his mind back to his task.
He sat at the table beneath his window, his shirtsleeves rolled up. In the daytime it gave him light to work. At night, a desk lamp arched over the tools placed neatly about him. For this job he had masking tape, files, wire wool and olive oil. He set the stone on some newspaper and used a soft cloth to wipe away the swarf, the tiny specks of metal left by the abrasion on the masked-off pieces of fingerboard.
The radio on the sideboard murmured soft blues music. Fegan didn’t understand it, the droning chords and the mournful voices, but he had a notion of learning to play the C.F. Martin guitar when it was finished. Ronnie had said it was a collector’s piece, but guitars weren’t for collecting. They were for playing, he said. So Fegan listened to the radio while he worked, hoping some of its music might seep into him.
When the music stopped and the presenter said the news was coming up, Fegan reached across and turned it off. Everyone was talking about McKenna. Politicians, cops, security analysts - the reporters had even started interviewing one another in their rush to squeeze every last drop of blood out of the story.
Fegan picked up the whetstone and ran it along the fingerboard again, back and forth, the rhythm soothing him. Nine o’clock. He hadn’t had a drink tonight. Like every other night, he promised himself he wouldn’t. Somewhere beneath his heart he knew he would break that promise. He knew they would come again tonight, even though he had given McKenna to the boy. They wanted more.
They wanted Caffola.
Fegan swept the stone back and forth, smooth movements flowing from his arm.
Balance and patience.
A tingling gathered in his temples the way electricity hangs in the air before a storm. He closed his eyes and let the stone’s rhythm fall in step with his heart.
Balance and patience.
Sparks flashed behind his eyes.
Fegan put the stone down and lowered the guitar to the felt sheet that protected its lacquered finish. He stood, went to the sideboard, and poured two fingers of Jameson’s and the same of water. The whiskey warmed his center as the shadows crept along the walls.
Balance and patience.
7
“So, who do you think got McKenna?” McSorley asked as he hauled the steering wheel to the left.
Campbell looked back over his shoulder to where the old man lay on the van’s cold floor, whimpering inside the pillowcase that had been placed over his head.
“Don’t worry about him,” McSorley said.
Campbell returned his attention to the winding country road, involuntarily pressing his foot against the worn carpeting, trying to brake for McSorley. He’d waited for his mobile to ring all day. He had to force himself not to check for missed calls every ten minutes. The anticipation gnawed at him.
“Well?” McSorley prompted. “Who do you reckon?”
“Whoever it was has got to be fucking crazy,” Campbell said. “Or stupid. They won’t get away with it. The boys won’t let it go. They’ll break the ceasefire if they have to.”
The van hit a pothole and Campbell had to brace himself against the dashboard. The old man cried out as he bounced between the van’s inside wall and its floor. Comiskey and Hughes were back at his tiny cottage, holding his wife until Campbell and McSorley returned with the contents of the post office safe. It was only a short journey into the village.
“I suppose you’d have been one of the boys going after him, eh?”
Campbell tried to read McSorley’s face, but darkness obscured all but the watery sheen of his eyes. “Might’ve been.”
“No need to be shy with me, Davy. We’re mates, eh? You don’t talk much about what you got up to in Belfast.”
“Not much to talk about.”
McSorley gave a chesty laugh. “Oh, aye. I bet there’s not.”
His face took on a sickly glow as they cruised into the village, its street lights washing them in orange. “I heard a story about you and some boy who tried to set up Paul McGinty. I heard you beat the life out of him.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Well, people talk. You can believe whatever you want.”
The van’s headlights picked out the green
sign and its brakes whined. The engine juddered as it died. McSorley gave the old man one quick glance and turned back to Campbell.
“Some of the lads don’t trust you,” he said, his eyes narrow.
“You mean Comiskey?”
“Him and some of the others. They think it’s a bit funny, you just upping sticks and coming down here to us. Seeing as you were so close to McGinty and all. Some of the lads are worried about you.”
Campbell let his hand wander to his thigh. His jeans stretched tight over the Gerber knife in his pocket. “Are
