“And the drink, Gerry. You’ve got to knock that on the head. I’ve been hearing stories about you lately. About you sitting in McKenna’s bar, getting hammered. I hear you’re talking to yourself.”
“I’ve been cutting back these last few days,” Fegan said, truthfully.
“Glad to hear it. The drink killed my father. Yours too, if I remember right.”
Fegan turned his head away, looking to the street outside. Kids rode bicycles in the sunshine. The Lincoln turned right, then right again, doubling back towards Fallswater Parade. “Yeah,” he said.
“So, anyway, I’ve a wee job for you.”
Fegan turned back to the politician.
“Don’t worry,” McGinty said, smiling. “It’s nothing heavy. Thank God, very little is nowadays. Just a message I need you to deliver.”
Fegan thought about it for a moment and said, “All right.”
“Marie McKenna, Michael’s niece.”
Fegan’s fingernails bit his palm. “Yeah.”
“Seems you’re on friendly terms with her. She gave you a lift yesterday.”
“I don’t know her.” Fegan said. “Not really. I never talked to her before.”
“Well, she offended a lot of people, shacking up with a cop like that.” McGinty watched the houses, the murals and the flags sweep past his window. “Having a kid to him and all. There’s a lot of people would like to make their displeasure known to her. But Michael made sure she was left alone for her mother’s sake. Now Michael’s gone, it might not be so easy to keep them away.”
“They split up years ago,” Fegan said. “Why would anyone care now?”
“People have long memories, Gerry. Especially when it’s somebody else’s sin. We remember Bloody Sunday. We talk about it like it was yesterday. But we forget about the people who died in the days before and the days after. It’s human nature.”
, thought Fegan.
. He wondered if McGinty remembered his.
“I’d like you to have a wee word with her,” the politician said. “No threats. Subtle, like. Advise her she might be wise to move on. Across the water, maybe.”
“You want me to tell her at the house?” Fegan asked.
“Oh, no, not at Michael’s mother’s. She has a flat off the Lisburn Road, on Eglantine Avenue. Call by there later and have a chat with her. Like I said, keep it friendly. All right?”
Fegan couldn’t return McGinty’s smile. “All right,” he said.
16
The house on Fallswater Parade brimmed with black-garbed friends and family, but not as densely packed as the day before. Today, Fegan was able to breathe. He tried not to stay in one spot too long, lest some old acquaintance should corner him and grind him down with stories of past days. He filched a can of beer from the table in the living room and slipped out to the hall.
McGinty and Father Coulter were in the house somewhere, eating sausage rolls and slapping the faithful’s shoulders, but Fegan avoided them for fear of seeing shadows.
A moment of indecision gripped him. He had to stay a respectable amount of time, just for appearances, but where could he drink his beer in peace? Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms? No, that would be intrusive. The yard would be full of smokers. Where, then?
He remembered the alcove under the stairs. There was a telephone table with a seat in there. He could slip in, sit down in the semi-darkness, and if anyone questioned him he could say he was just resting his feet.
Fegan squeezed past a group of men and ducked into the small alcove. When he realised Marie McKenna had the same idea, and was already perched on the seat, he could only stare at her, his back bent, his head pressed against the underside of the stairs.
“Hello,” she said. He couldn’t tell if her eyes glittered with bemusement or fright. Maybe both.
“Hello,” he said. “I was just . . . ah . . .”
“Finding a place to hide,” she said, small lines forming around her grey-blue eyes as she smiled. “Me too.”
She held a glass of white wine. Lipstick smudged its rim. Fegan wondered what it tasted like.
“I’ll find somewhere else,” he said, backing out.
“No, there’s room,” she said. She shifted further along the seat, leaving space for Fegan’s wiry body. He hesitated for just a second, then slowly lowered himself to rest beside her.
“I wanted to talk to you, anyway,” Marie said. “To apologise.”
“What for?” He opened the can of Harp lager and took a sip. The fizz burned his tongue.
“For being all . . . well, weird, yesterday. I said some things I shouldn’t have.” The wine rippled in her glass as her hand shook.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Everyone does things they wish they hadn’t.”
“True,” she said. He caught the residue of a smile as he turned to look at her.
