“Jesus, Bull, he’s lying.”
Campbell fought against O’Kane’s grip. His eyes bulged and the Bull ignored the sting of fingernails tearing at his wrists. Soon, Campbell’s eyelids began to droop, his body grew limp, and the struggling died away.
O’Kane lowered Campbell’s head to the floor. A string of red-streaked saliva stretched from the cotton wool as he took it away from the Scot’s mouth. He stood and turned to face McGinty.
“He was lying, Bull.” McGinty’s face paled beneath the bare light bulb. “He was just trying to get back at us, to turn us against each other. You can see that, can’t you?”
O’Kane watched the politician’s veins bulge, his Adam’s apple bob above his shirt collar. “We’ll talk about it later. After Fegan.”
“Come on, Bull, you know he was—”
A burst of static made McGinty jump. O’Kane turned to see his son raise the walkie-talkie to his ear. A distorted crackle that might have been a voice came in a short burst of chatter.
Padraig thumbed the button. “Right,” he said. He lowered the radio to his side. “It’s him. He’s coming.”
47
A flashlight waved from side to side twenty yards ahead. Fegan slowed the Clio as he approached the undulating light. The country lane was narrow, barely room for two cars to pass, and lined with hedges. Fields sloped up into the night on either side. A short, stocky man in a woollen hat and green combat jacket stepped into the road and raised his hand. Fegan brought the car to a halt. The man walked around to the driver’s side window and made a winding motion with the flashlight. Fegan did as he was told.
“You Fegan?” the man asked.
Fegan squinted against the torchlight. “Yeah.”
Another man, tall, thin and armed with a double-barrelled shotgun, emerged from the hedgerow. He aimed the gun at Fegan through the windscreen.
The stocky man shone the light into the dark corners of the car, into the footwells at the front, and then the back. “Get out,” he said. He stepped back to let Fegan climb out.
“Put your hands on top of your head,” the one with the shotgun said.
Fegan obeyed as the stocky one began searching his pockets. “I’m not armed,” Fegan said.
The stocky man spared him one glance. “If it’s all the same to you, mate, I think I’ll see for myself.”
Fegan stood still as warm rain licked at his closed eyelids. He sensed the shadows watching. His temples pulsed and a chill crept towards his center.
“You won’t find anything,” Fegan said, opening his eyes.
The stocky man looked up from his search. “Shut up.” When he was satisfied he said, “Open the boot.”
They walked to the rear of the car. Fegan opened the boot and the hatch rose with a hydraulic whine. The stocky man shone the torch into the far corners. He pointed to the canvas bag.
“Lift that out.”
Fegan reached in and lifted the bag. He rested it on the sill and unzipped it. The stocky man kept his distance as he peered inside. His brow creased and he leaned forward. He lowered his hand down into it, pushing clothes aside to see the greasy paper.
“Fuck me,” he said. “How much is it?”
Fegan shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The man with the shotgun came forward. “What is it?”
“Look,” the stocky man said, pointing.
“Jesus.”
The two men looked at each other. A dozen possibilities passed between them, but finally they shook their heads.
“Come on,” the stocky man said, taking the bag. “The Bull’s waiting.”
Fegan drove the last few hundred yards with the shotgun’s twin muzzles at the back of his head and the stocky man beside him, cradling the bag of money in his lap. The Clio’s headlights caught the narrowing of the lane as it rose to meet an old farmyard. A barn stood open, bright light flowing out. Eddie Coyle stood just inside, tying a blood-drenched bandage around his head. He glared back at Fegan.
The car shuddered around them as its engine died. Fegan heard dogs bark and scratch at the stable doors over the sound of a generator. This place smelled of death: painful, frightened death. Its stink crept in through the open window. Shadows moved across the yard, turning, searching.
Bull O’Kane and Paul McGinty stepped out into the rain. The Bull crossed to the car and leaned down so he could see inside.
“Come into the house, Gerry.”
Fegan opened his door and climbed out. The other men got out too. O’Kane waved a hand at them.
“You know these boys?”
“No,” Fegan said.
“Tommy Downey and Kevin Malloy. They’ll rip you to pieces if you so much as look like you’re going to make a wrong move. If you fuck about with me, I’ll let these boys loose on that woman of yours. You understand?”
