‘Don’t swear, love,’ the Bull said. ‘It doesn’t suit a girl to swear.’
She took his big hand in hers. ‘Oh, don’t be such an old nag. Point is, you could get anyone who knows how to do the job to go after them boys.’
Her father sighed, the breath leaking out of him until his massive chest seemed to sink back into itself. ‘It’s not them I need him for. It’s Fegan.’
Orla studied the broken veins criss-crossing his face, the tufts of his eyebrows, the dark circles beneath them. ‘You could let Fegan go. No one’s heard of him since. He’ll stay away. He’s no reason to come back.’
His hand loosened in hers. ‘I’m sick of talking about this. You’ll not turn me.’
‘The dreams won’t stop if you kill him,’ she said, renewing her grip on his thick fingers. ‘You think you’ll be well again if he’s dead, but you won’t. There’s no—’
‘Go on, now, love.’ He pulled his hand away from hers. ‘I’m tired.’
‘All right,’ she said. She leaned in and placed a kiss on his damp forehead, holding her lips there until he turned his head away.
The door closed softly behind Orla as she let herself out into the corridor. She sat in the chair facing her father’s room. Fat ugly sobs bubbled up from her middle as she buried her face in her hands. Once again she imagined putting a pillow over the old man’s face and saving him from whatever it was that festered inside his mind.
5
Sylvia Burrows dabbed at her nose with a balled-up tissue. Her thick glasses magnified her tearful eyes. She sniffed long and hard, then slumped as she let the air out. Lennon sat across the interview room table from her, a pad covered with his spidery scrawl lying between them. He’d type the statement up in the afternoon and call her back to sign it in the morning.
‘I seen three men shot dead in my café over the years,’ Sylvia said. ‘One of them in the late Seventies, another in 1981 during the hunger strikes, and the third one just before the ceasefire. I knew every one of them, called them by their names when I held their hands. I’ll never forget that feeling, the trembling in their fingers. Then it stops and they go cold.’
She laid her hands flat on the graffiti-strewn table, spreading her fingers wide. Old burns scarred the loose skin, a blue plaster wrapped around the ring finger of her left. She stared down at them. ‘Jesus, I’m getting old,’ she said.
Lennon placed his hands on top of hers. She clasped his fingers, squeezed them.
‘You’re a good young fella,’ she said.
He fought the urge to pull his hands away, to tell her there was little good about him.
‘Handsome,’ Sylvia said. She lifted his hands, turned them, studied the shape of them. ‘I never married, you know. There was plenty chased me, but I could never settle. Too many handsome boys to pick from. That was my soft spot, the handsome boys.’
Lennon returned her smile. ‘Thank you for talking to me. I hope you’ll testify, if it gets to court.’
‘I never testified before.’ She returned his hands to the tabletop. ‘Two of them, I saw their faces when they shot those men in my café. I could’ve drawn pictures of them. I can still see them now. But I got the phone calls late at night, the bullets in the post. I never went to court. But I will this time.’
She squeezed Lennon’s wrists.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be safe, I promise. There’s no need to be afraid.’
‘Afraid’s got nothing to do with it,’ she said, her face hardening. ‘People should stick by their own. My God, trying to kill someone the same sort as you. If you can’t trust your own kind, who can you trust, hmm?’
Lennon forced a smile and slid his hands from beneath hers. ‘I’m glad you feel that way.’
A knock at the door broke the moment. Chief Inspector Uprichard leaned in.
‘Can I have a minute?’ he asked.
DCI Dan Hewitt sat to the side of Uprichard’s desk, watching Lennon. Hewitt and Lennon had come through Garnerville together. Hewitt had progressed higher in the ranks, despite being a year younger than Lennon at thirty-six. He was smart, always playing the angles, and well suited to the covert work of C3 Intelligence Branch. While Lennon struggled his way into C2 Serious Crime, Hewitt eased into the shiny new replacement for Special Branch. In the reborn police force, cleaned and polished for the post-ceasefire Northern Ireland, there was no longer any need for the cops to have their very own secret service.
Except everyone knew that’s exactly what C3 was, and many continued to call them Special Branch, unless they were filling out a form or talking to the press. The officers of C3 still worked in sealed rooms, locked away from their colleagues, protected by a wall of silence and number pads on the doors. Only ten years ago, Special Branch saved countless lives by running informants, mounting surveillance operations, and making life difficult for the paramilitaries. But they played dirty, as did MI5 and the army’s Fourteen Intelligence Company. Every agency ran its own operations, sometimes co-operating, more often not. All of them worked in the cracks between the law and the necessary, and all of them had blood on their hands. Some felt the peace process rendered the likes of Special Branch at best obsolete, at worst a dangerous relic of the quasi-military role the police had played in this place for thirty-odd years. Others felt the force-within-a-force still had a vital job to do while the paramilitaries remained on the streets. Lennon wasn’t sure which side of the argument he came down on. It depended on whom he was most pissed off with at any given time: C3 or their enemies.
Uprichard rocked his chair back and forth. The creaking gnawed at Lennon’s nerves.
‘What?’ he asked.
Uprichard fidgeted.
Hewitt scratched his chin.
‘What?’ Lennon asked again.
Uprichard looked at Hewitt. ‘You wanted to see him, not me.’
Hewitt sighed. ‘How solid is it?’
Lennon looked from one man to the other. ‘How solid is what?’
‘The case against Rankin.’
Lennon laughed. Hewitt’s frown deepened. The laugh died in Lennon’s throat. ‘You’re serious?’
Hewitt raised his eyebrows and waited.
‘I have a witness who saw him knife Crozier and is willing to testify to it. I’ve got a victim who can identify him when he’s fit. I’ve got a weapon with Crozier’s blood and Rankin’s prints on it. I’ve got the blood on his clothes. Do I need to go on?’
Hewitt’s face reddened. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘There’s no way to spin it?’
Lennon sat forward. ‘Spin it? Nothing short of a time machine is going to keep Dandy Andy Rankin out of Maghaberry. Unless I’ve missed something, I’d have thought putting Rankin away was, you know, good.’
‘Not for everyone,’ Hewitt said. ‘Look, do you have to put attempted murder to the PPS? What about GBH? A fight that got out of hand. No intent to kill.’
Lennon swallowed anger. ‘Go over to the City Hospital and take a look at the hole in Crozier’s throat. Tell me Rankin didn’t try to kill him. He’s lucky he didn’t hit the—’
‘It couldn’t have been self-defence? There was a lot of confusion at the scene. Did you identify yourself properly as a police officer?’
‘I identified myself. Jesus, he had poor Sylvia Burrows with a knife to her throat.’
‘Fuck,’ Hewitt said.
Lennon sat back. ‘Can someone explain to me how bagging a piece of shit like Rankin could possibly be a bad thing?’
Uprichard coughed. ‘Well, Jack, you know our colleagues in C3 move in mysterious ways. They often have information that us ordinary officers don’t. There may be wider implications to this, other operations that might be comp—’
‘Rankin exercises a huge amount of control over his patch of Belfast,’ Hewitt said, ignoring the look of annoyance on Uprichard’s face. ‘He keeps everyone in line, keeps the dealers away from kids, stops the local boys from cutting each other’s throats. He may be a piece of shit, I won’t
disagree with you there, but he’s a useful piece of shit.’
‘Is he an informant?’
Hewitt tilted his head. ‘You know better than to ask me that, Jack.’
‘Is he? Is he a tout?’
‘That’s none of your concern. Listen, Rankin keeps discipline among his boys, something the Loyalists have always lacked. It’s the same on your side of the fence. When McKenna and McGinty got killed, the whole Republican movement could have torn itself apart, but the leadership clamped down, kept them in check.’
‘What the fuck do you mean, my side of the fence?’
‘Now, Jack,’ Uprichard said, his tone ominous.
‘I just mean you’re a Catholic, you’re from that community,’ Hewitt said, showing his palms.
Lennon went to rise from his chair, with no idea what he’d do next, but Uprichard said, ‘Jack, please, let the man finish.’
Lennon sat down and locked his fingers together.
Hewitt smiled. ‘You know how tight a ship the Republicans run. The Loyalists aren’t like that. They’d kill each other’s grannies to get ahead. We take a stabilising force like Rankin out of the community, Christ knows what might happen.’
Lennon stared hard at Hewitt. ‘Is this you talking, or the Northern Ireland Office?’
‘Inflicting grievous bodily harm, Jack. GBH. He’ll do time, even if he pleads, which I guarantee he will. You’ll put Rankin away. It’ll be on record as your arrest, your case. It’ll look good for you, how you performed under pressure, how you carried out first aid on Rankin and Crozier, how you stopped that old dear getting cut up. There could be a commendation in it for you. You can interview Rankin at the hospital when the doctors say he’s fit, see if he’ll give you any dirt you can follow up on. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got back on a Major Investigation Team.’
Lennon kept staring. ‘GBH with intent.’
‘No,’ Hewitt said. ‘That could be a life sentence if he gets the wrong judge.’
‘He’ll only get five with GBH, probably less if he cooperates. That means two and a half at most if he behaves himself inside. He’ll do a chunk of that on remand.’
Hewitt stared back. ‘I’ll make sure the PPS push for the maximum.’
‘Will you shite,’ Lennon said.
Uprichard said, ‘DCI Gordon has a space coming up on his MIT. Charlie Stinson is going to South Africa for a year on placement. I’m sure Gordon could use you.’
Lennon’s mind lingered on that idea. DCI Gordon led the best Major Investigation Team in the city.
You were the smartest one out of the lot of us back at Garnerville,’ Hewitt said. ‘Smarter than me, even. Don’t cause yourself grief over a shit-pile like Rankin. Besides, you can’t claim any moral high ground given your recent history. You got off light with that Patterson business. You owe me a favour.’
Lennon buried his face in his hands.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
6
Sometimes dreams followed Gerry Fegan into waking. He knew the border between his mind and the world beyond was solid, but the dreams had a way of crossing over. Just a few months ago, he drowned his terrors with whiskey every night. Now that he was sober they flourished, swelled, grew until they rubbed against his daylight hours.
But still, anything was better than before, when the shadows of the dead followed him through Belfast’s backstreets and alleyways.
He threw the blankets aside and let the damp air jerk him awake. Even as his consciousness flickered to life the dream-figures climbed the walls. He blinked and rubbed them away. The heels of his calloused hands scoured his eyelids as the city’s early rumbles and screeches seeped through his single window. He hoisted himself upright and dropped his legs over the side of the cot.
The scarring on Fegan’s left shoulder itched, a shiny pink sun surrounded by the slashes of amateur stitches. He rubbed them with his palm, the layers of hard, cracked skin scraping the irritation away. Aches of fatigue rippled through his shoulders and arms as he stretched.
Last night, just before knocking off, Tommy Sheehy had given him a message from the Doyles. They wanted to see Fegan at the site this morning. The summons had been gnawing at his gut ever since. He knew about the Doyle twins, both round-faced, cheery men. They were forever slapping their workers’ backs, making jokes, sometimes slipping a little cash in their pockets, winking, saying, ‘Get yourself a drink, son, you’re a good grafter.’
And the workers would smile, nod, say thank you, and never look the Doyle brothers in the eye. The boys on the site talked over sandwiches and flasks of coffee. Fegan didn’t join in the conversations much, everyone knew he was a quiet one, but he listened. They said Packie Doyle fed a man’s liver to his dog. They said Frankie Doyle made another man cut off his wife’s little finger in front of their children. Fegan knew enough of hard men to know the stories were most likely just that: stories. The truth would be much uglier.
He knew a killer when he met one. Packie Doyle stank of it, Frankie more so. They wanted to see Fegan at nine. The radio alarm clicked on. He slapped it quiet. Car horns and shouts rose up from the street, echoing between the high buildings.
Fegan got to his feet, crossed his one room, and raised the blind. He pulled the window up, ignoring its creaking protest. September warmth flowed around him. The air in this old building was always colder and wetter than outside.
Just two months he’d been here, and he loved New York. Never mind the miserable room he shared with mice and cockroaches. This city had no memory. No one cared who he was, what he’d done. He could walk through the crowds, as clean as the next man, his guilt buried. Until last night. Until the Doyles sent for him.
‘You’re Gerry Fegan from Belfast,’ Packie Doyle said.
‘The Gerry Fegan,’ Frankie Doyle said.
You’ve got me wrong,’ he said.
The Doyles each grinned the same grin back at him, Frankie from behind the big mahogany desk, Packie from his perch on the windowsill overlooking the alley behind the bar. Plastic sheeting covered every surface to protect it from plaster and sawdust.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Packie said.
‘We’ve got you wrong,’ Frankie said.
‘My name’s Paddy Feeney,’ Fegan said. ‘I’m from Donegal. I showed your foreman my passport.’
The foreman had no qualms hiring an illegal immigrant for the renovations. Most of the boys were illegals from one place or another. He’d given Fegan a day to prove his carpentry skills. He didn’t look too hard at the passport.
‘If you’re not Gerry Fegan from Belfast,’ Frankie said, ‘you’ll not be bothered that someone’s looking for a man of that name.’
Packie said, ‘Someone’s willing to pay good money for the whereabouts of a Gerry Fegan from Belfast. They even sent out a photo.’
Frankie placed a computer printout on the desk. It showed a man in his mid-to-late twenties, sharp, hollow features. The picture was at least two decades old, a police mug shot.
‘It’s not me,’ Fegan said.
‘Looks like you,’ Frankie said.
‘A lot like you,’ Packie said.
Fegan looked at the young man in the picture. It made him ache at his centre. ‘It’s not me,’ he said.
‘We did some asking around,’ Frankie said.
‘Called some boys in Belfast,’ Packie said.
‘They said Gerry Fegan’s a mad bastard.’
‘Said he was hard as they come.’
‘Dangerous.’
‘A killer.’
Both men had round heads like light bulbs, and thick bodies. If you were stupid, you’d think them fat and slow. Fegan knew different.
Packie got off the windowsill, came around the desk, and sat on its edge. Cheap aftershave scratched at Fegan’s nasal passages.
‘I saw you take on that big Russian fella,’ Packie said. ‘He was twice the size of you, and you flattened him.’
Fegan knew he’d regret that. Andrei wasn’t Russian, he was Uk
rainian, and he had a bigmouth. He’d been needling Fegan all day. He said something ugly about Fegan’s mother. Fegan hadn’t lost his temper, his pulse had barely risen. ‘I just wanted him to leave me alone,’ Fegan said.
‘Fuck, he left you alone, all right,’ Packie said. ‘He didn’t even come back for his pay.’
Frankie sat quiet, now, letting his brother talk. Hemet Fegan’s gaze and smiled.
‘It won’t happen again,’ Fegan said. ‘I’m not a fighter.’
‘Paddy Feeney may not be a fighter,’ Packie said, ‘but Gerry Fegan sure as fuck is.’
‘I told you, I’m not this Fegan.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m Paddy Feeney, and that’s all there is to it. If you don’t believe me, there’s nothing I can do for you. I’ve work to be getting on with.’
He turned to the door.
‘Sit the fuck down,’ Frankie said.
Fegan turned back to the brothers. He’d thought he was done with taking orders from men like these. Hard men, men with a hollow place inside that allowed them to profit from the suffering of others. Fegan had known many such men. He’d killed some, but that was another world and another life. He sat down.
Frankie smiled. ‘So, you’re Paddy Feeney from Donegal. Do you have a good life here, Paddy?’
‘It’s all right,’ Fegan said.
‘You making a few bucks?’
‘A bit,’ Fegan said.
‘You’re good with your hands,’ Frankie said.
Fegan didn’t like the way Frankie licked his lips. ‘I can cut straight. That’s all this job needs.’
‘But you’ve more skills than that,’ Frankie said.
Fegan looked at his feet.
‘Do you want to earn a little more money?’
‘I earn enough,’ Fegan said.
‘No such thing as enough,’ Frankie said. ‘Just a small job here and there, nothing too strenuous. Good money for a man with good hands.’
‘I don’t need more money,’ Fegan said.
‘Maybe you don’t, but that’s not really the point, is it?’ Frankie said. ‘Let’s say we take your word for it. Let’s say we believe you’re Paddy Feeney from Donegal, not Gerry Fegan from Belfast. We don’t get in touch with the man who’s looking for this Gerry Fegan and tell him we might know of his whereabouts. There’s nobody by that name works for us. How much is that worth?’
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