McGinty stopped pacing and glared at Campbell. “Get out, Patsy.”
Toner raised his eyes from his lap. “What? This is my office. You can’t—”
McGinty spun and kicked Toner squarely on the shin. “Get the fuck out or I’ll rip your fucking head off!”
Toner limped to the door, scowling.
When McGinty was alone with Campbell, he said, “Watch your mouth, Davy. I don’t want any talk of that. Not when there’s other people around.”
“All right,” Campbell said. “But you better be watching your back. Fegan could come at you any time, anywhere.”
McGinty sat down on Toner’s chair. “Maybe, if he’s got the balls.”
“Balls? Balls has nothing to do with it. How many times do I have to spell it out for you? He’s insane. He was a vicious bastard before; now he’s a
vicious bastard. All I’m telling you is watch out.”
“All right,” McGinty said, standing. “Now let me tell you something. If he shows up and you haven’t sorted him within thirty seconds, you’re the one who’d better watch out.”
Campbell held the politician’s gaze for as long as he dared before letting his eyes slip away. “So, what’s the plan?”
“The news.”
Campbell looked back to McGinty. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe you didn’t hear it. It’s mostly about Father Coulter, of course, how shocked the community is and all that. I did a couple of soundbites first thing this morning. But we got another wee story sneaked into the newsrooms, something about Marie McKenna and her daughter going missing. If some concerned citizen spots them they’re to call Lisburn Road Police Station where our friend will be waiting to answer the phone.”
“It’s risky,” Campbell said. “The cops might get to them first.”
“I promised our friend a nice bonus if he gets the call and passes it on to me. He loves his money. Mark my word, he won’t leave that phone all day. Besides, I don’t see what else we can do.” McGinty leaned forward and pointed at Campbell. “But listen hard, Davy. Don’t fuck it up again. If this flushes Fegan out, I want him done. You sort him or I sort you. Understood?”
Campbell got to his feet, his thigh complaining and his side shrieking. “Understood. If he surfaces, I’ll get him.”
34
“You’re very kind,” Marie said.
Mrs. Taylor smiled and set a plate of toast on the table.
The warm smell of fried breakfast filled the cottage and Fegan’s stomach rumbled in anticipation, despite the rippling aches still lurking in his midsection. Steam leaked from a big pot of tea at the center of the table. There was milk, sugar, butter and jam.
The lady of the house had a round, glowing face, and clear blue eyes. Like her husband, she was well-spoken but had a good line in swear words. Fegan, Marie and Ellen had been in the house less than thirty minutes, and Mrs. Taylor had already apologised three times for cursing within earshot of the child.
“Get the fu—I mean, get away, Stella,” she said to the dog who sat staring expectantly at the table. Fegan knew she was a Boxer - his grandfather had owned one - and Stella had the same kind of face. One that looked permanently guilty, as if some form of mischief was in the recent past, the near future, or both. Stella ignored Mrs. Taylor’s instruction, instead licking her chops as Mr. Taylor brought in a plate loaded with bacon and sausages.
Fegan’s dry-eyed gaze wandered the room. Paintings covered the walls - oils and watercolors - and small sculptures sat on every level surface.
Another wave of nausea came with the cold prickling of sweat on his forehead and back. He swallowed and wiped his brow before lacing his fingers together on the table, each hand keeping the other still. A headache threatened to blot out the sunshine from outside, where Fegan could see across the mouth of the river, over to where the long beach stretched into the distance. The sky was a hard blue and two boats dotted the horizon. A mass of land was just visible in the haze where the sea met the sky.
Mr. Taylor sat down. “The Mull of Kintyre,” he said. He leaned over to Ellen. “See out there? That’s Scotland.”
Ellen gaped out of the window. “Look, Mummy, that’s Scotland!”
Marie smiled and stroked her daughter’s hair. “We’ll take a walk on the beach later so you can see it better, okay? Now, eat up your nice breakfast.”
While Ellen carefully constructed a toast and bacon sandwich, Fegan thought about the Mull of Kintyre. It was 1994, and he was in the Maze when news came of a Chinook helicopter crash on the Mull. Twenty-five MI5, British Army and RUC intelligence personnel, plus four crew members, died when the aircraft ploughed into the hillside in heavy fog. There were celebrations in Republican and Loyalist blocks alike that night. While the other prisoners laughed and cheered outside his cell, Fegan lay on his bed and studied the cracks in the ceiling.
Mrs. Taylor came back with a pot and a wooden spoon. “Who’s for scrambled eggs?” she asked. Ellen and Fegan refused. The little girl smiled at him when he wrinkled his nose.
“So, how’s old Hopkirk treating you?” Mr. Taylor asked.
“Fine,” Marie said. “We’re used to roughing it, anyway.” She looked at Fegan with a sly smile. “Aren’t we, George?”
It took Fegan a moment to remember the lie. “Yeah, we’ve stayed in worse.”
Ellen looked back and forth between them, a crease in her brow. Marie winked at him, and Fegan smiled
