At Caffola’s signal, boys ran to the corner to fetch the deadly bottles. Smoke from the burning pile of mattresses and wood obscured the details of their actions from the police, but there could be no surprise in what was to come. The petrol bomb had always been the weapon of choice on these streets.
Fegan didn’t see who threw the first one. He saw only its fiery ascent, smoke following its fall. There was the sound of shattering glass, then the WHUMP! of the liquid igniting ten feet from the peelers. Those nearest took a step back and their commander scolded them as the mob cheered.
The next was thrown by the same skinny red-haired boy Caffola had instructed to disguise himself only a short while before. He gave the throw everything he could, but it landed twenty feet from the line, its fuel scattering everywhere and failing to catch light. The boy kicked at the ground in frustration.
The third was the charm. An older boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, lit the rag on his bottle and made his way out from behind the burning barricade. Air rippled around the flame as the boy held the bottle over his shoulder. He ran five steps and launched it. He froze and watched the petrol bomb arc upwards. The now hundred-strong crowd held its breath as the bottle reached its zenith, then fell, twisting and turning, leaving a smoky trail. Policemen scrambled backwards as the accuracy of the shot became apparent. It splashed at their feet, throwing flames around them, and the roar of the mob was deafening. As Caffola laughed and slapped his shoulder, Fegan watched the four cops touched by the fire drop and roll, their colleagues swatting at the flames with their gloved hands.
More petrol bombs flew, and more found their targets, some crashing against the Land Rovers, some making little hells at the feet of the police. Every successful hit brought another chorus of triumph from the boys and men surrounding Fegan. The eleven followers gathered around him, rapt in the spectacle.
“They’ll charge soon,” Fegan said, his temples throbbing, his heart racing. “They’ll run at us, drive the Land Rovers at us, try to break us up. They’ll want to scatter everyone into the side streets.”
“Yeah, I know,” Caffola said. He winked. “I’ve done this before, remember?”
“I remember,” Fegan said. He remembered everything. The charge, and the scattering, would be the key; his chance to get Caffola away and on his own.
Any minute now, he thought. He looked back to the police line. The Land Rovers maneuvered into position. They would come first, the cops following. The mob quieted, the boys and men bracing themselves. Caffola gave a girlish giggle as the police commander’s voice drifted on the breeze. The Land Rovers’ engines revved and the cops raised their batons.
“Here they come,” Fegan said.
11
The youngest boys ran first, fleeing just as the charge started. They screamed and laughed as they streamed past Fegan. The older boys held their ground longer, jeering, launching bricks and bottles even as the Land Rovers reached the barricade. Fire licked the armored vehicles as they broke through the mound. Burning debris flew in all directions. The cops came behind, roaring as they waved their batons.
“C’mon,” Caffola said, grabbing Fegan’s sleeve.
They ran to the side street, arms and legs churning, and ducked into an alley. They dodged old bicycles and plastic bins as dogs barked from inside the walled yards. Caffola’s laughter echoed in the narrow space.
They emerged onto a patch of waste ground and kept running, aiming for the streets opposite. When they reached the other side Caffola headed for one of them, but Fegan pulled him towards an alley. “No, this way,” he gasped.
Caffola followed him, and they ran until they reached a dead end. As they slowed to a halt, Caffola bent double, letting out a long moan.
“Jesus,” he said between desperate heaves of air, “I’m not fit for this any more.”
“Me neither,” Fegan said as his ribs screamed. He leaned against the wall, his head swimming. The pain behind his eyes swelled until he was sure his skull would not contain it. He pressed his palms to his temples and sucked air through his teeth.
Caffola grabbed his stomach with one hand and a bin with the other. “Aw, Christ,” he said. His mouth opened wide, and Fegan heard a splashing sound. The sour stink of vomit reached him and he covered his nose and mouth.
Fegan screwed his eyes shut. The pain came in hammer blows, smashing against his forehead. Even with his eyes closed, he felt them, the eleven, pushing at his consciousness. Without knowing why, he breathed deep and opened himself to them. A last bright bolt flared in his head, and the pain evaporated. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, letting the sudden cool giddiness wash over him. He opened his eyes, unsure of what he’d see.
The followers gathered in the alley’s dimness. They kept their distance, watching. The two UDR men stepped forward. Their faces burned with hate and savage pleasure.
Fegan turned his eyes to Caffola. The cold beginnings of rain dotted his face and forehead as he watched the other man retch. He looked back to the UDR men. Their eyes glinted in the gloom of the alley while the other darkened forms moved behind them. Their lips parted in toothless grins, loose red flesh revealed within.
Fegan closed his eyes again and wished for another way. As foolish as it was, he wished for another life away from this. He wished for peaceful sleep and bloodless hands.
He wished.
Fegan sighed, opened his eyes, and reached into his pocket. He took out a pair of surgical gloves. As he slipped them on he asked, “Do you remember those two UDR men in Lurgan?”
“What?” Caffola straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“In Lurgan,” Fegan said. “It would’ve been about ’87 or ’88. Do you remember? You tortured them till one of them fought back. You fell on your arse and I had to finish them for you.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Caffola said, a smile coming to him as he fought for breath. He coughed and spat. “They screamed the fucking place down.” Caffola’s brow creased as he looked down at Fegan’s hands. “What’re those for?”
As the rain began in earnest, the two UDR men drew closer. The downpour didn’t touch them.
“They want you,” Fegan said.
“What are you talking about, Gerry?” Caffola leaned back against the wall, his chest still heaving.
“The UDR men.” Fegan crouched down, searching the wet ground as the evening grew darker. “They want you.”
“What’s going on?” Caffola stepped away from the wall.
Fegan found what he needed and stood upright. “I’m sorry,” he said. He couldn’t be sure if he was apologising to the UDR men or to Caffola. Maybe both. He walked towards the other man.
Caffola backed away, his hands up. “What are you doing, Gerry?”
“What someone should have done years ago.”
Backed into the deepest corner of the alley, Caffola could go no further. “It
was
you, wasn’t it? You did McKenna.”
“That’s right,” Fegan said as he raised the brick over his head. In what remained of the evening light, he saw the other man’s eyes flash in realisation. Before he could bring the brick down, Caffola launched himself forward, his shoulder ramming into Fegan’s chest.
They hit the ground hard, and Caffola’s weight crushed the air out of Fegan’s lungs. The brick rattled against the wall. Their legs tangled as Caffola scrambled to his feet and he fell again, this time at Fegan’s side. Fegan pulled at the other’s jacket, trying to get a firm grip, and he heard the tearing of cloth. Caffola swung his elbow back, catching Fegan’s cheek. For a moment he was free and managed to find his feet before Fegan grabbed his ankles, bringing him down again.
There was a loud, sickly crunch as Caffola tried to break his fall, instead breaking his wrist. His scream echoed through the alley. Fegan straddled his back, reached for the brick, and raised it above his head once more. Caffola craned his neck around and gave one last cry before Fegan drove the brick into his temple.
Fegan felt Caffola go limp beneath him, and he threw the brick towards the followers. They stepped aside as it bounced into the darkness. The two UDR men approached and hunkered down so they were at eye level with Fegan. They aimed at Caffola’s broken head. Blood coursed from the wound on the bald man’s temple, and his glassy eyes fluttered as he moaned.
“All right,” Fegan said. He leaned down and pinched Caffola’s nose between his gloved fingers, covering his mouth with his palm. He let his weight settle on the other man’s back and, as the body began to jerk, Fegan squeezed tighter. A slick wet heat covered his gloved hand as Caffola began to vomit again, and Fegan applied yet more pressure. At last, he felt Caffola’s life slip away beneath him.
Fegan closed his eyes and searched his heart, looking for some sense of what he’d just done. He found nothing but the cold hollowness of his wishes.
He took his hand away from Caffola’s face, letting the vomit spill onto the ground. The rank odor and the warmth on his palm reached down to his stomach.
Turn away and be quiet
, he thought. He looked up at the followers. The woman stepped forward, carrying her baby, her floral dress pretty in the gloaming. She nodded and gave Fegan her small, sad smile.
The two UDR men were gone. Nine followers remained.
“Who’s next?” Fegan asked.
NINE
12
Campbell stared at the ceiling, his heart thundering, wondering what had woken him. He was a light sleeper - he needed to be - and the slightest stirring could rouse him. His mobile rang again, and he knew what had pulled him to waking. He reached over to the bedside locker and grabbed the phone. He squinted at its little display. Number withheld, it said. His heart rammed against his breastbone.
He thumbed the green button and brought the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”
“Come in,” an English-accented voice said.
“Now?” he asked, keeping the hope from his voice. “I’ve just got my way in here.”
“Change of plan,” the voice said. “This is urgent. Number one priority. That’s from the top.”
“Where?” he asked.
“Armagh. There’s a car park by a chapel, opposite the council buildings. Do you know it?”
“Yeah, I know it.” Campbell swung his legs out of bed. He rubbed his face, his beard prickling his palm. “There’s cameras all over that place.”
“They’ll be looking the other way.”
“Fucking better be. When?”
“An hour.”
“I’m in Dundalk. I’ve got to get packed up, get out of here, get my car, and there’s roadworks—”
“An hour.” The phone died.
“Fuck,” Campbell said.
His clothes lay on the floor where he’d thrown them the night before. He dressed quickly and quietly. A wardrobe leaned against the wall, its doors hanging at odd angles. He took a holdall from inside and stuffed it with the few garments he owned. His mobile and a set of keys were the only personal items remaining. Pocketing them, he stepped out onto the landing.
Gurgling snores came from the adjoining room. He pushed the door open and looked inside. Eugene McSorley lay sprawled on the bed, fully clothed, a beer can still in his hand.
Campbell wondered if he’d ever come back and finish what he’d started here. It had taken months to bring this about, to work his way into the gang. So far it had come to nothing. But still, McSorley might make a nuisance of himself if someone didn’t keep tabs on him.
An idea flashed in Campbell’s mind. He could cross the room and silently dispose of McSorley. It would be so easy just to kneel on his chest and put the correct pressure on his throat. He gave it a few seconds’ thought.
“Fuck it,” he said, and moved away from the door. He descended the stairs and let himself out. The sun was only beginning to creep above the houses opposite as he climbed into the old Ford Fiesta. Its tired, wheezy engine coughed into life and he pulled away, heading for the port where his own car, his real car, was safely locked away.
Fifty-two minutes after his phone woke him, Campbell steered his BMW Z4 Coupé into the car park by the chapel. Its engine burbled as he pulled alongside the anonymous Ford Mondeo. Like his own car, the Mondeo’s windows were tinted, obscuring its occupants from casual glances. He could just make out the shapes of two men in the front seats. His shadow stretched long in the early sunlight as he climbed out of the BMW. Armagh’s cathedrals loomed over the small town, reminding him it was actually a city. The man in the Mondeo’s driver’s seat reached across and opened its rear door.
Campbell lowered himself in and said, “Let me guess. McKenna, right?”
The two men exchanged glances. The one in the driver’s seat, the handler, passed Campbell a palmtop computer displaying a photograph of two men. It was poorly lit, but he could make them out, standing on a street corner.
