He walked to the supermarket on watery legs, keeping his gaze from the morning shadows. Every step of the way he felt eyes on his back. Occasionally, he spun on his heels, looking for whoever followed. But part of him knew.
Campbell, probably sent by McGinty.
Once, as he paid for the cheap phone, he looked up and caught a flash of denim disappearing behind a magazine rack. On his way home he considered stopping, doubling back, and confronting Campbell. He dismissed it as foolishness. He kept his head down and kept walking. A quick glance up and down Calcutta Street didn’t reveal anything, but once he was inside his own home the feeling left him.
While he waited for the phone to charge, Fegan worked on the guitar to soothe his aching head. He polished the frets with steel wool in the good light from the window. He had shaped them with a rounded fret file and sandpaper, sighted a line down the fingerboard to make sure they were even, and now he worked over them one by one, giving them a mirror finish.
Fegan thought of Ronnie Lennox as he worked. The old man got his release letter around the same time he did. Like Fegan, it had brought on sleepless nights, but for different reasons.
They talked about it often in those last days. While Fegan swept up chippings from the workshop floor and Ronnie rested on a stool, they talked about the changes outside, the Good Friday Agreement that supposedly settled it all, and the referendum that followed. Two years after Ireland, north and south, had voted in favor of the Agreement, the Maze Prison stood almost empty. The last few inmates moved around the place as they wished, captives and guards happy to keep the peace and count the days.
Ronnie looked at Fegan with rheumy eyes and said, “If it sticks, if this peace deal works out, you’ve got to ask yourself something.”
Fegan propped the broom against the workbench and scooped up chippings with a dustpan. “What?”
“If there’s peace, if it’s really over, then what use are we?”
Fegan had no answer.
Ronnie turned his attention to an acoustic guitar that a guard had left for repair. The guard had said his son was driving him crazy about it, that the boy loved the guitar more than his own mother. Ronnie would get a couple of sets of strings for payment. His face glazed with concentration as he held his ear to the guitar’s face. He pressed the wood with his fingertips and squinted.
“Aye,” he said. “There’s a brace gone.”
Ronnie laid the guitar flat on its back atop a felt sheet so the coarse workbench wouldn’t scratch it. Hunkering down, he stared across its surface for a moment and said, “See? She’s starting to belly.”
Fegan bent down at the opposite side of the bench. Ronnie smelled of mint and linseed oil. Yes, there it was: a slight deformation in the guitar’s smooth face. “I see it,” Fegan said. He ran his fingertips over the satin-finished cedar.
Fegan reached in through the guitar’s soundhole and felt the loose brace just inside. “Glue it and clamp it?” he asked.
“That ought to do it,” Ronnie said. He coughed and spat into a tissue, his face reddening. “Grab us the aliphatic resin like a good fella.”
Fegan went to a storage cupboard and found a bottle of the glue. He brought it to Ronnie, but the older man shook his head and eased himself back onto his stool.
“You have a go,” Ronnie said. “Dab a bit of that on a spatula and slap her on.”
Fegan hesitated. “You sure?”
Ronnie nodded. Fegan worked while Ronnie watched, the old man softly humming an old jazz tune in his wheezy voice. Fegan recognised this one as “Misty’. Ronnie had played it for him once on his guitar. He said Clint Eastwood made a film about it.
As Fegan tightened a G-clamp to hold the glued brace in position, Ronnie asked, “Are you sleeping any better?”
“No,” Fegan said.
“Still those dreams?”
Fegan wiped away the excess glue with a tissue. He did not answer.
“Don’t tell me,” Ronnie chided. He coughed and smiled. “See if I care.”
“It’s just . . .” Fegan rolled the tissue in a ball and threw it on the workbench. “It’s just I’m not sure they’re dreams.”
Ronnie scratched his stubbly chin. “Why?”
“Because I’m awake when they come. I know I’m awake. And sometimes ...”
Ronnie waited. “And sometimes?”
“I’ve seen them in the daytime.” Fegan screwed the lid back on the bottle of glue. He didn’t look at the other man.
“What does Dr. Brady say?”
Fegan shrugged. “He says it’s guilt. He called it a manifestation.”
Ronnie wiped his mouth with his tissue and raised his eyebrows. “Big word. Must be serious. And what do
you
think it is?”
Fegan crossed the room and stowed the glue in the cupboard. He stayed there, his back to Ronnie. “When I was small, before my father died, I used to see things. People. I used to talk to them.” He listened for some response, some dismissal. When none came, he said, “I never told anyone that. Not even Dr. Brady.”
He waited for a long minute before turning back to Ronnie. The old man sat hunched on the stool, staring at the tissue in his fingers.
Fegan took a step closer. “Ronnie?”
“You’re talking about the dead,” he said. He hacked and spat, his face going from red to purple. When he was done, he wiped his lips and inhaled a deep, rattling breath. “Don’t talk to me about the dead. This stuff’s eating away at me, the asbestos, eating me from inside. You’ll be out of here in a few weeks, but I might not make it that far. The quack says some of these nights I’ll just drown in my sleep, same as if someone held my head under water. Every night I put my head down I pray I’ll lift it again in the morning. And I pray if I don’t, He’ll take care of me.” Ronnie’s shoulders hitched and his eyes welled. “You know what I did.”
Fegan nodded.
“Aye.” Ronnie sniffed and coughed. “Don’t talk to me about the dead, Gerry.” He raised himself from the stool and shuffled towards the door. “I’ll meet them soon enough.”
Ronnie stopped in the doorway while the guard checked his pockets. He looked back over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Gerry.” He winked. “No one else will.”
Fegan never saw him again. He wept the day Ronnie’s daughter brought the guitar to him.
Sunlight from his window made glistening pools on the Martin D- 28’s finish. Fegan propped the guitar back in its corner and admired the wood’s grain. The lacquer had yellowed with age, making the guitar even more handsome. He had a set of strings, eleven-gauge bronze, for when it was done. He wasn’t sure how to tune it, but he would figure it out.
Fegan checked the time. The phone had been charging for its requisite two hours. Despite the shaking of his hands, and the throb behind his eyes, he finally managed to put the little plastic card in place, cover it with the battery, and snap the phone’s back cover on. The instructions lay open on the coffee table in front of him, and he traced the small words with his fingertip. He pressed and held the green button. When it vibrated in his hand, he placed it on the coffee table and watched its colorful screen play a series of animations.
He looked at his palm. The string of digits was faint, but still readable. Following the instructions, he dialled Marie McKenna’s number. He closed his eyes and listened to the ring tone, remembering she had made no promises about answering. The phone almost slipped from his fingers when she did.
“It’s Gerry,” he said.
He heard a long exhalation. “I’m glad you called,” she said.
“Are you?”
“Yes.” Her voice had the slightest of shakes. “I had a visitor this morning.”
“Who?”
“Would you believe, Father Coulter?”
Fegan was silent for a moment before asking, “What did he want?”
“He advised me to leave. He said it would be best for me and Ellen. His exact words were ‘It’ll avoid any
unpleasantness.”
Fegan thought about the Walther. He sensed it beneath his bed. It lay in the shoebox amid rolls of banknotes.
Marie continued. “He kept going on about how he’d hate to see anything bad happen to my wee girl, how he’d hate to see her get hurt. He kept telling me to think of Ellen and not be so stubborn. There were people who wanted to hurt us, and there might be no stopping them if I stayed. And all the time he had this look on his face, like the sight of me offended him.”
Fegan looked at his palm, imagining the cold weight of the gun there.
“Can you believe it?” Marie asked. “McGinty’s getting priests to deliver his threats now. Father Coulter said he was just telling me as a favor.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, at first; I was too shocked. Then I told him to get out.” Fegan listened to her breath against his ear. “They’ll be coming for me now, won’t they?”
“Yeah,” Fegan said. “They’ll come after dark. Nothing serious at first. Maybe just break a window. Next time, they’ll use a petrol bomb or a shotgun.”
“Jesus, what about Ellen? I can’t let her go through that. I’ve no one she can even stay with.”
“I’ll come over this evening. They won’t do anything while I’m there.”
“Please,” she said. “Please come over.”
Fegan made a fist with his free hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
He said goodbye and hung up. He stood, crossed the hall, and climbed the stairs. Perched on the end of his bed, he reached under and pulled out the shoebox as shadows gathered around him, watching. He removed the lid and was met again by the greasy smell of money. Once more he wondered how much there was. Fegan had never counted it. Thousands, anyway, maybe ten or more. He’d saved it from the salary that McGinty’s bogus Community Development job paid out.
The pistol’s baleful sheen entranced him for a while. Loose bullets rolled beneath the money like mice in a nest.
“No,” he said.
The three Brits came forward, the other six behind them. The woman stepped around them and knelt next to Fegan. She smiled as Fegan took the gun from its nest. It was cool and heavy in his hand.
“No,” Fegan said. He put the Walther back among the bills and bullets. “Not Father Coulter.”
But they would let him sleep. If he gave them everything they wanted, they would give him peace and let him sleep.
The wonderful thought of closing his eyes, hearing nothing but his own breathing, lingered in his mind. Suddenly, an even sweeter thought came to him, one which had never occurred to him before: the thought of falling asleep with his head on Marie McKenna’s breast, letting her warmth soak through him, her heartbeat drowning out all else.
Fegan blinked and wiped the thought away.
“No,” he said. He replaced the lid and slid the shoebox back under his bed.
The late Vincie Caffola’s girlfriend was red-faced and puffy-eyed when she shook Fegan’s hand. Caffola’s two sons looked bemused at the attention they were receiving, the older battling tears while the younger wept freely. They both looked like their father, the eldest as tall as Fegan.
He felt a sour turning in his gut when he told them he was sorry for their trouble. The boys couldn’t meet his eyes as he spoke, and Fegan was glad of it. Some insane part of him wanted to beg their forgiveness. Caffola might have been a mindless thug, but he had been a father to these boys. The younger was about the age Fegan had been when his own father fell down a flight of stairs, drunk.
Fegan finished his condolences and moved away, desperate to be free of their grief-reddened eyes, but Caffola’s girlfriend gripped his wrist.
“Nobody’s doing anything,” she said. “The party, the cops, none of them.”
Fegan tried to ease her hand away, but she gripped hard.
“Nobody cares,” she whispered. “So long as he’s buried and gone, no one gives a shite who done it. It’s not right, Gerry.”
He prised her fingers from his wrist and stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s not right,” she said again as Fegan turned his back on her and walked away.
Caffola’s house was not as crammed as McKenna’s mother’s had been, but air was hard to come by nonetheless. Fegan made his way upstairs to view the corpse. The mourners parted respectfully to let him through. Like McKenna’s, Caffola’s coffin was modest, but probably for economic reasons rather than appearances. Fegan crossed himself, but didn’t kneel to pray. He’d had enough of God for now. Instead, he paced a circle around the box. The undertakers had made a good job of concealing the injury to the deceased’s temple.
Fegan thought of Marie and how she had lingered over McKenna’s coffin. He whispered to himself, “You had it coming.”
A hush settled on the room, and Fegan looked up from the body, knowing who he’d see.
“Hello, Gerry,” McGinty said.
Fegan nodded.
McGinty addressed the others in the room. “Can I get a few minutes with my friend?”
The room emptied quickly, leaving only Fegan, McGinty, the pale cadaver and the deepening shadows. Fegan kept his eyes on the politician, the coffin between them.
“We have a wee problem,” McGinty said, smiling.
Fegan didn’t answer. The chill pulsed at his center. Despite himself, he put a hand on his own heart in case the politician would see its cold glow.
“You didn’t do what I asked you,” McGinty said. “Why not?”
“She’s no threat to you. There’s no reason to put her out,” Fegan said, fighting to keep the anger from his voice.
McGinty stepped closer and rested his hands on the edge of the box. “If I let her stay I look weak. I can’t afford to look weak, Gerry. Not now. I’ve too much at stake. I’ve already been more generous than that girl deserved. She would’ve been in the ground long ago if I hadn’t indulged Michael. There’s a limit to how generous I can be.” He looked down at the corpse. “I’ve already allowed too many things to slide. I owe you a lot, Gerry, but my patience is wearing thin.”
Fegan moved around the coffin, heading for the door. McGinty blocked his path.
“I mean it, Gerry. Don’t test me. You don’t want to tell her, all right, but don’t interfere.”
Fegan stepped to the side, but McGinty gripped his arm, and the two looked hard into each other’s eyes. The politician’s thin lips broke into a soft smile. He cupped Fegan’s face in his hands, leaned in, and placed a dry kiss on his cheek.
“We’ve always been such good friends,” McGinty said. “Ever since you were a kid. Don’t fuck it up over a woman. Not a whore like Marie McKenna.”
Fegan’s cheek burned. He pulled away and finally reached the door. The people on the landing made way for him, and he hurried down the stairs. He stopped dead when he reached the bottom.
Davy Campbell nodded. Fegan nodded back, ignoring the crackling in his temples and the shadows moving in from the edge of his vision. Campbell had changed since Fegan saw him last. Thinner. Darker round the eyes. Death clings to men who’ve wielded it, like the stench of the abattoir. Fegan imagined they could smell it on each other, as a dog knows friend from enemy by scent alone. He opened the front door and left Campbell staring after him.
23
Campbell watched Fegan disappear around the corner. As he went back into the house the mixture of fear, hate and anger in Fegan’s eyes lingered with him. He looked like a killer, the purest kind, the kind who killed more out of want than need. Campbell sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He made his way upstairs, struggling to squeeze through the mourners who had parted so easily for Fegan. He entered the bedroom where Caffola’s body lay. McGinty had his back to the door.
“I want that cunt sorted, Davy,” McGinty said without looking round.
“When?” Campbell asked.
“The day after tomorrow. I don’t want the press getting distracted from my speech at the funeral, b
ut no later than that.”
“Whatever you say.” Campbell walked around the coffin to face McGinty. “What about the woman?”
“Eddie Coyle can sort it out,” McGinty said. “I made a kind gesture, letting Father Coulter speak to her, and she threw it back in my face. Well, no more. Eddie won’t be so polite about it.”
“What if he fucks it up? He’s not the brightest.”
“What’s to fuck up? All he’s got to do is put a brick through her window. Still, you’ve got a point. Maybe you should go with him.”
The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve) jli-1 Page 15
