McGinty stepped closer and rested his hands on the edge of the box. “If I let her stay I look weak. I can’t afford to look weak, Gerry. Not now. I’ve too much at stake. I’ve already been more generous than that girl deserved. She would’ve been in the ground long ago if I hadn’t indulged Michael. There’s a limit to how generous I can be.” He looked down at the corpse. “I’ve already allowed too many things to slide. I owe you a lot, Gerry, but my patience is wearing thin.”
Fegan moved around the coffin, heading for the door. McGinty blocked his path.
“I mean it, Gerry. Don’t test me. You don’t want to tell her, all right, but don’t interfere.”
Fegan stepped to the side, but McGinty gripped his arm, and the two looked hard into each other’s eyes. The politician’s thin lips broke into a soft smile. He cupped Fegan’s face in his hands, leaned in, and placed a dry kiss on his cheek.
“We’ve always been such good friends,” McGinty said. “Ever since you were a kid. Don’t fuck it up over a woman. Not a whore like Marie McKenna.”
Fegan’s cheek burned. He pulled away and finally reached the door. The people on the landing made way for him, and he hurried down the stairs. He stopped dead when he reached the bottom.
Davy Campbell nodded. Fegan nodded back, ignoring the crackling in his temples and the shadows moving in from the edge of his vision. Campbell had changed since Fegan saw him last. Thinner. Darker round the eyes. Death clings to men who’ve wielded it, like the stench of the abattoir. Fegan imagined they could smell it on each other, as a dog knows friend from enemy by scent alone. He opened the front door and left Campbell staring after him.
23
Campbell watched Fegan disappear around the corner. As he went back into the house the mixture of fear, hate and anger in Fegan’s eyes lingered with him. He looked like a killer, the purest kind, the kind who killed more out of want than need. Campbell sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He made his way upstairs, struggling to squeeze through the mourners who had parted so easily for Fegan. He entered the bedroom where Caffola’s body lay. McGinty had his back to the door.
“I want that cunt sorted, Davy,” McGinty said without looking round.
“When?” Campbell asked.
“The day after tomorrow. I don’t want the press getting distracted from my speech at the funeral, but no later than that.”
“Whatever you say.” Campbell walked around the coffin to face McGinty. “What about the woman?”
“Eddie Coyle can sort it out,” McGinty said. “I made a kind gesture, letting Father Coulter speak to her, and she threw it back in my face. Well, no more. Eddie won’t be so polite about it.”
“What if he fucks it up? He’s not the brightest.”
“What’s to fuck up? All he’s got to do is put a brick through her window. Still, you’ve got a point. Maybe you should go with him.”
“He won’t like that,” Campbell said.
“I don’t care what he likes,” McGinty said. “He’ll do what he’s told. And, Davy, listen to me.”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happens, don’t hurt Marie or the wee girl, all right? Frighten them if you have to, but don’t hurt them.”
Something moved behind McGinty’s eyes. Campbell only caught a glimpse of it.
“They won’t get hurt. I’ll make sure of it.” Campbell looked down at Vincie Caffola’s peaceful face. “Why’d Fegan do it?”
“Christ knows. He’s off his head, so maybe he didn’t need a reason. Anyway, if he hadn’t done it, I would have, eventually. Caffola had a big mouth. It’s no great loss.”
“Then why go after Fegan now?” Campbell asked.
“Because if he thinks he can get away with it, where’s he going to stop? Besides, the old man has spoken. Bull O’Kane won’t have any unauthorised actions, even if they’re against pieces of shit like this.”
Campbell caught a scent and followed it. “So, the Bull still calls the shots? I thought he’d retired.”
“Bull?” McGinty’s laugh was laced with a little fear. “Christ, he won’t retire until he’s in a box himself. And no, he doesn’t call the shots. But the boys on the street still look up to him. Us politicians have to indulge him sometimes.”
McGinty stepped away from the coffin, then stopped and turned to look down at the corpse. He leaned forward and spat on Caffola’s pale face. “You had it coming,” he said, and left the room.
Campbell hung his new black suit from the handle on his bedroom door as he held the phone between his shoulder and his ear, listening to the ring tone. The handler answered, breathless.
“McGinty told me to do Fegan,” Campbell said.
“When?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“After the funeral. Clever bastard. He wants to milk Caffola’s death all he can. Try to move it forward a bit - give the press something else to think about - no point letting McGinty squeeze any more out of this than absolutely necessary.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Campbell removed the price tags from the suit. It was cheap, but it would do. It was only a thug’s funeral, after all. “By the way, he let an interesting scrap slip: Bull O’Kane’s still in the picture.”
“The Bull was supposed to have retired,” the handler said. “Last I heard he was putting his feet up at that farm on the border.”
“Well, apparently not. That old bastard still carries some weight. The politicians don’t have it all their own way.”
“I’ll pass it on. Anything else?”
“Just one thing. Once I’ve taken care of Fegan, what then? Do I stay in Belfast with McGinty or go back to Dundalk?”
“Not so fast,” the handler said. “We’ve been talking at this end. My superiors think it’s time you came out for good. I agree. You’ve been under for a long time.”
Campbell gave a hard laugh. “What are you talking about?”
“How old are you now? Thirty-eight? You’re not getting any younger. All right, you’re still sharp enough, but for how long? All it takes is one slip. Get out while you’re still young enough to have a life in the real world, away from all that shit.”
Campbell dropped the suit onto the bed. “This
is
my life.”
“Life? You call that a life? You’ve been under too long, Campbell. It’s just not healthy. And besides, things are winding down there. You’ve seen the changes. The soldiers are off the streets, the watch - towers are being pulled down. Think about it: once this mess is cleaned up, what good are you doing there?”
“The dissidents. They’re organising. They’ll be—”
“They’re a bunch of has-beens who can’t accept it’s over. Plumbers and bricklayers who call themselves soldiers. They’re no use to anybody now, just dinosaurs who forgot to lie down and die. They destroyed themselves in Omagh, and they’ll never recover. You know that, you spent time with them.”
“There’s the Loyalists. They’re still—”