The Ghosts of Belfast Read Free

me alone. Give me some peace.”
     
     
McKenna took a step back. “Who? The boy?”
     
     
“But that wasn’t what he wanted.”
     
     
“Christ, Gerry.” McKenna shook his head. “What’s happened to you? Maybe you should see a doctor, you know, get straight. Go away for a while.”
     
     
Fegan looked down at his hands. “Maybe.”
     
     
“Listen.” McKenna put a hand on Fegan’s shoulder. “My source talks only to me, nobody else. You’ve been a good friend to me over the years, and that’s the only reason I haven’t gone to McGinty with this. If he knew you opened your mouth to that auld doll, it’s your body the cops would be looking for.”
     
     
Fegan wanted to jerk his shoulder away from McKenna’s hand. He sat still.
     
     
“Of course, I might need you to return the favor. There’s work I could put your way. I’ve a few deals going on, stuff McGinty isn’t in on. If you can stay off the drink, get yourself right, you could be a big help to me. And McGinty doesn’t need to know what you said to that boy’s mother.”
     
     
Fegan watched the boy’s face contort as the other shadows gathered around him.
     
     
“Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Gerry?”
     
     
“Yes,” Fegan said.
     
     
“Good man.” McKenna smiled.
     
     
Fegan stood. “I need a piss.”
     
     
McKenna stepped back and said, “Don’t be long.”
     
     
Fegan made his way up the stairs and into the bathroom. He closed and bolted the door but, as always, the followers found their way in. Except the boy. Fegan paid it little mind, instead concentrating on keeping upright while he emptied his bladder. He had long since gotten used to the twelve witnessing his most undignified moments.
     
     
He flushed, rinsed his hands under the tap, and opened the door. The boy was there, on the landing, waiting for him. He stared into the darkness of Fegan’s bedroom.
     
     
Fegan stood for a moment, confused, as his temples buzzed and the chill pulsed at his center.
     
     
The boy pointed into the room.
     
     
“What?” Fegan asked.
     
     
The boy bared his teeth, and his skinny arm jerked towards the door.
     
     
“All right,” Fegan said. He walked to his bedroom, glancing back over his shoulder.
     
     
The boy followed him into the darkness and kneeled at the foot of the bed. He pointed underneath.
     
     
Fegan got to his hands and knees and peered under the bedstead. Thin light leaking in from the landing showed the old shoebox hidden there.
     
     
He raised his head, questioning. The boy nodded.
     
     
Fegan could just reach it if he stretched. He pulled it towards himself. Something heavy shifted inside as it moved, and Fegan’s heart quickened. He removed the lid and was met by the greasy smell of money. Rolls of banknotes were bundled in here, twenties, fifties, hundreds. Fegan didn’t know how much. He’d never counted it.
     
     
But there was something else, something cold and black lying half-concealed in the paper. Something Fegan didn’t want in his hand. In the semi-darkness his eyes found the boy’s.
     
     
“No,” Fegan said.
     
     
The boy stabbed at the object with his finger.
     
     
“No.” The word felt watery on Fegan’s tongue.
     
     
The boy’s mouth gaped, his hands grabbing clumps of hair. Before the scream could come, Fegan reached in and lifted the Walther P99 from its nest.
     
     
A grin blossomed on the boy’s face, his teeth glinting. He mimed the act of pulling back the slide assembly to chamber the first round.
     
     
Fegan looked from the boy to the pistol and back again. The boy nodded. Fegan drew back the slide, released it, hearing the snick-snick of oiled parts moving together. The gun was solid in his grasp, like the shake of an old friend’s hand.
     
     
The boy smiled, stood, and walked towards the landing.
     
     
Fegan stared down at the Walther. He had bought it a few weeks after leaving the Maze, just for protection, and it only