The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve)

The woman’s eyes sparked and danced. She lowered herself to her knees as her lip trembled. Her fingertips brushed the loose strands of Ellen’s hair, smoothing them. She looked into Fegan’s eyes and gave him the softest, faintest, saddest of smiles. She stood and walked slowly, gracefully to the doorway.

As she disappeared into the morning light beyond, she turned to look at Fegan once more.

“Mercy,” she said.

61

The two Chinese sailors argued between themselves as they counted out hundred-pound notes on the Clio’s hood. Huge containers of coiled sheet steel, fresh off their cargo ship, surrounded them. The warehouse at Dundalk Port was cold and damp on this early morning, but the sailors were clearly in good spirits. Getting three thousand pounds sterling apiece just for letting a thin man stow away would give anyone cause to smile. They weren’t concerned about the car’s broken windows or the holes in its bodywork. They had rough hands and knowing eyes; they had no fear of someone like Fegan.

Fegan grimaced as he adjusted the wadded-up material stuffed into the shoulder of his jacket. His left arm hung leaden and useless at his side. In broken English, the sailors had promised him their ship’s medical officer would take care of the wound for another thousand pounds. They didn’t ask how he’d gotten it; they simply grinned and took the money.

Ellen slept in the back of the car, safely strapped into her child seat. Marie cradled her head in her hands as she leaned her back against the passenger door. The chloroform had left her aching and foggy.

“Sleep for a while,” Fegan said. “Nobody will bother you here. When you wake up I’ll be gone. Then you can go to the cops.”

She raised her head. “What’ll I tell them?”

“The truth,” Fegan said. “Not that it’ll matter.”

By the time Fegan had carried Marie down to the car, Ellen clinging to his jacket, the Bull and Malloy were gone. Quigley must have taken them. Like Fegan, he would have headed south across the border. It had taken only thirty or forty minutes to drive to Dundalk Port, but it took another hour to find these two sailors and persuade them to smuggle Fegan on board their boat. Officers of the Garda Síochána, the Republic of Ireland’s police force, might already be questioning Quigley at some hospital or other. Fegan didn’t know if he’d talk, but it was only a matter of time before the bodies were found at O’Kane’s farm.

And what then?

The politicians and the media would convulse, accusations would be hurled, recriminations threatened. Stormont might collapse again, or perhaps more concessions would be given by the British and Irish governments to keep the Assembly afloat. The European Union might throw more money into community grants to quiet the streets of Belfast. Maybe the British would blame it on the dissidents; they were friendless anyway.

Fegan didn’t know. All he knew was this place had no more thirst for war. That had been quenched long ago. Men like him no longer belonged here. Exhaustion washed over him in a heavy grey wave.

Marie’s face was a stone mask, her eyes unfeeling. “Where’ll you go?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. He wouldn’t have told her even if he did. “Far away from here. I can’t come back. Ever.”

Marie nodded and the mask slipped just a little. She leaned forward and placed a kiss on Fegan’s lips. Its warmth lingered for a few moments before turning cold. She walked around the car and opened the driver’s door.

“If I ever see you again,” she said, “I’ll turn you in. I won’t hesitate. Not for a second.”

Fegan looked at Ellen’s sleeping form. He knew the danger he could put her and her mother in.

“I understand,” he said. “But one thing.”

“What?”

He took the phone from his breast pocket. It was sticky with blood. He held it out for her to see. “If anyone comes at you, threatens you, if you’re afraid. You know how to find me.”

Marie nodded, a possibility of a smile on her lips. It was gone before he could be sure.

The Chinese men gathered their money and walked away from the Clio, gesturing for Fegan to follow. He slipped the phone into his pocket and looked back to Marie. She didn’t meet his eyes as she lowered herself into the car.

“Come! Come!” one of the sailors called. “Go now. Is time.”

Ellen woke at the noise of the car’s door closing. She rubbed her eyes and squinted at Fegan. He raised his right hand and waved. She waved back. He stooped, picked up his bag, and turned to walk towards the boat. As he left the warehouse, gulls quarrelled and rolled in the sky. Rain washed and cooled his skin.

No shadow followed but his own.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people have helped me on the road to publication, but I must express my deepest gratitude to a few of them:

My agent, Nat Sobel, and all at Sobel Weber Associates, Inc, for giving me the opportunity of a lifetime. Nat, I owe you more than I can say.

Caspian Dennis and all at Abner Stein Ltd for such excellent work.

Geoff Mulligan, Briony Everroad and all at Harvill Secker for their skill, professionalism and tolerance of my daft questions.

Laura Hruska at Soho Press for taking a chance in uncertain times.

Betsy Dornbusch, without whose belief, encouragement and friendship this book would never have been written.

Shona Snowden for her sharp eye and excellent critiques.

Josephine Damian for her enthusiasm and support.

Juliet Grames for her wisdom and advice.

My PR, Hilary Knight, for spreading the word.

Declan Burke and Gerard Brennan for championing the cause.

The online writing community for, in varying proportions, its friendship, support and advice. There are far too many people to list here, but just a few are: Adrian McKinty, Chris F Holm, Cindy Pon, Ellen Oh, Jeremy Duns, JJ De Benedictis, Moonrat and Nathan Bransford. A special mention must go to the redoubtable Miss Snark, wherever she may be, for beating us writers with the clue-stick so many times that some of us took heed and actually made it over the transom.

My friends and family for . . . well, you know.