”

Fegan pushed his shaking hands down into his pockets. “I’m grand,” he said, and turned to the car.

Viper Stripes, they were called. A pair of ridiculous white bands that drew a line from the green Renault Clio’s nose, over the hood, along the roof, and back down the tailgate. They were supposed to look sporty, but Fegan thought they looked stupid, though no more so than the other little cars parked in front of Antrim Motor Kit. They all had spoilers, bulbous wheel arches and lowered suspensions, and they were all driven by spotty youths in baseball caps.

Fegan had stopped at a beauty spot along the coast and removed the number plates from another green Clio. They were now stuck over Marie’s plates using permanent tape he had bought in a hardware shop in Ballymena. It would take a most attentive police officer to recognise the car as belonging to a missing woman.

Ten or fifteen years ago it would have been impossible to drive from the coast, through two large towns, and on to Belfast without meeting a roadblock. An army or police checkpoint would have been a certainty along Fegan’s route, but not today. Many times he’d been pulled from a car by Brits or UDR, and searched at the side of the road while uniformed men ripped out the vehicle’s innards. The young men in their modified cars would be outraged if that ever happened to them, though their fathers, Protestant and Catholic alike, had endured it every day for decades.

The weather had turned. The warm sunshine of the previous weeks had begun to wane, and clouds hung low overhead. The world was turning grey, and Fegan felt a heaviness inside as he opened the driver’s door.

He lowered himself into the car, started the engine, and moved off. The Clio jerked at his clumsy gear changes; it had been a long time since he’d driven. He joined the system of roundabouts that led to the M2 motorway. In less than an hour he’d be in Belfast.

37

“Jesus, you’re a fucking mess,” Campbell said.

“Fuck you,” Eddie Coyle said, forcing the words through the narrow opening of his mouth. Fegan had knocked out two teeth and dislocated his jaw. He looked like someone had molded his face from purple and yellow plasticine and sewn the pieces together.

“Shut up,” McGinty said from behind his desk. He pointed to the chair next to Coyle. “Sit down.”

McGinty had furnished his moderately sized constituency office with functional items, as befitted the party’s socialist dogma. Images of Republican heroes like James Connolly and Patrick Pearse decorated the walls. A map of Ireland divided into the four provinces hung above an Irish Tricolor.

“Our friend inside Lisburn Road station headed off a call from a hotel owner this morning,” McGinty said. “We were due a stroke of luck after the balls you two made of things.”

Campbell pointed to the ceiling, then his ear.

McGinty shook his head. “We’re clean. The place was swept for bugs this morning. As I was saying, our friend did well. He’ll get a nice bonus for his troubles and - despite my better judgment - you two get the chance to put things right. Do you think you can manage not to completely fuck it up this time?”

Campbell and Coyle did not answer.

“If I didn’t need to keep as few people in the know as possible, I’d have given this to someone else. But, as it’s a delicate matter, it’s up to you two.”

“Where are they?” Campbell asked.

“Portcarrick. It’s a little village up on the Antrim coast. Very pretty. There’s an old hotel on the bay called Hopkirk’s. They arrived there late last night, apparently. Gerry Fegan, Marie McKenna and the wee girl.”

Campbell knew the answer, but asked the question anyway. “What do you want us to do?”

McGinty gave him a hard stare. “Take a wild guess.”

“And what about the woman?”

McGinty’s eyes flickered for just an instant. “If she gets in the way, do whatever you have to.”

Coyle mopped drool from his chin with a stained handkerchief. He leaned forward in his seat. “And the wee girl?”

McGinty swivelled in his chair to look out the window at the greying sky. He wiped his mouth and looked at his hand, as if expecting to see blood there. “I said do whatever you have to.”

“No way I’m doing a wee girl.”

Squeezed between tight lips, Coyle’s words were hard to hear over the van’s rattling engine. It had been bought from a scrap dealer that morning. Red paint and rust had flaked at the touch of Campbell’s finger. He drove.

“It probably won’t come to that,” he said.

“But it might.” Coyle dabbed at his mouth.

“We’ll see. Do you know how to get to this place?”

“Sort of. Head for the M2. Keep going till you hit Antrim, then Ballymena. After that, we’ll have to go by the road signs.”

Campbell headed east across the city, onto the Falls Road and past the imposing Divis Tower, once a focal point of violence in the city. The top two floors of the twenty-storey block of flats had been commandeered by the British Army in the early Seventies for its views over the city. Because it stood at the heart of militant Republicanism, they could only access it by helicopter. Campbell had often wondered what it was like for the residents in the floors below, hearing their enemy’s footsteps above their homes, and the thunderous clatter of the helicopters bringing soldiers in and out, day and night. The army had abandoned it two years ago. Campbell imagined they were as glad to leave the tower as the residents were to see them go.

The van joined the Westlink, which in turn would lead them to the M2 and north towards the rugged Glens of Antrim. He winced now and then as the van’s jostling sparked painful flares in his side. The heavy clutch pedal did little for his injured thigh. The stop-and-start of traffic, backed up by roadworks to the south where the M1 joined the Westlink, only made it worse. What use was progress if all it caused was traffic jams? Peace had cost the people of Northern Ireland dear, but Campbell wouldn’t have been surprised if road congestion irked them more than anything else.

He looked across to Coyle in the passenger seat. “Tell me something. What is it with McGinty and that woman? There’s got to be more to it than her shacking up with a cop. What’s the story?”

“That’s none of your business,” Coyle said.

“Aw, come on.” Campbell shot him a grin. “Just a bit of gossip for the road, eh?”

Coyle sighed and shook his head.

“Jesus, come on, you miserable bastard. Why not tell me?”

“Three reasons.” Coyle counted them on his fingers. “One, you’re a cunt. Two, asking questions about Paul McGinty’s personal life is a fucking good way to get your legs broke. Three, talking hurts like fuck. Now shut your fucking mouth and drive.”

38

The air was heavy with coming rain as Fegan watched Patsy Toner’s office from the bus stop opposite. The solicitor ran his practice from rented rooms above a newsagent’s shop on the Springfield Road. His Jaguar was parked outside. It was seven o’clock and the sky made a grey blanket over the city.

A headache came in waves, punctuating the swells of nausea. The windows of an off-licence two doors down gleamed in the bruised evening. He ignored it. He knew Toner would come out soon. The lawyer would want to go drinking. Then Fegan would find out why the followers wanted that cop. When he knew who he was, he’d draw him out, get the cop to come to him.

Then he’d do it.

The RUC man would leave Fegan, just as the others had. Then Campbell and McGinty, tomorrow or the day after, and he would be free. He closed his eyes and pictured it: a dark, quiet room where he could lay his head down without fear of screaming.

Alone.

That word was bitter-sweet. He could close his eyes in peace, but he would be alone. He would have to run, leaving Marie and Ellen behind. At least they’d be safe and, really, that was all that mattered.

He opened his eyes as a chill crept to his center. Shadows gathered to him.

The light in Toner’s window died.

“He’s coming,” Fegan said.

He made his way across the road, squeezing his hands into a pair of surgical gloves. The Jaguar’s passenger side faced out, and Fegan hunkered down at its rear door and gripped the handle. A narrow staircase descended from Toner’s office to the doorway below. Fegan heard the door wheeze open and closed, and the jangling of keys. Toner talked on his mobile phone.

“So, it’s sorted?” he said. “Fucking glad to hear it. So long as they don’t make a balls of it.”

Fegan held his breath, readying himself.

“Let me know when it’s done. I’ll have a drink to celebrate.”

He heard a beep as Toner disconnected, then a whir and clunk as he unlocked the Jaguar.

Wait

, Fegan told himself,

wait, wait

. . .

He pulled the handle the moment he heard Toner open the driver’s door and slipped quietly onto the back seat as the solicitor lowered himself in. Fegan waited for Toner to pull the driver’s door closed. When it thudded home, Fegan pulled his own door shut.

“Fucking Christ!” Toner twisted in the seat, his mouth open wide, his eyes gaping first at Fegan’s face, and then at the pistol in his hand.

“Hello, Patsy,” Fegan said.

He made Toner drive first east, then north. Horns blared on the Westlink as a rusted red van bullied its way through traffic ahead of them. The congestion eased as they climbed towards the M2’s long sweeps. Fegan risked one glance across the river to the Odyssey complex, its lights coming to life for a busy Saturday night. Less than a week ago he had pulled the trigger and settled Michael McKenna’s debt. He realised it had been no more than a hundred yards from this stretch of road.

“Hurry up,” he said to Toner.

Twenty minutes took them to an industrial estate north-west of the city. As the sky darkened, Fegan instructed Toner to park up between the low buildings, out of sight of the rumbling motorway. He had been here before, nine years ago, when the two UFF boys died badly. Now those same UFF boys paced in the drizzle, hate and pain on their faces, touching themselves in the places where Fegan had opened them. He couldn’t return their stares.

The estate lay derelict now, just rows of concrete and steel skeletons on waste ground, waiting to be demolished and replaced by a housing development. They looked like giant mourners at a graveside.

“Give me the keys,” Fegan said.

Toner passed them back, his eyes flitting towards Fegan and away again. “What do you want, Gerry? You’re scaring the shite out of me.”

Fegan slipped the keys into his pocket. “Who’s the cop?”

Toner blinked. “What cop?”

“The one you have inside. You told me about him the day I got lifted. The one who beat the shit out of me.”

Toner held his hands up. “I don’t know, Gerry. Just some peeler. I’ve never met him.”

“You’re lying. Davy Campbell told me he was your contact.”

“No, that’s not true. I swear to God, Gerry, I don’t know who he is.”

“Give me your hand.”

Toner slowly shook his head. “No.”

Fegan raised the pistol with his right hand, steady now, and extended his left.

“No,” Toner said.

Fegan pressed the Walther against Toner’s temple. The solicitor screwed his eyes shut and held out his left hand.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” Fegan said as he gripped Toner’s little finger. “Who’s the cop?”

“Aw, Christ, Gerry. Please, I don’t know anything. I just run errands for McGinty when he needs me. I take his cases for him, that’s all. I don’t go near any of that other stuff.”

Fegan placed the Walther on the seat beside him, well out of Toner’s reach, and took the lawyer’s wrist in his right hand. With his left, he twisted the finger back and up, first feeling the stiff elasticity of the joint, next the jolt of it giving way, then the looseness of the broken bone.

Toner screamed.

“You could’ve just told me, Patsy. That didn’t have to happen.”

“Ah, fuck!” Toner tried to pull his hand back, but Fegan squeezed and the solicitor screamed again.

Heat gathered around the break, the puffy swelling already filling Fegan’s hand. He felt it pulse through the thin membrane of the surgical gloves. “Who’s the cop?” he asked.

“Please, Gerry, oh God, please.” Tears rolled down Toner’s flushed cheeks. “I can’t tell you. McGinty. Oh Christ, he’ll kill me. Please, Gerry, don’t.”

Fegan gripped Toner’s ring finger. “Who’s the cop?”

“Gerry, please, I can’t.”

Toner screamed again, drowning out the sound of cracking bone.

Fegan sighed. He was surprised at Toner. He’d always taken him for weak; the solicitor was anything but. He ground the bones together.

“Who’s the cop?” he asked. Toner’s screams drowned out the question, so he asked again, louder. “Who’s the cop?”

“Stop! Jesus, stop!”

Fegan released the fingers and moved his grip to Toner’s wrist. The heat from the solicitor’s hand seemed to fill the car, along with the thick smell of sweat and fresh urine. Nausea came rolling in, but Fegan pushed it back.

“Who’s the cop?” he asked.

“Oh, Jesus . . . Jesus . . . Brian Anderson. He’s a sergeant. We’ve had him for years. Since the Eighties.”

“What does he do for you?”

Toner breathed deep through his nose, his face twisted in pain. “Not much these days. Tips us off sometimes, if there’s a raid coming. McGinty pays him a few quid every week just to have him on side.”

Fegan let his hand drift down so Toner’s palm rested against his. “Not much these days, you said. Before that, what’d he do?”

“Information,” Toner hissed. “Other cops. Their cars, where they lived, where they drank, where their kids went to school. He used to sell information to McGinty.”

Fegan remembered. He remembered the RUC man’s face when he saw the gun in Fegan’s hand.

“He got hurt when he was a month on the job,” Toner continued, panting between words. “A coffee-jar bomb when he was on patrol. Fucked up his hip. Crippled when he was twenty-three. He’s been riding a desk ever since. Admin, records, answering phones, that sort of stuff. He’s a bitter fucker. Started selling out his mates. I always handled the money. I paid him. Aw, Christ, Gerry. McGinty’s going to kill me.”

Toner’s whimpering and pleading went on, but Fegan couldn’t hear him. He had stopped listening and started remembering.

It was Fegan’s first kill. Less than a week after his twentieth birthday he stood in the snow watching children emerge from a primary school. There was no sign of the RUC man’s Ford Granada. McGinty said he always arrived five minutes early when he picked his son up on a Friday.

Fegan looked across the road. A boy stood apart from the others, looking up and down the street. Nine years old, McGinty said. He wouldn’t see it. He wouldn’t be out of school yet when his father arrived. That’s what McGinty had said. McGinty was wrong. The RUC man was late, and the boy would see everything.

A bitter wind tore along the street, pulling snow with it. Fegan’s nose tingled with the cocaine the lads had given him for courage. The buzzing in his head couldn’t keep the cold or the urge to run out of his feet. Some of the parents looked at him, their faces lined with concern. They didn’t recognise him. That’s what they’d tell the police later. He was just some man, another parent they hadn’t seen before. A little odd-looking, maybe, something about the way he wore his hat, or the strange lankness of his hair. Fegan had seen himself in the car’s rear-view mirror and the wig looked convincing enough. They had dropped him at the corner and were parked up a street away, waiting for the sound of gunfire.

Fegan stopped breathing as the kid’s eyes met his. The boy’s brow creased as he stared back. Fegan couldn’t look away. The kid’s jaw slackened, parting his lips to let misted breath escape on the breeze.

He knew.

The sound of a car dragged the boy’s gaze away. A Ford Granada slowing to a halt. The boy ran onto the road, screaming at his father, waving his arms at Fegan. The RUC man stood hard on his brake pedal, skidding on the snow. He stared at his son, confused. As Fegan approached, the gun already in his hand, the boy pointed at him.

The RUC man turned his head, slack-jawed, his face showing no understanding of his own death. That changed as Fegan raised the gun. He understood. His eyes saw his end and Fegan squeezed the trigger twice. The car lurched forward and stalled as the RUC man’s feet left the pedals.

Quiet. A few seconds before, there had been the noise of children streaming from the school, the honking of car horns, the calls of parents. Now there was only the rushing in Fegan’s ears.

The boy stood still, snowflakes glistening on his hair. He watched Fegan. His eyes were small dead things, black holes in a white face.

Then the screaming started and Fegan ran. The lads skidded to a stop at the end of the street and he dived into the back of the car. They cheered and whooped and slapped his back as the engine roared.

Fegan drank until he threw up all over the floor of the pub, then wept, then drank some more. Michael McKenna hugged him and Paul McGinty shook his hand. His back was sore from slapping, his throat and nose stinging from the vomit and cocaine. A black taxi carried him home to his mother’s house and he struggled to let himself in.

One small suitcase and a bin liner lay in the darkened hallway. He looked inside the bag. It was stuffed full of his clothes. His mother stepped out of the shadows. He could see her eyes glint, fierce and bright.

“I saw the news,” she said.

Fegan wiped his mouth.

Her voice cracked. “I saw what you did.”

Fegan took a step towards her, but she held her hand up.

“Get out and never come back,” she said, her voice soft and sad. She started climbing the stairs. She was almost gone from view when she turned and said, “I’m ashamed I carried the likes of you inside me. I’m ashamed I brought up a man who could kill someone in front of his child. May God forgive me for giving birth to you.”

A gust of wind rocked the Jaguar on its suspension and dragged Fegan back to the present. The sky outside greyed and fat drops of rain splashed on the windscreen. The followers watched and waited.

“Phone him,” Fegan said.

Toner stopped whimpering. “Phone who?”

“The cop. Tell him to come here.”

“Why?”

Fegan squeezed Toner’s hand and waited for the screams to die away. “Just do it. Tell him he has to come now. Tell him you have something for him.”

Toner reached into his jacket pocket with his right hand and retrieved his mobile. He kept his watery eyes on Fegan as he dialled.

“Hello, Brian? . . . It’s Patsy . . . Yeah, I know . . . I know . . . It’s important. I wouldn’t have called you otherwise, now would I? . . . Listen, I’ve got something for you . . . A bonus . . . But you have to come now . . . Now, Brian . . . In an hour . . . All right . . .”

Fegan listened to Toner give the cop directions as the rain pattered on the Jaguar’s roof. The RUC man stared at him through the spattered window, a soft smile curving his mouth.

39

“Her car’s not here,” Coyle said.

“Well observed, Sherlock.” Campbell opened the van door and stepped down, mindful of his injured thigh. A woman peered out at him from a cottage next to the hotel. He gave her a smile and a nod. She didn’t return the gesture.

Coyle came around from the other side of the van. He pointed to the hotel. “This is the place, isn’t it?”

“Looks like it.”

“So, how do we do this?” Coyle looked nervous.

“Quietly, if we can. We’ll find out if they’re here first.” Campbell limped out onto the road that ran across the front of the hotel. On the other side of the river mouth, past the old church, a long beach stretched into the distance where it met hills running down to the sea. On this side, the sun dipped towards the hilltop behind the hotel. It would be swallowed by the gathering clouds long before it reached the grass and rocks. Further along from the hotel and cottage, an ugly block of apartments scarred the cliff face. He couldn’t be sure if they or the crude basalt block at the edge of the water, some sort of memorial, looked more out of place.

“Wait here,” Campbell said. “I’ll go in and have a sniff around. The state of your face, you’ll scare the shit out of the customers.”

“You don’t look much better yourself.” Coyle dabbed at his chin with his handkerchief.

“Fair point,” Campbell said. “But still, wait here - all right?”

“What if Fegan’s in there?”

Campbell shrugged. “If you hear shooting, come running. Otherwise, just fucking stay here. Clear enough?”

Coyle sighed and leaned against the van. He folded his arms and gave Campbell the hard eye.

Campbell entered the hotel to find a large room that might once have been a dining area. It was filled with tables and chairs that looked like they hadn’t been used in years. A door led to another room from which Campbell could hear the crackling of a fire and the low throb of friendly conversation. He headed towards the sound, grimacing at the flames in his thigh and the sparks in his side.

It was a bar, with a grand fireplace at one end and a few drinkers perched on stools at the other. They all turned to look at him. Campbell walked towards them, and a bearded, white-haired man set aside his newspaper and stood up. Campbell beckoned him towards the far end of the bar, away from the handful of drinkers.

“Are you the owner?” he asked.

“Yes. Seamus Hopkirk. What can I do for you?”

Campbell lowered his voice and leaned in close. “You called us this morning.” He glanced over the owner’s shoulder. “About some guests of yours.”

Hopkirk’s eyes narrowed. “Are you the police?”

“That’s right.”

Hopkirk looked him up and down. “Can I see some identification?”

“Not just at the moment, sir. You see, this is a very delicate matter and we’d like to resolve it as quietly as possible. Now, if you could just tell me where I can find Miss McKenna and her friend, I’ll be out of your way.”

Hopkirk exhaled through his nose. “Listen, young man, don’t mistake me for some yokel. I’ve sat on Larne Council for more than twenty years, and the District Policing Partnership for the last three. You’re no more a policeman than I am. What I will tell you is they’re not here. If you want to know any more than that you’ll have to come back with some identification and a contact for the Duty Officer at your station. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have customers to attend to.”

Campbell took hold of Hopkirk’s wrist. “There’s no need to get in a strop, sir. Just tell me what I need to know and I’ll be no more trouble to you.”

Hopkirk cleared his throat and looked down at Campbell’s hand. “Young man,” he said loud enough to draw the attention of the drinkers, ‘please let go of my arm. They’re not here, and that’s all I can tell you.”

Campbell held Hopkirk’s gaze for a moment, then looked to the customers. The nearest of them, a large man, got to his feet.

“Everything all right, Hopkirk?”

“It’s fine, Albert. This young man was just leaving.”

Campbell weighed it up. He could either let him go and walk out, or . . . what? Tie them all up and beat it out of the old curmudgeon? He sighed and released Hopkirk’s wrist.

“Thanks for your help.” He smiled. Then he turned and limped out of the bar, through the old dining room, and into the thickening rain.

“Well?” Coyle asked. He had taken refuge in the van and wound the passenger window down when he saw Campbell emerge.

“He says they’re not here.”

A dog appeared at the window of the cottage next door and barked furiously at the strangers. Campbell climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know,” Campbell said as he started the engine. “But we can’t hang around. I think I put his back up.”

Worry darkened Coyle’s battered face. “McGinty’s going to shit a brick if we don’t get Fegan.”

“Probably, but he’s going to shit a fucking

house

if we get lifted by the peelers.”

Something beyond the river caught Coyle’s eye. “Here, who’s that?”

Campbell followed the direction of his pointing finger to the far side of the bridge. “Jesus, it’s her and the kid. No Fegan, though.”

“He must be away in the car.”

“Your powers of deduction are impressing the shite out of me today, Eddie.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Hang on,” Campbell said. He put the van into reverse and backed out onto the road, twisting the wheel so they faced the bridge. He could hear the dog barking over the engine’s clatter. The van roared as he swung it round the tight bend and onto the bridge where Marie McKenna walked with her daughter, oblivious to their approach.

Campbell veered to the other side of the road, ignoring the blaring of an oncoming car’s horn. The woman’s startled eyes found him as he stamped on the brake pedal. She looked in all directions for a place to run, but he was on the footpath before she could move. The little girl gaped up at him.

“Let’s not have a fuss, Marie,” Campbell said, clutching his side.

“What do you want?” Her eyes were everywhere.

“Don’t run. It’ll go bad if you run.”

Tears sprang from Marie’s eyes and her daughter hugged her thigh.

“It’ll be all right,” Campbell said. “Just get in the van. No fuss, no bother. Okay?”

“Please, let Ellen go. There’s people in the cottage there. They’ll look after her.”

“Sorry, Marie.” He stepped closer. “Both of you in the van. Now.”

The shrouded sun had sunk well beneath the treetops of Glenariff Forest, a few miles south of Portcarrick, and a chill clung to the air. The only sounds were the gathering wind in the leaves above, the pattering of heavy raindrops and Marie McKenna’s frightened sobbing. She sat in the middle of the van’s cabin, holding her daughter close. Eddie Coyle leaned against a tree watching Campbell’s lopsided pacing.

“Call me back, for Christ’s sake,” Campbell said to the mobile phone in his hand. The signal was poor and the thick spruce canopy didn’t help, but they’d had to get off the road and decide what to do. It had been almost thirty minutes since McGinty had promised to call him back with a plan.

“I won’t do the kid,” Coyle said for the fifth time since they’d pulled into the gap in the tree line.

Campbell spun to face him. “Will you shut the fuck up about that?”

“I’m just saying, that’s all.”

Campbell crossed the clearing and stood toe to toe with Coyle. “Yeah, well you saying it isn’t fucking helping. You’re going to make her panic and then Christ knows what’ll happen. So do me a favor and shut the fuck up, all right?”

“Shove it up your arse,” Coyle said.

Campbell could smell his sour breath. “Just fucking try me, pal.”

Coyle’s bloodshot eyes flickered with anger and fear. Campbell was ready for him to move when the phone rang.

“Yeah?”

“All right,” McGinty said, ‘here’s what we’ll do. The Bull has an old farm just past Middletown, not far from the border. He was using it for fuel laundering until it got shut down, but it’s kennels now. You know, for the dogs. He has a big pit with seating and everything in an old barn.”

“Christ,” Campbell said.

“You know what these old country bastards are like. Bloodthirsty fuckers. He wants them brought there. I’m heading down now. I’ll try and make sure it doesn’t go to shite, but his blood’s up. He’s seriously pissed off about Father Coulter. He’s going to see to Fegan himself.”

Campbell looked at Marie clutching her daughter to her breast. “What about the woman and the kid? After, when it’s done?”

He could swear he felt McGinty’s breath on his ear. “I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“All right, it’ll be a couple of hours till we get to Middletown. I’ll call you for directions from there.”

Campbell hung up.

“Well?” Coyle asked.

Campbell returned the phone to his pocket. “We’ve got a long drive ahead. I’m going for a piss and to get my head clear. Watch them.”

Campbell turned and limped into the trees, into the shadows of the forest, pushing deeper among the branches. When he was sure Coyle couldn’t hear him, he took the phone back out of his pocket. He hesitated for a moment before dialling the handler’s number.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Campbell said.

“What are you doing calling from that phone?”

Campbell turned in circles, peering through the trees, making sure Coyle hadn’t followed him. “I’ve no choice. I need to talk to you now.”

“What’s happening?”

“We’ve got the woman and her kid. She says Fegan’s in Belfast somewhere. She doesn’t know where.”

“So, what, you’re holding her hostage?”

“McGinty’s idea.”

Campbell told his handler the politician’s plan.

“Christ,” the handler said. “All you can do is play along. So long as Fegan’s taken care of, so long as they clear up their mess. Just don’t let it get any worse.”

“But the woman and the kid. McGinty isn’t going to let them go when it’s over. I know it. He has something against her, something other than her fucking a cop.”

“They aren’t our concern. Like I said, so long as McGinty clears up his own mess.”

Campbell closed his eyes and breathed the damp air. “There’s another option,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Think about it. We’ll have Paul McGinty and Bull O’Kane in one place, together, holding hostages. You time it right, raid the place just after Fegan’s taken care of, you’ll have them at the scene of a murder. Even if McGinty gets off the charge, he’ll be destroyed. Think of all the people who’ve wanted to see him fucked, but he’s always been too slippery, too sly. We can do it. We can have him.”

The handler sighed. “Jesus, you really don’t understand what’s going on, do you?”

“What?”

“All right, say we give McGinty enough rope to hang himself and that old bastard O’Kane. What then? No matter how hard the leadership try to distance themselves from it, the Unionists will walk. Jesus, even the moderates will run a mile. Stormont will grind to a halt. We can’t afford another two years of negotiations just to get back to where we are now. All the politics, all the money, all the work - all wasted. No. That’s the word from on high, son. Stormont keeps running, whatever the cost. Yes, I and many others in my profession would dearly love to see McGinty swing, but it isn’t going to happen. Now, do what you need to do, there’s a good lad.”

Campbell leaned his forehead against a tree trunk, feeling the bark scratch his skin.

“All right,” he said and hung up.

He started limping back towards the clearing, his mind churning. He’d done worse things in his life. He could do this. The red paintwork of the van was just visible through the branches when he heard Eddie Coyle’s thin cry.

“Davy! Davy!”

Campbell started a limping run, ignoring the fire in his side. He broke through to the clearing to find Coyle on the ground, clutching at his bruised face, and the van’s passenger door open.

“The bitch clouted me,” Coyle said as he scrambled to his feet.

Campbell scanned the trees, looking for a glimpse of ash-blonde hair. There, up ahead. She hadn’t got far carrying the child. He pulled the pistol McGinty had given him from his waistband and dived into the trees after her. Coyle came panting and groaning behind.

Even with the stiff pain in his leg and the agony of breathing, Campbell was gaining on Marie. He could hear the panicked rasp of her breath. He aimed the pistol five feet above her head and pulled the trigger. She threw herself to the ground as the shot echoed through the forest.

Campbell slowed as he neared the woman. He cried out, his side screaming at the effort. He leaned against a tree, one hand clasped to his ribs, the other aiming the pistol at the woman’s head. She lay on the ground, curled around her child. Her desperate eyes stared up at him.

“Please let Ellen go,” Marie said. “Take me if you want, just let her go.”

Campbell pushed himself off the tree and grimaced as he hunkered down beside them. Through the pain, he felt a cold leaden weight in his stomach. “Try that again and I’ll kill her in front of you.”

“Please—”

“Do you understand?” He placed the gun’s muzzle against the girl’s yellow hair. “I’ll make you watch her die.”

The child seemed to climb inside her mother, away from the pistol, into her arms.

Marie’s voice was barely audible above the whispering of the trees, but her eyes screamed with hate. “Don’t you touch her.”

“Just get back in the van.” Campbell looked up at Coyle’s wide eyes. “Come on,” he said.

All four walked back to the van in silence. When the woman and her child were safely in the vehicle’s cabin, Coyle closed the passenger door and turned to Campbell.

“Would you have done it?” he asked.

Campbell started limping towards the driver’s side.

Coyle came after him and tugged his sleeve. “Would you have done it?”

Campbell returned his stare. “We need to get moving,” he said.

40

A sweep of headlights illuminated the inside of the Jaguar. Toner lifted his head from the misted glass, cradling his swollen hand. “That’s him,” he said.

Fegan could just make out a Volkswagen Passat through the condensation. A tall, broad man emerged from it and limped towards the Jaguar. Anderson. Fegan lowered himself in the seat behind Toner and listened to the solicitor’s shallow breathing. The passenger door opened and a wash of cool air swept though the car, chilling Fegan’s damp brow. The Jaguar rocked lazily on its suspension as the cop’s weight settled in.

“Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” Anderson asked.

Toner didn’t answer, instead whining with terror.

“You look like shit. What happened to your hand? Have you pissed yourself ?”

“I . . . I . . . I ...”

“Listen, Patsy, what the fuck’s going on? I left the wife at the restaurant. She’s going to go through me for a short cut, so whatever’s going on, you better—”

Fegan sat upright and raised the Walther.

“Fuck me!” Anderson grabbed for his pocket and pulled out a small revolver. Fegan was ready for it; all cops carried Personal Protection Weapons. The cop swung his arm around the passenger seat and Fegan grabbed his wrist, forcing Anderson’s aim to the rear window.

“Oh, Jesus!” Toner curled into a ball, burying his head in his arms.

Beads of sweat broke on Anderson’s brow as he struggled with Fegan, fighting to regain control of the pistol. The little gun boomed in the confined space and Fegan felt the bullet zip past his ear.

The noise set Toner moving and he opened his door, spilling out onto the ground. Fegan heard a scream as he landed, then the scrabbling of feet. He let his stare leave the cop’s face for a moment to see Toner disappear between the derelict buildings.

Fegan raised the Walther to Anderson’s forehead, but still the cop fought him. The revolver fired again and Fegan felt glass shower his back. He threw his weight against Anderson’s arm, keeping the cop’s wrist in his grip, and pushed with his feet against the Jaguar’s door. The passenger seat made a fulcrum for leverage, and Fegan pushed with everything he had. He gritted his teeth, blood rushing to his head with the effort, until he felt the sudden jolt of Anderson’s shoulder dislocating. The gun disappeared into the footwell behind the passenger seat and Anderson howled until his voice cracked.

“Sit still,” Fegan said, a sudden clarity swelling in him.

Anderson squirmed, kicking at the Jaguar’s dashboard.

“I said sit still.”

The cop gave another hoarse cry before turning to face Fegan from the passenger seat. “Oh, Christ, what do you want?”

“You,” Fegan said.

He screamed again when Fegan released his arm to flop uselessly between the seats. His legs writhed and his face turned from red to purple. At last, his screaming died and his breathing levelled. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry about the beating. Patsy told me to. McGinty’s . . . McGinty’s orders.”

Fegan looked to the RUC man who leaned against the windscreen, peering in. His eyes blazed with savage joy. The car’s interior lighting glared, picking out the sweat on Anderson’s contorted face, glinting on his gritted teeth. The RUC man would see everything, just like his son had.

“You remember the RUC man you sold out?”

“Oh, Jesus . . .”

“Do you remember?”

Anderson shook his head. “I . . . I . . . Which one?”

“That’s right.” Fegan smiled. “You sold lots of them, didn’t you? How much did you get for them?”

Anderson opened and closed his mouth, shaking his head. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

Fegan kicked the arm still hanging between the seats. When Anderson’s screaming faded, Fegan asked, “How much?”

“It depended . . . who they were.”

“How much for a constable? Just an ordinary peeler. How much for one of them?”

“Oh, God, I don’t know . . . a few thousand . . . please, don’t . . .”

“Think back. Do you remember one from 1982? It would have been the start of February. It had been snowing. I killed him in front of his kid.”

Anderson’s eyes darted back and forth, his breath was ragged. “At the school? I remember. Yeah, I remember. What was his name? Oh, Jesus, what was his name?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Fegan said. He placed the Walther back against the cop’s forehead. “He wants you.”

“Wh . . . what?”

“Look.” Fegan indicated with his eyes. “Out there. He’s watching. They’re all watching.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look.” Fegan pressed the Walther’s muzzle against Anderson’s cheek, turning his head to face out the window. “There he is. He’s been waiting years for this.”

Anderson began to weep. “There’s no one there.”

“It’s time to pay for what you did.”

The cop turned back to Fegan. Tears mixed with sweat on his cheeks. “But

you

killed him. Not me.”

Fegan blinked. “I just pulled the trigger. He was dead as soon as you fingered him.”

Anderson shook his head. “You’re insane.”

“I know. But I’m getting better all the time.”

Fegan pulled the trigger.

FIVE

41

The smell of blood, sweat and alcohol rose up through the spectators to the top tier. The old man stood taller than anyone else in the barn, and he could see through all the raised fists waving euros and pounds. He always had the best seat in the house. After all, he owned the place.

The crowd’s roar couldn’t drown out the snarling and yelping from below. The dogs circled each other, snapping, growling and lunging. They were evenly matched, both of them with blocky jaws and thick necks. Both good, mature males, scarred and battle-hardened, with heavy balls hanging between their legs, filling them with fight. Choice pit bulls. Good animals. He loved good animals, as did any man worth a shite.

They’d been at it forty minutes now. Their snouts and barrel chests were caked in red, and fresh wounds glistened in the pitiless light. One had lost a piece of its cheek, and the other’s shoulder was torn open, but neither tired of the struggle as their handlers goaded them to attack. Wooden boards lined the pit walls, wild arcs of blood, old and new, slashed across them.

The Brindle and the Red squared off, eyes locked together. The old man felt a surge in his loins, sensing this would be the final spar. The roaring of the crowd faded to a murmur, nearly sixty men waiting for the moment.

They didn’t have to wait long.

Christ, they were fast. They looked stupid, just lumbering hunks of muscle and teeth, but think that and they’d have you. A good pit bull is quick; strong isn’t good enough. They launched at the same instant, thick paws in the air, batting at each other, trying to get the other down. Their haunches bunched as they boxed, teeth snapping. Shouts began to rise from the crowd as the dogs danced and snarled, each trying to gain dominance, to push the other down and finish him. First it seemed the Red was gaining as its teeth pinched the folds at the back of the other’s neck, but the Brindle forced its weight downward, throwing the Red off balance.

Then it was over. The Brindle’s mighty jaws locked on the Red’s neck, and a whimpering shriek echoed up through the old barn. A low, triumphant growl resonated in the Brindle’s chest as it ground the Red’s muzzle into the dirt. The Red’s feet kicked out, but it was at the mercy of the other dog. The Brindle had no notion of mercy, and poured all its strength into its bulbous jaw muscles, breeding and instinct forcing its teeth together.

“All right, enough!” Bull O’Kane stepped downwards from tier to tier of the bleachers, his bulk making the scaffolded benches groan.

The handlers jumped into the pit to separate the dogs. “Release!” the Brindle’s owner shouted. The pit bull was oblivious, blood trickling from between its jaws.

“Release!” He grabbed the dog’s ear and yanked it.

The other dog’s handler tried to pry the victor’s jaws open with the metal rod he used to train his own animal. “For fuck’s sake, he’ll kill him.”

The Brindle shook its head, reinforcing its grip.

“Jesus, get out of the way,” O’Kane said.

He stepped down into the pit and pushed the handlers aside. The Brindle’s scrotum dangled between its hind legs, tender and exposed. O’Kane’s boot connected with a fleshy slap and the dog whimpered, but held on.

“Ignorant fucker,” O’Kane said, wiping spit from his mouth. Once more, he drew his foot back; once more he buried his boot between the Brindle’s legs. It staggered sideways, its hind quarters quivering, but still it kept its monstrous grip.

“This time, ya bastard.” O’Kane was coming seventy, but he was still the Bull. He put all his weight behind his right foot, and now the dog opened its jaws and raised its snout to the corrugated roof. It howled, snarled, and turned to face its tormentor.

O’Kane locked stares with it. “Come on, then.”

It lowered on its haunches, preparing.

O’Kane put his weight on both feet.

The Brindle didn’t hesitate, coming at him with teeth bared, eyes rolling in its head, blood-tainted drool arcing from its black lips.

It didn’t stand a chance.

O’Kane let it come at him, offering his callused hand. Just as it tried to clamp its teeth on his right fist, O’Kane forced his fingers to the back of its mouth and wrapped his left arm around its powerful neck. The Brindle opened and closed its jaws, struggling to gain purchase, but O’Kane pushed harder and seized its tongue with his thick fingers. He took his arm from around its neck as he twisted the slick pink flesh and pulled up until the dog’s front paws scrabbled on the dirt floor. It coughed and gagged and whimpered as its eyes bulged.

O’Kane gave it a hard kick to the ribs as it hung there before lowering his arm, keeping the dog’s head twisted to the side.

He turned his eyes to the handler. “If you can’t control your animal, don’t fucking bring him to my fights.”

“Yes, Mr. O’Kane.” The handler looked at the ground. “Sorry, Mr. O’Kane.”

“Get this thing out of here.” He released the whining dog’s tongue as the handler slipped a chain around its neck.

O’Kane looked up to Sean the bookie and smiled, wiping his hand on his coat. Sean winked back and straightened his cap. Most of the crowd had put their money on the Red. It had been a good night so far.

A voice came from the barn’s open doorway. “Da!”

O’Kane turned to see his son Pádraig, as tall as his father and twice as wide. “What?”

“Yer man’s here.”

O’Kane nodded and stepped up and out of the pit, past his son - who turned and followed him - and out to the farmyard. Dogs penned in the old stables barked and snarled as they passed, and he hissed at them to shut up. Wire cages on the opposite side housed the visiting animals. A diesel generator rattled by the side of the derelict house, giving it and the barn power. The place still had the acrid chemical smell from the fuel-laundering plant he’d housed here before Customs had raided it. The dogs didn’t bring in as much money, but they brought him greater pleasure. As an old man, he took his pleasures where he could find them. Besides, he had plenty of other plants churning out stripped diesel along the border.

Languid rain drops slithered down the farmhouse windows. A soft light burned inside. O’Kane pushed open a door into what had once been a kitchen.

“Wait out here,” he said to his son, and stepped inside, ducking his head beneath the top of the door frame.

There were three other men in the room. Tommy Downey from Crossmaglen, thin and wiry with slicked-back hair, leaned against one wall. Kevin Malloy from Monaghan, thickset like O’Kane but a full twelve inches shorter, leaned against the other.

Downey pointed to the third man, who was seated in the middle of the room. “Here he is, boss.”

“Aye, so he is.”

O’Kane walked over to the man. The pillowcase over his head puffed out and in again as he breathed. His well-cut suit had red blotches on it.

“What’s this? Did he not come quietly?”

“Not really,” Malloy said.

O’Kane tutted. “That’s a shame.”

He reached out and plucked the pillowcase from the man’s head. The young man stared up at him. Blood congealed around his nose and mouth.

“Jesus, Martin, you’re sweating like a pig.”

Martin blinked.

“It’s an awful pity you wouldn’t listen to me, Martin. Now it’s come to this, and there was no call for it.”

Martin’s eyes brimmed. “What do you want?”

“I want to give you money. But you won’t take it from me. It’s mad, isn’t it? I want to give you two hundred grand and you’re slapping my hand away.”

“I told you to talk to my solicitor.”

O’Kane waved the idea away. “Jesus, solicitors? Fucking crooks, the lot of them. Why pay one of them fuckers when you can just deal with me?”

Martin’s voice shook with foolish defiance. “That land’s worth half a million and you know it.”

O’Kane leaned down, his hands on his knees. “Is it, now?”

“The estate agent told me.”

O’Kane snorted and stood upright. “Estate agent? Sure, they’re even bigger crooks than solicitors. You don’t need an estate agent to deal with the Bull. No, no, no. Spit and a handshake, that’s how I do it.”

The young man held O’Kane’s eyes steady. “All right, I’ll sell you the land, but I need a fair price.”

O’Kane smiled and patted his shoulder. “You’re a brave lad, son. Not many men will stand up to me. But listen to me, now. You’re pushing your luck. The only reason I haven’t fed you to the dogs is ’cause your auld fella was a good friend of mine. That’s why I let him keep that farm for so long. You pissed off to England to get your nice degree and your fancy job. Now he’s gone and you come running back looking to cash in.”

“He left the farm to me; I can do what I want with it. I can sell it to—”

“You can sell it to me, and that’s all. No one buys or sells land in South Armagh without my say-so. The sooner you get that into your head the sooner we can get this done.”

Martin stared straight ahead. “You can talk to my solicitor.”

O’Kane sighed and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Please, Martin. Your father was a friend of mine. Don’t do this.”

“These aren’t the old days. It doesn’t work like that any more. I can go to the police.” Martin looked up at him. He looked just like his father.

O’Kane closed his eyes and shook his head for a moment. He turned towards the door. When he reached it he looked back and said, “All right, lads.”

He stepped out into the night and raised the collar of his coat to keep the rain from the back of his neck. Pádraig passed him a cigarette, then cupped his hands around it. The match stayed lit just long enough to catch the tobacco. O’Kane pulled deep, feeling the gritty heat fill his chest. Sixty years he’d been smoking and all he had to show for it was a drop of phlegm in the mornings.

Fucking doctors know nothing

, he thought.

“You all right, Da?” Pádraig asked, his gormless face shiny and wet in the glow from the barn.

“Ah, grand, son. Just tired, that’s all.”

The walkie-talkie crackled in Pádraig’s pocket. He pulled it out and thumbed the button on its side. “Yeah?”

A stream of static and hiss mixed with the sound of cheering and snarling from the barn. Dull thuds came from the house behind them, followed by small cries.

“Aye, we’re expecting him. Let him through.”

Pádraig returned the radio to his pocket. “It’s McGinty.”

O’Kane looked beyond the barn and saw headlights approaching from the lane. “Go and keep an eye on the fight. Make sure Sean isn’t slipping his hand.”

“Right, Da.” Pádraig waddled across the yard, waving at the rusting Peugeot as it passed. Its wheels hissed on the wet concrete as it drew to a halt. The passenger door opened and Paul McGinty climbed out. He extended his hand.

“How’re ya, Paul?” O’Kane squeezed the politician’s fingers between his. Hard.

“I’ve been better,” McGinty said.

“Where’s your fancy limo tonight?”

“I was trying to be low-key.” McGinty flashed his white teeth.

“Just right.” O’Kane released his hand. “It’s all arranged?”

McGinty’s eyes darted to the farmhouse at the sound of a scream. “What’s that?”

“Local problem. Nothing to worry about.”

McGinty smoothed his jacket. “Yeah, it’s taken care of. They should be here soon. Marie has a number for Fegan. We’ll phone him then.”

“The woman.” O’Kane pointed a thick finger at McGinty’s groin. “Don’t let your cock get in the way. You do what needs doing, never mind the past.”

McGinty tilted his head.

“Didn’t think I knew about that, did you?” O’Kane’s belly shook as he laughed. “You boys in Belfast think I’m too deep in cow shit down here to know what’s going on. I know everything.”

“That’s ancient history.”

“Good, good. But, here. There’s another wee thing I know about. Something you don’t.”

A crease appeared on McGinty’s brow. “What’s that?”

A long, loud shriek came from the house. O’Kane glanced over his shoulder, and then back to McGinty. “Your wee pal, Davy Campbell. He’s got a surprise up his sleeve.”

“What sort of surprise?”

“Well, we’ll have to have a word with him when he gets this length.”

The door to the farmhouse kitchen opened and Tommy Downey stepped out. O’Kane turned to face him.

“Martin accepts the offer,” Downey said.

42

“For the love of Christ, what now?”

Edward Hargreaves saw the vein on his forehead pulse in the dressing-table mirror.

“It’s urgent, Minister,” the Chief Constable said. “I wouldn’t have called you so late otherwise.”

“Just a moment.” Hargreaves pressed the phone’s mouthpiece to his robed shoulder, covered his eyes, and breathed deep. The bedroom was strewn with the contents of the drawers, as well as the bedding - anything a wallet could hide under. That bitch. That sneaky, conniving whore. He brought the phone back to his ear.

“Go on.”

“It’s bad, sir.”

“Oh, God.” He steeled himself. “Tell me.”

“One of my officers was found dead on an industrial estate just outside the city about thirty minutes ago. Shot once in the head, once in the heart.”

“Fegan?”

“Most likely, Minister. But that’s not the worst of it.”

Hargreaves walked out of the bedroom to the large split-level lounge, rubbing the center of his forehead with his knuckles. The ornamental silver tea service was gone. “Christ.”

“The car he was found in belongs to Patrick Columbus Toner,” the Chief Constable said.

And the silver candlesticks from the fireplace. He’d only been in the bathtub for ten minutes. She’d said she’d join him in five, and he gave her another five to show he wasn’t entirely desperate for her. But the wallet. Oh God, the wallet. “Who’s Patrick . . . er . . . what was his name?”

“Patsy Toner to his friends. He’s Paul McGinty’s solicitor, and a prominent activist. Calls himself a human-rights lawyer. There’s a team searching the area for him now.”

Hargreaves couldn’t bring his mind from one calamity to the other. The girl had his wallet. It wasn’t just the cash, only a few hundred pounds after all, but the cards, his identification, his pass for the Commons, for Christ’s sake. The tabloids would pay a fortune for them and he’d be demolished.

And now this. A bloody lawyer, a McGinty lackey, and something about his car. “I don’t understand,” he said.

Pilkington cleared his throat. “Well, Minister, I should have thought the ramifications were clear. I wanted to do you the courtesy of letting you know straight away so that you and the Secretary could prepare your strategy.”

Hargreaves went to the powder-dusted coffee table where half a Monte Cristo No. 2 had rested in an antique crystal ashtray. Of course, the ashtray was gone, but the cigar remained. “Strategy?”

“Do I have to spell it out, Minister?”

“Please do.” Hargreaves clenched the cigar between his teeth and scanned the room for his gold Cartier lighter.

Bitch

, he thought as he closed his eyes. She had good taste, there was no denying it.

Pilkington sounded perplexed. “Minister, the situation is very serious. I’m no politician, but even I can guess what’s going to happen when the news breaks.”

“Enlighten me.” Hargreaves flopped onto the leather couch. At least she couldn’t carry that.

“A police officer found executed in a car belonging to an associate of Paul McGinty? A party activist’s nearly-new Jaguar with a cop’s brains all over it? Things are delicate enough as they are, what with the trouble over the last few days. It doesn’t matter if Fegan did it, or Patsy Toner, or bloody Santa Claus. The Unionists will have a field day. Even the moderates on the other side will be screaming for blood. Frankly, it’ll be a miracle if you can hold Stormont together after this.”

“A miracle,” Hargreaves said. “Geoff, I am a government minister. I sign papers, I argue with civil servants, I bully backbenchers. I don’t perform miracles.”

“Perhaps it’s time you started, Minister. You inherited a house of cards, and you’ll need to move heaven and earth to stop it collapsing in the next few days.”

Hargreaves pictured the cards scattering in the wind. He wondered if he cared enough to chase after them.

Pilkington continued. “It may not be my place to advise you on such matters, but I think you should start pulling your staff together to see what you can salvage before, if you’ll pardon the expression, the shit hits the fan.”

“No, it’s not your place, Geoff.” Hargreaves lay down flat on the couch. The leather was cool against his cheek. “The Secretary and I have a department full of overeducated, overpaid clock-watchers and pencil-pushers to advise us.” He sighed. “I never wanted this job, you know.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s—”

“I wanted a Cabinet spot. Foreign Secretary would have been nice. Lots of travel. Or Trade and Investment.”

“We must do our—”

“Hard work, Trade and Investment, but the perks are good. Education, even. That’s a fucking thankless task, but it’s better than bloody Northern Ireland. And you volunteered to work there.”

Several seconds of barely audible hiss at Hargreaves’s ear passed before the Chief Constable gave a long, officious sniff.

“Some of us are cut out to meet a challenge, Minister, to face the demands of a difficult job. Some of us aren’t.”

Hargreaves raised his head from the leather cushion. “Pilkington?”

“Yes, Minister?”

“I don’t like you.”

“Likewise, Minister. Now, I’ll leave you in peace. I think you have a long night ahead of you.”

“Bastard.”

The phone died. Hargreaves wondered first what time it was, then where he’d left his watch. Oh yes, he’d left it on the mantelpiece. He stood, crossed the room, and looked at the empty spot beneath the mirror.

“Bitch,” he said.

43

Branches clanged and scraped along the side of the van as Campbell mounted the verge to let the oncoming cars pass. Old four-by-fours, muddied and dented. Farmers’ cars, some towing trailers just the size for a large dog. Some of the men swigged from bottles as they drove. Some of them raised their forefingers from their steering wheels as they passed. The old country greeting, the one that said:

I belong here, I know this place. Do you?

Campbell returned the gesture and drove on. The barn rose up at the top of the slope, light pouring from its innards. The child stirred in her mother’s arms.

“How do you live with yourself?” Marie McKenna asked.

“Shut up,” Eddie Coyle said.

“How can you bring us here? How can you do this to women and children and call yourselves men?”

“Be quiet,” Campbell said. “There’s worse people than us. You’re about to meet one of them.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You tell yourself that. Make yourself feel like a big man. I won’t—”

Campbell stood on the brake, pitching Marie forward. She jarred her forearm against the dashboard as she shielded her child. The girl squealed. Campbell reached out and grabbed a handful of Marie’s hair.

“Listen, I’ve had enough, right? I’ve had enough of this shit. I want it over. It’ll be over quick enough for you and your kid if you don’t be quiet. Now, keep your mouth shut.”

Coyle reached across and gripped Campbell’s wrist. “Go easy, Davy.”

Campbell looked hard at Coyle. Coyle dropped his eyes and released Campbell’s wrist. Tears ran down Marie’s cheeks as the little girl buried her face in her mother’s bosom.

“Just be quiet,” Campbell said. He let Marie’s hair slip through his fingers. “You can get through this if you’re quiet and do what you’re told.”

Her eyes reflected the headlights of one last oncoming car. She speared him with them and he hated her. His own eyes grew hot as he stared back. No, he didn’t hate her, he didn’t even know her. But hate was in his heart. Who for?

When the answer came, as hard and sure as any single thing he’d ever known, he could hold her gaze no longer. He looked straight ahead, put the van in gear, and began climbing the hill again.

The ground levelled onto a farmyard. The barn and house faced each other across potholed concrete, and a row of stables joined the two. Empty wire cages completed the square. Layered odors drifted on the night air; the low smell of dog feces coupled with the higher, acrid sting of chemicals. The copper stink of blood and fear mingled with both at the back of Campbell’s throat.

Six men gathered in the shelter of the empty barn’s doorway. McGinty was there, and his driver, Declan Quigley. Two more Campbell didn’t know, but the two tall, stout ones - they could be no one else but Bull O’Kane and his son. Campbell’s heart fluttered in his chest at the sight of O’Kane’s bulk. Marie had become still and quiet. He wondered if she knew who stood in front of the van, shielding his eyes from the headlights. The engine rattled and shook as it died. Campbell opened the door and climbed down.

The group of men stepped out into the stuttering rain, O’Kane at the fore. “You’re Davy Campbell?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

O’Kane stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’ve heard about you.”

The fingers were coarse and thick. Campbell fought to keep from wincing at the old man’s grip.

“Aye,” O’Kane said, with a slanted smile. “I know all about you.”

Campbell’s stomach twitched. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. O’Kane.”

“Call me Bull. Now, how’s our guests?” He released Campbell’s hand and walked to the van’s passenger side where Coyle waited. O’Kane ignored him and reached into the cabin. “C’mon out, love. You’re all right.”

Marie slid along the seat, the girl in her arms, and stepped down to the ground. She didn’t pull away when O’Kane took her elbow. McGinty stepped forward and Campbell saw his and Marie’s gazes meet, something cold passing between them.

O’Kane slipped his hands under the child’s arms. “And who are you?”

Marie didn’t let go of her daughter. “Don’t.”

“What’s your name?”

The girl held on to her mother’s sweater, but O’Kane pulled her free.

“Her name’s Ellen.” Marie’s voice cracked as she spoke.

“You’re a pretty wee girl, aren’t you?” O’Kane took Ellen in his arms and pinched her cheek. She reached for her mother, but O’Kane stepped away.

“Do you like doggies?”

Ellen rubbed her eyes and pouted.

O’Kane walked towards the stables, holding her close. “Do you? Do you like doggies?”

Ellen nodded. Scraping and whining came from the stables. Campbell’s mouth dried.

“Wait till you see this nice doggie.” O’Kane unbolted the upper half of a stable door and let it swing open. A low whine came from inside.

Campbell looked to Marie. Her shaking hands covered her mouth. She was fighting hard to hold on to herself, hiding her fear from the child. Something that might have been respect rose in Campbell, and he had an inexplicable and desperate urge to touch her. He shook it away.

The other six men - Coyle, McGinty, the driver, O’Kane’s son, the two Campbell didn’t know - all watched the stable door.

McGinty took a step towards the old man. “Bull,” he said.

O’Kane turned to face them. “It’s all right. Sure, these boys are gentle as lambs with people. I train them right.”

A murky scent drifted out of the stable. Heavy paws appeared above the lower door, followed by a square block of a head, dirt-caked and scarred. The dog’s tongue lolled from its jaw, a viscous line of drool disappearing into the dark. O’Kane reached out with his free hand and scratched the back of the pit bull’s thick neck. It squinted at the sensation of his callused fingers.

“There, see? He’s a nice doggie. Do you want to pet him?”

Ellen shook her head and wiped her damp cheeks.

“Aw, go on. He’s a nice doggie.”

She looked down at the animal, rubbing her nose on her sleeve. She sniffed.

“He’s a good doggie,” O’Kane said. “He won’t bite.”

He lowered Ellen so she could reach its head with her small outstretched hand. Her fingers created ripples on its brow. Marie squeezed her eyes shut when its tongue lapped at the girl’s fingertips. Coyle placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“There, now. I told you he was a nice doggie, didn’t I?” O’Kane hoisted the child up in his arms as she continued to reach out to scratch the dog’s head. He looked at Marie, a fatherly smile on his lips. “You’ll behave yourself, won’t you, love?”

Marie stared back.

“Of course you will.” O’Kane pushed the dog’s head back down with his free hand and swung the upper stable door closed. He bounced Ellen in his arms as he walked back towards Marie. “You and your mummy will be good, won’t you?”

Christ, let it be over

, Campbell thought. The sudden trill of a mobile phone made his heart knock against the inside of his chest.

McGinty reached into his jacket pocket. “Hello?”

Campbell watched his face go slack. The politician walked away from the group, the phone against one ear, a finger in the other.

“Patsy, slow down. What happened?”

From a rickety chair in the corner Campbell watched McGinty and O’Kane pace the room. He chewed his lip as the balance shifted back and forth between them, O’Kane the old warhorse, McGinty the slick politico. Little more than a decade separated them, but they were generations apart.

“This changes everything,” McGinty said.

“It changes nothing,” O’Kane said.

A bare bulb driven by the generator outside picked out the patches where damp had peeled the wallpaper back. Downey leaned against the far wall of the living room, his thin arms folded across his chest. Quigley the driver sat cross-legged on the opposite end of a tattered couch from O’Kane’s son while Coyle slouched against the wall, sparing Campbell the occasional dirty look. Malloy guarded Marie and Ellen in a room upstairs. Lazy waves of rain washed across the old sash windows and the sound of dripping water was everywhere. The smell of mold and mice lingered in Campbell’s nose.

“Do you not understand, Bull?” McGinty stopped pacing and opened his arms. “Once this gets out, I’m fucked. A cop’s dead body in my lawyer’s car. I’ll be forced out of the party. I won’t have a political friend left. Even then, the Unionists will probably walk. They’ll bring Stormont down and look like they’re only doing what’s right. Jesus, think of the party. Think of the pressure they’ll be under. From London, from Dublin, from Washington.”

He’s right

, Campbell thought. The world - especially America - didn’t view terrorists with the same romantic tint these days, even if they called themselves freedom fighters.

O’Kane snorted. “We did all right for years without their help. They can fuck off.”

“Christ, Bull, it’s the twenty-first century. It’s not the Seventies any more. It’s not the Eighties. We need Stormont now.

I

need it.

You

need it. Think of the concessions the party will have to give the Unionists and the Brits just to keep Stormont together. You’re a millstone around their necks as it stands. They’ll cut you off as quick as me.”

“Bollocks,” O’Kane said, swiping the air with his shovel hand. “Nobody pushes us around. The Brits couldn’t break us after thirty years of trying. I’m not rolling over just ’cause you and your mates in the suits are scared of losing those salaries and allowances.”

“It’s not like that.” McGinty put his hands on his hips. Campbell watched the politician’s leg twitch.

“Aye, it is. You’ve gone soft, Paul. It’s easy for you boys in Belfast, all those European funds you can dip your fingers into, all those community grants. Just stick your hand out, and the money lands in it. You’re forgetting us boys out in the sticks. We still have to graft for it.”

McGinty was fighting his temper, Campbell could see it. “We’ve achieved more in ten years of politics than you did in thirty years of war.”

O’Kane nodded his head in mock respect. “Oh, aye. You achieved plenty.” He picked imaginary lint from McGinty’s lapel. “You lined your pockets and got yourself some nice suits. You got yourself a big limousine, a big fuck-off house with a sea view in Donegal. Aye, you did all right.”

McGinty’s face reddened. “So did you. We always kept you right. How many raids did my contacts tip you off on? How much property did the party’s legal team let you buy without your name going near it? And the security posts. We did that for you. We negotiated the dismantling of every British army post in South Armagh so you could run your laundering plants. The party did that. Don’t you forget it.”

Campbell’s hands tightened into fists as tension rippled in the air.

O’Kane stepped up to the politician. “So, you’re the big man now, are you?”

McGinty was tall, but he had to lift his eyes to meet the Bull’s stare. He swallowed and his tongue peeked out to wet his lips. “No. It’s not like that. But Jesus, think, Bull. There’s only one way out of this now.”

“And what’s that, then?”

“We give Fegan to the cops. Patsy Toner can testify he was there. We let the law take care of him. We’ll be seen to cooperate with the police. The Unionists can’t argue with that. They can’t threaten to walk, and we get off the hook.”

“He’ll tell them he did McKenna and Caffola. All your bullshit’s going to come back at you.”

That’s not all he’ll tell them

, Campbell thought.

He’ll tell them about those two UFF boys and how they never posed a threat to McGinty

. His heart quickened.

“It’s too late to stop that now. Besides, the press about the cop will bury that. We let it be known that Anderson was leaking information to us before the ceasefires. All the attention will be on him, not us.”

The Bull stood still, holding his breath, and Campbell counted five seconds before he turned away. “No,” O’Kane said.

McGinty glowered at him. “What do you mean, no?”

“We let Fegan away with this, we look weak.

I

look weak. He’s a traitor, so we treat him like one. We make an example of him, just like we’ve always done.” The Bull’s voice rose to a roar as he stabbed the air with his finger. “He killed my cousin, for fuck’s sake. If I don’t take care of him, every fucker with a grudge will think I’m fair game.”

McGinty crossed the room to O’Kane. “For God’s sake, Bull, think it through. Think what it’ll cost us.”

“No.”

“Listen to me. Think ahead. Say the Unionists walk; say Stormont breaks down. You won’t have a friend in government to grease any wheels for you. You’ll suffer as much as me.”

“I said no, Paul. That’s all.”

McGinty gripped O’Kane’s massive shoulder. “Get your head out of the past, for Christ’s sake. Quit acting like a fucking street thug. We’re past all that now. You’re a dinosaur, Bull. You’re going to cost me—”

McGinty sprawled on the floor, blood spilling from his lip, before Campbell could even wince at the sound of the slap. Coyle stared. Quigley began to get to his feet, but O’Kane pointed a thick finger at him.

“You sit the fuck down.”

The driver did as he was told.

Campbell thought hard and fast. Quigley was too weak. Coyle was too stupid. He was McGinty’s only ally in this shell of a house. But Fegan couldn’t live. Not with what he knew about Francie Delaney and the two UFF boys.

He stood up. “Mr. O’Kane’s right,” he said.

McGinty looked up from the red blotches on his handkerchief. “What?”

“Fegan’s too dangerous. We need to finish him.”

O’Kane slapped Campbell’s shoulder. “Smart lad.”

McGinty got to his feet, his eyes fixed on Campbell. “Whatever you say, Bull. You’re the boss.”

“Good.” O’Kane slapped his hands together and grinned. “Now, get that woman and her kid down here.”

44

Fegan saw Mrs. Taylor’s sharp blue eyes in the window for just a moment before she closed the shutter, sealing out the darkness. His hand was half raised to wave, but she was gone. The dog barked somewhere inside the cottage. There were no lights from the hotel.

He walked from the parked car round to the hotel’s entrance. The door didn’t budge when he pressed it. Locked. Fegan turned in a circle, no idea what he was looking for. The moon was up there somewhere above the clouds, but below was darkness. Orange street lights formed a line along the bay and reflected off the river mouth, but the sea was lost in the black. Only the hard salt tang on the air and the sound of waves gave it away.

Sweat chilled Fegan’s body and his legs quivered. He’d pulled over twice on the way here to let the shakes subside. His tongue rasped against the roof of his mouth as he swallowed.

The dog settled down and its barks faded away. Quiet now, just the whisper of water on sand. Fegan hammered on the door to break the stillness. He stepped back and looked up at the windows on the first floor.

Nothing. He slammed his fist against the door again, harder. A bead of worry settled in his chest. Why had Marie let Hopkirk lock the place up? Why wasn’t she waiting for him?

His palm stung as he slapped the wooden panels again. He stood back and craned his neck. “Come on,” he whispered.

A dim light appeared at the center window, followed by a passing shadow. Fegan clenched and unclenched his fists. The sound of doors opening and closing came from inside. A light in the glass above the entrance. Metal moved against metal, locks snapping open, bolts sliding. The door inched open and a bespectacled eye peeked out.

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

“I want in,” Fegan said. “I want Marie.”

“Who?”

“I mean Mary. My wife.”

Hopkirk’s brow knotted. “I thought she was with you.”

“What?”

“She and the little girl went out for a walk this evening. They didn’t come back. I thought they’d left with you.”

“Our bags. Where are they?”

“I don’t know. I assumed—”

Fegan put his hand against the door. “Let me in.”

“They might still be in the room. I’ll go and look.”

He pressed harder. “Let me in.”

Hopkirk pushed back. “I won’t be a moment.”

Fegan shoved with his shoulder and the door gave way. Hopkirk staggered back against one of the dust-covered tables.

“Go on,” he said, his eyes narrow behind his thick glasses. “Go and look. If your bags are there you can take them and get out of here. I don’t want your money.”

Fegan crossed the room. “Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know. She took the little girl out for something to eat at about seven. She never came back.”

“Was there anyone else around?”

Hopkirk’s gaze dropped to the floor. “No.”

“You’re lying.”

The hotelier breathed hard for a few seconds. “There was a man. He said he was a policeman, but I didn’t believe him.”

Fegan gripped his arm. “What’d he look like?”

Hopkirk tried to pry Fegan’s fingers loose. “He was tall and thin, like you, but younger. He had reddish-brown hair and a scraggy beard. He looked like he’d been in a fight, and he had a limp.”

“Campbell,” Fegan said. “Campbell was here.”

Hopkirk got free of Fegan’s grip and sidled away. “He didn’t tell me his name.”

“What’d he say?”

“He just asked where you were.” Hopkirk rounded the table, keeping it between him and Fegan.

“What’d you tell him?”

“The truth. I didn’t know.”

“Christ,” Fegan said. He brought his palms to his temples to hold the fear in. “Christ.”

Hopkirk continued to back away. “Look, why don’t you get your things and go. I can’t do any more for you.”

Fegan walked to the stairway in the darkened corner, his stride slowing as he passed the door to the bar. He wiped his mouth and kept his head down, even as his throat tightened. The twisting steps brought him up to the first floor. The room was at the end of the corridor. When he got to the door he realised he had no key. It didn’t matter. He kicked the door hard just beneath the handle.

“I’ve got the key!” Hopkirk cried from the stairwell. “Don’t!”

Fegan ignored him and kicked again. The door burst inward with the sound of splintering wood. He pushed his way into the room and turned on the light. The bags were where they’d been that afternoon. His own was still at the foot of the bed, zipped closed. He went to check it anyway, but Hopkirk appeared at the door.

“Get out,” Fegan said.

Hopkirk faded back into the shadows of the corridor. Fegan hoisted the bag onto the bed and opened it. The familiar greasy smell of money met his nose. He pushed rolls of banknotes and the few clothes aside to make sure what he needed was still there. Yes, the loose nine-millimeter rounds still rolled across the bottom. Campbell’s Glock still clanked against them. Fegan took a quick glance over his shoulder before taking the Walther from his right pocket and dropping it into the bag.

The bag almost slipped from his fingers when his phone vibrated against his chest. Fegan took it from his breast pocket and looked at the display.

His heart leaped in his chest. He thumbed the green button and brought the phone to his ear. “Marie?”

There was nothing but a soft static hiss, the sound of weight shifting on floorboards, and grating sobs.

“Marie?”

A man’s voice, hard and thin, whispering words Fegan couldn’t make out. Something lodged in Fegan’s throat, thicker than his aching thirst.

“Marie?”

“Gerry?”

Fegan closed his eyes.

“Gerry, they’ve got me and Ellen . . .”

45

“He’s coming,” Campbell said. He stood in the shelter of the barn, dark now, trying not to gag at the stench rising up from the pit.

“And?” the handler asked.

“And what? Fegan’s a dead man. They’ll take care of him as soon as he gets here.”

“Don’t they know what’s happened?”

“The cop in Toner’s car. Yeah, they know.”

The handler was silent for a moment. “But surely that’s changed the plan. If they don’t offer up Fegan to the authorities, the Unionists will hold them responsible for the cop. They’ll have McGinty by the balls. They could bring down Stormont with this.”

“I told McGinty that,” Campbell lied. “He wouldn’t listen.”

“But McGinty’s smarter than that. He never took a stupid breath in his life.”

“They want Fegan dead. That’s all.”

“Christ,” the handler said. Campbell listened to him breathe. “Christ. There’s no way to stop it?”

“None,” Campbell said.

“You’ve got to try. This could set the political process back years. See if you can—”

Campbell saw a shaft of light break on the concrete beyond the barn door. “Got to go,” he said, and hung up.

He heard footsteps, two people, one walking steadily, the other shuffling and faltering. Campbell eased back into the shadows of the barn.

“You should’ve gone when you had the chance,” McGinty said. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d just gone.”

“Let me go back inside,” Marie said. “Please, let me go to Ellen.”

“She’s all right with Eddie. Why didn’t you go? I couldn’t have made it easier for you.”

“Because I didn’t want to go. I shouldn’t have to go. Things are supposed to have changed. Jesus, Paul, it was so long ago.”

“It doesn’t feel like it. It still hurts me to think about it.”

Marie laughed, the sound dry and hateful in the darkness. “Hurts you? Nothing hurts you.”

“You’re wrong. People think I’m a hard man, but I’ve got feelings. Seeing you with Lennon - a cop, for Christ’s sake - what do you think that did to me?”

“I couldn’t live like that any more. Can’t you see that? Pretending to myself you weren’t married. Pretending all that . . . that . . . other stuff didn’t matter. The things you did.”

“I never did anything to—”

“You pulled the strings. Stop passing the blame, Paul.”

McGinty’s voice hardened. “There were people wanted you dead back then.”

“You think I didn’t know that? Have you any idea how scared I was?”

Campbell edged to the barn door until he could just make out their shapes in the poor light from the farmhouse.

“Maybe I should have let them kill you and that cop,” McGinty said.

Campbell flinched as Marie lashed out, and the sound of her palm on McGinty’s cheek reverberated around the yard. He flinched again when McGinty returned the blow, sending her sprawling on the wet concrete. She stared back up at him.

“And what are you doing with Fegan?” McGinty asked.

“Go to hell.”

“Answer me.”

Marie spat at him.

McGinty crouched down. “For Christ’s sake, Marie, he’s insane. He’s sick in the head.”

“Sick? Is he any more sick than you, or that thug O’Kane?” She pointed to the farmhouse.

“Don’t you know what he’s done? He killed a cop in Belfast just a couple of hours ago. He killed Vincie Caffola and Father Coulter.” He rested his hand on her shoulder as she shook her head. “He killed your uncle Michael.”

“No,” she said. “You’re lying. You said the police killed Vincie Caffola. You’re twisting things the way you always do.”

McGinty brushed hair away from her forehead. “It’s the truth, Marie. You can put your act on for everyone else, but I know you. You’re more like your uncle than you let on. You’ve got that same cold streak in you, like stone. And now you’ve latched onto Gerry Fegan. What are you using him for? It’s the same as the cop, isn’t it? Just a way to get back at me.” He sighed. “You always went for the wrong type, didn’t you?”

Her gaze dropped. “Let me go back inside.”

“All right,” McGinty said. He stood upright and helped her to her feet. “Away you go.”

Marie wiped her eyes as she went back to the farmhouse. She was silhouetted in the doorway for just a second. A second was long enough for the light to find Campbell. He ducked his head back inside the barn.

“Davy?” McGinty called. “Davy, is that you?”

Campbell screwed his eyes shut and cursed under his breath. He stepped out into the yard. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. McGinty.”

McGinty took a slow step closer. “What are you doing there?”

“It stinks in that house. I was just out getting some air.”

“In the barn?”

“I heard talking. I thought you’d want some privacy.”

A step closer. “What’d you hear?”

“Nothing,” Campbell said. “Just voices. Nothing I could make out.”

Light cut across the yard once more, only to be blocked by the hulking form of Bull O’Kane. He came trudging across the concrete, his heavy feet slapping on the ground.

“Come on back inside now, lads.”

McGinty stood still for a few seconds, then gave a slow nod. “We’re coming. I think you wanted a word with Davy, here, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.” A smile split O’Kane’s ruddy farmer’s face.

Campbell took a sideways step. “What about?”

O’Kane, impossibly quick for his size, had Campbell’s upper arm in his grip before he could move. “Just a word, son.”

McGinty came to his other side. “Just come inside, Davy.”

Campbell made one desperate grab for the gun tucked into the small of his back, but McGinty got his wrist first.

“Don’t, Davy.” McGinty’s voice was as soft and warm as the rain. “You’ll only make it worse.”

46

Bull O’Kane walked a slow and steady circle around the room, eyeing each of the other occupants in turn. He drew on his cigarette and hot fingers of smoke probed his throat. Pádraig took up almost half of the old couch while that idiot Coyle sat at the other end, grinning a lopsided grin. McGinty stood opposite, resting against the windowsill, smoking a cigarette. His driver had taken over from Coyle, keeping an eye on the woman and her child. O’Kane couldn’t read the politician’s face. He was a slippery bastard, that one. Always thinking, always finding the angles. O’Kane wouldn’t trust him for a second, but he was smart, there was no getting away from it. Lately, he’d been getting too smart. The balls of him, arguing with the Bull in front of the others.

Downey and Malloy were down the lane, waiting for Fegan. The regular boys had been sent home. This was secret business, only for those who needed to know.

And there was Davy Campbell, standing alone at the center of the room, the Black Watch turncoat, the Scotsman fighting for Ireland. O’Kane wondered how he’d gotten away with it for so long. He stank of tout. You could smell it on his sweat. Any fucker could see it.

“You want to tell us something, Davy?” O’Kane ground the cigarette into the floorboards with his heel.

Campbell’s voice was steady, but his eyes flickered. “What do you mean?”

O’Kane continued to circle, keeping Campbell fixed in his gaze. “Just what I said. Do you have something to tell us? Anything on your mind?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

O’Kane kicked the back of his knee. Campbell went down hard, his kneecap cracking off the wooden floor. He cried out, then grabbed for his side, his face reddening.

“We’re not fucking about here, Davy. No games.”

O’Kane could have told him he’d live if he spoke the truth, but Campbell wasn’t stupid. The Scot would know he was dead if he let the lie slip. He would string it out, hoping they’d eventually believe him. But O’Kane was certain of his facts. That stuck-up English ponce from the Northern Ireland Office was getting a holiday home in the Algarve for this information, along with a significant contribution to his retirement fund. Anyone in the NIO knew Bull O’Kane was not to be lied to, not for any price. The information was solid. Now he wanted more.

“You tell me the truth,” the Bull said. “Stop your shite-talking and you’ll go easy. Tell me who else is touting for your handler and I might make it even easier. I can’t be fairer than that.”

Campbell looked up from the floor. “I don’t know what you’re—” O’Kane drove his boot into Campbell’s ribcage with a solid thud. The Scot writhed in tortured spasms, his mouth wide in a soundless scream. Silent tears sprang from his eyes, giving O’Kane a sweet satisfaction. It took something to make a hard man cry, but he’d never found it difficult.

He looked at Coyle. “You want a go?”

“Too fucking right.” Coyle stepped forward, his battered face twisted in a pained sneer.

O’Kane moved back. “Work away, but stop when I tell you, right?”

Coyle reached down and grabbed a handful of hair. He pulled Campbell’s head upwards. “I’m going to enjoy this, you cunt.”

Campbell got his knees under him. “Fuck you,” he hissed.

Coyle swung his foot into Campbell’s crotch. The Scot gave a low groan and started to slip towards the floor, but Coyle held his hair firm. “Fuck me?” Coyle’s laugh was raw and savage. He leaned over and spoke into Campbell’s ear. “Fuck me? It looks like you’re the one getting fucked, Davy.”

Coyle drew his right arm back, made a fist, and punched Campbell’s jaw. The hard smacking sound made McGinty wince. O’Kane had to suppress a laugh when he saw Coyle grimace at the pain in his knuckles.

Campbell went limp, but still Coyle held him by his hair, keeping him from collapsing to the floor. He slapped the Scot hard across the cheek. “Come on, you fucker. Look at me.”

A small whisper came from Campbell’s lips. Unease pricked at O’Kane’s gut, but he held his tongue.

Coyle slapped him again. “What?”

Campbell lifted his eyes. His mouth moved as he mumbled softly.

Coyle leaned down, his ear close to Campbell’s mouth. “What?”

“Stupid bastard,” O’Kane said as Campbell’s teeth locked on Coyle’s ear. He sighed and shook his head at the scream. “All right, that’s enough, for Christ’s sake.”

Another kick to Campbell’s injured rib took the fight out of him and he sprawled on the floor, twisting his arms and legs, blood dribbling from his mouth. Coyle’s blood. Coyle fell to the floor beside him, crying and pressing his hands to his ear.

“Holy Mother of Christ,” O’Kane said to McGinty, ‘where’d you get this stupid shite? He’s as much use as tits on a boar.”

McGinty just shook his head as he ground his cigarette butt into the windowsill.

“Here.” O’Kane took a handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it to the floor. “It’s clean. Hold it against your ear. Pádraig, help the silly cunt up, will you?”

“Right, Da.” Pádraig heaved himself out of the couch and huffed over to Coyle. He picked up the handkerchief, wadded it into a ball, and held it to Coyle’s ear. “Come on, now. You’re all right.”

Coyle struggled to his feet and went to kick Campbell’s exposed cheek. Pádraig held him back.

“I want to do him.” Coyle’s voice was choked by tears. “When you’re finished, you let me do him.”

“Get him out of here,” O’Kane said. “There’s bandages and stuff for the dogs over in the barn. There’s a bottle of chloroform in there, too. Bring it and some cotton wool over, there’s a good lad.”

“Right, Da.” Pádraig led the weeping Coyle out of the room, into the kitchen. The sound of barking drifted in as the outer door opened to the night, and then disappeared as it closed again.

O’Kane stood over Campbell’s wretched form. “You know the score, Davy. You know there’s no getting out of this. You’re going to die tonight.”

He looked at his watch as he crouched down, his knees creaking. “Well, morning, actually. You’re going to die, and that’s all there is to it. The only thing you’ve got to worry about is how much you suffer. Can you hear me, Davy?”

He stroked Campbell’s sweat- and rain-soaked hair.

“Answer me, Davy.”

Campbell’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know what you want.”

“The truth, that’s all.”

The Scot turned his head, a bloodshot eye fixing on O’Kane. “But I don’t know what you think I’ve done. Please tell me.”

O’Kane sighed. “You’re a tout, Davy.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me, there’s no point. It’s not a question; I know it for a fact. You’ve been sold out by the same cunts you’ve worked for all these years.”

Campbell pressed his forehead into the floor.

“I’ve got it straight from the NIO. A stuck-up gobshite, talks like he’s the fucking Queen’s second cousin. He says him and you sat in a car in Armagh just a few days ago, talking about what our friend Gerry Fegan was up to.”

Campbell made fists with his hands.

“He says you’ve been working for Fourteen Intelligence Company since the Nineties. He says you’re the best they’ve got. But you’re not that good, are you, Davy?”

“Christ,” Campbell said.

“Now, listen to me, Davy. You can go easy or you can go hard.” O’Kane leaned down, watchful of Campbell’s teeth. “And I mean harder than anything you ever heard of, anything you were ever trained for, anything you ever had nightmares about.”

“No,” Campbell said.

“I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you worse than you ever thought you could live through.”

Campbell closed his eyes. He wasn’t stupid. He’d heard of the things O’Kane had done to men like him.

“And if you don’t talk to me, I’m going to take you out to the stables. Those dogs don’t normally go for people, but if they get the smell of blood . . .”

O’Kane patted Campbell’s back and laughed. “Jesus, Davy, you’ll be watching them eat your guts. But you never know; one of them might go for your throat first. If you’re lucky, that is.”

“Please,” Campbell said.

O’Kane stood upright. “So, let’s get started.”

He reached down, gripped Campbell’s left wrist, and lifted his hand. He placed his foot on the tout’s injured side and put his weight on it while he pulled upwards.

Campbell screamed, then gasped, then screamed, then gasped. O’Kane took his foot away and lowered the arm slightly. He kicked Campbell’s ribcage once then waited for the writhing and ragged sobs to die away.

“Tell me the truth. Tell me who else is touting for your handlers.”

A line of bloody drool connected Campbell’s mouth to the floor. “I swear to God, I don’t know what—”

“Fuck’s sake.” O’Kane put his weight on Campbell’s side again and heaved on his arm. The ribcage flexed beneath his foot. Campbell’s scream became a high whine. O’Kane released the pressure before swinging his boot hard into Campbell’s flank once more. This time he felt a shift, a grinding, something giving way.

Campbell seemed to have lost the power to scream. He just opened his mouth wide, screwed his eyes shut, and leaked air. His cheeks glistened with tears.

“Christ, just tell me, Davy.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t . . .”

O’Kane brought his heel down on Campbell’s side, felt the spongy grinding, saw the coughed-up blood spill from his mouth.

“Tell me.”

“Toner . . . Patsy . . . Toner . . .”

“Jesus,” McGinty said.

O’Kane raised a hand to silence him. “What about Patsy Toner?”

Campbell hung from O’Kane’s grip like a bag of sticks. “He’s . . . their contact . . . he’s . . . he’s the . . . one who . . . who got me in.”

O’Kane lowered Campbell’s arm to the floor and squatted next to him. “Breathe easy, son. Small breaths. What else?”

“He tells them . . . everything . . . all the press . . . he tells them . . . before McGinty even gets it out. They know . . . every move . . . McGinty makes . . . before he makes it.”

O’Kane brushed Campbell’s cheek. “Good boy. Who else?”

Campbell shook his head.

“Now, son, don’t be stupid.”

“Toner . . . just Toner.”

Pádraig waddled into the room, a large brown bottle in one hand, a bag of cotton wool in the other. “I’ve got the chloroform, Da.”

“Good lad,” O’Kane said.

He stood and took the bag of cotton wool from his son. His thick fingers grabbed a ball of the white material and tore it from the bag. “Open that.”

Pádraig twisted the cap off the brown bottle and handed the chloroform to his father. O’Kane tipped the bottle up, soaking the cotton wool while he held it out at arm’s length. The cloying smell made his head tingle. He turned to McGinty. “We use this to put the dogs down when they’re hurt too bad to fix. We’ll knock him out till we see what Fegan has to say. We might have some more questions after that.”

O’Kane crouched down and pressed the soaked wad against Campbell’s mouth and nose. “That’s it, son, just breathe nice and easy.”

Campbell pulled away, batting weakly at the cotton wool. “McGinty,” he said.

“What’s that?”

His eyes held O’Kane’s, a sickly smile on his lips. “McGinty . . . he did it . . . he set them up . . . Fegan isn’t . . . working alone . . . it’s McGinty.”

McGinty stepped away from the wall. “He’s lying.”

O’Kane gripped Campbell’s hair and forced his face into the cotton wool.

“Jesus, Bull, he’s lying.”

Campbell fought against O’Kane’s grip. His eyes bulged and the Bull ignored the sting of fingernails tearing at his wrists. Soon, Campbell’s eyelids began to droop, his body grew limp, and the struggling died away.

O’Kane lowered Campbell’s head to the floor. A string of red-streaked saliva stretched from the cotton wool as he took it away from the Scot’s mouth. He stood and turned to face McGinty.

“He was lying, Bull.” McGinty’s face paled beneath the bare light bulb. “He was just trying to get back at us, to turn us against each other. You can see that, can’t you?”

O’Kane watched the politician’s veins bulge, his Adam’s apple bob above his shirt collar. “We’ll talk about it later. After Fegan.”

“Come on, Bull, you know he was—”

A burst of static made McGinty jump. O’Kane turned to see his son raise the walkie-talkie to his ear. A distorted crackle that might have been a voice came in a short burst of chatter.

Pádraig thumbed the button. “Right,” he said. He lowered the radio to his side. “It’s him. He’s coming.”

47

A flashlight waved from side to side twenty yards ahead. Fegan slowed the Clio as he approached the undulating light. The country lane was narrow, barely room for two cars to pass, and lined with hedges. Fields sloped up into the night on either side. A short, stocky man in a woollen hat and green combat jacket stepped into the road and raised his hand. Fegan brought the car to a halt. The man walked around to the driver’s side window and made a winding motion with the flashlight. Fegan did as he was told.

“You Fegan?” the man asked.

Fegan squinted against the torchlight. “Yeah.”

Another man, tall, thin and armed with a double-barrelled shotgun, emerged from the hedgerow. He aimed the gun at Fegan through the windscreen.

The stocky man shone the light into the dark corners of the car, into the footwells at the front, and then the back. “Get out,” he said. He stepped back to let Fegan climb out.

“Put your hands on top of your head,” the one with the shotgun said.

Fegan obeyed as the stocky one began searching his pockets. “I’m not armed,” Fegan said.

The stocky man spared him one glance. “If it’s all the same to you, mate, I think I’ll see for myself.”

Fegan stood still as warm rain licked at his closed eyelids. He sensed the shadows watching. His temples pulsed and a chill crept towards his center.

“You won’t find anything,” Fegan said, opening his eyes.

The stocky man looked up from his search. “Shut up.” When he was satisfied he said, “Open the boot.”

They walked to the rear of the car. Fegan opened the boot and the hatch rose with a hydraulic whine. The stocky man shone the torch into the far corners. He pointed to the canvas bag.

“Lift that out.”

Fegan reached in and lifted the bag. He rested it on the sill and unzipped it. The stocky man kept his distance as he peered inside. His brow creased and he leaned forward. He lowered his hand down into it, pushing clothes aside to see the greasy paper.

“Fuck me,” he said. “How much is it?”

Fegan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

The man with the shotgun came forward. “What is it?”

“Look,” the stocky man said, pointing.

“Jesus.”

The two men looked at each other. A dozen possibilities passed between them, but finally they shook their heads.

“Come on,” the stocky man said, taking the bag. “The Bull’s waiting.”

Fegan drove the last few hundred yards with the shotgun’s twin muzzles at the back of his head and the stocky man beside him, cradling the bag of money in his lap. The Clio’s headlights caught the narrowing of the lane as it rose to meet an old farmyard. A barn stood open, bright light flowing out. Eddie Coyle stood just inside, tying a blood-drenched bandage around his head. He glared back at Fegan.

The car shuddered around them as its engine died. Fegan heard dogs bark and scratch at the stable doors over the sound of a generator. This place smelled of death: painful, frightened death. Its stink crept in through the open window. Shadows moved across the yard, turning, searching.

Bull O’Kane and Paul McGinty stepped out into the rain. The Bull crossed to the car and leaned down so he could see inside.

“Come into the house, Gerry.”

Fegan opened his door and climbed out. The other men got out too. O’Kane waved a hand at them.

“You know these boys?”

“No,” Fegan said.

“Tommy Downey and Kevin Malloy. They’ll rip you to pieces if you so much as look like you’re going to make a wrong move. If you fuck about with me, I’ll let these boys loose on that woman of yours. You understand?”

“I understand,” Fegan said.

O’Kane smiled. “Good. It’s been a long time, Gerry.”

“Twenty-seven years.”

“Jesus, is it?” O’Kane laughed. “I wish I could say it was good to see you. But you’ve let me down. Me and Paul. Ah, well. Come on inside, now.”

“Where’s Marie?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll see her soon enough. Come on.”

O’Kane turned and walked towards the house. Fegan felt a shove at the small of his back. McGinty stared at him hard as he walked to the door, but said nothing.

A damp chill filled the derelict farmhouse. Fegan let it soak into him as he followed O’Kane through the kitchen. Downey came behind, the shotgun pressed between Fegan’s shoulder blades, followed by McGinty and Coyle.

They entered the next room where Campbell’s unconscious body lay on an ancient couch. A sweet chemical odor pushed aside the smell of damp and mildew.

A younger man, as tall as O’Kane, but heavier, placed a wooden chair at the center of the room. Fegan guessed him to be Pádraig, the Bull’s son.

“Sit down,” O’Kane said.

Fegan obeyed as McGinty and Downey made their way into the room. McGinty’s face was impassive as he lit a cigarette. The others waited in the kitchen.

“I want to see Marie and Ellen,” Fegan said. His hands didn’t shake, but his mouth was dry.

“All right,” O’Kane said. He looked at Pádraig and tilted his head towards another doorway. His son disappeared through it without a word.

O’Kane stared at Fegan for what seemed like hours before he spoke again. “So, what happens now, Gerry?”

“You let Marie and Ellen go,” Fegan said. “Then you kill me.”

O’Kane smiled. “Not so fast. There’s something I want to get straight first.”

“What?”

“I want to know why, Gerry.”

Fegan looked to the doorway as Marie entered, cradling Ellen, escorted by Quigley. Pádraig followed and closed the door behind him. He guided Marie to the corner. Ellen wriggled in her mother’s arms.

“It’s Gerry,” she said.

“I know,” Marie said, her voice calm and even. “Be still, sweetheart.”

Ellen kept squirming until she slipped from her mother’s grip and dropped lightly to the floor. She ran to Fegan. “Have you come for us?” she asked as she climbed into his lap. She weighed nothing at all.

“Yeah,” Fegan said.

“Mummy’s scared.”

“I know. But she shouldn’t be. Neither should you. It’s going to be all right. I promise.”

“When can we go home?”

Fegan cupped her face in his hands. “Soon. Go back to your Mummy.”

Ellen dismounted from Fegan’s knee and went to her mother. Marie crouched down and wrapped her arms around her daughter. Fegan smiled at her and she nodded in return before lowering her eyes.

O’Kane moved between them, blocking Fegan’s view. “You didn’t answer me, Gerry. I want to know why you did all this. Tell me.”

Fegan looked up at his red face. “Because I had to.”

“You had to. What does that mean?”

“I had to do it. It was the only way.”

“The only way to what?”

“To get them to leave me alone.”

“Who?”

Fegan looked to the floor.

“To get who to leave you alone?” O’Kane crouched down and placed his finger under Fegan’s chin. He turned his head so their eyes met. “Who made you do it, Gerry? The Brits? Someone else? Maybe someone we know? It’s all right. It’s all over now. You can tell me.”

“No,” Fegan said as the chill reached his center. The shadows drew in from the periphery of his vision, and moved between McGinty and Campbell. Their shapes came into focus, solidified. Fegan tried to push them back, but he couldn’t. Their eyes burned into him.

“Tell me,” O’Kane said. He gripped Fegan’s face in one massive hand. “Tell me.”

“Them.” Fegan pointed to the woman, her baby, and the butcher as they executed McGinty over and over. He pointed to the UFF boys standing over Campbell. “And them.”

McGinty’s eyes darted from O’Kane to Fegan, his cigarette held two inches from his mouth.

O’Kane stared back at McGinty. “You mean Paul? Did Paul make you do it?”

McGinty dropped the cigarette. “Jesus, Bull, he’s mad. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

O’Kane turned back to Fegan. “Did Paul McGinty and Davy Campbell make you do this?”

“No, not them,” Fegan said.

“Then who the fuck were you pointing at?”

“Them.” Fegan aimed his finger at each of the followers in turn. “The people I killed.”

48

Campbell floated above them, watching from the ceiling, seeing them as shadows and light, hearing their voices as echoes and memories. He could see his own body down there. That was where the pain lay. It had almost broken him, almost eaten him up, but now it was away from him, bound up in that body on the couch.

A strange, cold sweetness flooded him, like he had drowned in sugary water. He tried to find order in his mind, but it was so hard to hold onto his consciousness when it drifted free like this. There had been the pain, thunderous and boiling hot. Then there had been a great tidal wave of joy, euphoria sweeping through him as someone poured the sweet, cool liquid into his nose and mouth.

And then there was this.

But there had been something else. Some thought that had pierced his mind just before it was cut adrift from his body. He tried hard to sort through the misted fragments of himself. What had it been?

A voice rose up from below in anger. The sound of one man striking another, the wailing of a child.

Oh, yes.

Now he remembered: a secret thing, only for him to know. It was cold and hard and jagged. It clung to his ankle, waiting.

49

O’Kane rubbed his stinging palm, and turned to the wailing child and her mother. “You shut that kid up or I will.”

Marie pulled the girl close and rocked her as she stroked her hair. The child squealed into her mother’s bosom and O’Kane grimaced at her piercing cries. He liked children well enough, but he couldn’t be doing with their tears. If any of his seven sons and daughters had ever wailed like that, they’d have got a slap to shut them up. He looked down at Fegan, sprawled on the floor.

“Pick yourself up.”

Fegan climbed back into the chair.

“Are you saying you did all this because the people in your head told you to?”

Fegan kept his gaze on the floor. O’Kane reached out and grabbed his hair. He pulled Fegan’s head up so he could see the madman’s eyes. Anger churned in his belly, anger at the stupidity and the waste of it. He looked to Marie and her child, and then back to Fegan.

“Answer me or I’ll cut their throats.”

“Yes,” Fegan said.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” O’Kane released his hair and took two steps away. He turned it over in his mind, trying to find some kind of reason in it. Of course, there was none. He regarded Fegan’s blank face. “And why now, after all these years? What set you off?”

“His mother,” Fegan said.

“Whose mother?”

“The boy’s. The boy I killed for McKenna. She came up to me in the graveyard. She knew who I was, what I’d done. She asked me where he was buried.”

O’Kane shared a glance with McGinty. “And you told her?”

Fegan nodded.

“That’s why there’s cops digging up the bogs round Dungannon,” O’Kane said. “What good did you think that would do?”

“I thought he’d leave me alone,” Fegan said. “He didn’t. He wanted more. He wanted Michael.”

“Christ.” O’Kane struggled to grasp the madness of it.

“His mother told me something else,” Fegan said.

“What?”

Fegan looked up at O’Kane, and a sudden fear brightened his eyes. Not fear of the Bull, or of anyone here. The fear was of something else, something far away.

“Everybody pays,” Fegan said. “She said sooner or later, everybody pays.”

O’Kane shook his head. “So you did all this, caused all this damage, because some woman tackled you in a graveyard?” He turned to Marie. “And you helped him.”

She looked up from her daughter. “What?”

“You helped him after he killed my cousin.”

Marie shook her head. “He said he didn’t do it.”

“He killed your uncle, for Christ’s sake.”

She stared at Fegan. “He swore he didn’t. He swore on my daughter’s life.”

O’Kane looked from her to Fegan, seeing something break between them.

“Gerry, you swore on my daughter’s soul.”

Fegan closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She buried her face in the child’s hair and began to weep. O’Kane felt a smirk creep across his lips. He went back to Fegan and leaned over, his hands on his knees.

“I don’t think either of you has been honest with each other. I bet she didn’t tell you the whole story, did she?” He gave Marie a sideways glance. “Eh? Did she tell you about her and our friend, the politician?”

“Don’t,” Marie said.

O’Kane ignored her. He watched Fegan’s lined face as he spoke. “Not many know about it. You see, your friend Marie McKenna used to be very close to Paul McGinty. Very close. If it hadn’t been for him being married already, they wouldn’t have had to keep it a secret.”

He turned to Marie. “How long was it?”

“Stop it,” she said.

“Two or three years, wasn’t it? But she got fed up waiting for him to leave his wife for her, so she finished it. And then she goes and takes up with a cop, just to rub it in. What do you think of that, Gerry?”

Fegan’s face gave nothing away, save for the faintest twitch in his right cheek. “She’s got nothing to do with this. Let her go.”

O’Kane straightened, wincing at the ache in his lower back. “Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it? Do as you’re told, don’t give us any trouble, and she can take her wee girl home. Fair enough?”

Fegan looked from Marie to O’Kane. He nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Right, then.” O’Kane looked at his watch. “I think it’s time we got things sorted.”

He went to the kitchen door and beckoned Coyle inside. He pointed to Campbell. “Take him out to the barn. Pádraig, you help him.”

He turned to Downey. “Bring Gerry out, too. If he tries anything, you know what to do.”

Downey aimed the shotgun at Fegan’s head. Fegan stood up. He was tall, but not as tall as O’Kane.

“Remember, Gerry. Do as you’re told and she can go home. Don’t, and . . . well . . . you know.”

Fegan nodded, walked to the doorway, and waited as Coyle and Pádraig wrestled Campbell’s limp body through it. He turned to Marie.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything.”

Downey pressed the shotgun against Fegan’s back and followed him out of sight.

“Wait,” Marie called. She went to go after him, but Quigley gripped her elbow.

“There’s nothing you can do for him,” O’Kane said.

Her eyes welled. “Please don’t hurt him.”

“What do you care?” O’Kane crossed to her. “He’s a lunatic. He’s dangerous. He killed your uncle.”

Tears ran freely from her eyes as she clung to her daughter. “But he doesn’t deserve to die.”

O’Kane sighed. “Jesus, who does?”

He reached down and gripped Marie’s forearms. She was strong, but not strong enough. It was easy to take the child from her, even though she fought hard. He put the little girl in Quigley’s arms. She stared back at her mother, red-faced from the tears.

The ball of bloodstained cotton wool still lay on the floor next to the couch. O’Kane picked it up. He took the brown bottle from the windowsill, opened it, and poured the sweet-smelling liquid onto it.

Marie backed into the corner. “No.”

“Don’t worry, love.” O’Kane walked slowly towards her. “It won’t hurt.”

She only fought it for a few seconds, scratching at his face, kicking at his shins. By the time she thought to raise a knee to his groin she was too weak to put anything behind it. O’Kane lowered her to the floor as she went limp. He looked to the screaming child.

“She’s all right, sweetheart. Look, she’s only sleeping.”

The little girl’s cries continued to stab at him. He showed her the cotton wool. “Do you want to take a wee sleep, too? When you wake up you can go home.”

McGinty took the trembling child, quiet now, from Quigley. “No. That’s enough.”

O’Kane stood up so he could look down on McGinty. The politician stared back, defiant. O’Kane nodded. “All right. Take them back upstairs. You can keep an eye on them.”

He stroked the child’s blonde hair, soft against his rough skin. “You’ll be a good girl, won’t you? Uncle Paul’s going to look after you for a wee while.”

McGinty took a step back, bringing the girl with him. “What about Fegan?”

“Don’t worry about him. I’ll take care of it. Just you wait here. We need to have a talk when this is done.”

O’Kane turned his eyes to the kitchen door. “Kevin?”

Malloy entered the room, his pistol drawn.

“Make sure our guests don’t go anywhere.” O’Kane walked towards the kitchen. “I won’t be long.”

50

For just a moment, Campbell was dragged back to his body where the pain waited for him. He screamed inside his own mind, unable to draw the breath to make the sound real. And then he was free of it again. From above he could see the vague forms carrying his body out into the gloom and the rain. Even up here the stench of the place was inescapable.

The procession marched across a sea of grey to a burning sun. The barn, lit up for their arrival. Campbell knew that much. This was the place where the dogs fought for their lives.

The dogs.

In Campbell’s swirling consciousness, he imagined them, the dogs, slavering over his body. He was going to die soon, he knew, and the dogs would have him.

No. Not like this. Not here.

Wake up. No matter how much pain lies below, no matter how much it hurts, wake up.

51

Fegan saw the first hint of dawn beyond the stable roofs as he crossed the yard. Coyle and Pádraig heaved Campbell’s limp form into the mouth of the barn. The Scot gasped and moaned as they lowered him to the ground at the edge of the pit. Downey kept the shotgun’s muzzles at the small of Fegan’s back all the time.

Five shapes followed in the emerging light, shadows no longer.

O’Kane fetched a roll of plastic sheeting from a dark corner. He brought it with him to the pit and unrolled it on the blood- and feces-stained earth. Pádraig helped him. The smell rising up clung to the back of Fegan’s throat, and he forced himself not to gag. He didn’t want to die here.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the followers. The UFF boys looked up from Campbell’s unconscious body. The woman and the butcher stood by his side. “I couldn’t do it. I tried, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

O’Kane looked up from the pit. “Are you talking to your friends, Gerry? The ones in your head?”

Fegan nodded. “Yes.”

O’Kane beckoned. “Come on, son.”

Fegan stepped down into the pit. Downey followed, pressing him forward. “You’ll let Marie and Ellen go?” Fegan asked.

“I told you, didn’t I?” O’Kane said. “Jesus, whatever happened to you? The great Gerry Fegan. You remember the last time we met? How long did you say, twenty-five years ago?”

“Twenty-seven,” Fegan said. “I was eighteen.”

O’Kane addressed the others. “He was just a kid, but he had a reputation already. The only fella ever raised a hand to me and lived to tell the tale. That was the first time we met. The next time would’ve been, oh, 1980. Those were fierce times. We had a tout to deal with. This girl from Middletown was fucking a Brit. She’d tried to run, tried to get a boat from Belfast, but McGinty’s boys caught her at the docks. McGinty and Gerry here brought her down to me. Isn’t that right, Gerry?”

Fegan remembered. “That’s right.”

“McGinty puts the gun in his hand, says, ‘Here you go, Gerry. Now you can break your duck.” O’Kane pointed to Campbell. “Bring him down here.”

Pádraig walked over and helped Coyle to lower Campbell into the pit. The Scot’s face contorted as they laid him on the plastic and he cried out in his stupor. Coyle drew the pistol from his waistband and put it to Campbell’s head.

“What are you at?” O’Kane asked.

“I want to do him,” Coyle said.

“All right, but you’ll do it when I tell you, not before.”

Coyle gave an impatient sigh and tucked the gun back into his waistband. Pádraig went to his father’s side.

O’Kane continued. “Anyway, Gerry here takes the gun and just looks at us. McGinty asks him what’s wrong, and Gerry goes ‘No, I can’t, I can’t.”

“She was just a girl,” Fegan said, ‘no older than me. She was scared. And she was pregnant.”

O’Kane stepped closer. “Aye, she was pregnant. She had a Brit’s bastard inside her. So what? She was a tout. That’s all there was to it. And you didn’t have the guts. I had to do it for you.”

Fegan remembered her eyes, pleading, terrified. Tears burned his cheeks. “I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t stop it.”

“No, you didn’t even have the guts to watch. You ran away. You were weak. She was a tout, the lowest kind of shite that walks the earth. The kind that turn on their own people. Like you, Gerry. And touts get no mercy.”

He reached out and wiped the tears from Fegan’s cheeks. “No mercy, Gerry. Not then. Not now.”

The woman took Fegan’s hand, her fingers cool and soft. He turned to see her smile up at him, her eyes sad, the baby calm in the crook of her arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She nodded.

O’Kane took a step back. “It’s time, Gerry.”

Fegan felt the twin muzzles at the back of his head.

He closed his eyes and the woman’s fingers slipped away from his.

52

Stay awake.

Every shred of Campbell’s will focused on this one thing, this one task. To grab the knife taped to his ankle, open the blade, and get to his feet. If he could do those simple things, he might live.

But there was the pain.

The last jolt had pulled him back to some form of consciousness when they lowered him to the plastic. Now his mind teetered on the cusp of aware and unaware, and only the pain kept him from slipping back into the fog. He knew the movement would waken the smoldering in his side and the pain would be unbearable. But he would have to bear it. If he screamed before the thing was done, he would not survive.

His brain thundered inside his skull as his eyes tried to make sense of the hazy shapes before him. How many were there? He couldn’t be sure. His vision didn’t stretch that far. The one in front of him, though, the one whose feet shuffled in front of his face: Coyle.

Campbell kept his head still but let his eyes work upwards, along the backs of Coyle’s calves, over his thighs, up to his waistband. A pistol, small, but it would do.

And what would he do with it?

Think.

Think.

Falling.

Who were these men standing over him, their fingers pointed to his head?

Falling into the dark again. No, come back.

He inhaled, letting the explosion of pain wipe away the mist, and held the air there. It had to be now. Fuck the pain. He ground his teeth together.

Now.

53

The desperate scream rose up to the barn’s rafters and Fegan felt the shotgun muzzles move away from the back of his head. He opened his eyes. Campbell had a knife to Coyle’s throat with one hand, and a small pistol in the other. Both men staggered in a lazy, lopsided dance as Campbell seemed to fight gravity. His eyes rolled, unfocused, like a drunk’s. Coyle’s mouth hung open. The scream hadn’t been his.

Campbell aimed the gun at random targets, sometimes air, sometimes shadow, sometimes flesh. “Stay back.”

Downey stepped around Fegan, the shotgun trained on the two shambling men.

O’Kane held his hands up. “Now don’t be silly, Davy.”

Campbell pointed the gun at the voice but his eyes seemed to focus on a place far beyond. “Stay back or I’ll cut his throat.”

Pádraig moved to flank Campbell, but the Scot turned to the side. “Get back.”

O’Kane took a step closer. “Come on, now, Davy. You’re in no fit state for this. It’ll only make things worse.”

Campbell moved his aim back and forth between O’Kane and his son. “I’ll fucking shoot you if you don’t get back.”

“No, you won’t, Davy. Jesus, you can barely stand.”

“Get back.”

Pádraig took one more step to Campbell’s left and the Scot pulled the trigger once, twice, three times. The first shot cut nothing but air, but the second punched Pádraig’s shoulder, and the third his throat. He stood there for a moment, mouth open in surprise, blood flowing down his barrel chest and pattering on the plastic.

“Da?” he said, his voice a throaty gargle. He took two steps backwards and sat down heavily on the edge of the pit.

Fegan looked to O’Kane. The old man’s face was a slab of stone, his eyes red. “The dogs will have you, Davy. I’ll watch them eat you alive.”

“Don’t move,” Campbell said.

Pádraig lay back on the dirt floor, his breath coming in shallow bubbling gasps. He tried to say something, but the words drowned in his throat.

“Give me the shotgun, Tommy,” O’Kane said, inching his way towards Downey. Downey passed it over. O’Kane raised it up to his shoulder and aimed at Campbell.

Coyle squirmed in Campbell’s grip. “Jesus, don’t shoot! Don’t!”

Campbell blinked hard and shook his head. He brought the pistol to Coyle’s temple. “I’ll kill him, I swear.”

O’Kane cocked the shotgun. “You think I give a shite?”

The boom filled the barn like a thunderclap, and time stood still for Fegan. He saw Coyle’s chest explode, throwing him and Campbell backwards against the low pit wall. The muzzle of Campbell’s pistol flashed as he and Coyle fell onto the lip of the pit, and something sliced the air beside Fegan.

He saw Downey reach inside his jacket. He heard Campbell’s pistol fire once more as Coyle’s body rolled away from him. O’Kane took a step back before letting the shotgun’s second barrel go with another booming discharge. Fegan flinched as a red sun burst from Campbell’s stomach. He dropped to the plastic-covered earth as Campbell writhed, pulling the trigger over and over.

Fegan covered his head with his hands and listened as the pistol’s angry barks turned to dry clicks. He felt two bodies hit the ground, one heavier than the other.

Breathing and crying. Then a tattered howl that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside the earth. That howl was answered by the dogs across the yard. He heard their panicked yelps cut through the dawn, their frantic scratching at the stable doors. Fegan let his eyes rise up from the plastic, over its sleek surface, until they found Downey’s twitching body, a revolver by his quivering hand. A pool of deep red spread from beneath him.

Fegan turned his head to the right. O’Kane lay on his side, alive, breathing hard. His face was burning pink and shining with sweat. A bloody hole had been torn just above his kneecap, and another in his belly, above his groin. His eyes found Fegan.

“Jesus, Gerry, he got me.”

Fegan pushed up with his hands and got his shaking legs under him. He coughed as acrid smoke scratched at his throat, and went to Downey’s body. He took the revolver from his side.

O’Kane’s laugh had a shrill edge. “The fucker got me.”

Fegan looked to Campbell. The Scot’s chest hitched with tiny gasps. His belly had been torn open and Fegan tried not to see the mash of blood and flesh. The UFF boys lingered over him, savage grins on their faces.

“You got him too,” Fegan said.

He walked over to O’Kane. The old man craned his neck to meet Fegan’s eyes. His breath came in hissing stabs through gritted teeth. He looked at the gun in Fegan’s hand.

“I’ll give you anything you want,” O’Kane said. “Anything. Any price. Just tell me.”

“No,” Fegan said.

“Get me out of here. Get me to a hospital. A million. I’ll give you a million.” He reached out and gripped Fegan’s ankle. “You can take the woman and the child and go anywhere. Two million. I’ll give you two million. Think of it, Gerry. Two million pounds.”

“I don’t want your money,” Fegan said, pulling his leg away from O’Kane’s grasp. He aimed the revolver at O’Kane’s forehead.

Tears sprang from O’Kane’s eyes and dropped to the plastic. “Then what? Just tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”

Fegan hunkered down. He could smell O’Kane’s sweat. “I won’t kill you. If you can get out of here, I won’t come after you. But you have to promise me something.”

“Oh, Jesus, anything.”

“When it’s over, you won’t come after me. Or Marie. You leave us alone. I’m going to kill Campbell now, and when I’ve done that, I’m going to the house to kill McGinty. Then I’m gone and you won’t ever hear of me again. You won’t look for me; you won’t put a price on me. Promise me that, and you’ll live.”

“Pádraig ...”

“It’s too late for him. Swear you’ll leave me and Marie alone.”

O’Kane nodded. “I promise. I swear to God.”

“Swear on your children’s souls.”

“I swear.”

“All right,” Fegan said.

He stood upright and crossed the pit to where Campbell sprawled on its edge, clinging to the last threads of life. His eyes were focused on something above and his lips moved silently. The UFF boys stood back, their faces glowing with animal pleasure.

54

“Davy.”

Campbell searched for his name among the bloodied faces. All these people reaching for him, clutching at him, pulling him down with them.

Who had spoken his name? Those men with the shaven heads and tattoos? No, they were dead years ago, broken into pieces in a cold concrete room. What did they want with him now? Their faces blazed in ecstasy.

What do you want? His lips moved, he felt them, but no sound came.

Something nudged his foot.

“Here, Davy.”

Campbell tried to raise himself, but his body split in two. His core spilled out from him as he moved. Oh yes, the shotgun. It had torn him open. Cool air seeped into the place where his stomach had been.

He forced everything into his neck, lifting his head to see the voice. Hurricanes roared in his ears and his skin burned. A shape emerged from the fire, tall and thin.

Gerry Fegan.

He had something shiny and beautiful in his hand.

“They want you, Davy,” he said.

“Who?” Campbell asked, his voice a thin hiss.

Fegan pointed to the tattooed men. They grinned at Campbell and he wanted to scream, but there was no air.

“The UFF boys you set up,” Fegan said. “The ones you had me kill to cover your own tracks. It’s time to pay, Davy.”

Fire turned to ice and tremors spread out from Campbell’s center. He recognised the shining thing in Fegan’s hand and heard its hammer click into place.

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Everybody pays,” Fegan said as the revolver’s muzzle stared Campbell in the eye. “Sooner or later, everybody pays.”

Fury tore at Campbell’s heart. He wanted to taste Fegan’s blood, feel his flesh burst and split beneath his fingers, but the blackness flooded in.

The UFF boys leaned close, grinning and hateful. The other faces, the bodies, the limbs, all dead and rotting, swarmed on him. One form moved closest, a tattered hole in his forehead, the sergeant’s insignia still on his epaulettes.

Sergeant Hendry?

The long-dead soldier sank his teeth into Campbell’s skin, tearing at the remains of his body.

Fegan towered above them all.

“Fuck you!” Campbell screamed. “Fucking do it! Do it now. Pull the fucking trigger. Come on, pull it. Shoot me. Pull the—”

THREE

55

The revolver’s crack silenced the dogs for just a second. Fegan turned to the butcher, the black-haired woman and her baby. The woman gave him her small, sad smile.

Fegan nodded and walked past Bull O’Kane, who kept his gaze on the ground. He walked towards the yard, where the farmhouse waited. He stopped just inside the barn, leaning out to see it. The world had taken on the strange blue light of early morning as the rain thinned to leave a dull sheen on the farmyard. Low growls and whines came from the stables.

He breathed the tainted air for a moment, savoring the vivid clarity in his mind and the steadiness in his hands. His senses rang with life amid the smell of death. The chill at his center had become a bright flame, incandescent in his chest. Fegan studied the windows, looking for any sign of activity.

McGinty and the others would have expected shots, but not a fire-fight. They would be watching.

The Clio remained where he’d parked it, in the middle of the yard, between Fegan and the house. He had to get to it and the plastic bag taped under the passenger seat. He gave the windows and door another scan and set off at a crouching run.

The kitchen door opened inward and Fegan dropped to his knees, just feet from the car. A shot came from the doorway and something cut the air above his head. The dogs started howling and barking and scratching again.

It was Malloy. Fegan had just caught his stocky frame through the Clio’s windows. He listened for footsteps on the concrete. The noise of the dogs made it hard to be sure. He crawled towards the car, the wet concrete cold on his hands and knees.

Another shot rang out. Fegan heard the bullet pierce the barn’s corrugated metal shell. It sounded like it came from the doorway. Malloy was still inside. Fegan reached the Clio’s rear driver’s-side door and edged up to the glass. The kitchen door was cracked open and he could see a disruption in the shadow beyond.

He ducked down, his mind running in all directions. He didn’t want to kill Malloy, but he had to get past him.

Fegan inched back up to the glass and peered through. He saw a hand appear from the shadows. It held a pistol. A shot blew glass around him as he covered his head.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he called.

He waited. No reply.

“I only want McGinty. You can go if you want. I won’t hurt you.”

“You’re a dead man, Fegan.” Malloy’s voice had the glassy edge of fear as it echoed round the yard.

Fegan chanced another quick glance through the Clio’s windows, and ducked down again when he saw Malloy peering back through the narrow opening of the doorway. “You don’t have to die with McGinty. Not if you go now.”

A bullet struck the Clio’s bodywork, somewhere on the other side of the car.

“Please,” Fegan called. “I don’t want to kill you.”

“Go fuck yourself!”

Fegan sighed and closed his eyes. “I have to,” he whispered.

He crawled along the Clio’s flank, from the rear to the front, keeping his head low as he approached its nose. He edged around the front, still hidden from the doorway. Looking up, he realised he would be visible from the upper floor on that side of the house. He watched the damp-stained net curtains for any sign of movement.

Just a few more inches and the doorway would come into view. If Malloy still had the door only slightly open, Fegan would be obscured by the wood. He crept forward until he could see its flaking green paint. Malloy’s pistol appeared and a bullet struck the Clio’s rear quarter.

He thinks I’m still there

, Fegan thought.

He came up over the Clio’s hood, steadying his arms on it, and put four shots through the wooden door. He listened, keeping the revolver’s smoking muzzle trained on the doorway.

After a second or two he heard a weak cry and the sound of a body sliding down a damp wall and hitting the floor.

Fegan cursed, bitter anger at the waste rising in him.

He moved back behind the shelter of the car and edged his way round to the driver’s door. He hadn’t locked it. It creaked open and shattered glass spilled out. Fegan lay flat across the driver’s seat, dropped the revolver into the footwell, and reached down under the passenger seat. His eyes stayed on the house, at least what he could see of it through the cracked window. He found the plastic bag with its cold, hard contents, and pulled the tape away. It tore and he felt nine-millimeter rounds spill through his fingers onto the floor. There was a heavy clunk as the weapons fell away.

Somewhere beneath the frantic barking and scratching of the dogs, Fegan caught the hint of voices from inside the house. He studied the windows as he drew his Walther from under the seat, followed by Campbell’s Glock. A net curtain in a window above the doorway swayed, disturbed by some passing shape. He threw himself backwards, a gun in each hand, just as a hole was blown through the car’s roof and a bullet gouged the upholstery where his head had been.

The dogs’ whining and howling rose to a new pitch and blood thundered in his ears. But through that clamor came a sharper, more frightening sound. A high, terrified crying.

“Ellen,” he said.

“Stay away, Fegan!”

McGinty’s voice, shrill and jagged.

“Stay away or I’ll kill them!”

Fegan clung to the side of the car, listening to the girl’s cries. His heart threw itself against the walls of his chest; his stomach sank low inside him.

“Ellen.”

56

Fegan looked to the followers standing over him, watching. The woman held her baby in one arm and raised the other towards the house. Her eyes told him, ordered him, to do it. Run, they said.

Run, now.

“Christ.”

He tucked Campbell’s Glock into his waistband and scrambled along the side of the car towards its front. The stable doors rattled in their frames as the dogs flailed against them. He gave the upper windows one more glance before hurling himself at the house. A shot rang out and something tugged at his left shoulder.

Fegan hit the door hard and stumbled over Malloy’s outstretched legs. He slammed against the far wall, dislodging loose tiles where the grout had rotted away. They shattered on the floor and he saw red spots appear among the fragments. His left arm felt heavy, like a stone had been tied to his wrist. He craned his neck round to see his shoulder. Nothing, just a nick.

He looked back at Malloy’s prone form. The stocky man’s chest rose and fell in a skewed rhythm. His glassy eyes stared at something far away. The followers entered and lingered over him, tilting their heads as they studied him.

Quick footsteps moved across the ceiling above.

“Gerry?” McGinty, his voice muffled by the wood and plaster between them. “Gerry, don’t come up here, I’m warning you. Don’t. I’ll . . . I’ll . . . you know I’ll do it.”

Ellen, crying.

The woman stood beside Fegan, pointing to the doorway to the next room. The room where he’d last seen Marie and Ellen. The butcher joined her.

“All right,” Fegan said.

He headed for the door, the Walther leading the way. The old tattered couch still sat against the wall, sodden with damp and blood. Weak fingers of early light clawed through the grimy window. Fegan could see trees beyond what had once been a garden but was now lost under years of neglect.

What was that?

He stopped and listened. Hard, fast breathing. The sound of panic. It came from beyond the far door. The same door Marie and Ellen had come through not so long ago. How long had it been? Fifteen minutes? Thirty? An hour?

The woman and the butcher took their places by Fegan’s side. They cocked their heads, listening. The baby was quite still in its mother’s arms.

She turned to Fegan and smiled. She reached up and brushed his cheek. She nodded.

Fegan looked back to the doorway and the darkness beyond. The breathing drew closer, its urgency growing. He stepped quietly towards the sound, the Walther between him and the shadows.

A stair creaked. The breathing faltered, then came back, quicker than before. Fegan heard the hiss of fabric against wallpaper, someone sliding along the wall.

Steady.

A man’s high, nasal whine. Terror.

Fegan stepped closer, shifting his weight slowly on the ancient floorboards. He kept the Walther drawn at waist level, in case they came in low. Closer. He could almost reach out and touch the door frame now. The breathing grew faster and faster, harder and harder.

Then it stopped.

Quigley burst from the shadow, a small pistol locked in both hands, his eyes bulging, his face burning, his knuckles white. He cried out when he saw Fegan’s Walther aimed at his heart, but he didn’t shoot. He stood frozen, staring, his breath held in his chest. Fegan saw the fear on him; he smelled the panic. This man was no killer.

“Breathe,” Fegan said.

Quigley stared back, veins standing out on his forehead and temples. His hands quaked. They held a .22 target pistol, little more than a toy.

“Breathe or you’ll faint.”

Air exploded from him in a long, desperate hiss. He inhaled with a tremulous gasp, and let it out again in a low moan.

McGinty’s voice came from above. “Shoot him, Quigley!”

Ellen cried.

“You don’t want to die,” Fegan said.

“Just shoot him!”

“You don’t have to die,” Fegan said.

Quigley couldn’t keep the gun aimed in one direction. It danced in his hands.

McGinty’s voice was high and fractured. “For fuck’s sake shoot him!”

“It’s your choice,” Fegan said. “You can live if you want to.”

Despite its leaden weight, he raised his left hand, open. Quigley stared back, his eyes searching Fegan’s face.

“You can live if you want to. Malloy and the Bull are hurt bad. The rest are dead. McGinty’s going to die soon. You don’t have to die with him. Choose.”

Quigley’s eyes fell away and his shoulders slumped.

“Quigley?” McGinty’s voice had lost its anger. “Quigley, what’s happening?”

Quigley placed the gun in Fegan’s outstretched hand, his stare fixed on the floor.

“Go,” Fegan said, slipping the gun into his jacket pocket.

“Thank you,” Quigley said. He hurried to the kitchen door without raising his eyes.

Fegan turned back to the shadows Quigley had emerged from. A door stood slightly ajar on the other side of a hallway. Morning light crept in from somewhere. Fegan pictured the rear of the house. There was a window at the center of the upper floor.

“It must be at the top of the stairs,” Fegan said.

The woman stepped closer to the darkness. With her free arm she signalled in and upwards. Fegan edged up to the door frame.

“Quigley?”

“He’s gone,” Fegan said.

“Bastard! Fuck!”

The voice wasn’t far away. Just at the top of the stairs, it sounded like. It resonated in the narrow hallway. Fegan eyed the door on the other side.

“Don’t come up here, Gerry. I’m warning you.”

Fegan took one breath before diving sideways, his left shoulder aimed at the door across the hallway. He caught a glimpse of McGinty’s silhouette against the window, Ellen writhing in his left arm, a revolver in his right hand. The gun boomed in the narrow passageway just as Fegan’s wounded shoulder connected with the door. The bullet scorched the air above Fegan’s head. The door burst inward, and he cried out in pain as he tumbled into the room. He fell against a stack of wooden chairs, sending them crashing to the floor.

“Stay away, Gerry. Don’t make me hurt them.”

Ellen screamed and cried.

Fegan scrambled to his feet, his mind working fast. A revolver, six shots. He counted.

“He’s fired three,” he said.

The woman turned to him and nodded. Fegan held her burning gaze.

“He’s got three left.”

She stepped back out into the hallway, the baby wriggling in one arm, and pointed upwards with the other. Her fingers formed a pistol. The butcher stood alongside her and did the same.

Together, they took aim at Paul McGinty, firing again and again, their mouths twisted and their teeth bared.

“I know,” Fegan said, feeling a warm trickle down his left arm. Weariness gnawed at the edges of his clarity. “I know.”

57

Fegan listened to the sounds of McGinty’s hard breathing and Ellen’s soft cries. Three shots left. If he didn’t have more ammunition, that was. Fegan had to gamble on that. He had to make McGinty waste them.

It was dark at the foot of the stairs. The only light came from the window behind McGinty and, even then, it was the thin glow of early morning. McGinty knew Fegan was a poor shot and he couldn’t risk hitting Ellen while trying to wing the politician. But McGinty also thought Fegan was crazy enough to try.

Fegan looked around the room. The chairs lay scattered across the floor, and beyond them was a pile of old curtain material. He righted one of the chairs and draped a thick sheet of dark velvet over it. It was heavy, but he could manage with his good arm. He took quiet steps towards the door and raised the chair so it was level with his own shoulders. The woman and the butcher stepped back to give him room.

He extended his arm, letting the curtain-draped chair’s shoulder creep out into the shadows of the hallway. Inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter, he let the oblique shape reveal itself to McGinty, hoping the folds of darkness might make it seem—

A boom filled the hallway, and the chair jerked from Fegan’s grip to fall to the floor with a wooden clatter, the torn curtain fabric fluttering after it.

Ellen’s scream was followed by seconds of silence, and then McGinty hissed and cursed. One more shot wasted.

“You’ve only two left, Paul,” Fegan said.

“That’s one for each of them, Gerry. You don’t want that to happen. Don’t make me do it. Don’t come up here.”

“I have to, Paul.”

“Don’t! Don’t, or I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

“You’ll what?”

“Christ,” McGinty said.

“Killing isn’t easy, Paul. Not when it’s your own finger on the trigger.”

“I’ll do it. Believe me, I’ll do it.”

Fegan stood back from the doorway. He saw McGinty’s shadow against the wall as early light made its way down the stairs. “You’ve never had the guts to do it yourself, Paul. It was always people like me. The ones you filled full of hate. You never got blood on your own hands.”

McGinty’s shadow moved back and forth as he paced above, Ellen locked in his grip. “Don’t push me, Gerry.”

“You used people like me. You told us we didn’t have a future. You said we had to fight for it. You put the guns in our hands and sent us off to do your killing for you.”

“You volunteered, Gerry. Just like the rest of us. Nobody made you do anything.”

“You lied to us.”

“Nobody made you pull the trigger, Gerry. Nobody made you plant that—”

“You lied to me.” Fegan rested his forehead against the wall, feeling the cold dampness against his skin. “You said there was a Loyalist meeting above that butcher’s shop. You told me there was UVF and UDA, all sitting together. You said the timer was set for five minutes. Time to get the people out.”

“It was a war. Sometimes innocent people get hurt.”

Fegan laughed. “Sometimes. It’s never the guilty, is it? But everybody pays. What day’s today?”

“What?”

“It’s Sunday, isn’t it? Is it a week ago? Jesus. This day last week an old woman told me everybody pays, sooner or later. A woman whose son I killed. Michael McKenna paid for him. Now you have to pay. Three of them died. A butcher. A baby, for Christ’s sake. A mother and her baby.”

Fegan lifted his forehead from the wall and looked back out to the hall. McGinty’s shadow was still now.

“Just go, Gerry. Just get out of here. No one else has to get hurt.”

“She’s here, Paul.”

“Who?”

“The woman. And her baby. Christ, I don’t know her name. She’s here and she wants you. Her and the butcher. You remember how it happened? It was on the news at the time. He went to pick it up, probably thought someone had forgotten their shopping. Him and the woman were closest.”

“Don’t, Gerry.”

“And what was it for?”

“I was told the same as you. The Loyalists were meeting above the shop.”

“You’re lying. You knew it was just storerooms above that shop. What was it for? Tell her what she died for.”

McGinty’s shadow struggled with a writhing shape. Ellen jerked in his arms, still trying to break free.

“Tell that woman and her baby what she died for, Paul. She deserves to know.”

“There’s nobody there, Gerry. Don’t you understand that? She’s in your head.”

“Tell her, Paul.”

McGinty’s sigh slithered down the walls of the stairwell. “To make my mark.”

Fegan brought his right hand to his left shoulder, feeling the heat there. Blood trickled down to his fingertips. “Make your mark.”

“Yes. To make the leadership notice me. I’d been on the sidelines too long - I needed something big to get the headlines they wanted.”

“You had me plant that bomb, kill those people, for headlines? To make a name for yourself?”

“I had to, Gerry. And it worked. I saw the way things were going, even then. The politics, the elections. I had to get a leg up then, or I never would. I’d just be another foot soldier like you or Eddie Coyle.”

Fegan looked to the woman and her baby. And the butcher with his round, red face. “To make a name for yourself. They died to make your name.”

“But I did good, Gerry. Think about it. I helped build the peace. I kept the boys on the streets in line. Me, Gerry. It would’ve fallen apart if it wasn’t for me. But you’ve risked it all. Do you hear me? All those lives for nothing, all that labor, the heartbreak, the years - you might have wasted them all. And what for? For some figments of your imagination?”

McGinty’s voice had taken on that familiar color: the politician’s sheen, the twisted rhetoric.

Fegan rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, the Walther still in his grip. “What was her life worth?”

“Enough, Gerry.”

“And her baby’s?”

“Come on, you know the—”

“And the butcher. What was his life worth? Or any of them? What were they worth to you, Paul?”

“It was you, Gerry. You killed them. Nobody else.”

Fegan brought his bloodied hands to his temples, the Walther cold against his scalp. “I know.”

McGinty’s voice hardened. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it. Don’t tell me you didn’t love the power of it.”

“Shut up.”

“All that respect you got. Everywhere you went, people looked up to you. The great Gerry Fegan. And you pissed it all away. What are you now, eh?”

“Shut up.”

McGinty laughed. “You’re just a drunk who’s gone soft in the head. So you turn against your own just so you can make yourself feel like a big man again. Is that it, Gerry? Is that what this is about? You’re just a lonely, drunk has-been who’s nothing without a gun and someone to point it at.”

Fegan screwed his eyes closed. “Shut your mouth!”

“And what about when it’s over, eh? What then? What’ll you be, Gerry?”

Fegan dropped low and ducked his head out into the hallway, the Walther aimed upwards. McGinty’s revolver flashed and a bullet threw splinters and plaster dust into Fegan’s face. He fell back into the room, coughing as dust hitched in his throat. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes.

One left.

He looked up to see the woman and her baby, the butcher at their side. The infant squirmed as the woman and the butcher pointed up at McGinty. Fegan watched the shadow move along the wall as the politician paced. Ellen whimpered and moaned, seemingly too exhausted to wail as she had before.

“You didn’t answer the question, Gerry.”

Fegan got to his feet, wincing at the throbbing from his left shoulder. His arm grew heavier by the moment and his legs quivered as fatigue dissolved his strength. He had to end it soon.

“You’ve only one bullet left,” he said.

“One’s enough,” McGinty said.

“Not if it doesn’t put me down.”

“It’s not for you. It’s for her.”

Fegan looked to the shadow. The shape was becoming clearer, harder in the growing light. He could make out McGinty’s form, crouched, Ellen held close. Where was the gun?

He looked to the woman. “Jesus, where’s the gun?”

She had no answer; she just kept her fingers trained on McGinty. The politician’s shadow shifted on the wall.

“Come and see, Gerry.”

58

Fegan edged to the doorway and slowly leaned out to see the window at the top of the stairs. McGinty hunkered down beneath it, Ellen held in front of him, the revolver behind her head where she couldn’t see it.

“Gerry,” she said, “I want to go home.”

“Soon, sweetheart. You and your Mummy and me. We’ll all go home together. I promise.”

McGinty gave a high, watery laugh. “You didn’t answer me, Gerry. What happens next?”

Fegan stepped out into the hallway, the Walther lowered to his side. He moved it behind his body so Ellen couldn’t see it.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Do you think you’ll go home and play happy families with Marie McKenna? Do you think you’ll be a father to this wee girl? You think Marie’s going to want anything to do with you, now she knows what you’ve done?”

The woman and the butcher made way as Fegan moved towards the bottom step. “I don’t know.”

McGinty’s hand trembled. Pale slivers of early light reflected on the revolver’s barrel. “You don’t know. There’s a lot you don’t know.” He smiled, sweat shining on his upper lip. “You don’t know about Marie calling me when she found out that cop was cheating on her. Or how I went round to see her that night, and how she pulled me into her bed. She did it just to spite him, to get back at him, same way she’s used you to spite me.”

Fegan climbed up two steps.

McGinty pressed his lips against Ellen’s hair. “She never told me if the child was mine. Stop there.”

Fegan froze with his bloody hand on the rail, his right foot two steps above his left, the Walther pressed against his thigh.

McGinty’s eyes went far away. “I asked her, but she wouldn’t tell me.”

Fegan brought his left foot up to join his right. The smooth rail slipped through his blood-slicked fingers. “I don’t want her to see this,” he said. “Neither do you.”

“Just let me go, Gerry.”

“I can’t do that. Where’s Marie?”

McGinty nodded to the side, somewhere beyond Fegan’s vision. “She’s in there. Bull knocked her out. Let me go, Gerry.”

Fegan climbed another step. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. She’s just sleeping. Let me go. Please.”

And another step. “No, Paul, I can’t. Let Ellen go to her mother.”

“I’m taking her with me.”

And another. “No, you’re not.”

McGinty’s shoulders shook as he exhaled. “Christ, please, Gerry. Let me go. I’m begging you. Don’t make me do . . . this.”

One more step. “You won’t hurt her,” Fegan said. “Let her go to Marie.”

McGinty’s eyes were blue and glittering. Fegan’s own stare fixed on them as he took another step. McGinty’s breath came in thin, keening whines. He blinked sweat away from his eyes. His lip trembled.

He pushed.

59

Ellen slammed into Fegan’s chest, sending him reeling backwards. He grabbed at the rail with his left hand to save them both from tumbling down the stairs, and pain flared as he wrenched his injured shoulder. His good arm snaked around the girl as McGinty disappeared into the shadows above.

Ellen scrambled up Fegan’s torso as he found his balance, wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his middle. “Gerry,” she cried, ‘take me home.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

She buried her face between his neck and shoulder. The sweet smell of her hair filled his head and his heart.

“You’re cut,” she said.

“I’m all right. Where’s your Mummy?”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, sweetheart.” Fegan climbed the last few steps to the top, keeping his eyes on the shadows that had swallowed McGinty. “Where’s your Mummy?”

She looked to the door to Fegan’s left, the opposite direction to McGinty’s flight. He opened it and took one glance back at the shadows before slipping inside and closing it behind him.

A single stained mattress lay on the floor at the center of the room. Marie McKenna sprawled across it, her mouth open, her eyes moving behind closed lids.

Fegan carried Ellen to the mattress and lowered her to rest beside her mother. Marie’s eyes fluttered open, her pupils dilated, unfocused.

“Gerry?”

Fegan kneeled over her. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

“Safe,” she said. She smiled once, and then her eyelids flickered and closed. Fegan smoothed Ellen’s hair, tainting the strands red.

“You wait here with your Mummy till I come and get you, all right?”

Ellen grabbed his lapels. “Don’t go!”

“I’ll be back soon. I promise. Stay here with your Mummy. Don’t come out, no matter what you hear. All right?”

She nodded and released his jacket.

“Good girl,” Fegan said. He touched her cheek as she lay down and rested her head against her mother’s bosom. Then he stood and went to the door. Turning back to her, he said, “Remember, stay with your Mummy, no matter what you hear.”

Fegan put his eye to the crack of the door and eased it open. The corridor was empty. He opened the door fully, slipped out, and closed it again. There were two more doors: one just beyond the stairway, facing back to the rear of the house, and the other at the end of the corridor, facing him. Both were closed.

He raised the Walther and inched forward, his breathing slow, listening, as the followers stayed close behind him. Two steps took him to the top of the stairway, another three to the door beyond. He pressed his ear against it. Nothing but dripping water. The doorknob was slippery in the bloody fingers of his left hand. Weakened and clumsy, they struggled to grip the brass. He turned it, pushed hard, and raised the Walther.

The door swung back on its hinges to collide with the wall. Dislodged tiles splintered on the floor. Fegan winced at the noise. The room held an old scroll-top bathtub, a toilet and a washbasin. Water pooled on the linoleum-covered floor, and a deep, dank smell climbed into Fegan’s nose and mouth.

No McGinty.

He looked to the other door. A noise, the faintest of rustlings, came from beyond it. Fegan took slow, soft steps towards the room. The rustling stopped. He reached out to the doorknob, his pistol ready, his breath held firm in his chest.

Fegan moved fast, turning the handle, pushing, dropping to his knees, aiming. The door frame exploded in a shower of rotting wood and he fell back, landing on his wounded shoulder. He pushed the pain away, and scrambled to a crouch. The room was in darkness. He’d barely seen the muzzle flash from inside.

The woman and the butcher stepped forward. They both looked at Fegan and stabbed their fingers towards the room. McGinty was in there, hiding in the thick shadows.

“He’s got no ammunition left,” Fegan said.

The woman smiled and nodded as she rocked her baby.

Fegan stood upright and advanced slowly to the door. His eyes searched the darkness but he found only shades of grey and black. He raised the Walther in his right hand, and tried to bring his left up to steady it, but it was too heavy. His left shoulder throbbed with a spiteful heat, and he felt warmth spread down his side.

The dark shapes solidified as Fegan’s eyes attuned to the shadows. Old furniture was piled in here, tables, chairs, cupboards, dressing tables. McGinty could be hiding in or under anything. Fegan eased over the threshold, floorboards creaking under his feet. Dust crept into his nostrils and he fought the urge to sneeze. It snagged the back of his throat and he wanted to—

A thunderbolt struck Fegan’s head and the room spun away from him. He careened into the wall, the Walther slipping from his fingers to skitter across the floorboards into the shadows. McGinty screamed as he brought the revolver down again, but Fegan got his forearm up in time to deflect the blow. He pushed back and McGinty stumbled away, crashing into an upturned table. Fegan dived at him, but McGinty threw himself to the side, leaving Fegan to fall against the upended table legs. He cried out as the wooden feet gouged his stomach and ribs.

McGinty tried again to slam the side of the pistol into Fegan’s temple, and he came close, but Fegan pulled his head back, leaving McGinty punching uselessly at empty air. Fegan turned as McGinty’s balance deserted him and he drove his fist into the politician’s temple.

McGinty went down hard, his chin cracking on the floorboards, and Fegan was on his back before he could recover. Fegan wrapped his right arm around McGinty’s neck, the crook of his elbow beneath the other’s jaw, and squeezed. McGinty bucked and writhed, and Fegan put his weight on the other’s back, but still he struggled. He clawed at Fegan’s hand, scratching, but Fegan only increased the pressure on his neck.

Fegan tried to find his pocket with his left hand, to get Quigley’s .22, but his dull, stupid fingers only fumbled at the fabric while McGinty threw his weight from side to side. Fegan put the last of his strength into his good arm and squeezed harder.

McGinty’s thrashing became more desperate and he reached up, searching for Fegan’s face. Fegan ignored the scratching and grabbing, feeling McGinty’s body slowly soften.

“Everybody pays, Paul,” he said through gritted teeth. “Sooner or later. That’s what she said to me.”

McGinty’s thrashing began to fade, and his hands fell away. Fegan kept the pressure on the man’s neck as his body twitched, fighting to live.

“Everybody pays,” Fegan said again. “Everybody. Even you.”

McGinty shuddered once as his life slipped away. Fegan lay there, across his back, for what seemed like centuries, feeling the stillness of McGinty’s body as his own screamed with adrenalin and pain. When his heart came under control, Fegan looked up to the shadows of the room. He released McGinty’s neck and gently lowered the dead man’s head to rest on the floor.

Fegan climbed to his feet, feeling the steady throb from his shoulder joined by new shades of pain. He turned in a circle, alone, all alone, nobody here but—

The woman stepped out of the shadows, her face slack, her hands outstretched. She looked down at her fingers, her arms, so empty now with no infant to carry. Her mouth was open and her eyes were bright circles. She held her hands out for Fegan to see how empty they were.

Empty.

So empty.

Fegan shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Her face hardened. She stepped closer, forming her right hand into the shape of a gun. Her fierce eyes on Fegan’s, she reached up and placed her fingertips against his forehead. They were cold on his skin as she executed him.

ONE

60

“No,” Fegan said.

She pressed her fingertips against his forehead, harder. Her lips made a silent plosive as she pulled the trigger, and her eyes burned into his.

Fegan took a step back. “No, I did what you wanted.”

She followed, her finger-pistol trained on his head.

“I did it,” he said. “I killed them all. I did them all for you, so you could go. I did what you wanted. Please. Let me go.”

His legs rippled with spent energy and he had to steady himself against the wall. He turned and walked to the door. She came behind him. He could almost feel the bullets strike the back of his head.

“Please,” he said.

The woman walked in step with him, her fingertips against his temple now. He staggered to the bathroom, his feet splashing in the water pooling on the floor. A fractured mirror hung above the washbasin. He looked at the hollows of his face, the darkness under his eyes.

“All I wanted was some peace,” he said. “I just wanted to sleep. That’s all.”

Fegan saw her in the mirror, the finger-pistol locked on him, her eyes clinging to the reflection of his own. “Why didn’t you just take me? Why all this?”

The sound of groaning pipes roamed through the old house as he turned a tap. Spurts of brown water soaked his hands and he rinsed the blood away. When the water cleared he splashed a handful of it on his face, feeling the coarse stubble. He took another handful and brought it to his mouth, swallowing the copper taste.

“Oh, God.” He shut off the tap and wiped his eyes.

He shuffled over to the bathtub and lowered himself to its edge. His body felt so heavy he couldn’t hold it any more. There was a pressure at the small of his back: Campbell’s Glock.

“Please.” He looked up to the woman. “I can have a life.”

She stepped forward and returned her fingers to his forehead. Fegan reached up and took her hand in his. A thought flashed in his mind: he had never reached out and touched her before. She had touched him, but he had never touched her. He wrapped his fingers around hers. He looked up into her hard eyes.

“I can have a life. I can be a real person, a whole person. I know I can’t be with Marie and Ellen, but I can be clean. Please let me have a life.”

Her eyes wavered, something soft moving behind them.

“Mercy,” Fegan said, the word catching in his throat. He squeezed her hand in his, feeling her slender bones. “Have mercy.”

Something flickered across her face, just for a moment, and then it went slack. She pulled her hand away, formed the shape of a gun once more, and placed her fingers at the center of his forehead. There was no anger or hate in the lines of her face now, only sadness.

Fegan closed his eyes. He reached around to the small of his back and found the Glock’s grip. It fitted snugly in his hand, and the pistol came free with the sound of metal on fabric, leaving a cold place where it had been. It was heavy and it clanked against the side of the bath. He opened his eyes.

“Can we go now?” Ellen asked from the doorway. The gold in her hair blazed in the morning light. Water rippled around her feet as she walked to him.

“Soon,” he said. He let the gun hang inside the bath, away from her pretty eyes.

“Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

She slipped between his knees and propped herself on his quivering thigh. Her fingers were soft and warm as she touched his tears and felt the stubble on his chin. She leaned in close and whispered.

“Where’s her baby?”

Fegan blinked. “What?”

“The secret lady. Where’d her baby go?”

Fegan swallowed. “To Heaven.”

Ellen smiled and rested her head on his chest. Fegan’s left arm felt so heavy he could barely lift it and wrap it around her.