Fegan looked at the clock above the bar and took a mouthful of Guinness. He would give it five minutes before following the priest. What would he do when he caught up with him? He didn’t know.
Fegan studied the wet circles his glass left on the tabletop and ignored the pressure of his gun at the small of his back.
It didn’t take long to catch up with the priest. Father Coulter had made slow progress through the streets, and Fegan found him propped against a Lexus within minutes of leaving the bar. Fegan remembered a time when only the most well-to-do owned cars. Now the streets were lined with them, crammed into every space available. The priest had chosen the most comfortable-looking to lean on.
Father Coulter waved as he approached. “Gerry Fegan,” he said. “You caught me. I was just having a wee rest. Will you walk with me?”
“Of course I will, Father,” Fegan said. He began walking slowly, the priest at his side.
“I haven’t seen you at Mass for a long time, Gerry,” Father Coulter said.
“I was there today,” Fegan said.
“Apart from funerals, I mean. When was the last time you went to Mass?”
Fegan tried to remember. He had been once or twice since he got out of the Maze, but when? “Years ago,” he said.
Father Coulter clucked and shook his head. “That won’t do, Gerry. Have you no thought for your soul? What would your mother have said?”
“My mother was ashamed of me,” Fegan said.
“Nonsense!” Father Coulter placed his hand on Fegan’s arm.
“She told me. She was ashamed of what I did.”
The priest wagged a finger at him. “You’re a hero of the cause, Gerry Fegan, and don’t you forget it. You didn’t choose a war; it was forced upon you. The good Lord knows why you did what you did. God forgives all soldiers. John Hewitt wrote that. The poet. He wrote—”
Fegan stopped walking. “We’re here.”
Father Coulter looked round to see his own front door. “Oh, so we are. Will you come in for a wee drop?”
Fegan looked up and down the empty street. “All right,” he said.
Father Coulter fished a key from his pocket and turned to insert it in the lock. It scraped against wood as he missed his mark. He tried, and failed, twice more.
“Here,” Fegan said, taking the key from the priest’s hand. He unlocked the door and let it swing open. “There you go.”
“Thank you, Gerry.” Father Coulter patted his shoulder and went inside. Fegan followed him, slipping the key into his own pocket.
The small house was clean and sparsely furnished. Father Coulter ushered Fegan through to the living room. A fire in the hearth blasted heat at them. Sweat broke out across Fegan’s brow and back, but the chill stayed at his center. Father Coulter flicked the light on and a caged bird, a cockatiel, hissed at them.
Father Coulter went to the cage, clucking. “Now, now, Joe-Joe, it’s only me.” He threw his coat over the back of a chair and turned to Fegan. “Sit down, Gerry.”
The priest took a bottle of brandy from the sideboard and poured two generous glasses. He handed one to Fegan and sat down facing him.
His bleary eyes searched Fegan’s face. “Tell me, do you dream much?” he asked.
“No,” Fegan said. “I don’t sleep too well.”
“I dream,” Father Coulter said. He took a sip of brandy and coughed. “Terrible dreams. I’ve seen awful things, Gerry. There’s things I could have changed. Things I could have stopped. Things I should never have done. I always told myself I’d no choice, but I was wrong. I always had a choice. You know what I’m talking about.”
Fegan moved his glass in slow circles and watched the firelight refracted in the reddish-brown liquid. “Yes, Father.”
“So many times I could have said something, told someone. Men like you making your confession, telling me the things you’ve done, then I give you forgiveness so you can go out and do it again.”
Father Coulter watched the fire, his wet eyes reflecting the orange glow. “Maybe in a different place, I could have been a better priest. Maybe I could have done right by God. Or maybe I never really had it in me.” He reached across and gripped Fegan’s hand. “I dream a lot, Gerry.”
“You’re drunk, Father.”
The priest released Fegan’s fingers and smiled. “I know, I know. I’m drunk and I’m tired. I worry about you, Gerry.”
Fegan looked up from his brandy. “Why?”
“Because you’re carrying so many things around with you. When did you last make your confession?”
“When I was in the Maze.” It had been a week after he returned to prison from his mother’s funeral, the blood of two Loyalists on his hands.
Father Coulter beckoned. “Come here to me, son.”
Fegan stared into his glass. “No.”
The priest leaned forward and took Fegan’s hand again, gently pulling. “Come on. Do it to ease an old priest’s
