grease. The football shirts and trophies displayed around the bar looked a little sad now the only customers were this shower of shit.
The landlord’s father, Joe Gribben Senior, had been on the 1957 Louth team that won the Sam Maguire Cup, and Joe Gribben Junior would never let it be forgotten. Born and raised in Glasgow, Campbell had no interest in Gaelic football. And Joe Gribben Junior wisely had no interest in this discussion, so he stayed at the far end of the bar, out of earshot.
Comiskey leaned forward and waved a finger at Campbell. “How come he gets to go? Why’ve I got to stay with the auld doll?”
Campbell reached out and seized the finger. “Get that out of my face before I break it off.”
“Quit it,” McSorley scolded as he separated their hands. “Davy’s going with me ’cause he knows what he’s doing. All you know how to do is sit around and scratch your arse, so shut your trap and do what you’re told.”
“Away and shite,” Comiskey said. He sat back and folded his arms.
Campbell returned his stare until the other backed down. Were these really the best men McSorley could gather up? Taking a post office might raise enough cash to get some decent weapons, but what was the point of putting them in the hands of people like Comiskey? He’d probably shoot his own toe off.
Not for the first time, Campbell wondered what the fuck he was doing with this lot. They called themselves Republicans, truer to the cause than those sell-outs north of the border, but they could barely organise a round of beers. One insane act nine years before had almost wiped the dissidents out. The disastrous bombing of Omagh killed twenty-nine civilians and two unborn twins on a summer afternoon in 1998, just months after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement. What little support the breakaway Republican groups had evaporated overnight. The changes in the North were swelling their numbers, however, as more and more foot soldiers drifted to the dissidents; they feared becoming nobodies again now the movement had no further use for them. The peace process had left many idle hands, and the devil was busy doling out work.
Some of the boys had objected to Campbell’s presence, seeing as he wasn’t even Irish, but his reputation had travelled ahead of him from Belfast. When he crossed the border to Dundalk, McSorley sought the Scotsman out and made him his right-hand man. The dissidents were made up of gangs like McSorley’s, some larger, some smaller, all loosely affiliated under a common cause. Soon, maybe this year, maybe next, they would pull together and be a real threat once more. Until then, they would continue bickering amongst themselves while knocking over country post offices.
His eyes stopped at the silent television over the bar. A photograph of a familiar face was replaced by footage of men in white paper overalls and surgical masks examining a Mercedes.
“Look,” Campbell said.
McSorley was too wrapped up in his own plan to notice, so Campbell slapped his shoulder.
“What?”
“Look.” Campbell jerked his head at the television. “Hey, Joe! Turn that up, will you?”
The landlord obliged and the refined tones of an RTE reporter said, “A police spokesperson has refused to speculate on who might have been behind the killing of Michael McKenna, but security analysts have indicated that Loyalists or dissident Republicans are primary suspects.”
“Well, fuck, it wasn’t me,” McSorley said.
Comiskey and Hughes laughed. Campbell did not. A tingle of excitement sparkled in his stomach. He swallowed and pushed it down.
The reporter went on. “Although there had been rumors of a rift between Mr. McKenna and the party leadership, an internal feud has been ruled out by all observers. Security analysts have, however, specu - lated on the further political ramifications of Michael McKenna’s murder. As a senior Republican, and a member of Northern Ireland’s Executive at Stormont, his killing has the potential to destabilize the hard-won settlement in the North just as the newly formed government finds its feet.”
“Fuck me,” McSorley said. “Someone finally got Michael McKenna. Thank Christ for that. I won’t have to look at that slimy bastard’s face on the telly any more.”
The television switched to archive footage of McKenna being interviewed in front of his office on Belfast’s Springfield Road. Hughes and Comiskey jeered when the camera zoomed in on the party’s logo. As the report wrapped up, the northern correspondent said, “Police forensics officers remain at the scene.”
“They’ll find fuck all,” Campbell said. “Their forensics are shite. I’m surprised they found the bloody car.” His hand went to his pocket, feeling for his mobile phone. He wondered if he’d missed a call.
McSorley snorted. “Whoever it was, I’ll buy him a pint. Here, Davy, you knew McKenna, didn’t you?”
“Pretty well,” Campbell said. “He didn’t take it too kindly when I left to come down here. Said he’d break my knees if I showed my face in Belfast again.”
“Looks like someone did you a favor, then.”
Campbell gave it a moment’s thought. “Maybe. There’ll be trouble, though. The boys in Belfast won’t let that go. Somebody’s going to pay. I’ll tell you that for nothing.”
McSorley chuckled, his red-lined cheeks glowing.
“You look pretty chuffed about it,” Campbell said.
“Chuffed?” McSorley grinned and swept back his greying hair. “I’m as happy as a dog with two cocks and two lamp-posts to piss on. As the old saying goes, Davy,
He draped his arm around Campbell’s shoulder and leaned in close. His breath stirred the coarse hairs of Campbell’s beard. “Those bastards in Belfast have had it their way too long. They cashed in and left us swinging. Tell you what, I’ll get a round in and we’ll drink a toast to whatever cunt killed Michael McKenna.”
