The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve) jli-1
Page 33
Fegan tried to find his pocket with his left hand, to get Quigley’s .22, but his dull, stupid fingers only fumbled at the fabric while McGinty threw his weight from side to side. Fegan put the last of his strength into his good arm and squeezed harder.
McGinty’s thrashing became more desperate and he reached up, searching for Fegan’s face. Fegan ignored the scratching and grabbing, feeling McGinty’s body slowly soften.
“Everybody pays, Paul,” he said through gritted teeth. “Sooner or later. That’s what she said to me.”
McGinty’s thrashing began to fade, and his hands fell away. Fegan kept the pressure on the man’s neck as his body twitched, fighting to live.
“Everybody pays,” Fegan said again. “Everybody. Even you.”
McGinty shuddered once as his life slipped away. Fegan lay there, across his back, for what seemed like centuries, feeling the stillness of McGinty’s body as his own screamed with adrenalin and pain. When his heart came under control, Fegan looked up to the shadows of the room. He released McGinty’s neck and gently lowered the dead man’s head to rest on the floor.
Fegan climbed to his feet, feeling the steady throb from his shoulder joined by new shades of pain. He turned in a circle, alone, all alone, nobody here but—
The woman stepped out of the shadows, her face slack, her hands outstretched. She looked down at her fingers, her arms, so empty now with no infant to carry. Her mouth was open and her eyes were bright circles. She held her hands out for Fegan to see how empty they were.
Empty.
So empty.
Fegan shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Her face hardened. She stepped closer, forming her right hand into the shape of a gun. Her fierce eyes on Fegan’s, she reached up and placed her fingertips against his forehead. They were cold on his skin as she executed him.
ONE
60
“No,” Fegan said.
She pressed her fingertips against his forehead, harder. Her lips made a silent plosive as she pulled the trigger, and her eyes burned into his.
Fegan took a step back. “No, I did what you wanted.”
She followed, her finger-pistol trained on his head.
“I did it,” he said. “I killed them all. I did them all for you, so you could go. I did what you wanted. Please. Let me go.”
His legs rippled with spent energy and he had to steady himself against the wall. He turned and walked to the door. She came behind him. He could almost feel the bullets strike the back of his head.
“Please,” he said.
The woman walked in step with him, her fingertips against his temple now. He staggered to the bathroom, his feet splashing in the water pooling on the floor. A fractured mirror hung above the washbasin. He looked at the hollows of his face, the darkness under his eyes.
“All I wanted was some peace,” he said. “I just wanted to sleep. That’s all.”
Fegan saw her in the mirror, the finger-pistol locked on him, her eyes clinging to the reflection of his own. “Why didn’t you just take me? Why all this?”
The sound of groaning pipes roamed through the old house as he turned a tap. Spurts of brown water soaked his hands and he rinsed the blood away. When the water cleared he splashed a handful of it on his face, feeling the coarse stubble. He took another handful and brought it to his mouth, swallowing the copper taste.
“Oh, God.” He shut off the tap and wiped his eyes.
He shuffled over to the bathtub and lowered himself to its edge. His body felt so heavy he couldn’t hold it any more. There was a pressure at the small of his back: Campbell’s Glock.
“Please.” He looked up to the woman. “I can have a life.”
She stepped forward and returned her fingers to his forehead. Fegan reached up and took her hand in his. A thought flashed in his mind: he had never reached out and touched her before. She had touched him, but he had never touched her. He wrapped his fingers around hers. He looked up into her hard eyes.
“I can have a life. I can be a real person, a whole person. I know I can’t be with Marie and Ellen, but I can be clean. Please let me have a life.”
Her eyes wavered, something soft moving behind them.
“Mercy,” Fegan said, the word catching in his throat. He squeezed her hand in his, feeling her slender bones. “Have mercy.”
Something flickered across her face, just for a moment, and then it went slack. She pulled her hand away, formed the shape of a gun once more, and placed her fingers at the center of his forehead. There was no anger or hate in the lines of her face now, only sadness.
Fegan closed his eyes. He reached around to the small of his back and found the Glock’s grip. It fitted snugly in his hand, and the pistol came free with the sound of metal on fabric, leaving a cold place where it had been. It was heavy and it clanked against the side of the bath. He opened his eyes.
“Can we go now?” Ellen asked from the doorway. The gold in her hair blazed in the morning light. Water rippled around her feet as she walked to him.
“Soon,” he said. He let the gun hang inside the bath, away from her pretty eyes.
“Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
She slipped between his knees and propped herself on his quivering thigh. Her fingers were soft and warm as she touched his tears and felt the stubble on his chin. She leaned in close and whispered.
“Where’s her baby?”
Fegan blinked. “What?”
“The secret lady. Where’d her baby go?”
Fegan swallowed. “To Heaven.”
Ellen smiled and rested her head on his chest. Fegan’s left arm felt so heavy he could barely lift it and wrap it around her.
The woman’s eyes sparked and danced. She lowered herself to her knees as her lip trembled. Her fingertips brushed the loose strands of Ellen’s hair, smoothing them. She looked into Fegan’s eyes and gave him the softest, faintest, saddest of smiles. She stood and walked slowly, gracefully to the doorway.
As she disappeared into the morning light beyond, she turned to look at Fegan once more.
“Mercy,” she said.
61
The two Chinese sailors argued between themselves as they counted out hundred-pound notes on the Clio’s hood. Huge containers of coiled sheet steel, fresh off their cargo ship, surrounded them. The warehouse at Dundalk Port was cold and damp on this early morning, but the sailors were clearly in good spirits. Getting three thousand pounds sterling apiece just for letting a thin man stow away would give anyone cause to smile. They weren’t concerned about the car’s broken windows or the holes in its bodywork. They had rough hands and knowing eyes; they had no fear of someone like Fegan.
Fegan grimaced as he adjusted the wadded-up material stuffed into the shoulder of his jacket. His left arm hung leaden and useless at his side. In broken English, the sailors had promised him their ship’s medical officer would take care of the wound for another thousand pounds. They didn’t ask how he’d gotten it; they simply grinned and took the money.
Ellen slept in the back of the car, safely strapped into her child seat. Marie cradled her head in her hands as she leaned her back against the passenger door. The chloroform had left her aching and foggy.
“Sleep for a while,” Fegan said. “Nobody will bother you here. When you wake up I’ll be gone. Then you can go to the cops.”
She raised her head. “What’ll I tell them?”
“The truth,” Fegan said. “Not that it’ll matter.”
By the time Fegan had carried Marie down to the car, Ellen clinging to his jacket, the Bull and Malloy were gone. Quigley must have taken them. Like Fegan, he would have headed south across the border. It had taken only thirty or forty minutes to drive to Dundalk Port, but it took another hour to find these two sailors and persuade them to smuggle Fegan on board their boat. Officers of the Garda Síochána, the Republic of Ireland’s police force, might already be questioning Quigley at some hospital
or other. Fegan didn’t know if he’d talk, but it was only a matter of time before the bodies were found at O’Kane’s farm.
And what then?
The politicians and the media would convulse, accusations would be hurled, recriminations threatened. Stormont might collapse again, or perhaps more concessions would be given by the British and Irish governments to keep the Assembly afloat. The European Union might throw more money into community grants to quiet the streets of Belfast. Maybe the British would blame it on the dissidents; they were friendless anyway.
Fegan didn’t know. All he knew was this place had no more thirst for war. That had been quenched long ago. Men like him no longer belonged here. Exhaustion washed over him in a heavy grey wave.
Marie’s face was a stone mask, her eyes unfeeling. “Where’ll you go?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. He wouldn’t have told her even if he did. “Far away from here. I can’t come back. Ever.”
Marie nodded and the mask slipped just a little. She leaned forward and placed a kiss on Fegan’s lips. Its warmth lingered for a few moments before turning cold. She walked around the car and opened the driver’s door.
“If I ever see you again,” she said, “I’ll turn you in. I won’t hesitate. Not for a second.”
Fegan looked at Ellen’s sleeping form. He knew the danger he could put her and her mother in.
“I understand,” he said. “But one thing.”
“What?”
He took the phone from his breast pocket. It was sticky with blood. He held it out for her to see. “If anyone comes at you, threatens you, if you’re afraid. You know how to find me.”
Marie nodded, a possibility of a smile on her lips. It was gone before he could be sure.
The Chinese men gathered their money and walked away from the Clio, gesturing for Fegan to follow. He slipped the phone into his pocket and looked back to Marie. She didn’t meet his eyes as she lowered herself into the car.
“Come! Come!” one of the sailors called. “Go now. Is time.”
Ellen woke at the noise of the car’s door closing. She rubbed her eyes and squinted at Fegan. He raised his right hand and waved. She waved back. He stooped, picked up his bag, and turned to walk towards the boat. As he left the warehouse, gulls quarrelled and rolled in the sky. Rain washed and cooled his skin.
No shadow followed but his own.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people have helped me on the road to publication, but I must express my deepest gratitude to a few of them:
My agent, Nat Sobel, and all at Sobel Weber Associates, Inc, for giving me the opportunity of a lifetime. Nat, I owe you more than I can say.
Caspian Dennis and all at Abner Stein Ltd for such excellent work.
Geoff Mulligan, Briony Everroad and all at Harvill Secker for their skill, professionalism and tolerance of my daft questions.
Laura Hruska at Soho Press for taking a chance in uncertain times.
Betsy Dornbusch, without whose belief, encouragement and friendship this book would never have been written.
Shona Snowden for her sharp eye and excellent critiques.
Josephine Damian for her enthusiasm and support.
Juliet Grames for her wisdom and advice.
My PR, Hilary Knight, for spreading the word.
Declan Burke and Gerard Brennan for championing the cause.
The online writing community for, in varying proportions, its friendship, support and advice. There are far too many people to list here, but just a few are: Adrian McKinty, Chris F Holm, Cindy Pon, Ellen Oh, Jeremy Duns, JJ De Benedictis, Moonrat and Nathan Bransford. A special mention must go to the redoubtable Miss Snark, wherever she may be, for beating us writers with the clue-stick so many times that some of us took heed and actually made it over the transom.
My friends and family for . . . well, you know.
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