“It’s risky,” Campbell said. “The cops might get to them first.”
“I promised our friend a nice bonus if he gets the call and passes it on to me. He loves his money. Mark my word, he won’t leave that phone all day. Besides, I don’t see what else we can do.” McGinty leaned forward and pointed at Campbell. “But listen hard, Davy. Don’t fuck it up again. If this flushes Fegan out, I want him done. You sort him or I sort you. Understood?”
Campbell got to his feet, his thigh complaining and his side shrieking. “Understood. If he surfaces, I’ll get him.”
34
“You’re very kind,” Marie said.
Mrs. Taylor smiled and set a plate of toast on the table.
The warm smell of fried breakfast filled the cottage and Fegan’s stomach rumbled in anticipation, despite the rippling aches still lurking in his midsection. Steam leaked from a big pot of tea at the center of the table. There was milk, sugar, butter and jam.
The lady of the house had a round, glowing face, and clear blue eyes. Like her husband, she was well-spoken but had a good line in swear words. Fegan, Marie and Ellen had been in the house less than thirty minutes, and Mrs. Taylor had already apologised three times for cursing within earshot of the child.
“Get the fu—I mean, get away, Stella,” she said to the dog who sat staring expectantly at the table. Fegan knew she was a Boxer - his grandfather had owned one - and Stella had the same kind of face. One that looked permanently guilty, as if some form of mischief was in the recent past, the near future, or both. Stella ignored Mrs. Taylor’s instruction, instead licking her chops as Mr. Taylor brought in a plate loaded with bacon and sausages.
Fegan’s dry-eyed gaze wandered the room. Paintings covered the walls - oils and watercolors - and small sculptures sat on every level surface.
Another wave of nausea came with the cold prickling of sweat on his forehead and back. He swallowed and wiped his brow before lacing his fingers together on the table, each hand keeping the other still. A headache threatened to blot out the sunshine from outside, where Fegan could see across the mouth of the river, over to where the long beach stretched into the distance. The sky was a hard blue and two boats dotted the horizon. A mass of land was just visible in the haze where the sea met the sky.
Mr. Taylor sat down. “The Mull of Kintyre,” he said. He leaned over to Ellen. “See out there? That’s Scotland.”
Ellen gaped out of the window. “Look, Mummy, that’s Scotland!”
Marie smiled and stroked her daughter’s hair. “We’ll take a walk on the beach later so you can see it better, okay? Now, eat up your nice breakfast.”
While Ellen carefully constructed a toast and bacon sandwich, Fegan thought about the Mull of Kintyre. It was 1994, and he was in the Maze when news came of a Chinook helicopter crash on the Mull. Twenty-five MI5, British Army and RUC intelligence personnel, plus four crew members, died when the aircraft ploughed into the hillside in heavy fog. There were celebrations in Republican and Loyalist blocks alike that night. While the other prisoners laughed and cheered outside his cell, Fegan lay on his bed and studied the cracks in the ceiling.
Mrs. Taylor came back with a pot and a wooden spoon. “Who’s for scrambled eggs?” she asked. Ellen and Fegan refused. The little girl smiled at him when he wrinkled his nose.
“So, how’s old Hopkirk treating you?” Mr. Taylor asked.
“Fine,” Marie said. “We’re used to roughing it, anyway.” She looked at Fegan with a sly smile. “Aren’t we, George?”
It took Fegan a moment to remember the lie. “Yeah, we’ve stayed in worse.”
Ellen looked back and forth between them, a crease in her brow. Marie winked at him, and Fegan smiled back.
Mrs. Taylor finally settled at the table, her fussing done, and joined them in eating. The silence was only interrupted by the hostess slapping her husband’s arm when he fed the dog a piece of sausage.
“So, what brings you to Portcarrick?” she asked.
“We just wanted a bit of a break,” Marie said. “It was all very last-minute.”
“Well, yes, landing in Hopkirk’s in the middle of the night does seem a bit impulsive.”
“We meant to get away earlier, but George got held up at work.”
Mrs. Taylor turned to Fegan. “And what kind of work do you do, George?”
Fegan chewed and swallowed his food before answering. “I’m a Community Development Officer,” he said.
“In Belfast?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Whereabouts? We’re both from Belfast, originally.”
Fegan scrambled for a lie, but came up empty. “Different places,” he said.
Mrs. Taylor seemed satisfied. “Did you hear the news this morning?”
“No, not yet,” Marie said.
“Oh, it’s terrible. A priest was killed in Belfast last night. Somebody broke into his house and stabbed him to death. Isn’t that awful?”
Marie set her knife and fork on her plate. “Dreadful,” she said, looking hard at Mrs. Taylor.
“And the funny thing is,” Mrs. Taylor continued, ‘he was the same priest who conducted the funerals for those two men who were killed this week. Isn’t that strange?”
“Did they say what time it happened?” Marie asked.
“Sometime last night is all they said. His housekeeper found him this morning. What’s the matter, love, aren’t you hungry?”
Marie stared across the table at Fegan. “I’ve had enough, thank you. Can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course you can, love. Just through the kitchen, first on your left.”
Marie stood and left the room, keeping her eyes on Fegan until she was out of view.
Fegan lost the will to eat.
“What did you do?” Marie asked.
“Nothing,” Fegan said. The sun warmed his skin, but a cool breeze came in from the sea. Clean, clear water rolled up to them. The white sand reflected harsh sunlight, stoking the throb behind Fegan’s eyes.
“I don’t believe you,” Marie said. They had left Ellen playing with Stella in the garden. She was under the watchful eye of Mrs. Taylor as she tended her plants.
“It’s the truth,” Fegan said. The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he didn’t know what else to say. She could never understand.
Marie stopped walking and shielded her eyes with her hand. “You said you had something to do before you came for me last night. It was Father Coulter, wasn’t it?”
Fegan struggled with the urge to look away. “No. I had to get money.”
“Then why is McGinty after you? Why did someone try to hurt you yesterday?”
“Because I stood up to them when they came to put you out.”
“No, it’s more than that.” She started walking along the beach again. “They wouldn’t do that just because you helped me. There’s got to be more to it.”
“There’s not.” Anger at his own deceit flared in Fegan’s chest.
“And what about Vincie Caffola? Jesus, Uncle Michael?”
Fegan hated himself for lying. “Your uncle was getting mixed up in things he shouldn’t, and Vincie Caffola was mouthing off about the direction the party was taking. McGinty told me himself. There were plenty of people who wanted them dead.”
“You’ve killed before,” she said. “I know you can do it. Whatever part of you that’s missing, you’ve never got it back.”
“I’ve changed.” He took her elbow, turning her to face him. “You said so yourself. You said you could see it in me.”
Marie studied his face, her eyes red and angry. “Do you swear?”
“Yes,” he said.
She put her hand on his chest, over his heart. “Do you swear on your mother’s soul?”
Fegan didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said.
Marie kept her hand on his heart and stepped in close, her voice a desperate whisper. “Do you swear on Ellen’s life? Do you swear on my daughter’s soul?”
&n
bsp; “Don’t ask me to do that,” he said.
Marie gripped Fegan’s shirt in her fist. “Do you swear?”
Her eyes flared with hope, but something else burned beneath. Something Fegan didn’t want to see.
“Swear and I’ll believe you,” she whispered.
“I swear,” he said.
Marie nodded slowly and turned to look out to sea.
They walked without words along the beach, across the bridge, and into the cottage garden. Neither Ellen nor the dog showed any signs of wearing each other out as they ran in circles around the shrubbery. Mrs. Taylor was on her knees, her bottom in the air, as she tugged grass from beneath a flowering bush.
She looked around at the sound of the gate. “You weren’t long,” she said. “Too fresh for you?”
“We’re a bit tired,” Fegan said.
“I’ll help you with that,” Marie said.
“Oh, no, sure I’m fine,” the bright-faced woman protested.
“Please, I’d like to.”
“Well, all right.” Mrs. Taylor looked up to Fegan. “Why don’t you go on inside? You can keep Albert company while he watches his films.”
Fegan questioned Marie with his eyes. She pressed on his arm, telling him to go. He went inside to find Mr. Taylor with his feet up on the coffee table, watching a John Wayne movie.
“Ah, George,” said Mr. Taylor. “Grab yourself a seat. It’s just started.”
“What is it?” Fegan asked.
“
The Searchers
. Have you seen it? It’s a classic. The Duke’s best.”
“No, I haven’t seen it,” Fegan said. “I’ll hang my jacket up.”
He walked back to the coat hook in the small porch. Voices drifted in from the garden through the slightly opened door. Soft voices, women’s voices, punctuated by a child’s laughter and a dog’s excited yips.
“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” Mrs. Taylor said.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Marie said.
“All right. It’s just what it said on the news, a woman about your age, blonde hair, and her daughter.”
“No, it’s not me. Must be someone else.”
“That’s okay, love. Just remember, if there’s anything you want to tell me, anything you’re worried about, I’m here. You’re a smart woman, I can tell, but even smart women do silly things when they’re afraid.”
Fegan listened to five heartbeats of quiet. Only the dog’s panting rose above the waves.
“That’s the thing,” Marie said. “I’m not afraid of him.”
Marie didn’t look at Fegan as they ate lunch. Ellen’s appetite had been inflamed by almost three hours of chasing Stella around the garden. She attacked a stack of sandwiches with fervour. Stella lapped up a bowlful of water and collapsed in a contented heap on the thick rug at Mr. Taylor’s feet.
Fegan felt Mrs. Taylor’s eyes on him. Not accusing or fearful, but cautious, as a mother regards her daughter’s first suitor. He smiled at her once or twice, and she returned the gesture, but her gaze remained firm.
When lunch was finished, Mrs. Taylor allowed Ellen to take a nap upstairs in one of the comfortable bedrooms. The child had complained of noises disturbing her sleep the night before and seemed glad to climb onto the bed and bury her little head in a soft pillow. Stella hopped up and joined her, circling Ellen’s feet before curling into a dozing ball.
Marie insisted that Fegan and she should do the dishes while Mrs. Taylor put her feet up. They were alone at the sink, passing soapy plates back and forth.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Marie said. “I’m going to trust you because I’ve no choice. You’re the only person I know who’s prepared to stand up to McGinty.”
“I won’t let him hurt you,” Fegan said.
“So you keep telling me. But what does that mean? When will it be safe to go home? How long do we stay in Portcarrick? These people are so kind, but we can’t impose on them for ever.”
Fegan added a plate to the dried stack on the worktop. “I’ll go to Belfast today. I’ll sort it out.”
“How?” Marie turned to face him. There were no more dishes. “How are you going to sort it out?”
“There’s people I have to see,” Fegan said. “In a couple of days you won’t have to worry.”
Her stare would not leave him. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll sort it out,” he said.
“No. I need to know what you’re going to do. Tell me.”
Fegan threw the towel on the drainer. He gripped Marie’s shoulders with his wiry hands. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure you and Ellen are safe. That’s all.”
Her eyes danced with his. “All right. Whatever it takes, and that’s all. Nothing more.”
Fegan nodded, and lifted the towel from the drainer. He felt her hand on his forearm.
“And nothing less,” she said.
He turned to look into her hard eyes. “I’ll need your car,” he said.
35
Campbell moved through Fegan’s house, his steps light, even though there was no one to hear. The back window was still open after yesterday’s encounter, and despite the pain it caused him he had been able to climb through. The kitchen was clean and neat. The cooker was gleaming white, the linoleum flooring spotless. The only hint of untidiness was the row of hand tools still lying on a cloth. Campbell inspected them. The cloth was actually leather, soft to the touch, and the tools were held in place by loops. They lay on the flat portion of a foldaway table. He ran his fingers over them. There were small saws of different types, chisels and files. All well used, not the playthings of a casual hobbyist.
He stepped through to the living room. A sofa and two armchairs, not new but not threadbare either. A coffee table sat at the center of the room. It looked handmade, competently but not artfully put together, coated with thick varnish. Another home-made piece supported a small television. A mirror hung over the fireplace. Campbell went to it and studied the deepening lines of his face. His beard needed trimming, as did his hair.
A guitar case stood propped in the corner. Campbell opened the clasps and looked inside. He took the unstrung guitar out and peered inside the fist-sized hole in its belly. He turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing. After inspecting a small compartment inside the case, he put the guitar back in its coffin and sealed it.
He went to the table under the window. A felt sheet covered its surface, and a few small files and a ball of steel wool were scattered around it. There was good light here. Campbell imagined Fegan working under the window, his killer’s hands creating, not destroying.
The only other piece in the room was a sideboard. It was made of the same wood as the coffee table - pine, Campbell thought - with simple drawers and hinges. A framed photograph stood on top of it. Campbell lifted it. It looked like it had been taken in the late Fifties, early Sixties. A woman smiled at the camera, her hand held over her eyes like a salute, casting them in shadow. She was tall and slender, with blonde hair. Pretty in a clean, simple, girlish way. She stood on a street just like this one, one foot resting on a doorstep.
Campbell caught a warm smile spreading on his lips and coughed. He winced as his ribcage flared, and he put the photograph back.
A stack of unopened mail sat next to an empty Jameson’s bottle. He leafed through the envelopes, hoping for some clue as to where Fegan might have gone. If Campbell could find him first, take care of him, all would be well. If McGinty got him - well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
But what if Fegan found McGinty? That was an entirely different problem, and one that could not come to pass. If McGinty was killed, his old crew would scatter, perhaps turn on the leadership. A drift back to violence could destroy the movement, whether it was directed inward or outward. It had been McGinty’s feat to form a bridge between the street thugs and the more politically minded. Now McGinty had served his purpose, the leadership were starting to freeze
him out, pull away from him and others like Bull O’Kane. But they were doing it slowly, carefully. The old ways were dead and gone, but still their ghosts might come to haunt the political process. The politicos might be smarter, but smart never stopped a bullet.
The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve) jli-1 Page 22
