The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve) jli-1

by Stuart Neville

  “Doesn’t matter,” Campbell said. “McGinty wanted them dead. That’s all there is to it.”

  Fegan wiped his face with the back of his hand, leaving a red smear. “I put my mother in the ground yesterday,” he said.

  Campbell said nothing.

  Fegan’s eyes turned glassy, staring at something miles away. “She hadn’t spoken to me for sixteen years. She told me she was ashamed of what I did. That was the last thing she ever said to me. They let me out to go and see her in the hospital. She wouldn’t let me into the room. She died hating me.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Campbell asked.

  Fegan snapped back to himself and looked at Campbell, his face creased with confusion. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can we go now?”

  Campbell followed him out into the darkness. As he drove them back to the city, he kept one eye on the road and one eye on Fegan, his heart thundering in his chest.

  That had been nine years ago. And now Fegan knew of Campbell’s deceit. Did he know he was a plant? Campbell had to assume as much.

  The handler wanted Fegan dead. McGinty wanted Fegan dead. Campbell

  needed

  Fegan dead, because if McGinty learned the truth ... well, the politician wouldn’t let Campbell die easy.

  30

  Fegan waited in the darkness. From downstairs he heard the patient ticking of the clock over the priest’s fireplace, marking time as the last of the day’s light faded to black, chiming on the hour. Just past ten, now. Marie’s flight for London Gatwick would be in the air, somewhere over the Irish Sea. An associate of McGinty’s was to meet her at the other side when it landed at eleven, and escort her to whatever accommodation had been arranged for her and Ellen. That didn’t leave much time, but it shouldn’t be long until Father Coulter staggered home. Caffola would have been in the ground and the last speeches made by early afternoon. Father Coulter would have drunk his fill by now.

  Fegan sat on a hard wooden chair in a corner of the priest’s bedroom, behind the open door. The followers wandered between the shadows. Sometimes it was hard to tell where the shadows ended and the followers began. If he concentrated he could focus on them, draw them out of the dark, and separate them from the blankets of gloom. He tried pushing them from his vision, and then drawing them in. But they were always there, watching.

  Always watching.

  There was no danger Fegan would fall asleep, even as tired as he was. Every time his eyes grew too heavy to bear, their screaming snapped him awake. When tonight was done, when the work was over, maybe they would let him have some silence. There were long hours ahead, but he could steal some sleep on the road, and the promise of a soft hotel bed somewhere miles from here made the task easier to imagine. He would make it quick for Father Coulter. He was a man of God, after all.

  Fegan shifted in the seat, trying to dislodge the pain that clambered across his gut. He had stopped spitting up blood hours ago, but the aches still picked through his organs whether he was moving or still. And it was warm. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Father Coulter kept his house well heated, even during what was for Belfast an unusually clement spring. The heavy overcoat Fegan had found in the priest’s wardrobe didn’t help, but he needed something to keep the blood off his clothes. There shouldn’t be much if he did it right, but he had to be careful.

  But it was more than heat making Fegan sweat. He remembered the symptoms from watching his father fight the drink. Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since he’d swallowed that last mouthful of whiskey. The shakes were mild yet, just the slightest of tremors, but bouts of clammy nausea came and went. Dryness dusted his tongue, and he gathered saliva to roll around his mouth. He remembered his father’s screaming nightmares, the horrors that would send him back to the bottle. Fegan wondered if the followers would let him dream.

  Shafts of light moved across the ceiling, squeezing through the gap above the drawn curtains, and the clattering of a diesel engine came from outside. The creak of the taxi’s handbrake, a door opening and closing, a hearty voice wishing someone goodnight. A grumble as the taxi moved off, then the scratching of a key trying to find its home.

  The shadows stirred and drifted to the darkest corners.

  Fegan felt a cool draught around his ankles as the front door opened below. Light switches clicked on and off. There was a flutter and a high screech as the cockatiel in the living room was angered by the priest disturbing its sleep.

  Fegan heard Father Coulter slur, “It’s all right, Joe-Joe. Sure, it’s only me. Go back to sleep, now.”

  Another light switch clicked off and Fegan heard the priest begin to climb the stairs, huffing as he went, the steps creaking beneath his weight. Fegan heard the bathroom light’s pull-cord, then a fly unzipping. Father Coulter hummed to himself as he thundered into the toilet bowl for what seemed like hours. There was a softer running of water, then the rustling of a towel. All the while, the priest hummed some tuneless song.

  Fegan tensed as the lumbering footsteps came closer. He kept his own breath quiet and even, while Father Coulter’s came in heavy rasps. He heard the priest pause in the doorway and then the click of the light switch.

  “Aw, shite,” Father Coulter said when the darkness remained. The light bulb lay near Fegan’s shoeless feet.

  Father Coulter sighed and entered the bedroom. Fegan and the shifting shadows watched his dark form as he kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. He turned onto his back and pulled the white collar from his black shirt. A few seconds of fumbling and his top buttons were undone. He let his arms fall to his sides, and he sprawled on top of the blankets. Within a few minutes his guttural snoring filled the room.

  The three Brits emerged from the darkest corners to stand alongside the bed, miming the priest’s execution. The woman followed them, her baby’s tiny hands clutching at her dress as she rocked it in her arms. She smiled at Fegan. He nodded and stood up. Campbell’s knife was light but the grip felt solid in his hand as he crossed the room. He felt for the thumb stud, cold through the thin membrane of the surgical gloves. The blade opened with a small snap.

  The snoring stopped. Fegan could just make out Father Coulter’s round face and blinking eyes.

  The shadows receded.

  The priest’s voice was a small whisper. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s all right, Father,” Fegan said. “You’re just dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

  “Dreaming? I . . . I ...”

  “Shush.” Fegan raised the knife.

  “Gerry? Gerry Fegan? Is that you?”

  Fegan froze. “Yes, Father.”

  “What do you want, Gerry? What are you doing here?”

  “Remember you told me about the dreams, Father?”

  The priest tried to raise himself up on his elbows. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  Fegan reached down and smoothed Father Coulter’s hair. “Remember? Those Brits. You could have stopped it, but you didn’t.”

  Father Coulter slowly shook his head. “That was so long ago, Gerry. I was scared.”

  “Aren’t you scared now?”

  The priest nodded.

  “You won’t have to dream about them any more,” Fegan said.

  “Please, Gerry, you’re frightening me. What do you want from me?”

  “Nothing at all,” Fegan said. “You know, I would have let you live.”

  Father Coulter stiffened on the bed. “What?”

  “I was ready to do it the other night, but I lost my nerve. I could have lived with the three Brits, maybe. I thought you didn’t deserve it.”

  “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, Gerry, please don’t. Let’s just talk about it, eh?” The priest tried to sit up and Fegan gently pushed him back down.

  “Then you brought that message to Marie. You threatened her for McGinty.”

  “No, I—”

  “And you told McGinty what I said. My confession.”

  “No, that’s not true. I swear, I ne
ver—”

  “Quiet, Father.”

  “Oh, Christ, please—”

  Fegan closed his left hand over the priest’s mouth to stifle his cries. He brought the knife down once, hard, before Father Coulter could raise his arms in defence. It was a good knife, with a strong, sharp steel blade. There was little resistance, even from the breastbone, as the knife pierced his heart. Fegan withdrew it easily, and brought it down twice more.

  Father Coulter gripped Fegan’s shoulder, his body twisting. In the darkness, Fegan saw gleaming eyes stare up at him. The priest’s breath was warm as he screamed into Fegan’s palm.

  “It’s all right, Father,” Fegan said. “It won’t take long. You’ll go into shock soon. It won’t hurt at all.”

  Fegan took his hand away, and Father Coulter grabbed shallow gasps of air. The priest’s mouth worked silently, opening and closing. He brought his hands to his chest. There was little blood.

  “May God forgive you,” he hissed.

  Fegan wiped the blade clean on the blankets. “It’s not His forgiveness I need, Father. I know that now.”

  The bubbling of blood filling the priest’s chest cavity, the rustling of blankets, and the soft whimpering faded as Fegan watched him die. It took less than two minutes from the first stab to the last hiss of air as the life left Father Coulter’s body. Fegan removed the overcoat he’d taken from the wardrobe and covered the corpse.

  He folded the knife and put it back in his pocket. His shoes were next to the chair and he slipped them on in silence. A sports bag holding a few clothes, British and Irish passports, two pistols, fifty-seven rounds of ammunition and thousands of pounds in rolled-up bills lay on the floor. Fegan slung it over his shoulder and made his way downstairs. He went through the kitchen to the backyard, closing the door softly behind him. The gate was secured from the inside by a padlock, so he climbed over the yard wall to the alleyway beyond and started walking. It was a long trek from here to the Europa Hotel in town, and the bus station behind it. He’d have to be quick to make the last airport shuttle.

  Fegan kept his head down as he walked. Six shadows followed closely.

  SIX

  31

  Marie McKenna lay naked beside him. It was his bed, but it wasn’t. It was his house, but it wasn’t. Fegan was naked, too, and it shamed him. He went to cover himself.

  “Don’t,” she said, moving his hand away.

  “I’m not clean,” he said.

  She hushed him, and moved in close. Her body was warm against his. She kissed him. Her mouth was soft, like summer air.

  When he was free of her lips, he said, “It’s been so long. I don’t know what it feels like.”

  “It feels like this,” she said, taking his hand and placing it on her breast.

  Her skin was soft, her breast round and supple, with a hardness against his palm.

  Yes, that’s what it feels like. Smooth, warm . . . slick?

  He looked down. His hand had smeared red on her body. She looked down, too, and he saw her mouth twist in disgust. He tried to wipe it away, but only made it worse, great crimson hand-prints across her breasts and stomach. She pulled away, kicking.

  “No,” he said, grabbing her forearms. The blood made them slippery, and he couldn’t hold her. “Please, let me clean it.”

  He tried again to wipe it away, leaving red tracks along her hips and thighs. “I’ll make it better,” he said. “Please let me make it better.”

  She screamed then, writhing, scratching, kicking to get away. “Leave me alone. Get away from me. Help! Help! HELP!”

  He didn’t know who she was screaming for, who could help her, or who she needed saving from. Surely not him? No, not him. Couldn’t be. It was only a little blood. If she would only stay still he could wipe it away. But she wouldn’t stay still. She kept kicking, screaming, crying, and he only wanted to make it better, but the hand on his shoulder wouldn’t let him. It kept shaking him, holding him back from her, that hand squeezing and shaking him, and now its owner was saying something, talking, but he needed to make Marie clean, make it better, but that hand wouldn’t stop, it wouldn’t leave him—

  “You can sleep on the plane, mate.”

  Fegan slapped the hand away, his eyes snapping open, and he reached for his pocket where the knife nestled, cold and still.

  The bus driver stood back, blinking down at him. “Jesus, take it easy, mate. I’m just telling you we’re here.”

  Fegan looked around, confused. The bus was dimly lit, and outside a few late-night travellers walked to and from the terminal. His heart rattled like an overworked engine and his forehead was cold with sweat. “Sorry,” he said. “Thanks.”

  He gathered up the sports bag and walked along the aisle, the driver’s suspicious stare fixed on his back. He stepped down to the pavement, and the door hissed closed. The bus pulled away, leaving Fegan watching the terminal from the other side of a pedestrian crossing. Two Airport Police officers stood chatting between the entrance and exit, their MP5 sub-machine guns slung across bullet-proof vests.

  Fegan knew he would be searched if he went near the terminal. Security was tighter now than it ever had been at the height of the Troubles. A war in a desert thousands of miles away frightened them more than a war on their doorstep. Fegan took the phone from his pocket and dialled Marie’s mobile number. He pressed the phone to his ear and closed his eyes. When she answered, he felt some small warm thing burst and spill inside.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “You should’ve gone,” Fegan said.

  “No chance,” Marie said. Her Renault Clio roared hoarsely as she sped through the roundabouts that led away from the airport, heading north. Ellen dozed in her child seat in the back, having barely woken as her mother carried her and a suitcase out to where Fegan waited.

  “It would’ve been safer,” he said.

  “Maybe,” she said, grinding gears in anger. “But I’d have to live with the knowledge that I let some fucking jumped-up gangster with political pretensions dictate where I could bring up my daughter. No, thank you. I’d sooner live in fear in my own home than live in shame in someone else’s.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Fegan said, glancing back at Ellen.

  “Balls,” Marie said, with a finality that told Fegan to leave it. “Jesus, the rigmarole in that airport. I could see Patsy Toner following me all the way there in that Jag of his, then walking behind me into the terminal. Jesus, I hope McGinty never relies on him to be discreet. Anyway, I checked in, got my boarding pass, went through security, then just when they called us for boarding I said I wasn’t going. God, you should’ve seen them. Such a fuss! There was this girl, a stewardess, looked like she’d been licking piss off a nettle.”

  Marie glowed with anger. Fegan stayed quiet.

  “Christ, she was spitting bullets ’cause they had to unload my suitcase from the hold. That took nearly forty minutes, and then they had to wait for some security men to come and escort me out. I was only just back out of Departures a few minutes before you called.”

  She was high on adrenalin and indignation. Fegan asked, “No sign of Patsy?”

  “No,” she said. “He was gone. I imagine he slinked off as soon as he saw me check in.”

  “So, where are we going?”

  “Portcarrick,” she said. “Up on the coast, past Ballymena. My parents took us there a few times when we were little. We always stayed on the caravan park, but there’s a hotel on the bay. It’s a quiet place, hardly anyone ever stays there. Hopkirk’s, it’s called. I hope it’s still open.”

  “Me too,” Fegan said.

  Dreams came and went, some ugly, some beautiful. Fegan had kept his eyes open as far as the outskirts of Antrim, but the endless dual carriageways stretching into the distance lulled him into a fitful sleep, punctuated by jolts and swerves. As he drifted between waking and sleeping, he was aware of the rise and fall of the road, and the darkness they travelled deeper into.

  After a time,
Fegan woke to see nothing but black around them. The pressure in his ears told him they were up high somewhere.

  “We’re nearly there,” Marie said. “We’re in the Glens now. You missed the delights of Ballymena.”

  She took a left turn, and Fegan felt the car begin a shallow descent. Beyond the window he could pick out coarse grass that rolled away beyond his vision. It felt like a wilderness, miles of nothing.

  “It’s beautiful country when you see it in the daylight,” Marie said. “Peaceful, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I used to love coming here. I always wanted to buy a home on the bay. I guess that’ll never happen now.”

  Fegan’s breath caught in his throat when, for just a few seconds, the moon slid out from behind the clouds. It illuminated the landscape and he could see for miles in every direction, grassy hills climbing up to touch the sky. And up ahead, in the near distance, he saw the silver shimmer in the bay below, the North Atlantic meeting the Irish Sea to make a looking-glass for the moon. Then it was gone, the brilliant disc hiding, and the road cut downward between the slopes.