The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve)

spacing, as if the writer were afraid of revealing anything of himself. It was dated the fourteenth of December 1997. A little over nine and a half years ago. Campbell held his breath as he read.

Dear Mother,

Father Coulter was here today doing his visits. He told me you are very sick. He said you have cancer. I asked my new psychologist Dr. Brady and he said they would probably let me out to see you if I ask them.

Please let me see you. I am sorry for what I did. I am sorry I let you down. I know you are ashamed of me. I don’t blame you. I am ashamed of myself.

Please let me come and visit you. If I could take back what I did I would. I know you have mercy in your heart. I had no mercy in my heart when I did those things but I have now.

Please have mercy. Please let me see you before you get any sicker.

Your son,

Gerald.

Campbell closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling the paper’s texture between his fingers, listening to his own heartbeat. He opened them again and folded the letter before slipping it back into its envelope. Using his fingertip, he smoothed the tear over as best he could and returned the letter to the box. It fitted neatly into the back corner of the wardrobe, in the dark where he couldn’t see it.

“Fuck!” he said, startled at the vibration of his phone. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen. Number withheld. It could be anybody. He thumbed the answer button and brought it to his ear. “What?”

“We’ve found them,” Patsy Toner said.

36

“There you go,” the young man said, dropping the sponge into the bucket. “Not the tidiest ever, but you wanted it quick.”

Fegan pressed two twenty-pound notes into the acne-faced kid’s hand. “Thanks.”

“You all right, mate?”

Fegan pushed his shaking hands down into his pockets. “I’m grand,” he said, and turned to the car.

Viper Stripes, they were called. A pair of ridiculous white bands that drew a line from the green Renault Clio’s nose, over the hood, along the roof, and back down the tailgate. They were supposed to look sporty, but Fegan thought they looked stupid, though no more so than the other little cars parked in front of Antrim Motor Kit. They all had spoilers, bulbous wheel arches and lowered suspensions, and they were all driven by spotty youths in baseball caps.

Fegan had stopped at a beauty spot along the coast and removed the number plates from another green Clio. They were now stuck over Marie’s plates using permanent tape he had bought in a hardware shop in Ballymena. It would take a most attentive police officer to recognise the car as belonging to a missing woman.

Ten or fifteen years ago it would have been impossible to drive from the coast, through two large towns, and on to Belfast without meeting a roadblock. An army or police checkpoint would have been a certainty along Fegan’s route, but not today. Many times he’d been pulled from a car by Brits or UDR, and searched at the side of the road while uniformed men ripped out the vehicle’s innards. The young men in their modified cars would be outraged if that ever happened to them, though their fathers, Protestant and Catholic alike, had endured it every day for decades.

The weather had turned. The warm sunshine of the previous weeks had begun to wane, and clouds hung low overhead. The world was turning grey, and Fegan felt a heaviness inside as he opened the driver’s door.

He lowered himself into the car, started the engine, and moved off. The Clio jerked at his clumsy gear changes; it had been a long time since he’d driven. He joined the system of roundabouts that led to the M2 motorway. In less than an hour he’d be in Belfast.

37

“Jesus, you’re a fucking mess,” Campbell said.

“Fuck you,” Eddie Coyle said, forcing the words through the narrow opening of his mouth. Fegan had knocked out two teeth and dislocated his jaw. He looked like someone had molded his face from purple and yellow plasticine and sewn the pieces together.

“Shut up,” McGinty said from behind his desk. He pointed to the chair next to Coyle. “Sit down.”

McGinty had furnished his moderately sized constituency office with functional items, as befitted the party’s socialist dogma. Images of Republican heroes like James Connolly and Patrick Pearse decorated the walls. A map of Ireland divided into the four provinces hung above an Irish Tricolor.

“Our friend inside Lisburn Road station headed off a call from a hotel owner this morning,” McGinty said. “We were due a stroke of luck after the balls you two made of things.”

Campbell pointed to the ceiling, then his ear.

McGinty shook his head. “We’re clean. The place was swept for bugs this morning. As I was saying, our friend did well. He’ll get a nice bonus for his troubles and - despite my better judgment - you two get the chance to put things right. Do you think you can manage not to completely fuck it up this time?”

Campbell and Coyle did not answer.

“If I didn’t need to keep as few people in the know as possible, I’d have given this to someone else. But, as it’s a delicate matter, it’s up to you two.”

“Where are they?” Campbell asked.

“Portcarrick. It’s a little village up on the Antrim coast. Very pretty. There’s an old hotel on the bay called Hopkirk’s. They arrived there late last night, apparently. Gerry Fegan, Marie McKenna and the wee girl.”