The Ghosts of Belfast (The Twelve)

Campbell stood to let McSorley slide out of the booth, relieved to be free of his embrace. McSorley stopped halfway to the bar and came back to Campbell. He reached out his hand. Campbell gripped it in his.

“We need boys like you, Davy,” McSorley said, squeezing Campbell’s fingers. “I’m glad you’re with us.”

McSorley released Campbell’s hand and turned away. Campbell wiped it on his jeans. He slipped back into the booth and noticed Hughes and Comiskey’s attention.

“What?” he said.

Comiskey gave him a lopsided smile. “You might fool him, Davy, but you don’t fool me. Just remember, I’ll be watching you.”

“Is that right?” Campbell raised his eyebrows and returned the smile.

“That’s right. You put a foot wrong and I’ll have you, boy.” Comiskey placed his elbows on the table, formed a pistol with his fingers, and mimed cocking it. “Click-click, Davy.”

“Ready when you are, pal,” Campbell said. He held Comiskey’s gaze just long enough to make his point before turning his eyes to the mountains beyond the window. He thought of Michael McKenna’s corpse lying in a car in Belfast, and his gut twisted with a mix of sweet anticipation and cold unease.

4

Two officers sat across the table from Fegan, and Patsy Toner at his right hand. The interview room in Lisburn Road Police Station had the bland clinical feel of a hospital.

“And Mr. McKenna just let himself out after he put you to bed?” the older officer asked.

“Mr. Fegan has already answered that question,” Toner said. His rumpled navy suit looked like it had been slipped over his bony frame in a hurry.

“Well, I’d like him to answer it again. Just for confirmation.” The officer smiled.

“As far as I know, yeah, he let himself out,” Fegan said. “I was drunk. I passed out as soon as I hit the pillow.”

The truth was he’d slept very little the previous night. It took him an hour and a half to work his way through the streets, avoiding CCTV cameras on his route home. He climbed a wall into the back yard of one of the derelict houses two streets away from his place and hid the gun under some wood in a crumbling shed. He slipped quietly into his home and went straight upstairs. For the first time in two months he lay down in peace, but the ringing in his ears and the memory of the boy’s savage grin kept him staring at his ceiling. Sleep evaded him until light crept through the crack in the curtains.

“Fair enough,” the officer said. “That’ll do us for now.”

As they walked to Toner’s car, Fegan asked, “How did you know to be waiting there for me?”

Toner smiled and said, “We’ve got a friend inside. Have done for years. He rang me as soon as he heard the Major Investigation Team were going to question you. He doesn’t see much action these days, but he’s still useful to have.”

Toner had a good career as a solicitor. Small and thin, he still looked like the boy Fegan had run with all those years ago, despite the thick moustache. He claimed to be a human-rights lawyer when he talked to the press, though Fegan knew exactly whose rights he fought for. And his Jaguar proved they paid well.

Toner cleared his throat as he started the engine. “I’ve to take you to see someone before I bring you home,” he said.

“Who?” Fegan asked. He let his hand rest near the door handle, ready to pull it and run.

“An old friend.” Toner gave him a reassuring smile as he pulled away.

Fegan moved his fingers away from the door handle and steeled himself. He was grateful for Toner’s silence as the Jaguar made its way north along the Lisburn Road, stopping every few dozen yards for pedes trian crossings. Designer boutiques, restaurants and wine bars passed on either side. Students and young professionals crossed at the lights.

They think the city belongs to them now, Fegan thought. If the peace process meant they could buy overpriced coffee without fear, then perhaps they were right. A young woman in a business suit crossed in front of the Jaguar’s bonnet, a mobile phone pressed to her ear. Fegan wondered if she was even born when they scraped the body parts off the streets with shovels.

He turned his mind away from that image, angered at his own bitterness. The quiet after weeks of clamor unsettled him. Now that the followers had left him alone, now the chill at his center and twists in his stomach had abated, he found the clarity disorienting. But seven years of shadows and glimpses would not end for the passing of Michael McKenna. The eleven were there somewhere, just beyond his vision, waiting. Fegan was sure of that.

Eventually, Toner turned left onto Tate’s Avenue, heading west across the city. Back to where they belonged.

The exterior of the old Celtic Supporters Club had seen better days. Tricolors and footballs decorated the sign above the entrance, but the paint flaked away to expose rotting wood. Behind metal grilles, the grubby painted-over windows made the building appear blinded.

Toner led Fegan inside. The sole afternoon drinker kept his eyes on his newspaper as they entered. A smell of stale beer and cigarettes laced the dimness; the smoking ban would never be enforced in places like this.

They went to the rear of the club and entered a dank and narrow corridor with doors to the toilets at either side, and another marked PRIVATE at the end. As Toner went to open the door to the back room, a flash of pain burst in Fegan’s head, a lightning arc between his temples. He stopped and leaned against the wall. A chill crept inward from his limbs, crawling to his core like icy spider webs.

Toner looked back over his shoulder and said, “Jesus, Gerry, what’s wrong?”

Fegan breathed deep. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

Eleven shadows moved along the corridor, past Toner, and became one with the darkness beyond. Toner came back to Fegan and put a small hand on his shoulder.