The shadows retreated to the walls. The RUC man’s hand recoiled with every silent shot.
The cop placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder. “The message is in two parts. One part’s verbal, the other’s physical. Let’s get the verbal out of the way, okay?”
He slapped Fegan’s shoulder and sat down beside him. “Now, first things first. This conversation never happened or Marie McKenna has an accident. I want to make myself clear on that point. That’s very important. Now, to the rest of it.” The cop took a deep breath. “When you get out of here, you go home, you stay there until our mutual friend sends for you, or Marie McKenna has an accident. If you try to run, Marie McKenna has an accident. If you mess our mutual friend about in any way, shape or form, Marie McKenna has an accident. Are you getting the idea, Gerry?”
Fegan didn’t answer. He was concentrating too hard on breathing to form words.
The cop swung his lumpy fist down into Fegan’s groin. “I asked you a question, Gerry. Do you get the idea?”
Fegan fell to his side, grabbing at his testicles. His abdomen filled with hot lead. He gasped, scrabbling words from tiny mouthfuls of air. “I . . . under . . . stand.”
“Good man,” the cop said as he stood up. “Now we do the physical part. Are you ready?”
The cop went to work with the dispassionate care of a craftsman. He found all Fegan’s tender spots, every part of him that could accommodate a fist or a boot while remaining concealed under his clothing. Fegan blacked out once, only to be roused by sharp slaps across his cheek. As he lay on the floor, the pain verging on unbearable, he realised the woman was kneeling at his side, the baby held close to her breast. She flinched with every blow.
When he was finished, the cop stood back, proudly surveying his work. “There, now,” he said, still smiling, but a little breathless. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. “I’m glad we got that sorted out. Have you any questions?”
Fegan coughed, spattering a fine spray of blood on the floor. “Yeah,” he said.
The cop hunkered down. “Oh? What’s that, now?”
“Who the fuck
you?”
The cop laughed. “Don’t you know, Gerry?” He leaned in close and whispered, “I’m the rotten apple that spoils the barrel.”
Fegan closed his eyes and listened to the opening and closing of the door, the turning of keys, and the cop’s laughter receding in the distance. He rolled onto his back, feeling a deep, sickly weight in his midsection. The shadows gathered round, took shape, and he smiled weakly up at them.
“Are you enjoying it so far?” he asked.
The woman rested her cool hand on Fegan’s cheek, and the room slipped away from him.
27
Campbell marvelled at Paul McGinty’s ability to twist facts to suit his agenda. The speech was an incredible exercise in spin. The politician stood on the improvised platform just steps away from Vincie Caffola’s grave, blustering with all the indignation of the righteous. The same police force that left Caffola to choke on his vomit, he said, had beaten Edward Coyle, party activist, to a senseless mess after stopping his car on Eglantine Avenue. The crowd roared when McGinty vowed to see justice done, and it was all Campbell could do not to join in. No wonder the politician’s enemies respected and hated him in equal measure.
News cameras followed McGinty from the podium, but his security men blocked their path. The politician approached Campbell alone. “Walk with me,” he said.
They moved among the gravestones and memorials, working their way towards the gates where McGinty’s Lincoln waited. The sun warmed Campbell’s back.
“So, what do you reckon to our friend Gerry?” McGinty asked.
“He’s insane,” Campbell said. “That makes him dangerous. If I’m going to take him, it better be soon. He could do anything.”
“Our friend on the force gave him a message this morning,” McGinty said. “He made it very clear.”
“Threats won’t do it,” Campbell said. “You can’t reason with crazy.”
McGinty kicked gravel along the path and stopped. “Don’t worry, I won’t be reasoning with him. Not after what Father Coulter told me this morning. I knew it was him, but Christ, to come right out and say it. Even if he thought Father Coulter would keep that from me, he has some brass neck on him. But it’s a question of timing. I’ve got a press conference lined up for the morning. Eddie Coyle’s going to tell them how the peelers kicked the shit out of him. I don’t want anything to distract the press from that. It’s not just local press, either. Jesus, I’ve got CNN and Fox News coming. They love this sort of thing. See, this is what old Bull O’Kane doesn’t understand, what he never learned from us. As long as I’ve got the press lapping this stuff up, the Brits are on the back foot. I stir up enough shit, they’ll give us anything we ask for. They know we can bring Stormont down if we want to, and they’ll bend over backwards to stop it. They’ll be eating out of my hand, and the party won’t dare pass me over. Not when the cameras are on me. I’m telling you, the media’s a better weapon than Semtex ever was.”
“The media won’t be dancing to your tune if Fegan has a crack at someone else. He was ready to take me on last night, only something stopped him.”
“What?” McGinty asked.
“I don’t know.” Campbell shook his head. “Whatever it was, it was in his head. He’s snapped, completely gone, schizophrenic or some fucking thing.”
One corner of McGinty’s mouth curled up. “That’s your medical opinion, is it?”
“It’s no joke.” Campbell fixed the politician with a hard stare. “You better watch your back. I’m telling you, he—”
