“Sit down, I’ll get you a drink,” Toner said.
Coyle did as he was told, taking a seat two tables away from Fegan. He cursed quietly to himself for a full minute before he raised his head.
“What are you looking at?” he demanded.
“You,” Fegan said.
“Well, you can fuck off, too.” Coyle couldn’t hold Fegan’s gaze. He dropped his eyes to the tabletop.
“Jesus, calm down, Eddie,” Toner said as he carried two pints back to the table. He rolled his eyes at Fegan and shook his head.
“Calm down?” Coyle pointed to his face. “Look at the cut of me, for Christ’s sake. That cunt’s going to get it, Patsy. I don’t care what McGinty says.”
Toner pointed at the door. “Go on, then. Go and get him. Then you can go and tell McGinty what you did and see what he says.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Coyle said, reaching for his beer.
“Get who?” Fegan asked.
Coyle set his pint back on the table, letting it spill over his fingers. “What’s it to you?”
“Jesus, Eddie, settle yourself,” Toner said. He turned to answer Fegan. “Davy Campbell’s back in town. Him and Eddie had a run-in this afternoon.”
The two UFF boys drifted to Toner’s table, suddenly showing interest in the little man’s words. The hairs on Fegan’s forearms bristled beneath his sleeves. “I thought he was with McSorley’s lot these days.”
“Looks like he had a change of heart,” Toner said. “He phoned me up last night, said he wanted to come back to Belfast. He’s a good lad, so I squared it with McGinty this morning.”
“He’s a cunt,” Coyle said.
“Aw, give over,” Toner said. “You shouldn’t pick fights with boys you can’t take. Now, quit mouthing about it, will you?”
Coyle muttered something under his breath and got back to drinking his beer. Over at the bar, Father Coulter got ready to go.
“Och, come on, Father, you’ll have another wee one,” one of the young men who drank with the priest said.
“No, no, no,” Father Coulter said, waving away the offered glass. “I’ve had quite enough. It’s way past my bedtime, so God bless you all the same, but I must go.”
He shuffled away from the bar, turning in circles as he struggled to find the sleeve of his overcoat. The young man helped him on with it and guided him to the door. Shadows followed.
Fegan looked at the clock above the bar and took a mouthful of Guinness. He would give it five minutes before following the priest. What would he do when he caught up with him? He didn’t know.
Fegan studied the wet circles his glass left on the tabletop and ignored the pressure of his gun at the small of his back.
It didn’t take long to catch up with the priest. Father Coulter had made slow progress through the streets, and Fegan found him propped against a Lexus within minutes of leaving the bar. Fegan remembered a time when only the most well-to-do owned cars. Now the streets were lined with them, crammed into every space available. The priest had chosen the most comfortable-looking to lean on.
Father Coulter waved as he approached. “Gerry Fegan,” he said. “You caught me. I was just having a wee rest. Will you walk with me?”
“Of course I will, Father,” Fegan said. He began walking slowly, the priest at his side.
“I haven’t seen you at Mass for a long time, Gerry,” Father Coulter said.
“I was there today,” Fegan said.
“Apart from funerals, I mean. When was the last time you went to Mass?”
Fegan tried to remember. He had been once or twice since he got out of the Maze, but when? “Years ago,” he said.
Father Coulter clucked and shook his head. “That won’t do, Gerry. Have you no thought for your soul? What would your mother have said?”
“My mother was ashamed of me,” Fegan said.
“Nonsense!” Father Coulter placed his hand on Fegan’s arm.
“She told me. She was ashamed of what I did.”
The priest wagged a finger at him. “You’re a hero of the cause, Gerry Fegan, and don’t you forget it. You didn’t choose a war; it was forced upon you. The good Lord knows why you did what you did. God forgives all soldiers. John Hewitt wrote that. The poet. He wrote—”
Fegan stopped walking. “We’re here.”
Father Coulter looked round to see his own front door. “Oh, so we are. Will you come in for a wee drop?”
Fegan looked up and down the empty street. “All right,” he said.
Father Coulter fished a key from his pocket and turned to insert it in the lock. It scraped against wood as he missed his mark. He tried, and failed, twice more.
“Here,” Fegan said, taking the key from the priest’s hand. He unlocked the door and let it swing open. “There you go.”
“Thank you, Gerry.” Father Coulter patted his shoulder and went inside. Fegan followed him, slipping the key into his own pocket.
The small house was clean and sparsely furnished. Father Coulter ushered Fegan through to the living room. A fire in the hearth blasted heat at them. Sweat broke out across Fegan’s brow and back, but the chill stayed at his center. Father Coulter flicked the light on and a caged bird, a cockatiel, hissed at them.
Father Coulter went to the cage, clucking. “Now, now, Joe-Joe, it’s only me.” He threw his coat over the back of a chair and turned to Fegan. “Sit down, Gerry.”
The priest took a bottle of brandy from the sideboard and poured two generous glasses. He handed one to Fegan and sat down facing him.
His bleary eyes searched Fegan’s face. “Tell me, do you dream much?” he asked.
“No,” Fegan said. “I don’t sleep too well.”
“I dream,” Father Coulter said. He took a sip of brandy and coughed. “Terrible dreams. I’ve seen awful things, Gerry. There’s things I could have changed. Things I could have stopped. Things I should never have done. I always told myself I’d no choice, but I was wrong. I always had a choice. You know what I’m talking about.”
Fegan moved his glass in slow circles and watched the firelight refracted in the reddish-brown liquid. “Yes, Father.”
“So many times I could have said something, told someone. Men like you making your confession, telling me the things you’ve done, then I give you forgiveness so you can go out and do it again.”
Father Coulter watched the fire, his wet eyes reflecting the orange glow. “Maybe in a different place, I could have been a better priest. Maybe I could have done right by God. Or maybe I never really had it in me.” He reached across and gripped Fegan’s hand. “I dream a lot, Gerry.”
“You’re drunk, Father.”
The priest released Fegan’s fingers and smiled. “I know, I know. I’m drunk and I’m tired. I worry about you, Gerry.”
Fegan looked up from his brandy. “Why?”
“Because you’re carrying so many things around with you. When did you last make your confession?”
“When I was in the Maze.” It had been a week after he returned to prison from his mother’s funeral, the blood of two Loyalists on his hands.