“He’ll probably send one of his heavies to put the woman out.”
“Not her, I don’t care about her. What’ll he do about Fegan?”
“I’m not sure,” Campbell said. “He might let it go for now, but it’s only a matter of time. McGinty doesn’t let anyone cross him and get away with it. He’ll make Fegan pay sooner or later.”
“See if you can make it sooner, there’s a good lad,” the handler said. “We’ve got the Northern Ireland Office, the Chief Constable and the Minister of State breathing down our necks. They want it over before any more damage is done. If we can prove it was Fegan who did Caffola, not the police, so much the better.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Campbell said. He hung up and tossed the phone onto the sofa. He pulled the other phone from his pocket and dialled McGinty’s private number. The politician answered, and Campbell told him what he’d seen.
“Gerry will have to be dealt with,” McGinty said, “But not just yet. We’ll leave it until after Vincie’s funeral.”
“What about the woman?” Campbell asked.
“Let me worry about that,” McGinty said.
21
Fegan sat alone in McKenna’s, nursing a pint of Guinness while he watched Father Coulter down brandy at the bar. He knew the priest would be here. It was well known that Father Eammon Coulter only drank after weddings, christenings, first communions and funerals, but once he got started he would drink until he fell.
When he’d left Botanic Gardens, Fegan had gone straight to the derelict house on the next street to his, climbed into its back yard, and retrieved his Walther. Now it nestled at the small of his back. He kept it against the wall so no one could see.
The followers circled the room. They hadn’t left him all evening. Fegan’s temples buzzed with their presence, and a chill sat lodged at his center. The three Brits paid close attention to Father Coulter while the two UFF boys paced, opening and closing their fists.
A cheer rang through the bar as Eddie Coyle entered, escorted by Patsy Toner. The lawyer still wore his black suit from McKenna’s funeral. Coyle’s left eye was swollen shut and a gauze pad covered a wound on his brow. “Fuck off,” he shouted at the drinkers.
“Sit down, I’ll get you a drink,” Toner said.
Coyle did as he was told, taking a seat two tables away from Fegan. He cursed quietly to himself for a full minute before he raised his head.
“What are you looking at?” he demanded.
“You,” Fegan said.
“Well, you can fuck off, too.” Coyle couldn’t hold Fegan’s gaze. He dropped his eyes to the tabletop.
“Jesus, calm down, Eddie,” Toner said as he carried two pints back to the table. He rolled his eyes at Fegan and shook his head.
“Calm down?” Coyle pointed to his face. “Look at the cut of me, for Christ’s sake. That cunt’s going to get it, Patsy. I don’t care what McGinty says.”
Toner pointed at the door. “Go on, then. Go and get him. Then you can go and tell McGinty what you did and see what he says.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Coyle said, reaching for his beer.
“Get who?” Fegan asked.
Coyle set his pint back on the table, letting it spill over his fingers. “What’s it to you?”
“Jesus, Eddie, settle yourself,” Toner said. He turned to answer Fegan. “Davy Campbell’s back in town. Him and Eddie had a run-in this afternoon.”
The two UFF boys drifted to Toner’s table, suddenly showing interest in the little man’s words. The hairs on Fegan’s forearms bristled beneath his sleeves. “I thought he was with McSorley’s lot these days.”
“Looks like he had a change of heart,” Toner said. “He phoned me up last night, said he wanted to come back to Belfast. He’s a good lad, so I squared it with McGinty this morning.”
“He’s a cunt,” Coyle said.
“Aw, give over,” Toner said. “You shouldn’t pick fights with boys you can’t take. Now, quit mouthing about it, will you?”
Coyle muttered something under his breath and got back to drinking his beer. Over at the bar, Father Coulter got ready to go.
“Och, come on, Father, you’ll have another wee one,” one of the young men who drank with the priest said.
“No, no, no,” Father Coulter said, waving away the offered glass. “I’ve had quite enough. It’s way past my bedtime, so God bless you all the same, but I must go.”
He shuffled away from the bar, turning in circles as he struggled to find the sleeve of his overcoat. The young man helped him on with it and guided him to the door. Shadows followed.
Fegan looked at the clock above the bar and took a mouthful of Guinness. He would give it five minutes before following the priest. What would he do when he caught up with him? He didn’t know.
Fegan studied the wet circles his glass left on the tabletop and ignored the pressure of his gun at the small of his back.
It didn’t take long to catch up with the priest. Father Coulter had made slow progress through the streets, and Fegan found him propped against a Lexus within minutes of leaving the bar. Fegan remembered a time when only the most well-to-do owned cars. Now the streets were lined with them, crammed into every space available. The priest had chosen the most comfortable-looking to lean on.
Father Coulter waved as he approached. “Gerry Fegan,” he said. “You caught me. I was just having a wee rest. Will you walk with me?”
“Of course I will, Father,” Fegan said. He began walking slowly, the priest at his side.
“I haven’t seen you at Mass for a long time, Gerry,” Father Coulter said.
“I was there today,” Fegan said.
“Apart from funerals, I mean. When was the last time you went to Mass?”
Fegan tried to remember. He had been once or twice since he got out of the Maze, but when? “Years ago,” he said.
Father Coulter clucked and shook his head. “That won’t do, Gerry. Have you no thought for your soul? What would your mother have said?”
“My mother was ashamed of me,” Fegan said.
“Nonsense!” Father Coulter placed his hand on Fegan’s arm.
“She told me. She was ashamed of what I did.”
The priest wagged a finger at him. “You’re a hero of the cause, Gerry Fegan, and don’t you forget it. You didn’t choose a war; it was forced upon you. The good Lord knows why you did what you did. God forgives all soldiers. John Hewitt wrote that. The poet. He wrote—”
Fegan stopped walking. “We’re here.”
Father Coulter looked round to see his own front door. “Oh, so we are. Will you come in for a wee drop?”
Fegan looked up and down the empty street. “All right,” he said.
Father Coulter fished a key from his pocket and turned to insert it in the lock. It scraped against wood as he missed his mark. He tried, and failed, twice more.
“Here,” Fegan said, taking the key from the priest’s hand. He unlocked the door and let it swing open. “There you go.”
“Thank you, Gerry.” Father Coulter patted his shoulder and went inside. Fegan followed him, slipping the key into his own pocket.
The small house was clean and sparsely furnished. Father Coulter ushered Fegan through to the living room. A fire in the hearth blasted heat at them. Sweat broke out across Fegan’s brow and back, but the chill stayed at his center. Father Coulter flicked the light on and a caged bird, a cockatiel, hissed at them.
Father Coulter went to the cage, clucking. “Now, now, Joe-Joe, it’s only me.” He threw his coat over the back of a chair and turned to Fegan. “Sit down, Gerry.”
The priest took a bottle of brandy from the sideboard and poured two generous glasses. He handed one to Fegan and sat down facing him.
His bleary eyes searched Fegan’s face. “Tell me, do you dream much?” he asked.
“No,” Fegan said. “I don’t sleep too well.”
“I dream,” Father Coulter said. He took a sip of brandy and coughed. “Terrible dreams.
I’ve seen awful things, Gerry. There’s things I could have changed. Things I could have stopped. Things I should never have done. I always told myself I’d no choice, but I was wrong. I always had a choice. You know what I’m talking about.”
Fegan moved his glass in slow circles and watched the firelight refracted in the reddish-brown liquid. “Yes, Father.”
“So many times I could have said something, told someone. Men like you making your confession, telling me the things you’ve done, then I give you forgiveness so you can go out and do it again.”
Father Coulter watched the fire, his wet eyes reflecting the orange glow. “Maybe in a different place, I could have been a better priest. Maybe I could have done right by God. Or maybe I never really had it in me.” He reached across and gripped Fegan’s hand. “I dream a lot, Gerry.”
“You’re drunk, Father.”
The priest released Fegan’s fingers and smiled. “I know, I know. I’m drunk and I’m tired. I worry about you, Gerry.”
Fegan looked up from his brandy. “Why?”
“Because you’re carrying so many things around with you. When did you last make your confession?”
“When I was in the Maze.” It had been a week after he returned to prison from his mother’s funeral, the blood of two Loyalists on his hands.
Father Coulter beckoned. “Come here to me, son.”
Fegan stared into his glass. “No.”
The priest leaned forward and took Fegan’s hand again, gently pulling. “Come on. Do it to ease an old priest’s conscience.”
“No,” Fegan said, resisting but not letting go. He set the glass on the floor.
“For your mother, Gerry.”
Fegan slipped off the chair and allowed Father Coulter to guide him to his side, kneeling. He rested his forearms against the chair and clasped his hands together. A minute passed, the ticking of the clock over the fire hammering against Fegan’s temples.
Father Coulter turned his head just a little. “Don’t you remember what to do?”
“I’m afraid, Father.”
The priest turned in his chair and circled Fegan’s hands with his. “Don’t be. Just—”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Father Coulter’s hands slipped away from Fegan’s. “It’s been nine years since my last confession.”
Father Coulter waited for a few seconds. “Go on.”
“I’ve been quiet for so long. I turned away and I was quiet. But they won’t leave me alone.”
“Who won’t?”
“The people I killed.”
The priest nodded. “Guilt is the heaviest of all emotions. It’ll eat you alive if you let it. Have you confessed to these sins before?”
“Yes, Father. In the Maze.”
“Then you have absolution. But guilt remains, of course it does. You must carry that burden. That is your penance, not any prayer. You must carry it and live on, however painful that might be.”
“Father.” Fegan hesitated, squeezing his eyes shut. He let the air out of his lungs in a long hiss and opened them again. “Father, I’ve killed two more men.”
The priest shifted in his chair. “When?”
“This week.”
“This . . . this week?”
“Yes.”
“Oh God, Gerry. Oh, sweet Jesus.”
“I didn’t want to. I swear to God, I didn’t want to.”
“Oh, my Lord. Michael McKenna? Vincent Caffola?”
“Yes, Father.” Fegan pressed his interlocked hands against his forehead.
“Jesus. Jesus, why?”
Fegan looked up. Father Coulter stared back at him. “Because I had to.”
“What do you mean?” The priest shook his head.
“I told the boy’s mother where his body was. I thought that would do it, make him leave me alone. Then Michael found out. He came to me, said he’d tell McGinty if I didn’t do what he wanted. Then the boy told me what to do, and I did it.”
“What boy? What are you talking about? Dear God, Gerry, this is madness.”
“Then Vincie, he was coming after me, asking questions. And the UDR men, they wanted him, and I—”
“Stop it.”
“I had to give—”
“No.”
“—give him to them.”
“Enough!” Father Coulter slammed his fists into his thighs. “Enough. No more.”
Fegan closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Father.”
A long silence passed. The ticking clock sent jolt after jolt into Fegan’s temples. The chill at his center deepened.
After an age, Father Coulter whispered, “The Sacrament of Penance is my curse. The things I’ve had to carry for men like you. A curse is what it is.”
He bowed his head and made the Sign of the Cross. “God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Fegan asked, “My penance, Father?”
“Your penance?” Father Coulter gave a thin, sad smile. “The same as it’s always been. The same as it always will be. Your burden, Gerry Fegan. That is your penance.”
The priest looked away. “Now get out,” he said.
Fegan watched him for a moment before standing. Without looking back, he went to the hallway where the shifting shadows waited. They parted for him, moved around him, as he opened the front door and stepped out onto the street.
The three Brits came to him and stared over his shoulder at the house, hateful longing on their faces.
“No,” Fegan said. He crossed the street. An alleyway faced the priest’s house. He let its darkness devour him and the nine followers. The bricks cooled his forehead as he rested against the wall.
“Christ,” Fegan said. “He doesn’t deserve it.”
The three Brits pointed to the door.
“Jesus, he didn’t do anything.”
The priest’s upstairs light glared for a moment before blinking out again. The Brits walked out to the street, their arms raised towards the window.
“I didn’t give him a choice. Not really.”
The Brits went to the door, and one pressed his ear against it. The woman stepped out into the orange glow of the street lights and pointed to the window. The butcher joined her, then the cop and the two UFF boys.
Fegan followed them.
“He was scared,” Fegan said. “All right, he could have stopped it, but I threatened him. Look, he knows he did wrong. You heard him.”
The woman moved close to him, her eyes blazing. Fegan looked down at the baby in her arms. It stared back up at him, its toothless mouth contorted with hate.
“Christ!” Fegan backed into the alley’s dark harbour and covered his eyes. “Leave me alone. I can’t do it.”
He reached for the small of his back and pulled the Walther from his waistband. He chambered a round and placed the muzzle between his teeth. It was cold and slick. He had a moment to wonder what it would feel like, that explosion in his skull, before another thought appeared in his mind.
He thought about Ellen’s small hand, and how his skin felt clean where she held his fingers in her fist. Then he thought about how the sun found the gold flecks in Marie’s hair. And then he thought about the promise he’d made, that he would protect them from McGinty’s threat.
Slowly, Fegan took the pistol from his mouth. He released the round from the chamber and dropped it into his pocket, alongside the priest’s key. The nine followers stared as he emerged from the alley. He tucked the Walther back into his waistband and began the walk home. The Brits overtook him, pointing back to the priest’s house.
“No,” Fegan said. “Not him.”
They were screaming even before he was in his own home. The sound of their agony echoed through the streets, and Fegan won
dered how the city could sleep through it. Once inside, without turning on the lights, he went straight for the sideboard and the bottle of Jameson’s. He unscrewed the cap and brought the bottle to his mouth. He was on his fifth deep swallow, trying not to retch from the burn, when the baby started crying.
22
Fegan woke late the next morning and immediately ran to the bathroom to throw up. He’d drunk almost a full bottle of whiskey the night before and it had taken its toll. He would have retreated to bed, dug himself in beneath the covers while he waited for the greasy waves of the hangover to ease, but he had a mobile phone to buy.
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