The bar, with its painted panelling and floral wallpaper, looked as if it hadn’t been refurbished in decades. The floor was covered in a loose-laid carpet, trodden thin, that didn’t quite reach the walls. A vast fireplace dominated one end of the room, the embers crackling and sighing as they settled down for the night. Fegan’s eyes scanned the bottles behind the bar and he swallowed. Some of them looked as old as him.
The sole customer watched Fegan and Marie from his stool. “So, Portcarrick seemed like the place to be at two in the morning?” he asked. His half-smile was kind, in spite of the jibe.
“We just took a notion,” Marie said. Ellen was awake now, blinking and rubbing her nose. Marie walked to the bar and set her on the painted surface.
“Where are we?” the little girl asked.
“We’re on our holidays,” Marie said, “At the seaside.”
Ellen accepted the answer without question. “I’m hungry,” she said.
“We’ll get you some crisps,” Marie said.
“I live in the cottage next door,” the customer said. “If Hopkirk can’t manage anything decent in the morning, give us a shout. I’m sure me and the missus can rustle up a fry.”
Marie smiled. “That’s very kind.”
“Not at all,” the man said. He looked at Fegan. “You look like you could do with a good feed.”
Fegan nodded and felt the odd sensation of his mouth curling in a smile. He was not used to kindness.
“Albert Taylor,” the drinker said as he extended his hand. “Good to meet you. Been in the wars?”
Fegan shook his hand. “George Ferris,” he said. His left hand went to the abrasion on his temple and smoothed his hair over it. “I had a fall.”
Marie stared at Fegan for a beat, then said, “Mary Ferris.” She indicated her daughter. “Ellen,” she said. That lie would be too hard to maintain.
Taylor shook Marie’s hand. “Just knock the window in the morning,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you fed even if Hopkirk’s not up to it.” He leaned forward on his stool, winked, and whispered, “Besides, I’m a better cook.”
Beyond the shuttered window the sea whispered and moaned. In the near-blackness, Fegan could hardly see the six shadows. But he could hear them. When his eyes fell shut, his head nodding forward, the screaming began. And the baby crying. Somewhere across the room, Marie and Ellen lay together, clinging to each other in this new place. Now and then, Fegan heard the little girl whimper. Sleep seemed to come no easier to her than to him. The chair he rested on was well upholstered, and with his feet propped on Marie’s suitcase he was comfortable enough, even with the rippling pains in his gut.
Sweat chilled his forehead and his hand trembled as he wiped it away. The dry want at the back of his throat deepened as he thought of the bar downstairs, the bottles lined up like whores in a brothel. He imagined the warmth of whiskey on his tongue and the coolness of stout on his lips.
Marie’s steady breathing formed a counterpoint to the waves rolling on the beach outside. Fegan’s own breath fell into step with hers as his mind wandered. His thoughts drifted from memory to memory - places and people, some bright and summery, others grey and haggard. He thought of the days before the bad times, before he knew not all fathers acted like that. About his mother and the warmth of her arms. About a goal drawn in chalk on a gable wall, and five boys kicking a ball at it, laughing, running, pushing, bare-backed on an August evening. About a girl called Julie who lived not far away but might as well have been from a different country. She shared a bag of toffees with Fegan, and her father beat her senseless for running with the likes of him. As his head rolled forward, he remembered her words and the purple swelling on her lip.
, she said.
He was falling head first into the dark when the cop started screaming, pulling him back. The others emerged from the black and joined in, dragging Fegan into wakefulness. Ellen stirred on the old bed, tiny cries escaping her. Fegan’s head felt so heavy, like sodden clay. He’d given them the priest. Couldn’t they leave him be?
No. The RUC man wanted his price paid. Fegan saw him, closest of the six, walking the floor.
“All right,” Fegan whispered to the dark. “Tomorrow night. Please, I’ll do it tomorrow night. Just give me a little quiet. Just a couple of hours.”
The RUC man hovered for a moment, then lost himself in the shadows. Ellen gave a cry so small Fegan might only have imagined it.
“But I don’t want to dream,” he said. “Don’t let me dream.”
He searched the blackness for them, for some assurance they would protect him from the horrors that waited in his mind. The woman stepped out of the dark and brought her forefinger to her lips.
“Thank you,” Fegan whispered.
He closed his eyes.
32
Edward Hargreaves was breathless when he answered his phone. The treadmill whirred under his feet. Two miles in less than twenty minutes - not bad. His good mood evaporated when the woman’s voice told him it was the Chief Constable on the line.
“Go ahead,” she chirped.
“Good morning, Minister,” Pilkington said.
“Christ, what now?” Hargreaves asked. He felt no inclination to feign conviviality. It was too perfect a morning to be spoiled by this oik. His top-floor Belgravia apartment afforded him a delightful view of the small private park surrounded by Cadogan Place. The single perk of this job was a top-notch London pad. So far he’d been able to prevent his wife seeing the inside of it. The desiccated old shrew would never cross its threshold if he had anything to say about it. Steam drifted in from the en-suite bathroom, where his new acquaintance was washing
