The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve) jli-1

by Stuart Neville

  Now and then, people would pass the window, oblivious to Fegan’s vigil. Sometimes they were couples, young men and women clinging to each other, moving as one. The sight of them opened paths in his mind, paths he did not want to follow. He would only find regret and self-pity there.

  Instead, he thought about the chill of moisture on his cheek. He brought his fingertips to that place, remembering the warmth before the cold.

  Almost three hours passed before the chill crept to his center, a tingling began in his temples, and the shadows around him came to life.

  25

  Eddie Coyle drove in silence. Campbell had greeted him with a friendly hello when he got into the car a few minutes before, but Coyle had not replied. Now they travelled along the Malone Road, approaching the Wellington Park Hotel and the right turn into Eglantine Avenue just beyond.

  “So, you’re going to do the business, then?” Campbell asked.

  Coyle stared ahead. The swelling over his eye had lessened, but the gauze pad on his brow carried an angry red rose.

  “I’ll just stay in the car and let you get on with it, will I?”

  Coyle’s mouth twisted. “Shut the fuck up, you cunt,” he said. “You’ve no call to be here. There’s plenty of boys could have come with me. Fuck, I’d sooner do it on my own than have to listen to you.”

  “Don’t blame me if McGinty doesn’t trust you to do it right,” Campbell said.

  His body leaned forward as Coyle stood on the brake pedal.

  “You what?”

  “McGinty thought you might make a balls of it, so he told me to go along,” Campbell said. “Believe me, I’ve got better things to do than put the frighteners on women and wee girls, but I do what I’m told. Now, get moving before the cops come along and wonder why we’re sitting in the middle of the Malone Road. The turn’s just there.”

  “I know where the fucking turn is,” Coyle said as he gunned the accelerator. He pulled hard on the steering wheel, forcing oncoming traffic to brake. He let the engine drop to a low rumble as they moved slowly along Eglantine Avenue. The Vauxhall Vectra puttered quietly until they reached the woman’s place. The flat was in darkness, but her car was parked outside.

  Coyle reached behind Campbell’s seat, into the foot well, and retrieved two halves of brick. This sort of thing happened all the time in Belfast. The cops called it ‘low-level intimidation’. It was just a way for paramilitaries of all shades to keep the locals in line, nothing special, nothing to get excited about. Unless you were on the receiving end, of course. Coyle opened the door, and went to climb out.

  “Careful you don’t miss,” Campbell said.

  “Aw, fuck off,” Coyle said. He walked around the front of the car, a half-brick in each hand. He cried out, almost dropping them, when Gerry Fegan emerged from the shadows of the small garden to block his path.

  “Leave her alone,” Fegan said. Campbell could just hear his calm voice above the engine’s idling.

  “What are you doing here?” Coyle asked.

  “I said leave her alone.” Fegan took two steps closer to Coyle, the car’s headlights glinting in his hard eyes.

  Coyle turned to look back at Campbell. Campbell eased himself out of the car.

  “Don’t look at him, look at me,” Fegan said. “Leave her alone. Get out of here and don’t come back.”

  Campbell thought quickly. He had no gun with him; carrying one on an errand like this was too risky. If the cops stopped them, a brick was easier to explain than a loaded weapon. He wondered if Fegan was armed. Probably not, he thought. Fegan knew the risks just as well as he did.

  But then again, Fegan was crazy.

  “Get out of the way, Gerry,” Coyle said. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “One last time,” Fegan said, his face impassive. “Leave her alone. Go away and don’t come back.”

  Campbell watched with grim fascination. A man like Coyle couldn’t hope to take a man like Fegan. Fegan would rip him to pieces. Christ, if Fegan had been in shape, Campbell wasn’t sure he could have taken him, either. Even now, it wasn’t a certainty. Crazy can make up for a lot. He waited, part of him relishing the idea of seeing Coyle taken apart.

  Coyle raised a half-brick above his head. His voice was shrill. “I mean it, Gerry. Fuck off before I do you one.”

  Campbell saw shapes and movements at some of the windows. The police had probably been called already. The Lisburn Road station was barely half a mile away. They’d be here in minutes. “Fuck,” he said, stepping towards Coyle. “Leave it, Eddie.”

  “You fuck off, too,” Coyle said. “I was sent here to do a job, and I’m going to do it.”

  “Don’t, Eddie. He’ll break you in two.”

  Fegan stood silent, his eyes locked on Coyle.

  “Eddie, come on.”

  Coyle brought the piece of brick down in a clumsy arc, and Fegan caught his wrist effortlessly. He kicked Coyle’s legs from under him, and took the brick from his hand.

  Fegan drew his arm back, the brick held tight in his fist, ready to drive it into Coyle’s upturned face. “Get out of here or I’ll fucking kill you.”

  Coyle scrambled backwards, and Fegan turned to Campbell. Campbell’s gut chilled when he saw Fegan’s eyes. The madman walked towards him and then stopped, lifting his hands up to his temples.

  “Not now,” he said. “Not here.”

  “What?” Campbell said.

  “No!” Fegan stared at something to Campbell’s left. “There’ll be another time. I can’t do it here. Not with witnesses.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Campbell said, backing towards the car.

  “How can I do it here?” Now Fegan’s eyes moved to Campbell’s right. “If I do it here I’ll never be able to finish it.”

  “Finish what, Gerry?” Campbell took a tentative step forward. “Who are you talking to?”

  Fegan’s eyes moved from place to place, focused on something at eye level that only he could see. “There’ll be another time. I swear.”

  Before Campbell could scream at him to stop, Coyle swung at Fegan from behind. Fegan ducked, but not quickly enough, and the second piece of brick glanced off his temple. He moved with the lithe speed of a predator, turning to seize Coyle’s forearm before the other could react. Fegan swiped his piece of brick across Coyle’s face, rocking his head back. He did it again and Campbell heard a sickening crunch. Coyle’s legs crumpled beneath him and Fegan swung twice more, sending blood across the pavement.

  The roar of an engine pulled Campbell’s eyes to the Lisburn Road end of the street. A police Land Rover came barrelling around the corner. He hesitated for just a second, then turned and ran for the Malone Road.

  He cut across it, dodging traffic, and ducked into Cloreen Park. He didn’t stop running until he was on the Stranmillis Road. He walked purposefully to the warren of streets around Queen’s University and wound through them until he reached the church on University Street. He crossed the road, opened the door to his building, trotted up two flights of stairs, and let himself into his flat. In the darkness he collapsed onto the couch, adrenalin sending wave after wave of tremors through his limbs.

  “Fuck,” he said to the empty room.

  26

  Fegan’s eyes felt dry and heavy as he sat in his cell. It had been a long night. They’d taken him to the City Hospital on the Lisburn Road to have the abrasion on his temple examined, and the doctor had insisted on a scan. He had to sit on a bed in the Accident and Emergency ward, guarded by two police officers, until the results came back. Coyle had been in the hospital somewhere, too, but Fegan imagined he would have a longer stay.

  Now Fegan sat on a thin mattress, his belt and shoelaces removed, waiting for them to let him go. Even if Coyle was in any state to be questioned, he would just clam up. Fegan was sure of that. McGinty would want Fegan away from the cops, out in the open, where he could be gotten to. Besides, despite what the party said in public, it would be considered bad form for Coyle to talk
to the cops. That would place him only one step above a common tout. And the party dealt harshly with touts.

  Shadows moved along the walls, sometimes taking shape, sometimes fading to nothing. Fegan’s temples buzzed. The chill pulsed at his center.

  “What did you want me to do?” Fegan asked.

  The shadows didn’t answer.

  “If I’d done it last night, the cops would have got me for it. I’d be in here for murder, not for fighting. Then I wouldn’t be able to do any of the others.”

  Still nothing.

  Suddenly, one of the shadows solidified, its form revealing itself against the cold white wall. The Royal Ulster Constabulary officer, his uniform stiff and crisp. He stared hard at Fegan for a moment before turning to the door.

  The peephole cover opened with a clang. Fegan saw the glint of an eye and the cover was closed again. Keys jangled and locks snapped. The door opened outwards and a tall, heavy-set policeman of around fifty stood in the opening. He looked up and down the corridor outside, and then back to Fegan. He entered, smiling, and locked the door behind him.

  “Good morning, Gerry,” he said. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a tie. His utility belt bulged with equipment, but Fegan noticed the weapons had been removed, and so had his name badge. The RUC man put his fingers to the cop’s head.

  “You’ll be glad to know you’ll be released in a few hours,” said the cop as he crossed the floor, limping slightly. “Your friend Mr. Coyle swears blind he fell and you were helping him up.”

  “That’s right,” Fegan said, keeping his focus on the policeman’s round face, and away from the shadows that gathered around him.

  “Well, that’s grand then, isn’t it?” the cop said, smiling. The fluorescent lighting reflected off his pink scalp. “But I’ve got to give you a wee message before you go. Why don’t you stand up?”

  “A message from who?” Fegan asked.

  “Let’s just say a mutual friend,” the cop said. “Now, stand up, there’s a good fella.”

  Fegan slowly got to his feet. The smile never left the cop’s mouth, even when he drove his fist into Fegan’s gut. All air deserted the cell, leaving nothing but a painful vacuum, and Fegan wondered how the peeler could breathe. He collapsed back onto the mattress, clutching his belly. A flash of rage burned in him, but he stamped on it, pushed it down. He couldn’t fight the cop here. Not if he wanted to live.

  The shadows retreated to the walls. The RUC man’s hand recoiled with every silent shot.

  The cop placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder. “The message is in two parts. One part’s verbal, the other’s physical. Let’s get the verbal out of the way, okay?”

  He slapped Fegan’s shoulder and sat down beside him. “Now, first things first. This conversation never happened or Marie McKenna has an accident. I want to make myself clear on that point. That’s very important. Now, to the rest of it.” The cop took a deep breath. “When you get out of here, you go home, you stay there until our mutual friend sends for you, or Marie McKenna has an accident. If you try to run, Marie McKenna has an accident. If you mess our mutual friend about in any way, shape or form, Marie McKenna has an accident. Are you getting the idea, Gerry?”

  Fegan didn’t answer. He was concentrating too hard on breathing to form words.

  The cop swung his lumpy fist down into Fegan’s groin. “I asked you a question, Gerry. Do you get the idea?”

  Fegan fell to his side, grabbing at his testicles. His abdomen filled with hot lead. He gasped, scrabbling words from tiny mouthfuls of air. “I . . . under . . . stand.”

  “Good man,” the cop said as he stood up. “Now we do the physical part. Are you ready?”

  The cop went to work with the dispassionate care of a craftsman. He found all Fegan’s tender spots, every part of him that could accommodate a fist or a boot while remaining concealed under his clothing. Fegan blacked out once, only to be roused by sharp slaps across his cheek. As he lay on the floor, the pain verging on unbearable, he realised the woman was kneeling at his side, the baby held close to her breast. She flinched with every blow.

  When he was finished, the cop stood back, proudly surveying his work. “There, now,” he said, still smiling, but a little breathless. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. “I’m glad we got that sorted out. Have you any questions?”

  Fegan coughed, spattering a fine spray of blood on the floor. “Yeah,” he said.

  The cop hunkered down. “Oh? What’s that, now?”

  “Who the fuck

  are

  you?”

  The cop laughed. “Don’t you know, Gerry?” He leaned in close and whispered, “I’m the rotten apple that spoils the barrel.”

  Fegan closed his eyes and listened to the opening and closing of the door, the turning of keys, and the cop’s laughter receding in the distance. He rolled onto his back, feeling a deep, sickly weight in his midsection. The shadows gathered round, took shape, and he smiled weakly up at them.

  “Are you enjoying it so far?” he asked.

  The woman rested her cool hand on Fegan’s cheek, and the room slipped away from him.

  27

  Campbell marvelled at Paul McGinty’s ability to twist facts to suit his agenda. The speech was an incredible exercise in spin. The politician stood on the improvised platform just steps away from Vincie Caffola’s grave, blustering with all the indignation of the righteous. The same police force that left Caffola to choke on his vomit, he said, had beaten Edward Coyle, party activist, to a senseless mess after stopping his car on Eglantine Avenue. The crowd roared when McGinty vowed to see justice done, and it was all Campbell could do not to join in. No wonder the politician’s enemies respected and hated him in equal measure.

  News cameras followed McGinty from the podium, but his security men blocked their path. The politician approached Campbell alone. “Walk with me,” he said.

  They moved among the gravestones and memorials, working their way towards the gates where McGinty’s Lincoln waited. The sun warmed Campbell’s back.

  “So, what do you reckon to our friend Gerry?” McGinty asked.

  “He’s insane,” Campbell said. “That makes him dangerous. If I’m going to take him, it better be soon. He could do anything.”

  “Our friend on the force gave him a message this morning,” McGinty said. “He made it very clear.”

  “Threats won’t do it,” Campbell said. “You can’t reason with crazy.”

  McGinty kicked gravel along the path and stopped. “Don’t worry, I won’t be reasoning with him. Not after what Father Coulter told me this morning. I knew it was him, but Christ, to come right out and say it. Even if he thought Father Coulter would keep that from me, he has some brass neck on him. But it’s a question of timing. I’ve got a press conference lined up for the morning. Eddie Coyle’s going to tell them how the peelers kicked the shit out of him. I don’t want anything to distract the press from that. It’s not just local press, either. Jesus, I’ve got CNN and Fox News coming. They love this sort of thing. See, this is what old Bull O’Kane doesn’t understand, what he never learned from us. As long as I’ve got the press lapping this stuff up, the Brits are on the back foot. I stir up enough shit, they’ll give us anything we ask for. They know we can bring Stormont down if we want to, and they’ll bend over backwards to stop it. They’ll be eating out of my hand, and the party won’t dare pass me over. Not when the cameras are on me. I’m telling you, the media’s a better weapon than Semtex ever was.”

  “The media won’t be dancing to your tune if Fegan has a crack at someone else. He was ready to take me on last night, only something stopped him.”

  “What?” McGinty asked.

  “I don’t know.” Campbell shook his head. “Whatever it was, it was in his head. He’s snapped, completely gone, schizophrenic or some fucking thing.”

  One corner of McGinty’s mouth curled up. “That’s your medical opinion, is it?”

  “It’s no joke.” Campbell fi
xed the politician with a hard stare. “You better watch your back. I’m telling you, he—”

  McGinty’s hand lashed out so quickly, Campbell felt the sting on his cheek before he knew it had moved.

  McGinty cleared his throat and smoothed his jacket. He took a cautious look around to make sure no cameras had caught the slap. He leaned in close to Campbell.

  “Watch your mouth,” he said. “You don’t tell me anything; I tell you. Got that?”

  Campbell fought back rage as he brought his fingers to the heat on his bearded cheek. Blood rushed in his ears and his head seemed to float above his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mr. McGinty,” he said. “But with all due respect, think about this: he hasn’t taken too kindly to Marie McKenna being strong-armed. What if he comes after you next?”