Read Online The Ghosts of Belfast by Stuart Neville - Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart Neville
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she wrote for one of the Unionist rags, the Telegraph or the Newsletter , Fegan couldn’t remember which. A romance with a peeler cut her off from all but her mother.
Gossip, shunning, even death threats against each of the couple were not enough to separate them. But pregnancy was. When Marie’s belly began to swell two years into their relationship, the cop made his excuses and left. For the sake of Bridget McKenna, Marie was begrudgingly allowed back into the family. Had she accepted an offer, made in kindness, to sort out the absent father, then perhaps the community would have opened its arms a little wider to her. As it stood, she was a pariah.
Fegan could see the loneliness, the isolation, on her skin, just as he felt it on his own. The ache in his heart returned, heavier than before.
Marie kept her eyes focused down and forward as she left the room. Her aunt scowled as she passed, and Fegan heard the word “Bitch!” hissed after her. Heads turned to follow her progress through the bodies packed on the landing, and whispers cut the thick warm air.
Fegan felt an inexplicable, irresistible urge to go after her. He fought it for a moment, but its strength dragged him to the door and out onto the landing, cutting the same path through the gathered people as she did. He was a tall man, but still he struggled to see over the mourners. There, between two shaved heads, he caught a glimpse of blonde hair, turning at the top of the stairs. He made it to the banister and watched Marie struggle down the steps for a second before he resumed his attempt to follow her. By the time Fegan reached the top step, she was at the bottom. He began picking his way down, watching her as she embraced McKenna’s mother, then seeing the mother’s mouth curl as Marie headed for the door.
He lost her in the sunlight as he neared the bottom, and was making for the street when a hand caught his upper arm. Startled, Fegan turned, his weight on both feet, ready to fight. A bolt of bright pain flashed in his temple.
“Jesus, Gerry,” laughed Vincie Caffola. “I thought you were going to split me then.”
Eleven shadows moved between the mourners, taking shape, dissolving again. Two came alongside Caffola, the vague forms of their arms lifted to aim at his head. Turn away and be quiet , Fegan thought.
He focused on the bald-headed thug’s eyes. “What do you want?”
Caffola smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “Me and some of the boys are going to the pub after. You fancy it?”
The two UDR men made guns with their fingers. Fegan tried hard not to see them.
“All right,” he said. “Look, I’ll see you later. It’s too crowded here for me.”
“You should hang around a bit,” Caffola said. “McGinty’s coming over soon. He was saying he hadn’t seen you in ages.”
“No, I’ll go on.” Fegan pulled away from Caffola. “Sure I’ll see him tomorrow. At the funeral.”
“Suit yourself.” Caffola slapped his back as he left. “I’ll see you later.”
Fegan gulped cool air when he got outside, relieved to be free from the crushing stomachs and shoulders. Men were still gathered in front of the house, smoking and swapping stories. Again, he returned respectful nods and mumbled greetings until he was clear of them. He gripped the lapels of his jacket, flapping them to cool his body. He wiped a slick layer of sweat away from his brow and began his walk home.
The eleven followed.
“Don’t you lot get tired?” he asked. He turned to look at them. Eleven dead people, big as life, trooping along the pavement and looking right back at him. A laugh escaped his belly, and a giddy wave passed across his forehead. None answered his question, so he asked another.
“What was that about in there? What was I doing going after her? What was I going to say to her if I got her?”
The woman,
Gossip, shunning, even death threats against each of the couple were not enough to separate them. But pregnancy was. When Marie’s belly began to swell two years into their relationship, the cop made his excuses and left. For the sake of Bridget McKenna, Marie was begrudgingly allowed back into the family. Had she accepted an offer, made in kindness, to sort out the absent father, then perhaps the community would have opened its arms a little wider to her. As it stood, she was a pariah.
Fegan could see the loneliness, the isolation, on her skin, just as he felt it on his own. The ache in his heart returned, heavier than before.
Marie kept her eyes focused down and forward as she left the room. Her aunt scowled as she passed, and Fegan heard the word “Bitch!” hissed after her. Heads turned to follow her progress through the bodies packed on the landing, and whispers cut the thick warm air.
Fegan felt an inexplicable, irresistible urge to go after her. He fought it for a moment, but its strength dragged him to the door and out onto the landing, cutting the same path through the gathered people as she did. He was a tall man, but still he struggled to see over the mourners. There, between two shaved heads, he caught a glimpse of blonde hair, turning at the top of the stairs. He made it to the banister and watched Marie struggle down the steps for a second before he resumed his attempt to follow her. By the time Fegan reached the top step, she was at the bottom. He began picking his way down, watching her as she embraced McKenna’s mother, then seeing the mother’s mouth curl as Marie headed for the door.
He lost her in the sunlight as he neared the bottom, and was making for the street when a hand caught his upper arm. Startled, Fegan turned, his weight on both feet, ready to fight. A bolt of bright pain flashed in his temple.
“Jesus, Gerry,” laughed Vincie Caffola. “I thought you were going to split me then.”
Eleven shadows moved between the mourners, taking shape, dissolving again. Two came alongside Caffola, the vague forms of their arms lifted to aim at his head. Turn away and be quiet , Fegan thought.
He focused on the bald-headed thug’s eyes. “What do you want?”
Caffola smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “Me and some of the boys are going to the pub after. You fancy it?”
The two UDR men made guns with their fingers. Fegan tried hard not to see them.
“All right,” he said. “Look, I’ll see you later. It’s too crowded here for me.”
“You should hang around a bit,” Caffola said. “McGinty’s coming over soon. He was saying he hadn’t seen you in ages.”
“No, I’ll go on.” Fegan pulled away from Caffola. “Sure I’ll see him tomorrow. At the funeral.”
“Suit yourself.” Caffola slapped his back as he left. “I’ll see you later.”
Fegan gulped cool air when he got outside, relieved to be free from the crushing stomachs and shoulders. Men were still gathered in front of the house, smoking and swapping stories. Again, he returned respectful nods and mumbled greetings until he was clear of them. He gripped the lapels of his jacket, flapping them to cool his body. He wiped a slick layer of sweat away from his brow and began his walk home.
The eleven followed.
“Don’t you lot get tired?” he asked. He turned to look at them. Eleven dead people, big as life, trooping along the pavement and looking right back at him. A laugh escaped his belly, and a giddy wave passed across his forehead. None answered his question, so he asked another.
“What was that about in there? What was I doing going after her? What was I going to say to her if I got her?”
The woman,
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