The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve)

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 straightened, 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.”

“What’s going on?” Caffola stepped away from the wall.

Fegan found what he needed and stood upright. “I’m sorry,” he said. He couldn’t be sure if he was apologising to the UDR men or to Caffola. Maybe both. He walked towards the other man.

Caffola backed away, his hands up. “What are you doing, Gerry?”

“What someone should have done years ago.”

Backed into the deepest corner of the alley, Caffola could go no further. “It

was

you, wasn’t it? You did McKenna.”

“That’s right,” Fegan said as he raised the brick over his head. In what remained of the evening light, he saw the other man’s eyes flash in realisation. Before he could bring the brick down, Caffola launched himself forward, his shoulder ramming into Fegan’s chest.

They hit the ground hard, and Caffola’s weight crushed the air out of Fegan’s lungs. The brick rattled against the wall. Their legs tangled as Caffola scrambled to his feet and he fell again, this time at Fegan’s side. Fegan pulled at the other’s jacket, trying to get a firm grip, and he heard the tearing of cloth. Caffola swung his elbow back, catching Fegan’s cheek. For a moment he was free and managed to find his feet before Fegan grabbed his ankles, bringing him down again.

There was a loud, sickly crunch as Caffola tried to break his fall, instead breaking his wrist. His scream echoed through the alley. Fegan straddled his back, reached for the brick, and raised it above his head once more. Caffola craned his neck around and gave one last cry before Fegan drove the brick into his temple.

Fegan felt Caffola go limp beneath him, and he threw the brick towards the followers. They stepped aside as