Public School gave him a hard look. “There’ll be a generous bonus, of course. Fifteen thousand for going in. Another fifteen if you’re able to resolve matters to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Campbell looked from Public School to the handler and back again. “Twenty-five first, twenty-five after. And I want what I’m owed for Dundalk. It wasn’t my decision to leave.”
“You’re a mercenary bastard, aren’t you?” Public School said, smiling. “All right. I’m sure you’ll give us our money’s worth.”
“Every penny,” Campbell said. He tried not to picture Gerry Fegan’s blood-spattered face or the bodies at his feet.
13
Fegan stood among the gravestones, sweat drawing cool lines down his back. It had been the warmest spring he could remember. Black Mountain loomed over the graveyard, its craggy slopes bright and hard in the May sunlight. Father Coulter droned on by the graveside amid polite coughs and gentle weeping.
Fegan looked around the cemetery. It was a decent turnout, a few hundred, but not as many as he’d expected. Some had chosen to stay away. Fegan had heard grumblings, loud whispers, as the mourners gathered. Some called it an insult, a slap in the face. Certain men, certain politicians, should have been here to bear the coffin, to stand solemn-faced by the graveside. Their absence glared like a sore.
As Fegan scanned the crowds he watched for a flash of ash-blonde hair, a long and slender frame. She was here somewhere, but she was keeping her distance. And why did he care?
“God knows,” he whispered to himself.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead and the back of his neck. His eyes were dry and heavy, and his skull was full of sand. The cops had kept him until nine this morning and he’d had barely two hours’ sleep before he’d had to get up for the funeral. He savored the peace, but it didn’t last long enough.
A haze of pain hovered around his temples, and shadows moved at the edge of his vision. He pushed them away. In this place, among these people, the shadows were sure to gather and pick out the living. Fegan was certain of it, and wondered how long he could hold them back.
Luck had been with him so far. But then, he’d always been lucky when it came to killing. He had a knack for it. Last night’s riot had provided the perfect cover. If his luck held, it would even look like an accident. He had stashed the brick deep inside a bin five streets away, and then found the makeshift petrol-bomb factory. He took one of the bottles and used the fuel it contained to burn the gloves.
He had returned to the Springfield Road, wanting to be seen there, away from Caffola’s body. McGinty was already negotiating with a senior police officer in view of the cameras, the man of peace restoring order to the troubled streets once more. Not for long, though. As soon as cops searching for petrol bombs discovered Caffola’s body, all hell broke loose.
Fegan spent the rest of the night in the company of the police. Their questioning had been half-hearted and perfunctory. They did not grieve over the loss of Vincie Caffola, and Fegan doubted they would expend much effort on the investigation. He left the station unafraid of being charged with Caffola’s killing.
Now, in the windswept graveyard, he covered his mouth to yawn. The pressure increased in his head and he shuffled his feet for balance. Chills washed through him, and he wrapped his arms tight around his midsection.
Father Coulter’s service over, it was time for politics. A platform stood by the grave, and two men took up position holding a banner that read
. Another man joined them, holding a portable amplifier with a microphone. Fegan’s stomach churned, knowing who would follow.
Paul McGinty, fifty-five years old, tall and handsome, stepped up to the podium. Low whispers crept through the crowd; it should have been one of the party leaders up there, eulogising the departed. Instead, McGinty faced the mourners, his countenance grim. The breeze tousled his hair as he waved for the applause to stop. The assistant raised the microphone to McGinty’s mouth.
He greeted the assembly in forced Irish, as was the custom. Some embraced Ireland’s native tongue, others did not. Fegan didn’t care for words, English or Irish, so it meant little to him.
The formality over, McGinty began his speech.
“Comrades,” he said in his carefully maintained West Belfast accent. “Today would have been a sad day without the news that came to us last night. But it is sadder still for the passing of Vincent Caffola, a tireless community worker and party official. And I have much to say about his passing, but ladies and gentlemen, I must first pay respect to the man who was buried here today.
“Michael McKenna was a great man.” McGinty paused, his blue eyes taking in the cemetery as applause and isolated cheers rippled through it. “Michael McKenna was a great man because he believed in the fight for justice and equality on this island, and he fought for justice and equality every single day of his life. It is a tragedy for all who knew him that that goal was just within his reach when his life was taken.”
Pain, bright and fiery, burst in Fegan’s skull. “Christ,” he hissed.
A few heads turned in his direction. He ignored them.
The shadows moved in from the edges of his vision. The pain flared again, brighter than before.
“Christ. Not now.”
One of the funeral-goers, a stocky man in his mid-twenties, turned to scowl at him. Fegan stared back until the scowler turned away.
He closed his eyes and breathed deep, willing the pain and shadows to recede. A cry almost escaped him when he opened them and caught a glint of ash-blonde. He turned his head towards it, searching. There, another flash, between the black-clad bodies. He watched as she emerged from them, her face glowing in the spring sunlight. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, and she calmed it with her delicate hand. She caught him staring and froze.
Fegan’s heart lurched in his chest as his eyes locked with Marie McKenna’s. He wanted to raise his hand to wave, but it hung useless at his side. Time became an abstract notion, a meaningless measurement. Then her eyes slipped away from his, and time moved on. She retreated back to the throng, losing herself among them, sparing
