Fegan spared McGinty a sideways glance. “Thanks,” he said.
“Shame about Michael, eh?” McGinty said.
“Yeah,” Fegan said.
“And Vincie Caffola now, too.”
Fegan kept his eyes on the glass divider and the road beyond. They passed the right turn into Fallswater Parade, moving further away from McKenna’s mother’s house. The gable walls were painted over with murals, propaganda messages written as art. “You really think the peelers did it?” Fegan asked.
“Maybe,” McGinty said. “That’s my public position, anyway.”
“You said you had witnesses.”
“Of course I do, Gerry.” McGinty gave a short laugh. “Of course I do.”
He placed his hand on Fegan’s knee and kept it there. “The thing is . . . look at me, Gerry.”
Fegan closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, turning to face McGinty.
“The thing is,” McGinty continued, ‘somebody might have done me a favor, all things considered.”
“How?” Fegan asked.
McGinty smiled. “Well, Michael, God rest him, was getting mixed up in things he shouldn’t have. See, times have changed. Some of us - not all, but enough of us - want Stormont to succeed. On all sides. Us, the Brits, even the Unionists. This is a different world. The bombs won’t work any more. The dissidents put an end to that in Omagh. The people won’t tolerate violence like they used to. Then 9/11 came along. The Americans don’t look at armed struggle the same way. Used to be we could sell them the romance of it, call ourselves freedom fighters, and they loved it. The money just rolled in, all those Irish-Americans digging in their pockets for the old country. They don’t buy it any more. We’ve got peace now, whether we like it or not.”
Fegan watched the murals drift past, images and slogans, portraits of Republican heroes next to expressions of solidarity with Palestine and Cuba. Another mural declared Catalonia was not part of Spain. Fegan couldn’t say if it was or it wasn’t, but he sometimes wondered what it had to do with anyone on the Falls. Then there was an image of George Bush sucking oil from a skull-strewn Iraqi battlefield, declaring it
America’s Greatest Failure
.
McGinty continued, “We’re walking a tightrope, and we can’t go upsetting the balance. Sure, the Brits allow us a certain leeway these days - you know, turn a blind eye to keep things stable - but we’re pulling away from all the shady stuff. We have to. We can still embark on our little enterprises, turn a few pound, so long as we’re careful. So long as we keep it quiet. But I’m in a difficult position now. I’ve put the years and the work in, along with everybody else. I put my neck out just like the rest of them, and I want my share of the rewards. But if I want my place at Stormont, then I have to be clean. Spotless, you understand.”
McGinty’s smile dissolved. “But Michael had become a problem. I told him to keep out of trouble, that any shit he got into would stick to me, but he didn’t listen. People smuggling, for Christ’s sake. The Liths were bringing in girls from the South, and Michael was dipping his toe in the water. Fair enough, there was good money there, but Jesus, kids? I mean fifteen-, sixteen-year-olds. Even the Brits wouldn’t let that go. He should’ve left all that to the Loyalists; they’re too stupid to know any better. If he’d been caught he could have done me a lot of damage. The leadership was concerned about him. They went to the old man about it.”
Fegan’s thigh tensed and he ground his shoe against the Lincoln’s carpeting as McGinty squeezed his knee.
“And then there’s Vincie. Now, don’t get me wrong, Vincie was a good volunteer. Best interrogator we ever had in Belfast. But he was mouthing off, how he didn’t like us sitting at Stormont, how he didn’t like us supporting the peelers, how we were selling out. And you know how the old man is, Gerry. Bull O’Kane doesn’t like dissent in the ranks. It unsettles people. I was called down to the farm just last weekend, and he told me to sort things out. Clean house, you know? Get everyone in line or I’d be out.”
Fegan knew the farm he meant, a few acres of land and a modest house that straddled the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic, where County Armagh became County Monaghan. O’Kane ran his empire from that remote bolt-hole, and Fegan sometimes heard whispers of how much cash the old man turned over. Millions, some said, maybe hundreds of millions. He buried it in property investment all over the world - England, Spain, Portugal and America - and kept layers of paperwork between him and the money.
These days, most of that money came from the endless demand for cheap fuel. The Bull ran dozens of laundering plants on farms along the border, each churning out millions of gallons of chemically stripped agricultural diesel - government-subsidised fuel intended for cash-strapped farmers. This diesel was processed, cleaned of its dye, and resold to petrol stations, motorists, hauliers and anyone else who wanted to get their hands on cheap fuel. Bull O’Kane now fought for Ireland by poisoning its countryside with chemical waste.
“How is the Bull these days?” Fegan asked.
“Oh, you know Bull,” McGinty said. “He’s kicking the arse of seventy, and he could still take any man came near him. Still as smart as a fox. You only met him a few times, didn’t you?”
“Twice,” Fegan said, his mouth drying at the memory. He swallowed. “It was a long time ago.”
“Anyway,” McGinty said, ‘the point is if someone had a personal thing, some score to settle with Michael McKenna and Vincie Caffola, they just might have done me a favor in the process. They might have done my cleaning-up for me, so to speak. Do you understand, Gerry?”
Fegan remained silent as McGinty’s hand patted his knee again.
“The fact is Michael McKenna and Vincie Caffola were becoming liabilities. The party’s no poorer without them. Now I’ve got an excuse to see off some foreigners who were eating into my business, and a new stick to beat the peelers with. Who knows, if I can convince the media the cops killed Vincie, we might be able to squeeze the Brits with it.”
“I see,” Fegan said. He could see both their reflections in the glass facing them. His own face appeared skeletal next to the other man’s.
“You were always smarter than you let on, Gerry,” McGinty said. “You could have done well for yourself if you’d wanted to. Anyway, my point is this: if someone unknown to us, a man working alone, had some bone to pick with Michael McKenna or Vincie Caffola, I might be prepared to overlook his transgression. Just this once. As it happens, he’s done me a good turn, so we can let it go.”
McGinty took his hand away from Fegan’s knee and draped it around his shoulder. “But that’s all. So far, no harm done. But no more, or I might have to take action. One thing, though.” McGinty leaned in close, his breath warm on Fegan’s ear. “He better not take me for an arsehole. Ever.”
Fegan cleared his throat. “I’m sure he won’t.”
“Not if he’s half the man you are,” McGinty said as he took his arm from around Fegan’s shoulder. “Now, to business. I’d like to see more of you around, Gerry. You always were a good fella to have about. There’s always work for a man like you. I need to know who my friends are in these trying times. Who I can trust, you know?”
“I try to keep myself to myself these days,” Fegan said.
“Fair enough, but you can’t become a hermit on us. It’d do you good to be active, you know, shake away the cobwebs.”
“I suppose.”
“And the drink, Gerry. You’ve got to knock that on the head. I’ve been hearing stories about you lately. About you sitting in McKenna’s bar, getting hammered. I hear you’re talking to yourself.”
“I’ve been cutting back these last few days,” Fegan said, truthfully.
“Glad to hear it. The drink killed my father. Yours too, if I remember right.”
Fegan turned his head away, looking to the street outside. Kids rode bicycles in the sunshine. The Lincoln turned right, then right again, doubling back towards Fallswater Parade. “Yeah,” he said.
“So, anyway, I’ve a wee job for you.”
Fegan turned back to the politician.
“Don’t worry,” McGinty said, smiling. “It’s nothing heavy. Thank God, very little is nowadays. Just a message I need you to deliver.”
Fegan thought about it for a moment and said, “All right.”
“Marie McKenna, Michael’s niece.”
Fegan’s fingernails bit his palm. “Yeah.”
“Seems you’re on friendly terms with her. She gave you a lift yesterday.”
“I don’t know her.” Fegan said. “Not really. I never talked to her before.”
“Well, she offended a lot of people, shacking up with a cop like that.” McGinty watched the houses, the murals and the flags sweep past his window. “Having a kid to him and all. There’s a lot of people would like to make their displeasure known to her. But Michael made sure she was left alone for her mother’s sake. Now Michael’s gone, it might not be so easy to keep them away.”
“They split up years ago,” Fegan said. “Why would anyone care now?”
“People have long memories, Gerry. Especially when it’s somebody else’s sin. We remember Bloody Sunday. We talk about it like it was yesterday. But we forget about the people who died in the days before and the days after. It’s human nature.”
I remember my sins
, thought Fegan.
They follow me everywhere
. He wondered if McGinty remembered his.
“I’d like you to have a wee word with her,” the politician said. “No threats. Subtle, like. Advise her she might be wise to move on. Across the water, maybe.”
“You want me to tell her at the house?” Fegan asked.
“Oh, no, not at Michael’s mother’s. She has a flat off the Lisburn Road, on Eglantine Avenue. Call by there later and have a chat with her. Like I said, keep it friendly. All right?”
Fegan couldn’t return McGinty’s smile. “All right,” he said.
16
The house on Fallswater Parade brimmed with black-garbed friends and family, but not as densely packed as the day before. Today, Fegan was able to breathe. He tried not to stay in one spot too long, lest some old acquaintance should corner him and grind him down with stories of past days. He filched a can of beer from the table in the living room and slipped out to the hall.
McGinty and Father Coulter were in the house somewhere, eating sausage rolls and slapping the faithful’s shoulders, but Fegan avoided them for fear of seeing shadows.
A moment of indecision gripped him. He had to stay a respectable amount of time, just for appearances, but where could he drink his beer in peace? Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms? No, that would be intrusive. The yard would be full of smokers. Where, then?
He remembered the alcove under the stairs. There was a telephone table with a seat in there. He could slip in, sit down in the semi-darkness, and if anyone questioned him he could say he was just resting his feet.
Fegan squeezed past a group of men and ducked into the small alcove. When he realised Marie McKenna had the same idea, and was already perched on the seat, he could only stare at her, his back bent, his head pressed against the underside of the stairs.
“Hello,” she said. He couldn’t tell if her eyes glittered with bemusement or fright. Maybe both.
“Hello,” he said. “I was just . . . ah . . .”
“Finding a place to hide,” she said, small lines forming around her grey-blue eyes as she smiled. “Me too.”
She held a glass of white wine. Lipstick smudged its rim. Fegan wondered what it tasted like.
“I’ll find somewhere else,” he said, backing out.
“No, there’s room,” she said. She shifted further along the seat, leaving space for Fegan’s wiry body. He hesitated for just a second, then slowly lowered himself to rest beside her.
“I wanted to talk to you, anyway,” Marie said. “To apologise.”
“What for?” He opened the can of Harp lager and took a sip. The fizz burned his tongue.
“For being all . . . well, weird, yesterday. I said some things I shouldn’t have.” The wine rippled in her glass as her hand shook.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Everyone does things they wish they hadn’t.”
“True,” she said. He caught the residue of a smile as he turned to look at her.
“Why did you come here?” Fegan asked. The question was out of his mouth before he could catch it. He looked back to the beer can in his hand.
Marie stiffened beside him. “What?”
Nothing
. That’s what he would have said if he wasn’t losing the remnants of his mind. Instead, he said, “They don’t want you, but you came here anyway. And yesterday. Why did you do that?”
She breathed in and out through her nose three times before saying, “Because it’s my family. For better or worse, it’s where I came from. I won’t be driven away, no matter how hard they try.”
