Read Online The Ghosts of Belfast by Stuart Neville - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Neville
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among them, avoiding their eyes and words. He sipped Guinness, not whiskey, to keep a clear head for his work.
He had always thought of killing as work. Just a job to be done, with no care or feeling behind it. He hadn’t considered himself a craftsman, more a skilled laborer. Not like those assassins who made it art. It only took a certain hardness of the soul, a casual brutality, a willingness to do what other men wouldn’t. He supposed he had a talent for it, just as Caffola had a talent for inflicting pain. And that talent had earned him respect.
But where did the line between respect and fear lie? All those knowing nods he’d received over the years - were they made out of reverence or the worry he might turn on those giving them, break them, like he had so many before? The twelve, now eleven, who had shadowed Fegan for seven years marked the lives he had wiped out. But he had scarred many more.
Although he hadn’t meant to, he’d killed three in the butcher’s-shop bombing. He knew there were also men and women who had lost arms, legs and eyes because of the same bloody act, damning them to lives of anguish. The struggle to grasp the weight, the shape, the realness of it had kept him from sleep for many years. He didn’t need the shadows of the dead for that.
As Fegan moved through the drinkers he tried to keep his mind from the past but it had a way of finding a route there without his help. He thought of the woman at the graveyard, the twelfth follower’s mother.
“You’re Gerry Fegan,” she’d said. She was small and grey. Her anger burned him. “You’re Gerry Fegan and you killed my wee boy.”
Fegan rose from the miserable bunch of daffodils he had placed on his own mother’s grave. He searched for something to say, anything, but could only think of the awful thing that had happened to her son.
“Where did you put him?” she asked. “I come here every Sunday. I walk around the gravestones and I read the names. Sometimes I forget myself, and I look for his name. I know I won’t find it, but I look anyway. Sometimes I have to think for a minute because his name won’t come to me. It’s like he never lived at all.”
She took a step towards Fegan, her shaking hand reaching out to him. “Tell me where you put him. Please. That’s all. Just tell me where he is.”
He remembered the boy’s blood as McKenna worked on him.
He remembered how red it was.
“Gerry, how’re ya?”
Fegan blinked the memory away and turned to see who had slapped his shoulder.
Patsy Toner grinned up at him from behind his moustache. “McGinty was asking for you today,” he said. “At the house. You should have stayed.”
“What’s he want with me?” Fegan took a sip of Guinness.
“He doesn’t like to see a good man go to waste. You do all right out of that Community Development job he set up for you. With his connections he can keep that job funded for years and you don’t have to lift a finger for it. Just cash your checks, and nobody cares.” Toner sighed and placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder. “You did your time so the party looks after you, but you need to give something back. Nothing much, just a wee job now and then. You’ll get paid, like.”
“I’m not interested,” Fegan said, turning to go.
Toner gripped his elbow. “It’s not as simple as that, Gerry. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. Things haven’t been so smooth between Paul and the leadership, if you know what I mean. He needs to know who his friends are. Just listen to what he has to say, and do whatever he tells you.”
Fegan jerked his elbow away. “What are you, his messenger boy?”
“I’m just saying.” Toner held his hands up and smiled. “That’s all, Gerry. Just letting you know the situation. Sure, McGinty’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Fegan said,
He had always thought of killing as work. Just a job to be done, with no care or feeling behind it. He hadn’t considered himself a craftsman, more a skilled laborer. Not like those assassins who made it art. It only took a certain hardness of the soul, a casual brutality, a willingness to do what other men wouldn’t. He supposed he had a talent for it, just as Caffola had a talent for inflicting pain. And that talent had earned him respect.
But where did the line between respect and fear lie? All those knowing nods he’d received over the years - were they made out of reverence or the worry he might turn on those giving them, break them, like he had so many before? The twelve, now eleven, who had shadowed Fegan for seven years marked the lives he had wiped out. But he had scarred many more.
Although he hadn’t meant to, he’d killed three in the butcher’s-shop bombing. He knew there were also men and women who had lost arms, legs and eyes because of the same bloody act, damning them to lives of anguish. The struggle to grasp the weight, the shape, the realness of it had kept him from sleep for many years. He didn’t need the shadows of the dead for that.
As Fegan moved through the drinkers he tried to keep his mind from the past but it had a way of finding a route there without his help. He thought of the woman at the graveyard, the twelfth follower’s mother.
“You’re Gerry Fegan,” she’d said. She was small and grey. Her anger burned him. “You’re Gerry Fegan and you killed my wee boy.”
Fegan rose from the miserable bunch of daffodils he had placed on his own mother’s grave. He searched for something to say, anything, but could only think of the awful thing that had happened to her son.
“Where did you put him?” she asked. “I come here every Sunday. I walk around the gravestones and I read the names. Sometimes I forget myself, and I look for his name. I know I won’t find it, but I look anyway. Sometimes I have to think for a minute because his name won’t come to me. It’s like he never lived at all.”
She took a step towards Fegan, her shaking hand reaching out to him. “Tell me where you put him. Please. That’s all. Just tell me where he is.”
He remembered the boy’s blood as McKenna worked on him.
He remembered how red it was.
“Gerry, how’re ya?”
Fegan blinked the memory away and turned to see who had slapped his shoulder.
Patsy Toner grinned up at him from behind his moustache. “McGinty was asking for you today,” he said. “At the house. You should have stayed.”
“What’s he want with me?” Fegan took a sip of Guinness.
“He doesn’t like to see a good man go to waste. You do all right out of that Community Development job he set up for you. With his connections he can keep that job funded for years and you don’t have to lift a finger for it. Just cash your checks, and nobody cares.” Toner sighed and placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder. “You did your time so the party looks after you, but you need to give something back. Nothing much, just a wee job now and then. You’ll get paid, like.”
“I’m not interested,” Fegan said, turning to go.
Toner gripped his elbow. “It’s not as simple as that, Gerry. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. Things haven’t been so smooth between Paul and the leadership, if you know what I mean. He needs to know who his friends are. Just listen to what he has to say, and do whatever he tells you.”
Fegan jerked his elbow away. “What are you, his messenger boy?”
“I’m just saying.” Toner held his hands up and smiled. “That’s all, Gerry. Just letting you know the situation. Sure, McGinty’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Fegan said,
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