“I never . . .”
“Never what?” Marie asked.
“I never thought things could look like that,” he said. “Not really.”
She reached across and squeezed his arm. Fegan didn’t know whether to pull away or meet her hand with his own. He did neither.
A strange anticipation bubbled in him when he thought of the six followers. As much as he longed for a peaceful night, part of him wanted them to see this place too. He thought of the woman and her baby, always pretty, always showing him her soft, sad smile. She deserved to see somewhere other than the inside of McKenna’s bar or Fegan’s sparsely furnished house.
After a last steep drop, the road settled back into a soft undulation and a series of sweeping bends. They arrived at a gathering of low whitewashed houses, and followed the narrow road as it curved around them. And there it was, just as Marie had described it. To the left, a bridge over a small estuary, an ancient church on the other side of it, and a long beach curving north into the darkness beyond. On this side, its dim basalt reflecting little of the car’s lights, stood a memorial to a lost fishing crew.
The memorial passed on their left, between them and the river mouth, and a pretty two-storey cottage was just on the far side of the hotel on their right. Fegan could barely make out the mass of cliffs reaching out to sea, but he could feel them looming over the dwelling. Marie pulled the car into the space between the two old buildings. Lights peered through the slats in the cottage’s shuttered windows. Shadows moved against the walls, but Fegan couldn’t be sure if they were six echoes of the dead, or just the sweep of the car’s headlights. He shivered when he realised he didn’t know which he most desired.
“Here we are,” Marie said. “Hopkirk’s.”
“Oh, no,” Hopkirk said. “No, no, no.”
He was a tall, thin man of senior years, a plume of white hair swept back from his forehead. He wore a pointed goatee and thick glasses, and raised his nose and closed his eyes as he spoke, as if his words had a pleasing odor.
“Quite out of the question,” he said from behind the bar. One customer sat on a stool, watching the goings-on, a whiskey and a jug of water to hand. Fegan eyed the glass and swallowed.
“Please, we’ve nowhere else to go,” Marie said as she rocked Ellen in her arms. The little girl rubbed her eyes and mewled.
“The rooms aren’t aired out and the beds aren’t made up,” Hopkirk said. “I haven’t let rooms in years.”
“If you have sheets I’ll make the bed up myself,” she said. “If not, the mattress will do. It’s very late and my wee girl needs somewhere to stay for the night.”
It was indeed late, almost two in the morning. The bar’s opening hours seemed to be a loose arrangement between landlord and drinker. The customer was a stout man, around sixty, well dressed, with a deep, refined voice. “Come on, Hopkirk,” he said, with a crooked smile. “Have you no mercy?”
Hopkirk scolded the customer with a look. “I’ve no food in for breakfasts,” he said. “Really, there’s nothing I can do for you.”
Fegan put his bag on the floor, unzipped it, and fished inside until he found what he wanted. The bar was coated in generations-thick paint. Fegan placed a roll of notes on the muddy green gloss. Hopkirk and the drinker looked from it to each other and back again.
Hopkirk separated the notes with a fingertip.
“How long can we stay for that?” Fegan asked.
“A while,” Hopkirk said without taking his eyes from the money. “I’ll make no promises about the service. You’ll have to sort your own meals out and you won’t have any hot water.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Marie said.
“Wait here.” Hopkirk came out from behind the bar and disappeared into a dark doorway.
The bar, with its painted panelling and floral wallpaper, looked as if it hadn’t been refurbished in decades. The floor was covered in a loose-laid carpet, trodden thin, that didn’t quite reach the walls. A vast fireplace dominated one end of the room, the embers crackling and sighing as they settled down for the night. Fegan’s eyes scanned the bottles behind the bar and he swallowed. Some of them looked as old as him.
The sole customer watched Fegan and Marie from his stool. “So, Portcarrick seemed like the place to be at two in the morning?” he asked. His half-smile was kind, in spite of the jibe.
“We just took a notion,” Marie said. Ellen was awake now, blinking and rubbing her nose. Marie walked to the bar and set her on the painted surface.
“Where are we?” the little girl asked.
“We’re on our holidays,” Marie said, “At the seaside.”
Ellen accepted the answer without question. “I’m hungry,” she said.
“We’ll get you some crisps,” Marie said.
“I live in the cottage next door,” the customer said. “If Hopkirk can’t manage anything decent in the morning, give us a shout. I’m sure me and the missus can rustle up a fry.”
Marie smiled. “That’s very kind.”
“Not at all,” the man said. He looked at Fegan. “You look like you could do with a good feed.”
Fegan nodded and felt the odd sensation of his mouth curling in a smile. He was not used to kindness.
“Albert Taylor,” the drinker said as he extended his hand. “Good to meet you. Been in the wars?”
Fegan shook his hand. “George Ferris,” he said. His left hand went to the abrasion on his temple and smoothed his hair over it. “I had a fall.”
Marie stared at Fegan for a beat, then said, “Mary Ferris.” She indicated her daughter. “Ellen,” she said. That lie would be too hard to maintain.
Taylor shook Marie’s hand. “Just knock the window in the morning,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you fed even if Hopkirk’s not up to it.” He leaned forward on his stool, winked, and whispered, “Besides, I’m a better cook.”
Beyond the shuttered window the sea whispered and moaned. In the near-blackness, Fegan could hardly see the six shadows. But he could hear them. When his eyes fell shut, his head nodding forward, the screaming began. And the baby crying. Somewhere across the room, Marie and Ellen lay together, clinging to each other in this new place. Now and then, Fegan heard the little girl whimper. Sleep seemed to come no easier to her than to him. The chair he rested on was well upholstered, and with his feet propped on Marie’s suitcase he was comfortable enough, even with the rippling pains in his gut.
Sweat chilled his forehead and his hand trembled as he wiped it away. The dry want at the back of his throat deepened as he thought of the bar downstairs, the bottles lined up like whores in a brothel. He imagined the warmth of whiskey on his tongue and the coolness of stout on his lips.
Marie’s steady breathing formed a counterpoint to the waves rolling on the beach outside. Fegan’s own breath fell into step with hers as his mind wandered. His thoughts drifted from memory to memory - places and people, some bright and summery, others grey and haggard. He thought of the days before the bad times, before he knew not all fathers acted like that. About his mother and the warmth of her arms. About a goal drawn in chalk on a gable wall, and five boys kicking a ball at it, laughing, running, pushing, bare-backed on an August evening. About a girl called Julie who lived not far away but might as well have been from a different country. She shared a bag of toffees with Fegan, and her father beat her senseless for running with the likes of him. As his head rolled forward, he remembered her words and the purple swelling on her lip.
You’re the other sort
, she said.
Daddy says I can’t be friends with you.
He was falling head first into the dark when the cop started screaming, pulling him back. The others emerged from the black and joined in, dragging Fegan into wakefulness. Ellen stirred on the old bed, tiny cries escaping her. Fegan’s head felt so heavy, like sodden clay. He’d given them the priest. Couldn’t they leave him be?
No. The RUC man wanted his price paid. Fegan saw him, closest of
the six, walking the floor.
“All right,” Fegan whispered to the dark. “Tomorrow night. Please, I’ll do it tomorrow night. Just give me a little quiet. Just a couple of hours.”
The RUC man hovered for a moment, then lost himself in the shadows. Ellen gave a cry so small Fegan might only have imagined it.
“But I don’t want to dream,” he said. “Don’t let me dream.”
He searched the blackness for them, for some assurance they would protect him from the horrors that waited in his mind. The woman stepped out of the dark and brought her forefinger to her lips.
“Thank you,” Fegan whispered.
He closed his eyes.
32
Edward Hargreaves was breathless when he answered his phone. The treadmill whirred under his feet. Two miles in less than twenty minutes - not bad. His good mood evaporated when the woman’s voice told him it was the Chief Constable on the line.
“Go ahead,” she chirped.
“Good morning, Minister,” Pilkington said.
“Christ, what now?” Hargreaves asked. He felt no inclination to feign conviviality. It was too perfect a morning to be spoiled by this oik. His top-floor Belgravia apartment afforded him a delightful view of the small private park surrounded by Cadogan Place. The single perk of this job was a top-notch London pad. So far he’d been able to prevent his wife seeing the inside of it. The desiccated old shrew would never cross its threshold if he had anything to say about it. Steam drifted in from the en-suite bathroom, where his new acquaintance was washing the sweat from her sculpted back. No, his wife would never visit this apartment and ruin the only good thing about his rotten job.
“Another killing,” Pilkington said.
Hargreaves stepped off the treadmill. “Who?”
“A priest. Father Eammon Coulter. His housekeeper found him ninety minutes ago when she arrived to make his breakfast. Details are sketchy, but he appears to have been stabbed.”
“And why are we concerned about a priest?” Hargreaves asked. A reasonable question, he thought.
“A few reasons,” Pilkington said. “He’s the priest who buried McKenna and Caffola. He was Bull O’Kane’s cousin, and not the finest example of the clergy from what I’ve heard. There was some sort of scandal in Sligo in the late Seventies, all swept under the carpet, and he was moved out of the parish in a hurry. Rumor has it O’Kane himself fixed it for him to be installed in Belfast. He wanted a priest he could control in the area.”
“So Fegan did it?”
“We must assume so.”
“I see,” Hargreaves said. “And why hasn’t he been taken care of yet?”
“Our man tried to take care of him yesterday, but he botched it. Our other insider, the one who got our man back in, says McGinty’s not best pleased. The leadership are ready to cut him off completely, feud or not. And now Fegan’s missing. My men were called to Calcutta Street after gunfire was heard, but there was no sign of him.” Pilkington cleared his throat. “And there’s another complication.”
“Dear God, what now?” Hargreaves’s shoulders sagged.
“There’s a woman, Marie McKenna, niece of the recently departed Michael McKenna. She fell foul of McGinty years ago, but he left her alone because of her uncle. Now the uncle’s gone, he’s been trying to intimidate her into leaving the country. Our insider gave her plane tickets for her and her daughter, followed her to the airport, and watched her check in. She never arrived on the other side. Now she’s missing, too.”
“I don’t understand,” Hargreaves said. “What’s she got to do with anything?”
“Well, she and Fegan were apparently getting close; he was at her flat when he was arrested the night before last. We believe they’re together, wherever they are. It means if he’s found it’ll be harder to do anything about it.”
Hargreaves felt a warm hand stroke the back of his neck. He turned to see the girl, her tanned skin bare and glistening. She spoke very little English, not that it mattered. “So, what happens now?” he asked.
“We wait,” Pilkington said. “Fegan will turn up somewhere. We’ll just have to be ready to deal with him. There is one good thing to come out of this, though.”
Hargreaves gave a dry laugh. “Really? Do tell.”
“McGinty was due to hold a press conference this morning. He was going to trot out one of his thugs who got a beating off Fegan and claim my men did it. Then he was going to repeat his claims about my men having been responsible for Caffola’s demise. He’ll most likely cancel it now. Our friend in the party says the priest’s murder has stolen McGinty’s thunder.”
“Lucky for you,” Hargreaves said. “Certain sacrifices might not have to be made after all.”
“My concern is the rule of law, sir, not politics.” Pilkington’s voice was hard against Hargreaves’s ear. “I’d have resigned before I let any of my men take the fall for Fegan’s actions.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Hargreaves said. He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. The girl smiled sweetly as she toyed with the silver hairs on his chest.
33
In less than a minute, Paul McGinty transformed Patsy Toner’s office from a drab, efficient workspace into something resembling a landfill. Campbell watched the eruption from a chair in the corner. He had to fight the urge to laugh when McGinty upended Toner’s desk, leaving the solicitor sitting in the middle of the room with books, folders and sheets of paper scattered all around him. Campbell was relieved when the urge passed, sparing him the unbearable pain it would have ignited in his side.
When McGinty’s rage subsided he stood panting among the destruction. “Jesus,” he said. “Look what you made me do.”
“I’m sorry,” Toner said.
“Sorry?” McGinty slapped Toner hard across the ear. “Sorry? All you had to do was make sure she got on the plane, for fuck’s sake.”
Toner brought his hands up to shield himself. “She’d checked in and everything. I couldn’t go through the security gates to see what she did. Honest to God, I thought she was away.”
McGinty paced the room, his hands on his hips. “Well, now you know different, eh?” He pointed at Campbell. “And you, you’re no better. I had to phone the Bull to tell him his cousin was dead. You’re bloody lucky he didn’t tell me to do you.”
Campbell went to speak, but his damaged rib protested as he inhaled.
McGinty continued to pace. “I should’ve been talking to the press right now, showing off Eddie Coyle’s face. All that’s fucked. Father Coulter, a priest for Christ’s sake. What’s wrong with Fegan?”
Campbell took a shallow breath. “I told you, he’s crazy.”
“Not so crazy that he couldn’t get the better of you.”
“Or maybe that’s
why
he got the better of me,” Campbell said, returning McGinty’s stare. “Don’t worry, he’ll show up soon enough. He’s still got you to come after.”
McGinty stopped pacing and glared at Campbell. “Get out, Patsy.”
Toner raised his eyes from his lap. “What? This is my office. You can’t—”
McGinty spun and kicked Toner squarely on the shin. “Get the fuck out or I’ll rip your fucking head off!”
Toner limped to the door, scowling.
When McGinty was alone with Campbell, he said, “Watch your mouth, Davy. I don’t want any talk of that. Not when there’s other people around.”
“All right,” Campbell said. “But you better be watching your back. Fegan could come at you any time, anywhere.”
McGinty sat down on Toner’s chair. “Maybe, if he’s got the balls.”
“Balls? Balls has nothing to do with it. How many times do I have to spell it out for you? He’s insane. He was a vicious bastard before; now he’s a
crazy
vicious bastard. All I’m telling you is watch out.”
“All right,” McGinty said, standing. “Now let me tell you something. If he shows up and you haven’t sorted
him within thirty seconds, you’re the one who’d better watch out.”
Campbell held the politician’s gaze for as long as he dared before letting his eyes slip away. “So, what’s the plan?”
“The news.”
Campbell looked back to McGinty. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe you didn’t hear it. It’s mostly about Father Coulter, of course, how shocked the community is and all that. I did a couple of soundbites first thing this morning. But we got another wee story sneaked into the newsrooms, something about Marie McKenna and her daughter going missing. If some concerned citizen spots them they’re to call Lisburn Road Police Station where our friend will be waiting to answer the phone.”
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