“Aw, shite,” Father Coulter said when the darkness remained. The light bulb lay near Fegan’s shoeless feet.
Father Coulter sighed and entered the bedroom. Fegan and the shifting shadows watched his dark form as he kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. He turned onto his back and pulled the white collar from his black shirt. A few seconds of fumbling and his top buttons were undone. He let his arms fall to his sides, and he sprawled on top of the blankets. Within a few minutes his guttural snoring filled the room.
The three Brits emerged from the darkest corners to stand alongside the bed, miming the priest’s execution. The woman followed them, her baby’s tiny hands clutching at her dress as she rocked it in her arms. She smiled at Fegan. He nodded and stood up. Campbell’s knife was light but the grip felt solid in his hand as he crossed the room. He felt for the thumb stud, cold through the thin membrane of the surgical gloves. The blade opened with a small snap.
The snoring stopped. Fegan could just make out Father Coulter’s round face and blinking eyes.
The shadows receded.
The priest’s voice was a small whisper. “Who’s there?”
“It’s all right, Father,” Fegan said. “You’re just dreaming. Go back to sleep.”
“Dreaming? I . . . I ...”
“Shush.” Fegan raised the knife.
“Gerry? Gerry Fegan? Is that you?”
Fegan froze. “Yes, Father.”
“What do you want, Gerry? What are you doing here?”
“Remember you told me about the dreams, Father?”
The priest tried to raise himself up on his elbows. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
Fegan reached down and smoothed Father Coulter’s hair. “Remember? Those Brits. You could have stopped it, but you didn’t.”
Father Coulter slowly shook his head. “That was so long ago, Gerry. I was scared.”
“Aren’t you scared now?”
The priest nodded.
“You won’t have to dream about them any more,” Fegan said.
“Please, Gerry, you’re frightening me. What do you want from me?”
“Nothing at all,” Fegan said. “You know, I would have let you live.”
Father Coulter stiffened on the bed. “What?”
“I was ready to do it the other night, but I lost my nerve. I could have lived with the three Brits, maybe. I thought you didn’t deserve it.”
“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, Gerry, please don’t. Let’s just talk about it, eh?” The priest tried to sit up and Fegan gently pushed him back down.
“Then you brought that message to Marie. You threatened her for McGinty.”
“No, I—”
“And you told McGinty what I said. My confession.”
“No, that’s not true. I swear, I never—”
“Quiet, Father.”
“Oh, Christ, please—”
Fegan closed his left hand over the priest’s mouth to stifle his cries. He brought the knife down once, hard, before Father Coulter could raise his arms in defence. It was a good knife, with a strong, sharp steel blade. There was little resistance, even from the breastbone, as the knife pierced his heart. Fegan withdrew it easily, and brought it down twice more.
Father Coulter gripped Fegan’s shoulder, his body twisting. In the darkness, Fegan saw gleaming eyes stare up at him. The priest’s breath was warm as he screamed into Fegan’s palm.
“It’s all right, Father,” Fegan said. “It won’t take long. You’ll go into shock soon. It won’t hurt at all.”
Fegan took his hand away, and Father Coulter grabbed shallow gasps of air. The priest’s mouth worked silently, opening and closing. He brought his hands to his chest. There was little blood.
“May God forgive you,” he hissed.
Fegan wiped the blade clean on the blankets. “It’s not His forgiveness I need, Father. I know that now.”
The bubbling of blood filling the priest’s chest cavity, the rustling of blankets, and the soft whimpering faded as Fegan watched him die. It took less than two minutes from the first stab to the last hiss of air as the life left Father Coulter’s body. Fegan removed the overcoat he’d taken from the wardrobe and covered the corpse.
He folded the knife and put it back in his pocket. His shoes were next to the chair and he slipped them on in silence. A sports bag holding a few clothes, British and Irish passports, two pistols, fifty-seven rounds of ammunition and thousands of pounds in rolled-up bills lay on the floor. Fegan slung it over his shoulder and made his way downstairs. He went through the kitchen to the backyard, closing the door softly behind him. The gate was secured from the inside by a padlock, so he climbed over the yard wall to the alleyway beyond and started walking. It was a long trek from here to the Europa Hotel in town, and the bus station behind it. He’d have to be quick to
