Fegan checked the time. The phone had been charging for its requisite two hours. Despite the shaking of his hands, and the throb behind his eyes, he finally managed to put the little plastic card in place, cover it with the battery, and snap the phone’s back cover on. The instructions lay open on the coffee table in front of him, and he traced the small words with his fingertip. He pressed and held the green button. When it vibrated in his hand, he placed it on the coffee table and watched its colorful screen play a series of animations.
He looked at his palm. The string of digits was faint, but still readable. Following the instructions, he dialled Marie McKenna’s number. He closed his eyes and listened to the ring tone, remembering she had made no promises about answering. The phone almost slipped from his fingers when she did.
“It’s Gerry,” he said.
He heard a long exhalation. “I’m glad you called,” she said.
“Are you?”
“Yes.” Her voice had the slightest of shakes. “I had a visitor this morning.”
“Who?”
“Would you believe, Father Coulter?”
Fegan was silent for a moment before asking, “What did he want?”
“He advised me to leave. He said it would be best for me and Ellen. His exact words were ‘It’ll avoid any unpleasantness.”
Fegan thought about the Walther. He sensed it beneath his bed. It lay in the shoebox amid rolls of banknotes.
Marie continued. “He kept going on about how he’d hate to see anything bad happen to my wee girl, how he’d hate to see her get hurt. He kept telling me to think of Ellen and not be so stubborn. There were people who wanted to hurt us, and there might be no stopping them if I stayed. And all the time he had this look on his face, like the sight of me offended him.”
Fegan looked at his palm, imagining the cold weight of the gun there.
“Can you believe it?” Marie asked. “McGinty’s getting priests to deliver his threats now. Father Coulter said he was just telling me as a favor.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, at first; I was too shocked. Then I told him to get out.” Fegan listened to her breath against his ear. “They’ll be coming for me now, won’t they?”
“Yeah,” Fegan said. “They’ll come after dark. Nothing serious at first. Maybe just break a window. Next time, they’ll use a petrol bomb or a shotgun.”
“Jesus, what about Ellen? I can’t let her go through that. I’ve no one she can even stay with.”
“I’ll come over this evening. They won’t do anything while I’m there.”
“Please,” she said. “Please come over.”
Fegan made a fist with his free hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
He said goodbye and hung up. He stood, crossed the hall, and climbed the stairs. Perched on the end of his bed, he reached under and pulled out the shoebox as shadows gathered around him, watching. He removed the lid and was met again by the greasy smell of money. Once more he wondered how much there was. Fegan had never counted it. Thousands, anyway, maybe ten or more. He’d saved it from the salary that McGinty’s bogus Community Development job paid out.
The pistol’s baleful sheen entranced him for a while. Loose bullets rolled beneath the money like mice in a nest.
“No,” he said.
The three Brits came forward, the other six behind them. The woman stepped around them and knelt next to Fegan. She smiled as Fegan took the gun from its nest. It was cool and heavy in his hand.
“No,” Fegan said. He put the Walther back among the bills and bullets. “Not Father Coulter.”
But they would let him sleep. If he gave them everything they wanted, they would give him peace and let him sleep.
The wonderful thought of closing his eyes, hearing nothing but his own breathing, lingered in his mind. Suddenly, an even sweeter thought came to him, one which had never occurred to him before: the thought of falling asleep with his head on Marie McKenna’s breast, letting her warmth soak through him, her heartbeat drowning out all else.
Fegan blinked and wiped the thought away.
“No,” he said. He replaced the lid and slid the shoebox back under his bed.
The late Vincie Caffola’s girlfriend was red-faced and puffy-eyed when she shook Fegan’s hand. Caffola’s two sons looked bemused at the attention they were receiving, the older battling tears while the younger wept freely. They both looked like their father, the eldest as tall as Fegan.
He felt a sour turning in his gut when he told them he was sorry for their trouble. The boys couldn’t meet his eyes as he spoke, and Fegan was glad of it. Some insane part of him wanted to beg their forgiveness. Caffola might have been a mindless thug, but he had been a father to these boys. The younger was about the age Fegan had been when his own father fell down a flight of stairs, drunk.
Fegan finished his condolences and moved away, desperate to be free of their grief-reddened eyes, but Caffola’s girlfriend gripped his wrist.
“Nobody’s doing anything,” she said. “The party, the cops, none of them.”
Fegan tried to ease her hand away, but she gripped hard.
“Nobody cares,” she whispered. “So long as he’s buried and gone, no one gives a shite who done it. It’s not right, Gerry.”
He prised her fingers from his wrist and stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s not right,” she said again as Fegan turned his back on her and walked away.
Caffola’s house was not as crammed as McKenna’s mother’s had been, but air was hard to come by nonetheless. Fegan made his way upstairs to view the corpse. The mourners parted respectfully to let him through. Like McKenna’s, Caffola’s coffin was modest, but probably for economic reasons rather than appearances. Fegan crossed himself, but didn’t kneel to pray. He’d had enough of God for now. Instead, he paced a circle around the box. The undertakers had made a good job of concealing the injury to the deceased’s temple.
Fegan thought of Marie and how she had lingered over McKenna’s coffin. He whispered to himself, “You had it coming.”
A hush settled on the room, and Fegan looked up from the body, knowing who he’d see.
“Hello, Gerry,” McGinty said.
Fegan nodded.
McGinty addressed the others in the room. “Can I get a few minutes with my friend?”
The room emptied quickly, leaving only Fegan, McGinty, the pale cadaver and the deepening shadows. Fegan kept his eyes on the politician, the coffin between them.
“We have a wee problem,” McGinty said, smiling.
Fegan didn’t answer. The chill pulsed at his center. Despite himself, he put a hand on his own heart in case the politician would see its cold glow.
“You didn’t do what I asked you,” McGinty said. “Why not?”
“She’s no threat to you. There’s no reason to put her out,” Fegan said, fighting to keep the anger from his voice.