Stuart Neville - The Ghosts of Belfast

by The Twelve aka The Ghosts of Belfast (mobi)

  “Don’t lie to me, there’s no point. It’s not a question; I know it for a fact. You’ve been sold out by the same cunts you’ve worked for all these years.”

  Campbell pressed his forehead into the floor.

  “I’ve got it straight from the NIO. A stuck-up gobshite, talks like he’s the fucking Queen’s second cousin. He says him and you sat in a car in Armagh just a few days ago, talking about what our friend Gerry Fegan was up to.”

  Campbell made fists with his hands.

  “He says you’ve been working for Fourteen Intelligence Company since the Nineties. He says you’re the best they’ve got. But you’re not that good, are you, Davy?”

  “Christ,” Campbell said.

  “Now, listen to me, Davy. You can go easy or you can go hard.” O’Kane leaned down, watchful of Campbell’s teeth. “And I mean harder than anything you ever heard of, anything you were ever trained for, anything you ever had nightmares about.”

  “No,” Campbell said.

  “I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you worse than you ever thought you could live through.”

  Campbell closed his eyes. He wasn’t stupid. He’d heard of the things O’Kane had done to men like him.

  “And if you don’t talk to me, I’m going to take you out to the stables. Those dogs don’t normally go for people, but if they get the smell of blood . . .”

  O’Kane patted Campbell’s back and laughed. “Jesus, Davy, you’ll be watching them eat your guts. But you never know; one of them might go for your throat first. If you’re lucky, that is.”

  “Please,” Campbell said.

  O’Kane stood upright. “So, let’s get started.”

  He reached down, gripped Campbell’s left wrist, and lifted his hand. He placed his foot on the tout’s injured side and put his weight on it while he pulled upwards.

  Campbell screamed, then gasped, then screamed, then gasped. O’Kane took his foot away and lowered the arm slightly. He kicked Campbell’s ribcage once then waited for the writhing and ragged sobs to die away.

  “Tell me the truth. Tell me who else is touting for your handlers.”

  A line of bloody drool connected Campbell’s mouth to the floor. “I swear to God, I don’t know what—”

  “Fuck’s sake.” O’Kane put his weight on Campbell’s side again and heaved on his arm. The ribcage flexed beneath his foot. Campbell’s scream became a high whine. O’Kane released the pressure before swinging his boot hard into Campbell’s flank once more. This time he felt a shift, a grinding, something giving way.

  Campbell seemed to have lost the power to scream. He just opened his mouth wide, screwed his eyes shut, and leaked air. His cheeks glistened with tears.

  “Christ, just tell me, Davy.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t . . .”

  O’Kane brought his heel down on Campbell’s side, felt the spongy grinding, saw the coughed-up blood spill from his mouth.

  “Tell me.”

  “Toner . . . Patsy . . . Toner . . .”

  “Jesus,” McGinty said.

  O’Kane raised a hand to silence him. “What about Patsy Toner?”

  Campbell hung from O’Kane’s grip like a bag of sticks. “He’s . . . their contact . . . he’s . . . he’s the . . . one who . . . who got me in.”

  O’Kane lowered Campbell’s arm to the floor and squatted next to him. “Breathe easy, son. Small breaths. What else?”

  “He tells them . . . everything . . . all the press . . . he tells them . . . before McGinty even gets it out. They know . . . every move . . . McGinty makes . . . before he makes it.”

  O’Kane brushed Campbell’s cheek. “Good boy. Who else?”

  Campbell shook his head.

  “Now, son, don’t be stupid.”

  “Toner . . . just Toner.”

  Pádraig waddled into the room, a large brown bottle in one hand, a bag of cotton wool in the other. “I’ve got the chloroform, Da.”

  “Good lad,” O’Kane said.

  He stood and took the bag of cotton wool from his son. His thick fingers grabbed a ball of the white material and tore it from the bag. “Open that.”

  Pádraig twisted the cap off the brown bottle and handed the chloroform to his father. O’Kane tipped the bottle up, soaking the cotton wool while he held it out at arm’s length. The cloying smell made his head tingle. He turned to McGinty. “We use this to put the dogs down when they’re hurt too bad to fix. We’ll knock him out till we see what Fegan has to say. We might have some more questions after that.”

  O’Kane crouched down and pressed the soaked wad against Campbell’s mouth and nose. “That’s it, son, just breathe nice and easy.”

  Campbell pulled away, batting weakly at the cotton wool. “McGinty,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  His eyes held O’Kane’s, a sickly smile on his lips. “McGinty . . . he did it . . . he set them up . . . Fegan isn’t . . . working alone . . . it’s McGinty.”

  McGinty stepped away from the wall. “He’s lying.”

  O’Kane gripped Campbell’s hair and forced his face into the cotton wool.

  “Jesus, Bull, he’s lying.”

  Campbell fought against O’Kane’s grip. His eyes bulged and the Bull ignored the sting of fingernails tearing at his wrists. Soon, Campbell’s eyelids began to droop, his body grew limp, and the struggling died away.

  O’Kane lowered Campbell’s head to the floor. A string of red-streaked saliva stretched from the cotton wool as he took it away from the Scot’s mouth. He stood and turned to face McGinty.

  “He was lying, Bull.” McGinty’s face paled beneath the bare light bulb. “He was just trying to get back at us, to turn us against each other. You can see that, can’t you?”

  O’Kane watched the politician’s veins bulge, his Adam’s apple bob above his shirt collar. “We’ll talk about it later. After Fegan.”

  “Come on, Bull, you know he was—”

  A burst of static made McGinty jump. O’Kane turned to see his son raise the walkie-talkie to his ear. A distorted crackle that might have been a voice came in a short burst of chatter.

  Pádraig thumbed the button. “Right,” he said. He lowered the radio to his side. “It’s him. He’s coming.”

  47

  A flashlight waved from side to side twenty yards ahead. Fegan slowed the Clio as he approached the undulating light. The country lane was narrow, barely room for two cars to pass, and lined with hedges. Fields sloped up into the night on either side. A short, stocky man in a woollen hat and green combat jacket stepped into the road and raised his hand. Fegan brought the car to a halt. The man walked around to the driver’s side window and made a winding motion with the flashlight. Fegan did as he was told.

  “You Fegan?” the man asked.

  Fegan squinted against the torchlight. “Yeah.”

  Another man, tall, thin and armed with a double-barrelled shotgun, emerged from the hedgerow. He aimed the gun at Fegan through the windscreen.

  The stocky man shone the light into the dark corners of the car, into the footwells at the front, and then the back. “Get out,” he said. He stepped back to let Fegan climb out.

  “Put your hands on top of your head,” the one with the shotgun said.

  Fegan obeyed as the stocky one began searching his pockets. “I’m not armed,” Fegan said.

  The stocky man spared him one glance. “If it’s all the same to you, mate, I think I’ll see for myself.”

  Fegan stood still as warm rain licked at his closed eyelids. He sensed the shadows watching. His temples pulsed and a chill crept towards his center.

  “You won’t find anything,” Fegan said, opening his eyes.

  The stocky man looked up from his search. “Shut up.” When he was satisfied he said, “Open the boot.”

  They walked to the rear of the car. Fegan opened the boot and the hatch rose with a hydraulic whine. The stocky man shone the torch into the far corners. He pointed to the canvas
bag.

  “Lift that out.”

  Fegan reached in and lifted the bag. He rested it on the sill and unzipped it. The stocky man kept his distance as he peered inside. His brow creased and he leaned forward. He lowered his hand down into it, pushing clothes aside to see the greasy paper.

  “Fuck me,” he said. “How much is it?”

  Fegan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  The man with the shotgun came forward. “What is it?”

  “Look,” the stocky man said, pointing.

  “Jesus.”

  The two men looked at each other. A dozen possibilities passed between them, but finally they shook their heads.

  “Come on,” the stocky man said, taking the bag. “The Bull’s waiting.”

  Fegan drove the last few hundred yards with the shotgun’s twin muzzles at the back of his head and the stocky man beside him, cradling the bag of money in his lap. The Clio’s headlights caught the narrowing of the lane as it rose to meet an old farmyard. A barn stood open, bright light flowing out. Eddie Coyle stood just inside, tying a blood-drenched bandage around his head. He glared back at Fegan.

  The car shuddered around them as its engine died. Fegan heard dogs bark and scratch at the stable doors over the sound of a generator. This place smelled of death: painful, frightened death. Its stink crept in through the open window. Shadows moved across the yard, turning, searching.

  Bull O’Kane and Paul McGinty stepped out into the rain. The Bull crossed to the car and leaned down so he could see inside.

  “Come into the house, Gerry.”

  Fegan opened his door and climbed out. The other men got out too. O’Kane waved a hand at them.

  “You know these boys?”

  “No,” Fegan said.

  “Tommy Downey and Kevin Malloy. They’ll rip you to pieces if you so much as look like you’re going to make a wrong move. If you fuck about with me, I’ll let these boys loose on that woman of yours. You understand?”

  “I understand,” Fegan said.

  O’Kane smiled. “Good. It’s been a long time, Gerry.”

  “Twenty-seven years.”

  “Jesus, is it?” O’Kane laughed. “I wish I could say it was good to see you. But you’ve let me down. Me and Paul. Ah, well. Come on inside, now.”

  “Where’s Marie?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll see her soon enough. Come on.”

  O’Kane turned and walked towards the house. Fegan felt a shove at the small of his back. McGinty stared at him hard as he walked to the door, but said nothing.

  A damp chill filled the derelict farmhouse. Fegan let it soak into him as he followed O’Kane through the kitchen. Downey came behind, the shotgun pressed between Fegan’s shoulder blades, followed by McGinty and Coyle.

  They entered the next room where Campbell’s unconscious body lay on an ancient couch. A sweet chemical odor pushed aside the smell of damp and mildew.

  A younger man, as tall as O’Kane, but heavier, placed a wooden chair at the center of the room. Fegan guessed him to be Pádraig, the Bull’s son.

  “Sit down,” O’Kane said.

  Fegan obeyed as McGinty and Downey made their way into the room. McGinty’s face was impassive as he lit a cigarette. The others waited in the kitchen.

  “I want to see Marie and Ellen,” Fegan said. His hands didn’t shake, but his mouth was dry.

  “All right,” O’Kane said. He looked at Pádraig and tilted his head towards another doorway. His son disappeared through it without a word.

  O’Kane stared at Fegan for what seemed like hours before he spoke again. “So, what happens now, Gerry?”

  “You let Marie and Ellen go,” Fegan said. “Then you kill me.”

  O’Kane smiled. “Not so fast. There’s something I want to get straight first.”

  “What?”

  “I want to know why, Gerry.”

  Fegan looked to the doorway as Marie entered, cradling Ellen, escorted by Quigley. Pádraig followed and closed the door behind him. He guided Marie to the corner. Ellen wriggled in her mother’s arms.

  “It’s Gerry,” she said.

  “I know,” Marie said, her voice calm and even. “Be still, sweetheart.”

  Ellen kept squirming until she slipped from her mother’s grip and dropped lightly to the floor. She ran to Fegan. “Have you come for us?” she asked as she climbed into his lap. She weighed nothing at all.

  “Yeah,” Fegan said.

  “Mummy’s scared.”

  “I know. But she shouldn’t be. Neither should you. It’s going to be all right. I promise.”

  “When can we go home?”

  Fegan cupped her face in his hands. “Soon. Go back to your Mummy.”

  Ellen dismounted from Fegan’s knee and went to her mother. Marie crouched down and wrapped her arms around her daughter. Fegan smiled at her and she nodded in return before lowering her eyes.

  O’Kane moved between them, blocking Fegan’s view. “You didn’t answer me, Gerry. I want to know why you did all this. Tell me.”

  Fegan looked up at his red face. “Because I had to.”

  “You had to. What does that mean?”

  “I had to do it. It was the only way.”

  “The only way to what?”

  “To get them to leave me alone.”

  “Who?”

  Fegan looked to the floor.

  “To get who to leave you alone?” O’Kane crouched down and placed his finger under Fegan’s chin. He turned his head so their eyes met. “Who made you do it, Gerry? The Brits? Someone else? Maybe someone we know? It’s all right. It’s all over now. You can tell me.”

  “No,” Fegan said as the chill reached his center. The shadows drew in from the periphery of his vision, and moved between McGinty and Campbell. Their shapes came into focus, solidified. Fegan tried to push them back, but he couldn’t. Their eyes burned into him.

  “Tell me,” O’Kane said. He gripped Fegan’s face in one massive hand. “Tell me.”

  “Them.” Fegan pointed to the woman, her baby, and the butcher as they executed McGinty over and over. He pointed to the UFF boys standing over Campbell. “And them.”

  McGinty’s eyes darted from O’Kane to Fegan, his cigarette held two inches from his mouth.

  O’Kane stared back at McGinty. “You mean Paul? Did Paul make you do it?”

  McGinty dropped the cigarette. “Jesus, Bull, he’s mad. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  O’Kane turned back to Fegan. “Did Paul McGinty and Davy Campbell make you do this?”

  “No, not them,” Fegan said.

  “Then who the fuck were you pointing at?”

  “Them.” Fegan aimed his finger at each of the followers in turn. “The people I killed.”

  48

  Campbell floated above them, watching from the ceiling, seeing them as shadows and light, hearing their voices as echoes and memories. He could see his own body down there. That was where the pain lay. It had almost broken him, almost eaten him up, but now it was away from him, bound up in that body on the couch.

  A strange, cold sweetness flooded him, like he had drowned in sugary water. He tried to find order in his mind, but it was so hard to hold onto his consciousness when it drifted free like this. There had been the pain, thunderous and boiling hot. Then there had been a great tidal wave of joy, euphoria sweeping through him as someone poured the sweet, cool liquid into his nose and mouth.

  And then there was this.

  But there had been something else. Some thought that had pierced his mind just before it was cut adrift from his body. He tried hard to sort through the misted fragments of himself. What had it been?

  A voice rose up from below in anger. The sound of one man striking another, the wailing of a child.

  Oh, yes.

  Now he remembered: a secret thing, only for him to know. It was cold and hard and jagged. It clung to his ankle, waiting.

  49

  O’Kane rubbed his stinging palm, an
d turned to the wailing child and her mother. “You shut that kid up or I will.”

  Marie pulled the girl close and rocked her as she stroked her hair. The child squealed into her mother’s bosom and O’Kane grimaced at her piercing cries. He liked children well enough, but he couldn’t be doing with their tears. If any of his seven sons and daughters had ever wailed like that, they’d have got a slap to shut them up. He looked down at Fegan, sprawled on the floor.