Campbell caught a scent and followed it. “So, the Bull still calls the shots? I thought he’d retired.”
“Bull?” McGinty’s laugh was laced with a little fear. “Christ, he won’t retire until he’s in a box himself. And no, he doesn’t call the shots. But the boys on the street still look up to him. Us politicians have to indulge him sometimes.”
McGinty stepped away from the coffin, then stopped and turned to look down at the corpse. He leaned forward and spat on Caffola’s pale face. “You had it coming,” he said, and left the room.
Campbell hung his new black suit from the handle on his bedroom door as he held the phone between his shoulder and his ear, listening to the ring tone. The handler answered, breathless.
“McGinty told me to do Fegan,” Campbell said.
“When?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“After the funeral. Clever bastard. He wants to milk Caffola’s death all he can. Try to move it forward a bit - give the press something else to think about - no point letting McGinty squeeze any more out of this than absolutely necessary.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Campbell removed the price tags from the suit. It was cheap, but it would do. It was only a thug’s funeral, after all. “By the way, he let an interesting scrap slip: Bull O’Kane’s still in the picture.”
“The Bull was supposed to have retired,” the handler said. “Last I heard he was putting his feet up at that farm on the border.”
“Well, apparently not. That old bastard still carries some weight. The politicians don’t have it all their own way.”
“I’ll pass it on. Anything else?”
“Just one thing. Once I’ve taken care of Fegan, what then? Do I stay in Belfast with McGinty or go back to Dundalk?”
“Not so fast,” the handler said. “We’ve been talking at this end. My superiors think it’s time you came out for good. I agree. You’ve been under for a long time.”
Campbell gave a hard laugh. “What are you talking about?”
“How old are you now? Thirty-eight? You’re not getting any younger. All right, you’re still sharp enough, but for how long? All it takes is one slip. Get out while you’re still young enough to have a life in the real world, away from all that shit.”
Campbell dropped the suit onto the bed. “This
my life.”
“Life? You call that a life? You’ve been under too long, Campbell. It’s just not healthy. And besides, things are winding down there. You’ve seen the changes. The soldiers are off the streets, the watch - towers are being pulled down. Think about it: once this mess is cleaned up, what good are you doing there?”
“The dissidents. They’re organising. They’ll be—”
“They’re a bunch of has-beens who can’t accept it’s over. Plumbers and bricklayers who call themselves soldiers. They’re no use to anybody now, just dinosaurs who forgot to lie down and die. They destroyed themselves in Omagh, and they’ll never recover. You know that, you spent time with them.”
“There’s the Loyalists. They’re still—”
“They’re what? They’re pushing drugs and counterfeit handbags between bumping each other off. The police can deal with them.” The handler sighed. “Listen, I’m not asking, I’m telling. Once you’re done there, you’re coming out. At least take some leave, just to get your head straight. And don’t worry about money. I’ll make sure you’re looked after.”
“Fuck the money. It’s not about the money.”
“Take it easy, Campbell. We’ll organise some leave for you when you’ve taken care of Fegan. A holiday. Where would you like to go? The Mediterranean, the Bahamas, Thailand?”
“Fuck you,” Campbell said as he hung up.
He threw the phone on top of the suit and paced the small bedroom. Leave? Get out? Why? Go back to what?
Campbell crossed to the dressing table, opened the drawer, and ran his fingers through the soft plume of his Red Hackle.
24
The sun dipped towards the rooftops as Fegan rang Marie McKenna’s doorbell. Her flat was on the ground floor of the old red-brick terraced house. The drawn curtains twitched in the bay window by the door. His skin tingled when he heard her footsteps approach from inside.
Marie opened the door and smiled. “Thanks for coming,” she said. She stepped back to let him in. Her eyes were puffy from crying.
“Have you eaten?” she asked as they walked along the hallway. A bicycle was propped at the foot of the stairs leading to the flats above.
“Not since this morning,” Fegan lied. His stomach had still been reeling from the whiskey and no solid had passed his lips that day.
“You must be starving,” Marie said, showing him into the flat. “I’m just about to make something for Ellen and me. You’ll have some too.”
It was more an instruction than an invitation.
