He could swear he felt McGinty’s breath on his ear. “I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“All right, it’ll be a couple of hours till we get to Middletown. I’ll call you for directions from there.”
Campbell hung up.
“Well?” Coyle asked.
Campbell returned the phone to his pocket. “We’ve got a long drive ahead. I’m going for a piss and to get my head clear. Watch them.”
Campbell turned and limped into the trees, into the shadows of the forest, pushing deeper among the branches. When he was sure Coyle couldn’t hear him, he took the phone back out of his pocket. He hesitated for a moment before dialling the handler’s number.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” Campbell said.
“What are you doing calling from that phone?”
Campbell turned in circles, peering through the trees, making sure Coyle hadn’t followed him. “I’ve no choice. I need to talk to you now.”
“What’s happening?”
“We’ve got the woman and her kid. She says Fegan’s in Belfast somewhere. She doesn’t know where.”
“So, what, you’re holding her hostage?”
“McGinty’s idea.”
Campbell told his handler the politician’s plan.
“Christ,” the handler said. “All you can do is play along. So long as Fegan’s taken care of, so long as they clear up their mess. Just don’t let it get any worse.”
“But the woman and the kid. McGinty isn’t going to let them go when it’s over. I know it. He has something against her, something other than her fucking a cop.”
“They aren’t our concern. Like I said, so long as McGinty clears up his own mess.”
Campbell closed his eyes and breathed the damp air. “There’s another option,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Think about it. We’ll have Paul McGinty and Bull O’Kane in one place, together, holding hostages. You time it right, raid the place just after Fegan’s taken care of, you’ll have them at the scene of a murder. Even if McGinty gets off the charge, he’ll be destroyed. Think of all the people who’ve wanted to see him fucked, but he’s always been too slippery, too sly. We can do it. We can have him.”
The handler sighed. “Jesus, you really don’t understand what’s going on, do you?”
“What?”
“All right, say we give McGinty enough rope to hang himself and that old bastard O’Kane. What then? No matter how hard the leadership try to distance themselves from it, the Unionists will walk. Jesus, even the moderates will run a mile. Stormont will grind to a halt. We can’t afford another two years of negotiations just to get back to where we are now. All the politics, all the money, all the work - all wasted. No. That’s the word from on high, son. Stormont keeps running, whatever the cost. Yes, I and many others in my profession would dearly love to see McGinty swing, but it isn’t going to happen. Now, do what you need to do, there’s a good lad.”
Campbell leaned his forehead against a tree trunk, feeling the bark scratch his skin.
“All right,” he said and hung up.
He started limping back towards the clearing, his mind churning. He’d done worse things in his life. He could do this. The red paintwork of the van was just visible through the branches when he heard Eddie Coyle’s thin cry.
“Davy! Davy!”
Campbell started a limping run, ignoring the fire in his side. He broke through to the clearing to find Coyle on the ground, clutching at his bruised face, and the van’s passenger door open.
“The bitch clouted me,” Coyle said as he scrambled to his feet.
Campbell scanned the trees, looking for a glimpse of ash-blonde hair. There, up ahead. She hadn’t got far carrying the child. He pulled the pistol McGinty had given him from his waistband and dived into the trees after her. Coyle came panting and groaning behind.
Even with the stiff pain in his leg and the agony of breathing, Campbell was gaining on Marie. He could hear the panicked rasp of her breath. He aimed the pistol five feet above her head and pulled the trigger. She threw herself to the ground as the shot echoed through the forest.
Campbell slowed as he neared the woman. He cried out, his side screaming at the effort. He leaned against a tree, one hand clasped to his ribs, the other aiming the pistol at the woman’s head. She lay on the ground, curled around her child. Her desperate eyes stared up at him.
“Please let Ellen go,” Marie said. “Take me if you want, just let her go.”
Campbell pushed himself off the tree and grimaced as he hunkered down beside them. Through the pain, he felt a cold leaden weight in his stomach. “Try that again and I’ll kill her in front of you.”
“Please—”
“Do you understand?” He placed the gun’s muzzle against the girl’s yellow hair. “I’ll make you watch her die.”
The child seemed to climb inside her mother, away from the pistol, into her arms.
Marie’s voice was barely audible above the whispering of the trees, but her eyes screamed with hate. “Don’t you touch her.”
“Just get back in the van.” Campbell looked up at Coyle’s wide eyes. “Come on,” he said.
All four walked back to the van in silence. When the woman and her child were safely in the vehicle’s cabin, Coyle closed the passenger door and turned to Campbell.
“Would you have done it?” he asked.
Campbell started limping towards the driver’s side.
Coyle came after him and tugged his sleeve. “Would you have done it?”
Campbell returned his stare. “We need to get moving,” he said.
40
A sweep of headlights illuminated the inside of the Jaguar. Toner lifted his head from the misted glass, cradling his swollen hand. “That’s him,” he said.
Fegan could just make out a Volkswagen Passat through the condensation. A tall, broad man emerged from it and limped towards the Jaguar. Anderson. Fegan lowered himself in the seat behind Toner and listened to the solicitor’s shallow breathing. The passenger door opened and a wash of cool air swept though the car, chilling Fegan’s damp brow. The Jaguar rocked lazily on its suspension as the cop’s weight settled in.
“Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” Anderson asked.
Toner didn’t answer, instead whining with terror.
“You look like shit. What happened to your hand? Have you pissed yourself ?”
“I . . . I . . . I ...”
“Listen, Patsy, what the fuck’s going on? I left the wife at the restaurant. She’s going to go through me for a short cut, so whatever’s going on, you better—”
Fegan sat upright and raised the Walther.
“Fuck me!” Anderson grabbed for his pocket and pulled out a small revolver. Fegan was ready for it; all cops carried Personal Protection Weapons. The cop swung his arm around the passenger seat and Fegan grabbed his wrist, forcing Anderson’s aim to the rear window.
“Oh, Jesus!” Toner curled into a ball, burying his head in his arms.
Beads of sweat broke on Anderson’s brow as he struggled with Fegan, fighting to regain control of the pistol. The little gun boomed in the confined space and Fegan felt the bullet zip past his ear.
The noise set Toner moving and he opened his door, spilling out onto the ground. Fegan heard a scream as he landed, then the scrabbling of feet. He let his stare leave the cop’s face for a moment to see Toner disappear between the derelict buildings.
Fegan raised the Walther to Anderson’s forehead, but still the cop fought him. The revolver fired again and Fegan felt glass shower his back. He threw his weight against Anderson’s arm, keeping the cop’s wrist in his grip, and pushed with his feet against the Jaguar’s door. The passenger seat made a fulcrum for leverage, and Fegan pushed with everything he had. He gritted his teeth, blood rushing to his head with the effort, until he felt the sudden jolt of Anderson’s shoulder dislocating. The gun disappeared into the foo
twell behind the passenger seat and Anderson howled until his voice cracked.
“Sit still,” Fegan said, a sudden clarity swelling in him.
Anderson squirmed, kicking at the Jaguar’s dashboard.
“I said sit still.”
The cop gave another hoarse cry before turning to face Fegan from the passenger seat. “Oh, Christ, what do you want?”
“You,” Fegan said.
He screamed again when Fegan released his arm to flop uselessly between the seats. His legs writhed and his face turned from red to purple. At last, his screaming died and his breathing levelled. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry about the beating. Patsy told me to. McGinty’s . . . McGinty’s orders.”
Fegan looked to the RUC man who leaned against the windscreen, peering in. His eyes blazed with savage joy. The car’s interior lighting glared, picking out the sweat on Anderson’s contorted face, glinting on his gritted teeth. The RUC man would see everything, just like his son had.
“You remember the RUC man you sold out?”
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
“Do you remember?”
Anderson shook his head. “I . . . I . . . Which one?”
“That’s right.” Fegan smiled. “You sold lots of them, didn’t you? How much did you get for them?”
Anderson opened and closed his mouth, shaking his head. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
Fegan kicked the arm still hanging between the seats. When Anderson’s screaming faded, Fegan asked, “How much?”
“It depended . . . who they were.”
“How much for a constable? Just an ordinary peeler. How much for one of them?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know . . . a few thousand . . . please, don’t . . .”
“Think back. Do you remember one from 1982? It would have been the start of February. It had been snowing. I killed him in front of his kid.”
Anderson’s eyes darted back and forth, his breath was ragged. “At the school? I remember. Yeah, I remember. What was his name? Oh, Jesus, what was his name?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Fegan said. He placed the Walther back against the cop’s forehead. “He wants you.”
“Wh . . . what?”
“Look.” Fegan indicated with his eyes. “Out there. He’s watching. They’re all watching.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look.” Fegan pressed the Walther’s muzzle against Anderson’s cheek, turning his head to face out the window. “There he is. He’s been waiting years for this.”
Anderson began to weep. “There’s no one there.”
“It’s time to pay for what you did.”
The cop turned back to Fegan. Tears mixed with sweat on his cheeks. “But
you
killed him. Not me.”
Fegan blinked. “I just pulled the trigger. He was dead as soon as you fingered him.”
Anderson shook his head. “You’re insane.”
“I know. But I’m getting better all the time.”
Fegan pulled the trigger.
FIVE
41
The smell of blood, sweat and alcohol rose up through the spectators to the top tier. The old man stood taller than anyone else in the barn, and he could see through all the raised fists waving euros and pounds. He always had the best seat in the house. After all, he owned the place.
The crowd’s roar couldn’t drown out the snarling and yelping from below. The dogs circled each other, snapping, growling and lunging. They were evenly matched, both of them with blocky jaws and thick necks. Both good, mature males, scarred and battle-hardened, with heavy balls hanging between their legs, filling them with fight. Choice pit bulls. Good animals. He loved good animals, as did any man worth a shite.
They’d been at it forty minutes now. Their snouts and barrel chests were caked in red, and fresh wounds glistened in the pitiless light. One had lost a piece of its cheek, and the other’s shoulder was torn open, but neither tired of the struggle as their handlers goaded them to attack. Wooden boards lined the pit walls, wild arcs of blood, old and new, slashed across them.
The Brindle and the Red squared off, eyes locked together. The old man felt a surge in his loins, sensing this would be the final spar. The roaring of the crowd faded to a murmur, nearly sixty men waiting for the moment.
They didn’t have to wait long.
Christ, they were fast. They looked stupid, just lumbering hunks of muscle and teeth, but think that and they’d have you. A good pit bull is quick; strong isn’t good enough. They launched at the same instant, thick paws in the air, batting at each other, trying to get the other down. Their haunches bunched as they boxed, teeth snapping. Shouts began to rise from the crowd as the dogs danced and snarled, each trying to gain dominance, to push the other down and finish him. First it seemed the Red was gaining as its teeth pinched the folds at the back of the other’s neck, but the Brindle forced its weight downward, throwing the Red off balance.
Then it was over. The Brindle’s mighty jaws locked on the Red’s neck, and a whimpering shriek echoed up through the old barn. A low, triumphant growl resonated in the Brindle’s chest as it ground the Red’s muzzle into the dirt. The Red’s feet kicked out, but it was at the mercy of the other dog. The Brindle had no notion of mercy, and poured all its strength into its bulbous jaw muscles, breeding and instinct forcing its teeth together.
“All right, enough!” Bull O’Kane stepped downwards from tier to tier of the bleachers, his bulk making the scaffolded benches groan.
The handlers jumped into the pit to separate the dogs. “Release!” the Brindle’s owner shouted. The pit bull was oblivious, blood trickling from between its jaws.
“Release!” He grabbed the dog’s ear and yanked it.
The other dog’s handler tried to pry the victor’s jaws open with the metal rod he used to train his own animal. “For fuck’s sake, he’ll kill him.”
The Brindle shook its head, reinforcing its grip.
“Jesus, get out of the way,” O’Kane said.
He stepped down into the pit and pushed the handlers aside. The Brindle’s scrotum dangled between its hind legs, tender and exposed. O’Kane’s boot connected with a fleshy slap and the dog whimpered, but held on.
“Ignorant fucker,” O’Kane said, wiping spit from his mouth. Once more, he drew his foot back; once more he buried his boot between the Brindle’s legs. It staggered sideways, its hind quarters quivering, but still it kept its monstrous grip.
“This time, ya bastard.” O’Kane was coming seventy, but he was still the Bull. He put all his weight behind his right foot, and now the dog opened its jaws and raised its snout to the corrugated roof. It howled, snarled, and turned to face its tormentor.
O’Kane locked stares with it. “Come on, then.”
It lowered on its haunches, preparing.
O’Kane put his weight on both feet.
The Brindle didn’t hesitate, coming at him with teeth bared, eyes rolling in its head, blood-tainted drool arcing from its black lips.
It didn’t stand a chance.
O’Kane let it come at him, offering his callused hand. Just as it tried to clamp its teeth on his right fist, O’Kane forced his fingers to the back of its mouth and wrapped his left arm around its powerful neck. The Brindle opened and closed its jaws, struggling to gain purchase, but O’Kane pushed harder and seized its tongue with his thick fingers. He took his arm from around its neck as he twisted the slick pink flesh and pulled up until the dog’s front paws scrabbled on the dirt floor. It coughed and gagged and whimpered as its eyes bulged.
O’Kane gave it a hard kick to the ribs as it hung there before lowering his arm, keeping the dog’s head twisted to the side.
He turned his eyes to the handler. “If you can’t control your animal, don’t fucking bring him to my fights.”
“Yes, Mr. O’Kane.” The handler looked at the ground. “Sorry, Mr. O’Kane.”
“Get this thing out of here.” He released the whining dog�
�s tongue as the handler slipped a chain around its neck.
O’Kane looked up to Sean the bookie and smiled, wiping his hand on his coat. Sean winked back and straightened his cap. Most of the crowd had put their money on the Red. It had been a good night so far.
A voice came from the barn’s open doorway. “Da!”
O’Kane turned to see his son Pádraig, as tall as his father and twice as wide. “What?”
“Yer man’s here.”
O’Kane nodded and stepped up and out of the pit, past his son - who turned and followed him - and out to the farmyard. Dogs penned in the old stables barked and snarled as they passed, and he hissed at them to shut up. Wire cages on the opposite side housed the visiting animals. A diesel generator rattled by the side of the derelict house, giving it and the barn power. The place still had the acrid chemical smell from the fuel-laundering plant he’d housed here before Customs had raided it. The dogs didn’t bring in as much money, but they brought him greater pleasure. As an old man, he took his pleasures where he could find them. Besides, he had plenty of other plants churning out stripped diesel along the border.
The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve) jli-1 Page 25
