He forced everything into his neck, lifting his head to see the voice. Hurricanes roared in his ears and his skin burned. A shape emerged from the fire, tall and thin.
Gerry Fegan.
He had something shiny and beautiful in his hand.
“They want you, Davy,” he said.
“Who?” Campbell asked, his voice a thin hiss.
Fegan pointed to the tattooed men. They grinned at Campbell and he wanted to scream, but there was no air.
“The UFF boys you set up,” Fegan said. “The ones you had me kill to cover your own tracks. It’s time to pay, Davy.”
Fire turned to ice and tremors spread out from Campbell’s center. He recognised the shining thing in Fegan’s hand and heard its hammer click into place.
“Fuck you,” he said.
“Everybody pays,” Fegan said as the revolver’s muzzle stared Campbell in the eye. “Sooner or later, everybody pays.”
Fury tore at Campbell’s heart. He wanted to taste Fegan’s blood, feel his flesh burst and split beneath his fingers, but the blackness flooded in.
The UFF boys leaned close, grinning and hateful. The other faces, the bodies, the limbs, all dead and rotting, swarmed on him. One form moved closest, a tattered hole in his forehead, the sergeant’s insignia still on his epaulettes.
Sergeant Hendry?
The long-dead soldier sank his teeth into Campbell’s skin, tearing at the remains of his body.
Fegan towered above them all.
“Fuck you!” Campbell screamed. “Fucking do it! Do it now. Pull the fucking trigger. Come on, pull it. Shoot me. Pull the—”
THREE
55
The revolver’s crack silenced the dogs for just a second. Fegan turned to the butcher, the black-haired woman and her baby. The woman gave him her small, sad smile.
Fegan nodded and walked past Bull O’Kane, who kept his gaze on the ground. He walked towards the yard, where the farmhouse waited. He stopped just inside the barn, leaning out to see it. The world had taken on the strange blue light of early morning as the rain thinned to leave a dull sheen on the farmyard. Low growls and whines came from the stables.
He breathed the tainted air for a moment, savoring the vivid clarity in his mind and the steadiness in his hands. His senses rang with life amid the smell of death. The chill at his center had become a bright flame, incandescent in his chest. Fegan studied the windows, looking for any sign of activity.
McGinty and the others would have expected shots, but not a fire-fight. They would be watching.
The Clio remained where he’d parked it, in the middle of the yard, between Fegan and the house. He had to get to it and the plastic bag taped under the passenger seat. He gave the windows and door another scan and set off at a crouching run.
The kitchen door opened inward and Fegan dropped to his knees, just feet from the car. A shot came from the doorway and something cut the air above his head. The dogs started howling and barking and scratching again.
It was Malloy. Fegan had just caught his stocky frame through the Clio’s windows. He listened for footsteps on the concrete. The noise of the dogs made it hard to be sure. He crawled towards the car, the wet concrete cold on his hands and knees.
Another shot rang out. Fegan heard the bullet pierce the barn’s corrugated metal shell. It sounded like it came from the doorway. Malloy was still inside. Fegan reached the Clio’s rear driver’s-side door and edged up to the glass. The kitchen door was cracked open and he could see a disruption in the shadow beyond.
He ducked down, his mind running in all directions. He didn’t want to kill Malloy, but he had to get past him.
Fegan inched back up to the glass and peered through. He saw a hand appear from the shadows. It held a pistol. A shot blew glass around him as he covered his head.
“I don’t want to kill you,” he called.
He waited. No reply.
“I only want McGinty. You can go if you want. I won’t hurt you.”
“You’re a dead man, Fegan.” Malloy’s voice had the glassy edge of fear as it echoed round the yard.
Fegan chanced another quick glance through the Clio’s windows, and ducked down again when he saw Malloy peering back through the narrow opening of the doorway. “You don’t have to die with McGinty. Not if you go now.”
A bullet struck the Clio’s bodywork, somewhere on the other side of the car.
“Please,” Fegan called. “I don’t want to kill you.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
