Coyle brought the piece of brick down in a clumsy arc, and Fegan caught his wrist effortlessly. He kicked Coyle’s legs from under him, and took the brick from his hand.
Fegan drew his arm back, the brick held tight in his fist, ready to drive it into Coyle’s upturned face. “Get out of here or I’ll fucking kill you.”
Coyle scrambled backwards, and Fegan turned to Campbell. Campbell’s gut chilled when he saw Fegan’s eyes. The madman walked towards him and then stopped, lifting his hands up to his temples.
“Not now,” he said. “Not here.”
“What?” Campbell said.
“No!” Fegan stared at something to Campbell’s left. “There’ll be another time. I can’t do it here. Not with witnesses.”
“Jesus Christ,” Campbell said, backing towards the car.
“How can I do it here?” Now Fegan’s eyes moved to Campbell’s right. “If I do it here I’ll never be able to finish it.”
“Finish what, Gerry?” Campbell took a tentative step forward. “Who are you talking to?”
Fegan’s eyes moved from place to place, focused on something at eye level that only he could see. “There’ll be another time. I swear.”
Before Campbell could scream at him to stop, Coyle swung at Fegan from behind. Fegan ducked, but not quickly enough, and the second piece of brick glanced off his temple. He moved with the lithe speed of a predator, turning to seize Coyle’s forearm before the other could react. Fegan swiped his piece of brick across Coyle’s face, rocking his head back. He did it again and Campbell heard a sickening crunch. Coyle’s legs crumpled beneath him and Fegan swung twice more, sending blood across the pavement.
The roar of an engine pulled Campbell’s eyes to the Lisburn Road end of the street. A police Land Rover came barrelling around the corner. He hesitated for just a second, then turned and ran for the Malone Road.
He cut across it, dodging traffic, and ducked into Cloreen Park. He didn’t stop running until he was on the Stranmillis Road. He walked purposefully to the warren of streets around Queen’s University and wound through them until he reached the church on University Street. He crossed the road, opened the door to his building, trotted up two flights of stairs, and let himself into his flat. In the darkness he collapsed onto the couch, adrenalin sending wave after wave of tremors through his limbs.
“Fuck,” he said to the empty room.
26
Fegan’s eyes felt dry and heavy as he sat in his cell. It had been a long night. They’d taken him to the City Hospital on the Lisburn Road to have the abrasion on his temple examined, and the doctor had insisted on a scan. He had to sit on a bed in the Accident and Emergency ward, guarded by two police officers, until the results came back. Coyle had been in the hospital somewhere, too, but Fegan imagined he would have a longer stay.
Now Fegan sat on a thin mattress, his belt and shoelaces removed, waiting for them to let him go. Even if Coyle was in any state to be questioned, he would just clam up. Fegan was sure of that. McGinty would want Fegan away from the cops, out in the open, where he could be gotten to. Besides, despite what the party said in public, it would be considered bad form for Coyle to talk to the cops. That would place him only one step above a common tout. And the party dealt harshly with touts.
Shadows moved along the walls, sometimes taking shape, sometimes fading to nothing. Fegan’s temples buzzed. The chill pulsed at his center.
“What did you want me to do?” Fegan asked.
The shadows didn’t answer.
“If I’d done it last night, the cops would have got me for it. I’d be in here for murder, not for fighting. Then I wouldn’t be able to do any of the others.”
Still nothing.
Suddenly, one of the shadows solidified, its form revealing itself against the cold white wall. The Royal Ulster Constabulary officer, his uniform stiff and crisp. He stared hard at Fegan for a moment before turning to the door.
The peephole cover opened with a clang. Fegan saw the glint of an eye and the cover was closed again. Keys jangled and locks snapped. The door opened outwards and a tall, heavy-set policeman of around fifty stood in the opening. He looked up and down the corridor outside, and then back to Fegan. He entered, smiling, and locked the door behind him.
“Good morning, Gerry,” he said. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a tie. His utility belt bulged with equipment, but Fegan noticed the weapons had been removed, and so had his name badge. The RUC man put his fingers to the cop’s head.
“You’ll be glad to know you’ll be released in a few hours,” said the cop as he crossed the floor, limping slightly. “Your friend Mr. Coyle swears blind he fell and you were helping him up.”
“That’s right,” Fegan said, keeping his focus on the policeman’s round face, and away from the shadows that gathered around him.
“Well, that’s grand then, isn’t it?” the cop said, smiling. The fluorescent lighting reflected off his pink scalp. “But I’ve got to give you a wee message before you go. Why don’t you stand up?”
“A message from who?” Fegan asked.
“Let’s just say a mutual friend,” the cop said. “Now, stand up, there’s a good fella.”
Fegan slowly got to his feet. The smile never left the cop’s mouth, even when he drove his fist into Fegan’s gut. All air deserted the cell, leaving nothing but a painful vacuum, and Fegan wondered how the peeler could breathe. He collapsed back onto the mattress, clutching his belly. A flash of rage burned in him, but he stamped on it, pushed it down. He couldn’t fight the cop here. Not if he wanted to live.
