“He only wants a word,” Toner said. “Don’t worry.”
Fegan brushed Toner’s hand away. “I’m not worried; I’m hungover. Come on.”
He pushed past Toner, went to the door, and opened it. His heart lurched at the sight of the man who waited there.
Vincie Caffola’s bald head reflected light from the bare bulb above. Boxes and barrels had been moved to the outside of the room, and a single wooden chair placed at its center. Plastic sheeting covered the floor, and Caffola wore new overalls that struggled to contain his bulky shoulders.
“Gerry, how’re ya?” Caffola’s smile made Fegan’s stomach turn.
“All right.”
“I’ll wait in the car.” Toner patted Fegan’s back and disappeared the way they had come.
“Take a seat,” Caffola said.
Fegan sat down, placing his hands on his knees, fighting the urge to cover himself. The light bulb above swung lazily in the draught from Toner closing the door. It made Caffola’s shadow sweep across the wall. Other shadows followed it, crossing one another, solidifying. Fegan swallowed and blinked against the ache settling behind his eyes.
“Bad news about Michael, eh?” Caffola wore a grim expression.
Two forms stepped out of the dark corners, young men long dead. Blood and black earth streaked their uniforms. Fegan focused on Caffola even as they raised their hands to form pistols with their fingers.
“Yeah,” he said. “I thought it was all over.”
“It’ll never be over.” Caffola paced the floor. The two Ulster Defence Regiment men moved with him. “Not till the Brits get out. I made my position clear to McGinty and the rest of them. I don’t like what’s going on. Supporting the peelers, sitting at Stormont, all that. But I go with the party, no matter what.”
“You were always loyal,” Fegan said.
“Yeah, loyal.” Caffola seemed to like the word. He clapped his hands once. Back to business. “So, I need to find out what happened to Michael. He left you home last night. What time?”
“About quarter past, half twelve. Something like that.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No, we didn’t talk much. I was pissed.” There had been a time when Caffola took orders from Fegan. The admission of his weakness shamed him.
“Did he say anything about these boys he was doing business with?”
Fegan looked up at the big man. “What boys?”
“A bunch of fucking Liths.” Caffola’s mouth twisted as if the word had a foul taste. “Dirty bastards. I swear to God, this place is getting so full of foreigners it won’t be worth getting the Brits out. Fucking Lithuanians, Polish, niggers, pakis, chinks. You walk through town any day you hardly hear an Irish accent. All foreigners. And Dublin’s worse. Have you been there lately?”
“No,” Fegan said.
“Fucking foreigners everywhere, dirty fuckers serving you food. I can’t eat out any more ’cause some black bastard’s got his hands all over it.” Caffola shuddered.
Fegan’s mind chased memories as he watched the two UDR men aim at Caffola’s shaved head, executing him just as the boy had McKenna. His breath caught in his chest when the memory snapped into place. It was in a room like this, in Lurgan, twenty miles south-west of the city.
The old Ulster Defence Regiment was once made up of part-time soldiers recruited from the local population. Like the police, they were almost entirely Protestant. Some were also Loyalists abusing the job to target Catholics while they patrolled country lanes and smaller towns. A unit of six had been ambushed in a landmine attack near Magheralin. Two died instantly, two lay broken but still alive at the roadside, and two fled across the fields. A gang of local boys who were there to pick off the survivors caught them within ten minutes and brought them to a shebeen on a housing estate on the edge of Lurgan. Caffola and Fegan reached the drinking club within the hour.
Vincie Caffola was better at getting information than anyone in the movement. He was a big man, but slow. He knew how to inflict pain, he was an artist in that way, but he was no good in a fight. Fegan came along just in case.
The two UDR men were bleeding hard, both crying with pain and terror. Their mouths gaped, dripping red from shredded gums as their teeth lay scattered on the floor. They’d given up the little they knew an hour before, but Caffola kept going. He was kneeling on the floor, pulling out a toenail with his pliers when, suddenly, the foot he was working on kicked out, throwing him off balance. Caffola landed on his back, and the UDR man was on his feet, his bonds falling away. Caffola just lay there, staring up at the screaming soldier, unable to move. Fegan put a hole through the soldier’s head before he took his second step. The other, still fixed to the chair, squealed as his friend’s body hit the floor. Fegan silenced him with a shot to the temple. He looked down at Caffola, still sprawled in the blood and teeth, and told him to clean this fucking mess up.
Now Fegan considered his possibilities. If Caffola’s questioning became physical, Fegan was confident he could handle the big man. But there’d be no escaping. The boys would be after him. He decided to be still.
“I don’t know any foreigners,” he said.
“So you don’t know this cunt, then?” Caffola went to a cupboard door and opened it. A tall thin man was curled up inside, bound hand and foot, gagged. He stared out at them, shaking. Red blotches stained his grey suit.
The two UDR men moved back into the dark corners. Fegan lost them among the shadows, and the pain behind his eyes faded to a murmur.
