The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve) jli-1

by Stuart Neville

  “Kids,” Toner said. “There’s more patrols about because of the funeral tomorrow. Some of the kids took exception to it and started chucking stuff. The peelers lifted a couple of them, so some more started throwing stuff, then a couple more got lifted and so on and so on.”

  A grin cracked Caffola’s face. “Jesus, we haven’t had a proper ruck in ages. I wonder if we can get some petrol bombs rustled up quick.”

  “There’s hardly time,” Toner said. “We might get a few, like, but not a proper stock. Nobody’s prepared for it these days.”

  Caffola sighed. “Aye, I suppose that’s a good thing, really.”

  “Aye,” Toner said. “We can still get the bigger kids to fill some wheelie bins with bricks and stuff. Tom’s got a big bin full of bottles in the alley behind the bar. Some of the kids could steal that, maybe.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Caffola said. The adrenalin seemed to have sobered him. “Somebody better let McGinty know. Do you want to ring him?”

  “All right,” Toner said, fishing a mobile from his jacket pocket.

  Caffola turned to Fegan, rubbing his hands together, a smile lighting up his face in the growing darkness. “What about it, Gerry?” he asked. “You up for it?”

  “I’ll hang about,” Fegan said. “See what happens.”

  “Good man.” Caffola patted his shoulder.

  Young men and older boys swelled the mob. Fegan knew the cops would hold back, hoping the drama would fizzle out. Most times it would, leaving nothing more than a blackened mess for the road sweepers to clean up in the morning. Not tonight, though. Fegan could feel it like thunder in the air. The atmosphere crackled with it.

  He looked up at the sky. Things had developed too quickly to get a helicopter in the air. In the old days, the Brits would have scrambled two or three of them from their bases in Holywood or Lisburn, and would’ve had the area covered in minutes. They’d be out for the funeral tomorrow, hovering high above the crowds, but the sky stayed clear this evening.

  A boy, red-haired and wiry, twelve at most, pulled a lump of burning wood from the mound. He half ran, half hopped six paces and hurled the blackened timber with every bit of his strength. It clattered to the ground, throwing up red sparks, midway between the smoldering mound and the waiting policemen. The other boys gave a triumphant cheer.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Caffola said. “Hey!”

  He waited a moment then shouted again. “Hey! You!”

  The red-haired boy turned.

  “Yeah, you,” Caffola called. “C’mere!”

  The boy approached slowly.

  “What are you at?” Caffola asked. “Are you stupid?”

  “No,” the boy said.

  “Well, for fuck’s sake quit acting like it. Cover your face with something so the cameras don’t get you.”

  “Okay,” the boy said. He pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket and returned to his comrades at the burning mound, tying the square of soiled material into a mask over his nose and mouth.

  “Kids know nothing these days.” Caffola shook his head. “When we were kids we’d have had this place wrecked by now. Petrol bombs, concrete slabs, catapults with ball-bearings.” He grinned and pointed down the street to the Land Rovers. “And them cunts, they’d have been firing plastic bullets at us. Changed times, Gerry.”

  “Yeah,” Fegan said. “Changed times.”

  These streets had seen more riots than just about anywhere in the world. From the civil rights protests of the late Sixties, when Fegan was too small to know what it meant, to the groundswell of anger at internment in the early Seventies, when young men were imprisoned without trial. Journalists gave kids five-pound notes to throw stones and bottles at the Brits, hoping to set off another battle for the cameras. Then the anguish of the hunger strikes in the early Eighties when ten men starved themselves to death in the Maze, fanning the embers on the streets. No payment was needed then; rage seethed in the city, and anything could ignite the flames. Mob violence, children as weapons: those were the tactics of the time. A photograph of a bleeding child, no matter how they got injured, packed more power than a dozen bombs. Political animals like Paul McGinty learned that early on and acted accordingly. Fegan had seen it so many times before, this wasteful anger bubbling over into violence. It tired and excited him all at once.

  More men wandered out of the bar and onto the street. Some remained inside, preferring to drink in peace rather than get involved.

  Patsy Toner snapped his phone closed.

  “Well?” Caffola asked.

  “He says go ahead,” Toner said. “Just don’t let it get out of hand. Don’t touch any property. Don’t fight anyone but the peelers. There’s lots of press about for the funeral so they’ll all come over here once it gets going. McGinty’s going to turn up in an hour or so. Make sure everyone knows to settle down then so the press sees he calmed the situation.”

  “He always was the smart one,” Caffola said. He slapped his palms together and smiled. “Right, let’s go.”

  10

  A riot is like a fire. It has a life of its own, and does as it will. But it can be fanned or quelled. Fegan knew that as well as anybody. The police and the kids were the kindling, paper and dry wood. Men like Caffola were the naked flame, ready to set them alight. Others, like Father Coulter, were water to douse the burning. But Father Coulter wasn’t here this evening, so Caffola sparked and blazed unabated. Morbidly fascinated, Fegan watched him work.

  Caffola moved between groups of boys and young men, slapping backs and issuing commands. They obeyed without question.

  Within minutes older boys were off fetching ammunition. They returned quickly, wheeling it in plastic bins. Their missiles were gathered from the nearby derelict houses and patches of waste ground. Bricks, bottles, concrete fragments, scrap metal. Everything they needed. Two boys in their mid-teens appeared at the corner pushing the bar’s bottle bin, its innards clanging and clattering as the wheels juddered across the tarmac. They stopped out of view of the cops.

  The peelers huddled and passed orders back and forth. Their stance changed. They knew this one wasn’t blowing over. Some strapped body armor across their torsos and donned helmets.

  Within ten minutes Caffola got a phone call telling him there were six containers of petrol in a back alley two streets away. He instructed the boys to wheel the bottle bin over there. “And grab whatever you can off washing lines for rags,” he said. He pulled a ten-pound note from his pocket and pressed it into one of the boys’ hands. “And here, get some sugar. Remember to mix it in the petrol so it’ll stick, right? And get some crates off Tom for carrying the bottles back.”

  “Right,” the boy said. He and his friend wheeled the jangling bin back around the corner.

  Soon masonry began to fly. Sporadically at first, but the bombardment gathered pace. The peelers stayed behind their Land Rovers for now, content to let things simmer until they had enough officers to deal with the situation.

  The first news crew pulled up in a van behind the police line. Word had started to spread. The mob around the growing pile of burning debris swelled. Caffola stood with his hands on his hips, watching it all unfold, his nose tilted up as if he were sniffing violence on the air.

  Fegan’s nostrils flared too, the old scent waking memories in him. “How bad?” he asked.

  “Not too bad,” Caffola said. “Just a bit of a scrap. Nobody’ll get killed.”

  Fegan looked to Caffola’s throat. “You sure?”

  “Aye. It’s not the Eighties any more. Fuck, it’s not even the Nineties. A few stitches, that’ll be the height of it.” Caffola’s belly jerked with a sudden laugh. He pointed towards the row of Land Rovers. “You see her?”

  Fegan followed the line of Caffola’s finger. He saw a young policewoman hunkered down, her back to them, as she talked to her colleagues. Blonde hair crept out from under her cap, and the image of Marie McKenna flashed in Fegan’s mind. He shook it away.

&nb
sp; Caffola nudged him. “At the back of the Land Rover. You see her?”

  Fegan almost said yes, he saw her, but he caught himself, hoping Caffola would pick another target if he kept quiet. No such luck.

  “Watch.” Caffola lifted an empty bottle from the bar’s windowsill. He ran a few steps, the bottle suspended over his right shoulder. He threw his body forward and released the missile.

  It rose in a slow arc, then descended towards the policewoman. Fegan willed it to miss, to splash impotently at her feet.

  Miss, miss, miss

  , he thought. He closed his eyes until he heard it crash on the tarmac.

  He opened them to see the cops scatter, taking shelter behind the Land Rovers.

  “Fuck,” Caffola said. He winked at Fegan. “Close, though.”

  Fegan breathed deep. He knew this was Vincent Francis Caffola’s last night on earth.

  With that thought, his temples sparked and a cold wave rippled through him. The setting sun cast long shadows. Shapes emerged from them, solidified, and drew near. The two UDR men flanked Caffola, their arms raised, their fingers aiming. The rest circled Fegan. The woman, her baby restless in her arms, smiled at him.

  Engines roared and brakes squealed at the police line. Men in full riot gear streamed out of six more Land Rovers. They wore helmets with clear visors, fireproof balaclavas masking their faces, and thick body armor. Their gloved hands held riot shields and batons.

  They were ready. The mob was ready. Fegan was ready.

  Caffola turned to him once more, grinning. “Fucking class,” he said.

  At first, the police maintained their line. As lumps of masonry came in waves they simply raised their shields to deflect each missile. A senior officer, distinguishable only by his gait, paced behind their ranks, barking orders. Fegan couldn’t hear them from this distance, but he knew what they were just the same.

  Steady. Hold your line.

  Things changed when the first petrol bombs arrived. One of the kids came half running, half staggering, struggling with a crate loaded with petrol-filled bottles. He remained out of sight of the police line, signalling Caffola from the side street, his back against the wall. They had selected the larger bottles, filled them with a mixture of fuel and sugar, and plugged the tops with petrol-soaked rags.

  Fegan clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting the adrenalin already coursing through him. The followers circled, watching.

  At Caffola’s signal, boys ran to the corner to fetch the deadly bottles. Smoke from the burning pile of mattresses and wood obscured the details of their actions from the police, but there could be no surprise in what was to come. The petrol bomb had always been the weapon of choice on these streets.

  Fegan didn’t see who threw the first one. He saw only its fiery ascent, smoke following its fall. There was the sound of shattering glass, then the WHUMP! of the liquid igniting ten feet from the peelers. Those nearest took a step back and their commander scolded them as the mob cheered.

  The next was thrown by the same skinny red-haired boy Caffola had instructed to disguise himself only a short while before. He gave the throw everything he could, but it landed twenty feet from the line, its fuel scattering everywhere and failing to catch light. The boy kicked at the ground in frustration.

  The third was the charm. An older boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, lit the rag on his bottle and made his way out from behind the burning barricade. Air rippled around the flame as the boy held the bottle over his shoulder. He ran five steps and launched it. He froze and watched the petrol bomb arc upwards. The now hundred-strong crowd held its breath as the bottle reached its zenith, then fell, twisting and turning, leaving a smoky trail. Policemen scrambled backwards as the accuracy of the shot became apparent. It splashed at their feet, throwing flames around them, and the roar of the mob was deafening. As Caffola laughed and slapped his shoulder, Fegan watched the four cops touched by the fire drop and roll, their colleagues swatting at the flames with their gloved hands.

  More petrol bombs flew, and more found their targets, some crashing against the Land Rovers, some making little hells at the feet of the police. Every successful hit brought another chorus of triumph from the boys and men surrounding Fegan. The eleven followers gathered around him, rapt in the spectacle.

  “They’ll charge soon,” Fegan said, his temples throbbing, his heart racing. “They’ll run at us, drive the Land Rovers at us, try to break us up. They’ll want to scatter everyone into the side streets.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Caffola said. He winked. “I’ve done this before, remember?”

  “I remember,” Fegan said. He remembered everything. The charge, and the scattering, would be the key; his chance to get Caffola away and on his own.

  Any minute now, he thought. He looked back to the police line. The Land Rovers maneuvered into position. They would come first, the cops following. The mob quieted, the boys and men bracing themselves. Caffola gave a girlish giggle as the police commander’s voice drifted on the breeze. The Land Rovers’ engines revved and the cops raised their batons.

  “Here they come,” Fegan said.

  11

  The youngest boys ran first, fleeing just as the charge started. They screamed and laughed as they streamed past Fegan. The older boys held their ground longer, jeering, launching bricks and bottles even as the Land Rovers reached the barricade. Fire licked the armored vehicles as they broke through the mound. Burning debris flew in all directions. The cops came behind, roaring as they waved their batons.

  “C’mon,” Caffola said, grabbing Fegan’s sleeve.

  They ran to the side street, arms and legs churning, and ducked into an alley. They dodged old bicycles and plastic bins as dogs barked from inside the walled yards. Caffola’s laughter echoed in the narrow space.

  They emerged onto a patch of waste ground and kept running, aiming for the streets opposite. When they reached the other side Caffola headed for one of them, but Fegan pulled him towards an alley. “No, this way,” he gasped.

  Caffola followed him, and they ran until they reached a dead end. As they slowed to a halt, Caffola bent double, letting out a long moan.

  “Jesus,” he said between desperate heaves of air, “I’m not fit for this any more.”

  “Me neither,” Fegan said as his ribs screamed. He leaned against the wall, his head swimming. The pain behind his eyes swelled until he was sure his skull would not contain it. He pressed his palms to his temples and sucked air through his teeth.

  Caffola grabbed his stomach with one hand and a bin with the other. “Aw, Christ,” he said. His mouth opened wide, and Fegan heard a splashing sound. The sour stink of vomit reached him and he covered his nose and mouth.

  Fegan screwed his eyes shut. The pain came in hammer blows, smashing against his forehead. Even with his eyes closed, he felt them, the eleven, pushing at his consciousness. Without knowing why, he breathed deep and opened himself to them. A last bright bolt flared in his head, and the pain evaporated. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, letting the sudden cool giddiness wash over him. He opened his eyes, unsure of what he’d see.

  The followers gathered in the alley’s dimness. They kept their distance, watching. The two UDR men stepped forward. Their faces burned with hate and savage pleasure.

  Fegan turned his eyes to Caffola. The cold beginnings of rain dotted his face and forehead as he watched the other man retch. He looked back to the UDR men. Their eyes glinted in the gloom of the alley while the other darkened forms moved behind them. Their lips parted in toothless grins, loose red flesh revealed within.

  Fegan closed his eyes again and wished for another way. As foolish as it was, he wished for another life away from this. He wished for peaceful sleep and bloodless hands.

  He wished.

  Fegan sighed, opened his eyes, and reached into his pocket. He took out a pair of surgical gloves. As he slipped them on he asked, “Do you remember those two UDR men in Lurgan?”

  “What?” Caffola st
raightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “In Lurgan,” Fegan said. “It would’ve been about ’87 or ’88. Do you remember? You tortured them till one of them fought back. You fell on your arse and I had to finish them for you.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Caffola said, a smile coming to him as he fought for breath. He coughed and spat. “They screamed the fucking place down.” Caffola’s brow creased as he looked down at Fegan’s hands. “What’re those for?”

  As the rain began in earnest, the two UDR men drew closer. The downpour didn’t touch them.

  “They want you,” Fegan said.

  “What are you talking about, Gerry?” Caffola leaned back against the wall, his chest still heaving.

  “The UDR men.” Fegan crouched down, searching the wet ground as the evening grew darker. “They want you.”