“How noble of you,” Hargreaves interrupted. “Political expediency is our stock in trade, Geoff; you should know that better than anyone. How many little transgressions have you let slide to keep the wheels turning, hmm? How many robberies have gone unsolved on your watch for want of a little effort? How many punishment beatings have been ignored for the sake of a quiet life?”
“Minister, I really don’t—”
“Don’t lecture me about expediency, Geoff.” Hargreaves felt his smile stretch his dry lips. “How many of your men would be standing trial if not for expediency?”
Pilkington sniffed. “I won’t dignify that with an answer, Minister.”
“Sacrifices,” Hargreaves said. “Everyone must make sacrifices for the greater good. Keep me informed.”
He hung up without waiting for a response.
18
Davy Campbell stood at the bar, alone, conscious of being the only man here not wearing a black suit. The sideways glances had started as soon as he entered McKenna’s, murmurs passing from person to person, heads nodding in his direction. They recognised him; they knew he was the one who had drifted to the dissidents in Dundalk. He waited for a challenge, some demand to know what he was doing back in Belfast. None came, perhaps out of respect for the departed. Had he been a stranger, he would have been tackled within seconds of entering. This wasn’t the sort of pub you just dropped into for a quick drink as you passed by. Peace only went so far.
The late Michael McKenna’s bar might have been a dive, a place for lowlifes to swill, but there was no denying they served a decent pint. Campbell raised the pint of dark Smithwick’s ale to his mouth, and its cool smoothness slicked the back of his throat.
“You’ve some fucking nerve, boy.”
Campbell didn’t turn his head. Eddie Coyle’s reflection stared back at him from the grubby mirror behind the bar. He stood a full six inches shorter than Campbell, his thinning blond hair standing in tufts above his round face. Campbell wiped foam from his beard.
“What are you doing here?” Coyle asked. “You get fed up playing toy soldiers with them cunts in Dundalk?”
“Something like that,” Campbell said.
Coyle stepped closer. “What, you think now Michael’s gone you can just waltz back in?”
“I’m just having a pint, Eddie, all right?” Campbell turned to face Coyle. “You want to have one with me, dead on. If not, then fuck off out of my face.”
Coyle’s eyes narrowed. “You what?”
“You heard me.” Campbell placed his glass on the bar.
A smile crept along Coyle’s lips, wrinkling his blotchy cheeks. “Did you just tell me to fuck off?”
“I think that was the gist of it, Eddie, yes.” Campbell smiled. “If you don’t want to take a drink with me, then fuck off. Clear enough?”
He was aware of the punch coming even before the man who threw it. Campbell had learned many years ago that to best a man in a physical struggle, all one need do is keep one’s balance while throwing the other’s. Coyle made the simple error of sacrificing balance for power, and all Campbell had to do was raise his left forearm, guiding that power past him, and Coyle’s weight would follow. Like so.
Coyle sprawled into a line of bar stools and landed on his back, cursing. He found his feet and came again. Once more, Campbell diverted the blow, sending Coyle to mash his chest against the bar. Coyle turned, ready to swing again, but Campbell was quicker. He got hold of Coyle’s blond hair with his left hand and formed a fist with his right. He slammed it into Coyle’s upturned face until his knuckles were slick with red. Campbell released his grip on Coyle’s hair to let his chin bounce off the bar with a satisfying thump.
The rest came at him then. Campbell didn’t know how many, but a wall of black-suited men collapsed on him. He felt one hand grab his hair, another his ear, while a pair gripped the lapels of his denim jacket. The fists raining down on him blocked one another, rendering them all but harmless, as he brought his forearms up to cover himself.
“Hey, hey, hey!” A small body squeezed itself between Campbell and the angry mob. “Leave him! He’s with me.”
“But look what he did to Eddie,” one of them protested.
“Eddie started it,” Patsy Toner said. “Now leave him alone. Right?”
“But—”
“Leave it!” Toner pointed a stubby finger at the nearest of them. They backed away, grumbling and cursing. Toner grabbed Campbell’s elbow. “Come on, for fuck’s sake.”
Campbell grinned as Toner dragged him out to the street, his senses buzzing.
“What the fuck are you at?” Toner asked, his watery eyes incredulous, his mouth gaping under his thick moustache.
“He was asking for it,” Campbell said.
Toner straightened his black tie. “Jesus Christ, Davy. Eddie Coyle’s an arsehole, everyone knows that, but you don’t beat the shit out of him in front of his mates. Not if you’re looking to make friends around here.” He wagged a finger at Campbell. “Just remember I’m taking a big risk for you.”
Campbell inclined his head towards the Jaguar at the curb. “That yours?”
“Aye,” Toner said, seeming to grow a full inch taller.
Campbell wiped blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief. “Well, quit yapping and take me to McGinty.”
McGinty’s jacket was slung across the back of a chair, his tie loosened, and his sleeves rolled up. He stood in the bereaved mother’s living room as if it were his own house, and he the master of it. The politician’s face hardened and slackened as he spoke on a mobile phone. He took a last drag on his cigarette, then threw it into the fireplace.
Campbell and Toner waited in the doorway, watching. Toner leaned close and whispered, “Looks like there’s trouble. I think the higher-ups didn’t like what he said at the funeral.”
McGinty snapped his phone closed before Campbell could reply, and scowled as he waved Toner over. They both glanced back at Campbell as they spoke, but theirs weren’t the only eyes on the prodigal Scot. The debris scattered around the room told of many people having been here a short while ago, but now only a few remained. They all eyed Campbell as if he might pocket any unguarded valuables. With a self-important flourish, Toner beckoned.
McGinty extended his hand as Campbell approached. “Good to see you, Davy.”
“You too, Mr. McGinty,” Campbell said, matching the other’s hard grip.
“Did you get bored pissing about with McSorley and that shower of shit he runs with?” McGinty’s grin was wide and his eyes were cold.
“They didn’t know what they were at,” Campbell said. “I shouldn’t have gone near them.”
McGinty’s grip tightened. “That’s right, Davy. You shouldn’t have. That annoyed a lot of people, especially the dear departed.”
Campbell prised his hand away. “See, that was the thing. When I heard about Michael, it got me thinking. I made a mistake. I’m really sorry, Mr. McGinty. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, I will.”
McGinty nodded. “I know what it’s like, Davy. You’re a man of action. You want to be in the thick of it. I used to be like that once upon a time, so I can sympathise. Things got too quiet for you here, so you went to see what the dissidents were up to. And I bet you were disappointed, eh?”
“Too fucking right,” Campbell said, returning McGinty’s easy smile. “They just sat around getting pissed and talking about what they were going to do.”
McGinty lifted his jacket and slipped it on. He placed his arm around Campbell’s shoulder and guided him towards the kitchen. “Let’s get a bit of air.”
A slender blonde woman stepped aside to let them through. Campbell recognised her as McKenna’s niece. She did not meet his or McGinty’s gaze, even though they both eyed her as they passed. The other women formed a production line, passing plates and glasses back and forth between sink and cupboards. They gave Campbell curious glances as McGinty led him to the back yard.
Two young men stood there, smoking. McGinty jerked his head at the door and the men dropped their cigarettes to grind them with their heels.
“Don’t litter Mrs. McKenna’s yard,” McGinty said. “Show some respect. Pick them up and take them with you.”
The two young men obeyed in silence, bending down to pick up the crushed butts. As they passed McGinty on their way to the door, he grabbed the younger man’s sleeve.
“When I’m finished talking with my friend, you and your mate can sweep the yard out. Right?”
“Okay,” the young man said, keeping his gaze on the ground.
“Good lad. Off you go.” McGinty turned back to Campbell and smiled. “So, Davy, you’re back in town. I don’t remember telling you to come back. I don’t remember telling you your work was done in Dundalk.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “And if I’m not mistaken, there’s still money going into that wee savings account I set up for you. So what the fuck are you doing here? It was your idea to get in with McSorley’s lot in the first place.”
“Like I said, Mr. McGinty, I was wasting my time there. They’re no threat to you.”
McGinty snorted. “Christ, you didn’t need to jump into bed with them to figure that out. Listen, if I send you to do a job, you do it. No questions.” His forefinger prodded Campbell’s chest. “I don’t care if you think it’s doing any good. That’s for me to decide.”
Campbell cast his eyes down, showing the politician the deference he expected.
McGinty sighed. “All right, but remember - this stays between you and me. I don’t want anyone thinking I was worried about McSorley. Not the way things are now.”
“Of course,” Campbell said, raising his head.
“So, what are your plans?”
“Nothing in particular,” Campbell said. “I was kind of hoping you might need some jobs doing.”
“I might,” McGinty said. “You were always a good worker. A bit hot-headed, though. I got a text from Tom over at the bar. Eddie Coyle’s off getting stitches.”
“He was looking for a fight. He got one.”
“Eddie Coyle’s a prick, but that doesn’t mean he deserves a beating.”
Campbell knew when to back down. “Yeah, fair enough. I’m sorry.”
McGinty smiled. “You can apologise to him next time you cross each other’s paths. He’ll be told to let it go. Anyway, I might have a wee job for you. It’s kind of a sensitive one.”
“Oh?”
“You were always good at sniffing out troublemakers. Our internal security’s lost a good volunteer. Vincie Caffola was the best at clearing out touts and such, but I seem to remember you were pretty sharp yourself.”
Campbell looked up at the sound of a helicopter. “I had my moments.”
McGinty moved close to the yard’s back wall, out of sight of the intruder in the sky. “You sniffed out that bastard Delaney when he sold me to the Loyalists.” McGinty sneered. “Ulster Freedom Fighters, for Christ’s sake. Bunch of fuckwits pretending they’re Al Capone, not a brain between them. What was Delaney thinking? They’d never have pulled it off. Still, they could’ve gotten lucky if you hadn’t twigged it. It was you who beat it out of him. I haven’t forgotten that, Davy.”
Campbell watched McGinty closely. “Delaney was easy. It was Gerry Fegan who got the UFF boys.”
“If you hadn’t fingered them, Gerry wouldn’t have sorted them out, and I wouldn’t be standing here. I owe you and him a lot. That’s the only reason Gerry Fegan’s still alive this afternoon.”
“What do you mean?”
McGinty’s eyes narrowed. “Who else do you know would have the balls to take out Michael McKenna and Vincie Caffola?”
“I heard it was—”
“Forget what you heard,” McGinty said. He beckoned Campbell to come close. “You don’t need to know the details. Just believe me when I tell you it was Fegan.”
Campbell played it sceptical, stringing McGinty along. “I heard he’d lost it, took to the drink.”
“Maybe so.” McGinty nodded as a shallow smile spread across his mouth. “But don’t you ever underestimate Gerry Fegan. He’s strong, but there’s stronger. He’s smarter than he lets on, but he’s no genius. You want to know what makes Gerry Fegan so dangerous?”
Campbell couldn’t help but play along. “What?”
McGinty took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, placed one between his lips, and tucked the packet away again. “He’s fearless. Gerry Fegan isn’t afraid of any man alive. Not one.”
“Fearless means careless,” Campbell said.
“Maybe for some. But not Gerry.” McGinty lit the cigarette and stuffed the lighter back into his pocket. He took a drag. “I’ll tell you a little something about Gerry Fegan. Years ago, late Seventies, him and Michael McKenna were just kids, fifteen, sixteen, something like that. Me and Gusty Devlin, God rest him, used to take some of the young lads down to Carnagh Forest, just over the border, for camping trips. Michael nagged me to take Gerry, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t like him. He was too quiet, always watching, saying nothing. But Michael talked me into it, and we took them in this old Volkswagen Camper I had.”
McGinty smiled and straightened his designer jacket, blue plumes of smoke leaking from his nostrils. “I didn’t dress so smart in those days. Fancied myself as a working-class hero, you know? Anyway, we got stopped at a checkpoint just this side of the border. The cops knew all about us, thought we were carrying guns. Some of the boys went to bits when the peelers searched them, had them down to their socks and their underpants on the side of the road. Not Gerry. He looked every one of those fuckers in the eye.
“So we get to the forest, set up camp, and Gusty hikes them round the lakes for a couple of hours. Everybody’s knackered, so we turn in. About two or three in the morning, all hell breaks loose. Gerry’s up shouting there’s people in the trees, watching us. Can you believe that? A kid who’ll stare out a peeler who’s ready to take his head off, and he’s scared of shadows?”
Campbell tried not to flinch as McGinty laughed, blowing smoke in his face. “You said he wasn’t scared of anything.”
“Not of any man. The dark, maybe, but no man. Anyway, next morning Bull O’Kane arrives with the guns the cops thought we’d be carrying. Nothing much, just a couple of air rifles and an old .303 from the war. So, Gusty sets up paper targets for the lads to practise with and, fuck me, Gerry can’t hit anything. Up close, he’s fucking deadly, but more than twenty feet? Couldn’t hit a cow on the arse with a shovel.”
Campbell nodded, smiled, and filed that fact away.
“So one of the other lads, can’t remember his name - he was a thick shite, blew himself up with a pipe bomb - he starts slagging Gerry, how he’s no use, he’s scared of the gun, he’s scared of the shadows in the trees, he should get his ma to come for him. So Gerry fucking lit on him. He’s battering the shit clean out of him, pasting his nose all over his face, and we’re all stood back laughing.
“All of a sudden, Bull says, ‘Enough of this,’ and grabs a-hold of Gerry, pulls him off the other lad, and he’s still kicking and screaming. Bull plonks him down on his feet, and before anyone knows what’s happening, Gerry spins around and - POP!”
Campbell blinked as McGinty slammed his fist into his palm.
“Gerry only goes and smacks Bull O’Kane, the scariest fucker I ever met, right in the mouth.”
“Jesus,” Campbell said. He’d never heard of anyone crossing Bull O’Kane and getting away with it. With genuine curiosity, he asked, “What did the Bull do?”
“Fucking decked him.” McGinty grinned. “Bull’s got hands like sides of beef. He belted Gerry and he went down like a sack of spuds. Now, I’ve never seen anyone raise a hand to Bull O’Kane before or since. So, I was thinking, Christ, what now? He’ll kill him. I’m thinking we’ll have to bury this kid in the forest.”
McGinty’s smile washed away. “Well, Bull goes and gets one of the air rifles, puts a pellet in the br
eech, and comes back to Gerry. Gerry just stares up at him, breathing hard. Bull aims the rifle, says, ‘You’ve got some balls, son.’ I says, ‘Jesus, Bull, he’s just a kid, he didn’t mean it.’ Bull says, ‘Just a kid? Takes more than a kid to clout me. You better watch this young fella, he’s got great things ahead of him.”
Campbell realised his mouth was open. “And?” he asked.
“And he shot Gerry in the thigh. Tough wee bastard never made a sound. We drove all the way back to Belfast, him with a pellet in his thigh, and all he did was sweat and bleed till we dropped him at his ma’s house.”
Stuart Neville - The Ghosts of Belfast Page 12
