“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” Mrs. Taylor said.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Marie said.
“All right. It’s just what it said on the news, a woman about your age, blonde hair, and her daughter.”
“No, it’s not me. Must be someone else.”
“That’s okay, love. Just remember, if there’s anything you want to tell me, anything you’re worried about, I’m here. You’re a smart woman, I can tell, but even smart women do silly things when they’re afraid.”
Fegan listened to five heartbeats of quiet. Only the dog’s panting rose above the waves.
“That’s the thing,” Marie said. “I’m not afraid of him.”
Marie didn’t look at Fegan as they ate lunch. Ellen’s appetite had been inflamed by almost three hours of chasing Stella around the garden. She attacked a stack of sandwiches with fervour. Stella lapped up a bowlful of water and collapsed in a contented heap on the thick rug at Mr. Taylor’s feet.
Fegan felt Mrs. Taylor’s eyes on him. Not accusing or fearful, but cautious, as a mother regards her daughter’s first suitor. He smiled at her once or twice, and she returned the gesture, but her gaze remained firm.
When lunch was finished, Mrs. Taylor allowed Ellen to take a nap upstairs in one of the comfortable bedrooms. The child had complained of noises disturbing her sleep the night before and seemed glad to climb onto the bed and bury her little head in a soft pillow. Stella hopped up and joined her, circling Ellen’s feet before curling into a dozing ball.
Marie insisted that Fegan and she should do the dishes while Mrs. Taylor put her feet up. They were alone at the sink, passing soapy plates back and forth.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Marie said. “I’m going to trust you because I’ve no choice. You’re the only person I know who’s prepared to stand up to McGinty.”
“I won’t let him hurt you,” Fegan said.
“So you keep telling me. But what does that mean? When will it be safe to go home? How long do we stay in Portcarrick? These people are so kind, but we can’t impose on them for ever.”
Fegan added a plate to the dried stack on the worktop. “I’ll go to Belfast today. I’ll sort it out.”
“How?” Marie turned to face him. There were no more dishes. “How are you going to sort it out?”
“There’s people I have to see,” Fegan said. “In a couple of days you won’t have to worry.”
Her stare would not leave him. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll sort it out,” he said.
“No. I need to know what you’re going to do. Tell me.”
Fegan threw the towel on the drainer. He gripped Marie’s shoulders with his wiry hands. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure you and Ellen are safe. That’s all.”
Her eyes danced with his. “All right. Whatever it takes, and that’s all. Nothing more.”
Fegan nodded, and lifted the towel from the drainer. He felt her hand on his forearm.
“And nothing less,” she said.
He turned to look into her hard eyes. “I’ll need your car,” he said.
35
Campbell moved through Fegan’s house, his steps light, even though there was no one to hear. The back window was still open after yesterday’s encounter, and despite the pain it caused him he had been able to climb through. The kitchen was clean and neat. The cooker was gleaming white, the linoleum flooring spotless. The only hint of untidiness was the row of hand tools still lying on a cloth. Campbell inspected them. The cloth was actually leather, soft to the touch, and the tools were held in place by loops. They lay on the flat portion of a foldaway table. He ran his fingers over them. There were small saws of different types, chisels and files. All well used, not the playthings of a casual hobbyist.
He stepped through to the living room. A sofa and two armchairs, not new but not threadbare either. A coffee table sat at the center of the room. It looked handmade, competently but not artfully put together, coated with thick varnish. Another home-made piece supported a small television. A mirror hung over the fireplace. Campbell went to it and studied the deepening lines of his face. His beard needed trimming, as did his hair.
A guitar case stood propped in the corner. Campbell opened the clasps and looked inside. He took the unstrung guitar out and peered inside the fist-sized hole in its belly. He turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing. After inspecting a small compartment inside the case, he put the guitar back in its coffin and sealed it.
He went to the table under the window. A felt sheet covered its surface, and a few small files and a ball of steel wool were scattered around it. There was good light here. Campbell imagined Fegan working under the window, his killer’s hands creating, not destroying.
The only other piece in the room was a sideboard. It was made of the same wood as the coffee table - pine, Campbell thought - with simple drawers and hinges. A framed photograph stood on top of it. Campbell lifted it. It looked like it had been taken in the late Fifties, early Sixties. A woman smiled at the camera, her hand held over her eyes like a salute, casting them in shadow. She was tall and slender, with blonde hair. Pretty in a clean, simple, girlish way. She stood on a street just like this one, one foot resting on a doorstep.
Campbell caught a warm smile spreading on his lips and coughed. He winced as his ribcage flared, and he put the photograph back.
A stack of unopened mail sat next to an empty Jameson’s bottle. He leafed through the envelopes, hoping for some clue as to where Fegan might have gone. If Campbell could find him first, take care of him, all would be well. If McGinty got him - well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
But what if Fegan found McGinty? That was an entirely different problem, and one that could not come to pass. If McGinty was killed, his old crew would scatter, perhaps turn on the leadership. A drift back to violence could destroy the movement, whether it was directed inward or outward. It had been McGinty’s feat to form a bridge between the street thugs and the more politically minded. Now McGinty had served his purpose, the leadership were starting to freeze him out, pull away from him and others like Bull O’Kane. But they were doing it slowly, carefully. The old ways were dead and gone, but still their ghosts might come to haunt the political process. The politicos might be smarter, but smart never stopped a bullet.
Nothing but bills. Campbell set them back on the sideboard. He hunkered down, mindful of his wounds, and opened the doors. Empty. One drawer contained a phone book and a Yellow Pages, both still wrapped in the plastic they were delivered in, but that was all. He stood and looked around the room and over to the stairs. No phone. Who the fuck didn’t have a phone?
Campbell crossed the room. There were deep reddish-brown spots on the carpet between the foot of the stairs and the front door. His own blood. He followed the trail up the staircase and paused at the top. The bathroom and two bedrooms. He knew he’d find nothing, but he entered the bathroom anyway. Mirror pieces crunched under his feet. There was a small hole in the wall at eye level, and another in the ceiling. The cops had probably missed them when they’d searched yesterday. Campbell pictured tired and jaded officers giving the home of a convicted terrorist a cursory sweep. No spray of blood commemorated Campbell’s injured ribcage.