before he died. It took her all that time to find me. It was the Martin. I’m restoring it now. It’s almost done.”
They reached the end of the Malone Road, where it met University Road and the top of Stranmillis Road. They stopped at the pedestrian crossing.
Marie asked, “And what are you going to do with it?”
Fegan’s cheeks grew hot. “I’m going to learn to play it,” he said.
“Good,” she said, nodding. “Tell me, what was Ronnie in the Maze for?”
Fegan looked across the road to the Ulster Museum, its austere form blotting the blue sky. “He slit a man’s throat,” he said. “A Catholic who walked into the wrong bar. Ronnie cried when he told me.”
Marie fell silent. They watched the traffic lights above the crossing, waiting to be released.
The great red-bricked castle of Queen’s University stood a short distance away, to the right, in the midst of its carpet-smooth lawns. It couldn’t have been more unlike the ugly grey block of the Student Union building, facing it directly across University Road.
Students gathered in huddles on the grass on one side, and on the concrete steps on the other. Young, pretty people Fegan would never know. It occurred to him that most of these children had never been torn from sleep by a bomb blast in the night, the force of it hammering their windows like a thousand fists, freezing their hearts in their chests. For a moment he might have resented them for it, but then he felt Ellen’s fingers adjust their grip on his, and he was glad for them. He thought of Ellen as a young woman, and how she would never comprehend the awful, constant fear that had smothered this place for more than thirty years.
The lights changed. Ellen kept hold of Fegan’s hand while she took her mother’s, and they crossed the road towards the Ulster Museum. The three of them were swallowed by tree-shade at the entrance to Botanic Gardens, the park sprawling ahead of them behind the university buildings. Fegan had the urge to run from them, from Marie and her child, but the little girl’s hand felt good on his. His skin felt clean where she touched it.
, he thought.
. He had never thought it possible to feel terror and stillness in the same heart, but both beat in his chest as they walked among the green lawns and the budding flowers.
They stopped at the seats facing the Palm House. Fegan and Marie sat down while Ellen went to peer through the glass at the plant life within.
“Thanks for letting me walk with you,” Fegan said.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You can ask,” Marie said as she swept blonde hair from her face. She settled back in the seat. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”
Fegan leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, his fingers laced together. “Why would you go for a walk with someone like me? Why did you give me a lift yesterday?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. She thought for a few seconds. “You saw what I said over Uncle Michael’s coffin, but you didn’t judge me. I’ve gotten so used to people judging me. The people I work with know where I come from, who I’m related to, and they judge me. The people I come from can’t forget what I’ve done, as if falling in love with a cop was an act of treason, and you saw how they looked at me today and yesterday. Everywhere I go, people know who I am, where I’m from, what I did, and they judge me for it. I guess that’s why. You didn’t judge me.”
“I’m in no position to judge anybody,” Fegan said.
“But you know what it’s like to be judged.”
“Yeah, I do. You don’t deserve it, though. You didn’t do anything wrong. Not like me.”
“How do you live with it?” she asked.
Fegan watched Ellen move from pane to pane of the giant greenhouse, standing on tiptoe for a better view. A chill crawled over him, despite the evening warmth. Shadows lengthened as the sun sank. “I don’t,” he said. “Most people wouldn’t call it living, anyway.”
“Well, you’re breathing, aren’t you?”
“I suppose.” He wanted to tell Marie about the followers, about the screaming and the baby crying in the night. He looked round to her. “I’m going to put things right, though. I’m going to make up for what I did.”
She sat forward to meet his gaze. “How?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet,” he said. It was only half a lie. He knew what he had to do, just not how to go about it. “But I’ll find a way. I always find a way.”
“You’re an interesting man, Gerry Fegan.” The strange crescent of Marie’s lips made something shift inside him. “I’d like to get to know you, if you’ll let me.”
He turned his eyes to the ground where cigarette butts and old chewing gum, things people no longer wanted in their mouths, were trampled into the path. “I’m not a good person to know.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
He couldn’t see her face from the corner of his eye, but he imagined Marie McKenna was smiling, playfully biting her lower lip. He had to say it now.
“Paul McGinty wanted me to give you a message,” Fegan said.
Her weight shifted beside him. “Oh?”
He studied the detritus at his feet. “He wants you to leave. He says now your uncle’s gone it isn’t safe here for you.”
